The Midnight News

Hello children! I'm Chris and this is the Midnight News. I didn't mean to blow off last week's column... it just happened. Not a good way to build a new audience (the old audience can go fuck themselves... they know I do this... they're used to it. They'll follow me to hell and back so long as I make with the fag jokes). But I'm here, I've got a full column with lots of high-toned comedy... I've got BUSINESS! Hell, I've got INDY news!! INDY COVERAGE! Just for you!

Let's get to it...


Oh, I KNEW that after one more wrestler fuck-up... the shit was going to come down.

Because Eddie was nice enough to kick, Vince McMahon went ahead and implented a seemingly complex drug screening system designed to keep his boys (and girls) CLEAN and HEALTHY, and UNABLE TO SUE IN CASE OF DEATH ON THE JOB. There will be no bribes, no shortcuts, no free passes, and no fake penises squirting out clean piddle. The message was clear: "I don't want this kind of heat, boys. So now you're going to toe the line!"

Vince was even nice enough to show snippets from the initial meeting, posted about an hour afterwards... (so they could edit out the constant sniffing from his audience... KID, I joke) and even allowed someone to ask a question. It was very brief, only a few minutes...

The meeting, of course, lasted an hour. And more was said... much more.

Now naturally, only the big guns like Dave Meltzer and Wa... like Dave Meltzer are allowed to know what happened after the cameras went off... but there is no law that says only DAVE can have connections... oh no... I myself found out what ELSE was asked...

The WWE Drug Test Meeting: What you didn't hear:

-"Oh come on Vince, a little coke never killed anyone!!"

-"Hey Vince, who's gonna test you?"

-"Listen boss, the roids already shriveled my dick to half and inch... I EARNED the right to juice!"

-"Girls should be exempt because we weren't built to aim into a little cup!"

-"You ain't gonna bust our balls over a little pot, are ya?"


-"Umm... that test doesn't pick up any veneral diseases, does it?"

-"My "Doctor" keeps his.. umm... OFFICE on a street corner in Harlem... his prescriptions are as good as any asshole with one of those medical degrees, right?"

-"You mean I gotta fuck Lita straight??"

-"Why is Hunter giggling?"

-"I hear girls can smuggle clean piss in their implants! I volunteer to examine the Divas before and after they're up."

-"Fucking Eddie.... I am going to kick some Latino BALLS when I OD."

-"Umm, Vince... maybe if you gave us some time off from these torturous world tours we could rest up and not need some stim...u... why are you looking at me like that.... no, I.... I'll shut up now."

-"If we paint a little T on the Oxycontin pills, can we say its Tylenol?"

-"To make up for this bullshit can we have an open bar at every house?"

-"Without juice I look like Spike Dudley. Thanks a million, asshole!"

-"Nevermind this drug bullshit, I wanna know who Trish is dating! Come on, Stratus, 'fess up!"

-"No drugs?? How the fuck am I going to get the rats now?"

-"Hey, lighten up everybody! This is still better than being drafted to Smackdown"

-"Jeff Jarrett was found at an airport with a bong! Why can't you be a cool boss like him?"

-"Gah Melina, when I'm sober you look like a shaven gorilla!"

-"Okay Vince, the cameras off... now which Diva is going to have to suck off the tester to make sure we all get clean grades??"

-"Excuse me boss, this has nothing to do with the topic but... why is Johnny Ace such an asshole?"

-"Excuse me boss, this has nothing to do with the topic but... my PPV checks have been a little on the low side"

-"Excuse me boss, this has nothing to do with the topic but... could ypou please tell Patterson that my ass is not his personal roller coaster... HEY, GET OFF ME, QUEEN!!"

-"Oh man, more and more this is starting to feel like a real job."

And so it goes... the next few months should be very interesting.

Christy Hemme? First victim? Something else? Got caught shnoggling the wrong married man? Bad attitude?

Verrrry interesting indeed...


Okay, let's say you're a porn star.

NO, not YOU, ya teeny dick little munchkin, let's say you are Jasmin St. Claire! Ex porn star, Ex Gang Bang Queen, Ex Wrestling promoter, Ex anal queen. Oh yes, when it comes to sex, there ain't much Jasmin HASN'T done.

So when you're primary audience is fat, drastically undersexed male losers, it's just NATURAL that one of them might take things too serious and become a nuisance... They start stalking.

Unfortunately for St Claire, this particular fat, drastically undersexed loser is clinically psychotic... AND rich... AND might have ties to terrorists...


Sorry... ahem... his name is Jonathan Zaubler (jew) and when he's not dressing up as the Green Hornet (oy vey), he's jumping up and down in front of cops near naked and shouting "I'M MENTAL, I'M MENTAL" and is getting away with it... because, he IS mental.

And since Jasmin seems to be not the most... err... discriminate of sorts (the BLUE MEANIE, for chrissakes!), he's taken a bit of a shine to her... and has been crank calling her, her fiance, and her agent (jew 2)

Jasmin, who feels helpless to do anything about this criminal mastermind, has decided to hole up in her house until this just goes away.

The funniest thing of all this is that this site's headline screamed: Actress in fear of LIFE!... "actress"... heh heh heh... drama queen, maybe... but ACTRESS??

Anywhoo.... I know Jasmin goes to this site and maybe she's reading this. Why not? Her name's in the headline here... and she might be looking for a laugh. Ol Hyatte's here to help! Free of charge. I don't even want a complimentary blowjob... maybe a handjob but only if you're up for it...

Jasmin, don't be scared. I know fat, drastically undersexed losers... I know what makes them tick... no, NO, I ain't one... well, I'm a loser but that's it... I keep in shape... and I get laid... and I don't dress up like super heroes... and I'm not mental. But I know the type... they are pretty easy to figure out.

You want him to go away and leave you alone? You can do one or all of the following:

1) Fuck him. As I stated above, you ain't too discriminate. Get drunk, squint your eyes, and let him roll on top of you. Jeebus H, it might be a repeat performance, for all you know he was one of the 600 who gangbanged you! You can even flatter him and say, "Hey, I remember this cock!" You've had the Blue Meanie for the love of Allah! The Sandman! Raven! DISCO INFERNO!!! SEAN the MIC!!! BILLY FIREHAWK!!!! What's one more whale?

2) Show him a copy of your identified sexual diseases! Even nutjobs won't want boils and sores on their balls! Even loons don't want their cocks to get gangrene and fall off. That'll scare him away.

3) Show him your chooch. I've seen it. It's brown and gray and looks like roadkill. Put the fear of god in him.

4) Call out some of your old porn star friends... the male ones, to talk to him. Those guys are buff. I know if I was stalking Aurora Snow and was suddenly attacked by Peter North, Slim Shady, Pay Myne, and a few other of those meat cleavers... I'd think twice.

5) Put a call out to your friends in the Russian Mob. Didn't they burn down Billy Reil's house? Call in a favor!

6) Offer to take Meanie back if he kills the guy. Meanie will do it too. As a bonus, you can have fun watching them belly buck each other! And he'll serve his 20 years with a smile on his face and as the Nubian Z-Killaz are keeping their dicks warm in his heinie, he'll be chanting "Jasmin is waiting, Jasmin is waiting."

7) I'd suggest to call a few of your wrestler friends to lay the beatdown on him, but from what I understand, you don't have any!

8) WAIT!! Offer to FINALLY pay them off if they put the guy down for you... then when they do RUN back to London shouting, "SEE YA, SUCKAAAAS!!"

9) Get the guy naked, tie him to a bed, then CHOPPEE CHOPPEE THE PEE PEE PEE PEE!!

10) Give him the address and phone num,bers of 20 porn star chicks who you don't like. Then giggle like a scvhoolgirl when you read reports of Jenna Jameson getting harrassed!

11) Tell him you'll marry him if he loses 120 pounds. You'll keep him a away for a while AND make him feel better about himself! A good deed!

12) Offer to fuck him and let him enter you. But before this, stick a loaded rat trap in there so upon entering, WHAP! Then laugh as he pulls out in pain and run out of there!

There ya go, kid. 12 solid ways to deal with the dude...

And do yourself a favor and start acting more like a lady and less like... umm... no more chucking the bird in pictures. Show a little class, will ya.

Anyway, that's a cool stalker. I wish I had rich, nutty chiuck stalkers after me. I just seem to get broke ones who can't afford to plane ticket to my town to stalk me proper. They have to do it online. Crap.

And for the record... I am NOT stalking Trish Stratus! One day she's just going to show up at my door and we will live HAPPILY EVER AFTER! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA THEN I'LL SHOW YOU!! I'LL SHOW YOU ALL!!!!


Just so you know, last week TWO people, well known in the business (yes, you've heard of them) asked me about two stories that are covered here at DOI. One of them asked about the story in the next segment here and the other one asked about the idiot who lost his ring robe. Neither one of them had ever heard of DOI before I showed up.

So if you ever wonder why Sean let's me vanish for weeks and say nasty shit and get away with whatever I want... just keep this in mind. Sitting here in my quiet little column, almost ever week, I'm bringing the audience. I'm delivering the shits. I'm putting this place on fucking EXPLORER FAVORITE LINKS!!

On your toes, people... you have a whole new world watching you.


In a horrible turn of events, the usually upbeat, happy-go-lucky, let's-join-hands-and-dance-around-the-rainbow event that you call the UXF ran one of their 20 hour marathon shows in Queens New York, anyone who is unemployable by anywhere respectful was there. Fun times were had, plenty of high fives, and only a couple rats had accidentally overdosed on some bad crack. All in all, it was looking like a good show....

Until it became clear that there was a SERPENT in the Independent Garden of Eden (and of course, when you think of Paradise, you think of one of the burroughs)

Apparently, some girl named Talia had $150 big ones lifted out of her purse. Many people blame another girl named Tara Bush (I once dated a girl so hairy, before I could do her I had to grab some sheep sheers and tear up HER bush! *rimshot YOWZAA BUT SERIOUSLY, FOLKS!!)

After a suitable amount of outrage... UXF promoter Frank Goodman VOWED that he will not rest until the culprit is FOUND! He promised a FULL INVESTIGATION on this matter...

Unfortunately, Goodman is a bit of a wank... so in order to keep his thoughts focused, he kept himself a Journal. NO, not a LiveJournal, you losers... a real, pen and paper diary of his investigation!

Well, being the inside Meltzer Jr that I am, I had someone (the MiC) scan and send me entries from this journal. Read on as we look deep, deep, deep into... into...

Goodman: PI and the Case of the Kayfabe Culprit

(Hyatte's Note: The material in here is STRONG, yo... dirty strong... chill)

Day One:

Oh this is bad. That whiney bitch is going to give me a bad rep. Plus the wife forgot to buy me my Fritos. Dumb bitch. Someone's gonna pay for this! I'll send Wittenstein out to find whoever did this. He's a Jew, he'll find the money. They always do.

Day Two

Asked Security if they saw who did it. Said they were too busy watching that tape of Saplosky's wife and Joel Gertner. Can't blame them. Not sure who's ass is fatter. WHERE'S MY FUCKING FRITOS???

Just for shits, I asked security if they stole it. None of them admitted. Damn it. This will be tough. If I could, I'd just take $150 out of my own pocket to shut her up but Vader had the balls to demand up front cash. Like I ain't good for it? Fuckin' harpoon shitter!

Day Three

I tell ya! The Goodman mind just never stops working! I had the great idea to take Tammy Sytch out for drinks, get her loaded, and peel a cool $150 out of her after she passed out! Everything was going great until I reached in and... BUPKIS! Now not only am I still responsible for Miss Mouthy Bitch's $150... but I got stuck with the Applebee's tab! Why me?

Meanwhile, the wife finally smartened up and bought the Fritos! COOL RANCH?!?!?!?! I'M GOING TO STRIP HER NAKED, HOG TIE HER, AND THROW HER INTO CENTRAL PARK TONIGHT!!!

Good news, the kid said her first words! "Neck fat!".... shit.

Wittenstein e-mailed and said he's not getting anywhere. DeBlasi e-mailed and said about 20 chicks have e-mailed him about Wittenstein bragging about his 8 inch weenie! I told him to remind the girls that Wittenstein ain't circumsized. I don't need this now.

Day Four

I called Slyk Wagner
Black Brown and asked if he did it. He informed me that he wasn't at the show because I have banned him. I politely reminded him that his skin color makes him a prime suspect no matter how far away he was from the scene of the crime. He politely reminded me that if this is the case, then shouldn't Homicide and New Jack, because of the fact that they were actually there and being of a similar skin color, be even MORE likely suspects? I POLITELY informed him that both Homicide and New Jack are warm, witty, WELCOME member of the UXF family and even if they DID do it... I can't accuse them because they know where I live and I think they have access to armed weapons. We agreed to disagree and hung up. Never in my life had I used the "n-word" so many times in the span of 60 seconds then during that phone call.

A few minutes later, April Hunter called looking to be booked on my next show. I said sure, after I see you do that trick with the Benoit Balls that Firehawk has been carrying on about. She'll be over in an hour. Gotta get the wife out to see a movie or something.

Day Five

After a two hour magic show (Man, April can make so many things disappear up there), I sent her home with a smile and a promise of a booking. Heh... ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho heh heh heh he heh heh heh heh heh... Goodman, you're always one step ahead...

Tara Bush denied doing it online... but Carmine Sabia did the denying for her. What a world. I miss Dana. That little monkey-face would've been easy to blame. Everyone would'a bought it. And those titties... sweet pistachio!

Fuck it, I'm calling her. She used to let me Donkey Punch her! Why am I wasting my time wi... whoops, the wifey is home... and SHE BROUGHT MORE FRITOS!!!

Day Six

Wittenstein suggested that I blame Candido and make the whole thing into a giant work for the next show. We can call it "HELL'S REJECT!!" The kid's got some smarts, for a closet fagola. He's eying my Fritos. As if he doesn't have enough zits. Gettouddaherekid!

Day Seven

I've decided just to blame Tara Bush, throw her out of my company, and be done with the whole affair. Wittenstein seems to think she did it. Says an upstight snobberino like her simply HAD to do it. Plus she don't spread. She'll never make it anyway. Fuck it. Case closed!

I wonder if McMahon ever has to deal with this shit? I wonder if he's hiring writers? Anyone have his number? He'll go for a little cross promotion! My genius for his workers at my shows! I tell ya', the geniusness just does not stop FLOWING! Goodman is God!

Now I gotta go get my back waxed.


Amazing... absolutely amazing.

JOKES, people! Making light of a horrible situation! I don't know who did what and I don't care! Everyone's innocent! Goodman is a stand-up guy! Just being a brat. That's all I'm doing. Up and Up. He'll make sure the RIGHT person is exposed. I'm merely doing a parody of what I see is the inherent silliness of the indy scene... no suing. Just trying to be funny. Jewish people are normal people who do NOT smell money trails. No one's blaming SWB. April Hunter gets gigs on talent and nothing else. All love. Hyatte is just here to bring on the giggles. Homicide Rules. New Jack Rules! All love... all love.

Whew... Moving on...


I, for one, am so sick and tired of HHH bashing. The net is jammed packed with it, non-stop.

But here at DOI, youngsters with a gleam in their eye and a PASSION for landing on their heads and laying pipe on every rat they can get
their hands always come here for the latest news and gossip. It is these young rasslers who need to know. Triple H isn't to be hated. Triple H is to be WORSHIPPED. And here is one of the many, MANY reasons why...

Triple H Is Better Than You Because...

When his wife snores, he has her surgically repair it. When YOUR wife (or girlfriend, or momma) snores... you sit there and quietly DEAL!



*There are 3 golf balls sitting on the moon*

And just like that, you're smarter than you were three seconds ago

Hyatte LIVES to inform.


Whenever we talk, I can always count on Flea to give his opinions on just about anything.

So, I decided to grab a pen and paper and start jotting down his thoughts. Everyone likes Flea.

The following is 100% true... more or less:


The WWE's employee dress code?

Good. I like it. Nothing wrong with looking like a human being. It improves morale and perception. Slacks and a polo shirt, nothing they can't walk around in just fine. Always dress like you're about to pay off a loan. Words to live by.

Flea, who left me a four minute Happy Thanksgiving message, all but 39 seconds of it was incoherent.


No, No, no, NO... enough comedy for the week!

I would like to ask, however, exactly WHY that big, fat, fruity Abyss... who I'm pretty sure even I could fuckin' beat up, and who is NOT over and NO ONE believes is a "Monster" just HAS to be on EVERY SINGLE GODDAM IMPACT SHOW THEY'VE RUN???? Jesus, Dixie... give it UP!

Anyway, since I've front-loaded the column with enough hilarity... how about a little NON-WRESTLING bit of seriousness... ess..


Flea: Only three writers in the world have ever meant anything, Hy-Indypend8
Hyatte: Oh yeah, which ones?
Flea: Stephen King, George Orwell…
Hyatte: And?
Flea: (takes a long, drawn-out, desperate pull from his bong – followed by a nice, generous sip from his glass) and… whoever.
Hyatte: Whoever?
Flea: Yep
Hyatte: Who the fuck is whoever?
Flea: When you know, then you’ll know


I've been doing this for a while, and one day I'll set up a small place where I'll put up all of these book reviews.

For those who don't know, every so often I clear space in this column and dedicate it to a book... see, I read a lot... I have a brilliant mind that needs constant invigoration. And I beleive it is my destiny to inspire my small group of readers (that means YOU, doucheface) to crack open a book and read as well.

You see, I know you people... all you gab about is fucking wrestling books. Well, other than the Flair book, and Foley's first one, I don't READ these damn silly, fucking pointless wrestling books (and I have a GIANT "And Another Thing" about this topic coming soon). I read REAL books... by REAL writers... that tell REAL stories! Just because you read rasslin' books doesn';t mean you read good fiction... you're reading bad fiction... hellabad!

Anyway, I do this. I talk about a book briefly, then put up a juicy excerpt, then come back for the wrap up. DON'T SCROLL!! BOOKS CAN BE YOUR FRIEND THAT TAKES YOU TO MAGICAL PLACES!!

And I read ALL KINDS of books... more than you. Good books too... none of that Sword and Sorcery/Star Trek/Romance Novel bullshit... and I try to stay away from best sellers. That Dan Brown creep doesn't need my publicity. I try to give you books and writers you aren't familiar with. Shouldn't be a problem... many of you seem like true lummoxes.

Anyway, to kick off this ongoing MidNews feature at my new site, I thought I'd go back to the beginning and showcase a book from the same guy who wrote the very first book I ever featured here. This was a couple of years ago at 411mania (those kids still talking about me?). It was a book that was made into a movie and also made Nicholas Cage into an award winner. That book was
Leaving Las Vegas. This book is called The Assault on Tony's. Both were written by John O'Brien and both feature full blown, unapologetic alcoholics. You should know about LLV by now... but you might never of heard of The Assault on Tony's. You will now.

The premise is simple... as the worst riot in history, as a sheer civil war breaks out in Los Angeles, a bunch of drunks hunker down in a bar, called "Tony's", and struggle to stay drunk. The book's chapters are labeled as days and the book opens with what happened on Day 16 beofre jumping back to Day 1. This is important as O'Brien let's us know that there will be more to this story than just drunk people stumbling into each other as hell is unleashed outside. With the exception of the Jill the Waitress, (who is drawn as a fully realized, fully flawed character), the unnamed busboy (who's only form of communication is his icy stare), and a man named Carey who escapes into the bar from the war outside, every character stays pretty drunk from the opening page. With the exception of one moment where the men dare to go outside and make a run for their cars to get guns and ammo, the action stays inside the bar. The main focus of the story is to keep the booze safe and sound and flowing. Nothing else matters to these characters other than to avoid sobriety. That's what a true alcoholic does. That's what he or she lives for, to not get sober and wait out the riot..

And in a bar, a fully stocked bar, it shouldn't be a problem, right? But that's the key to this book... as it goes along the characters fight to maintain their drunken haven as the outside war keeps trying to get in, slowly but surely, the sobering reality of life crashes in on their stupor.

In this excerpt, I went with the first few pages of the chapter "Day 10". It focuses on the four primary drunks, beginning with Rudd, who reluctantly becomes the... what passes for hero of this story. O'Brien spends some time digging into the minds of these characters, presnting their hazy point of view when the first of many events happen that threaten to intrude into their lives. It's a good way to give you a brief look into these sad people. It's also a good way to show you the quality of talent that O'Brien possessed.

The first sign came to Osmond though he failed to recognize it. The television was off anyway, the men having grown weary and impatient and rationalizingly distrustful of the liberal media's test patterns, so that which might have given the day's real news by virtue of its silence was expected to be silent anyway, It wasn't until Langston stepped up to the plate and dipped his hand into the ice machine's cavernous plenum of promise, to the same depth in fact that Osmond's hand had only been moments before, that the first sign was not only revealed but acknowledged. The ice was lower than it ought to be, the blind man noticed without the handicap of compensatory eyesight; wetter too.

Fenton, absorbed in drink and across the room, said (and dig: the light will fade, see, and this dude don't know it), "I miss my books."

"This guy wrote a book that you read it once and it disappears." Rudd said this. This. And he burped. "Maybe no more books. For a while."

Russ was as shitfaced as he'd ever seen him, Fenton. Said (somewhat shitfaced himself), "I have these books. I read. I was thirty. Twenty Nine. I'd read enough, say... say plenty of books, like a few hundred. A few thousand?" He drank more, his eyes swayed without analogy. "Lots of books. I said to people that I'd really read a lot of books. Then I thought, I've read so many books that I've forgotten some of them."

All this time the power's off. For good. All this time Rudd is drunk.

"So if I read so many," continued Fenton, "so many that I'm forgetting them, then why not stop and just reread the books I've already read? I mean, we're stuck with that anyway, right? A little window of creation. We try to fool it with quantity, but the truth that you can't fool time, and the only way to second guess it is with quality. Those are my books. I need to read them again and again." He saw something that was too subtle for a drunk man to recognize, yet he saw it nonetheless because it was something that an intelligent man would never miss, like a dimness in the hall when the ladies' room door swung open, or a failure to him from some fucking freon grid. Don't pay attention. You don't have to. Just take the universe in, blow it out. Look.

"Guy thinks he can make big money with collectors," said Rudd.

"Ephemeral," said Fenton.

Rudd burped again.

Fenton knoew the power was out, and for all his mighty thoughts of culture he also knew it all came down to the power, the electricity in that socket.

Life is homosexual rape. I am drunk.

he thought.

"So what's the difference?" - Fenton now - "He makes a book that can't be read again, or I read a book that I don't remember?"

"You're drunk," told Rudd to his friend.

There's a difference, thought Fenton. Maybe the power's out too, he thought.

I'm drunk, thought Rudd. My mind. I should have read more books. He's right. I'm bright. "There's a value in the ephemeral."

"There has to be," said Fenton.

"Everything is," said Rudd.

"Ephemeral," said Fenton.

There was a pause and Rudd felt the power out. Fenton. Guns.

"It's a short time."

RUDD WAKEs Up aNd hshkeas. S khkesa. S.H.A.E.K.S. Enough. Everything, a short time. I sleep, I slept. I sleept (giggle). My god, I need a (G) drink.

It's light enough and maybe he does need a drink. Well of course he needs a drink: he's in a bar. It's a bar. It
is a bar. Think about all that liquor, there for the taking. A finite amount, perhaps, but there aren't that many men in here. And one of them's a woman, and she doesn't drink so she doesn't count (insofar as liquor distribution is concerned). And one of them's a guy who doesn't drink and doesn't count anyway. Carey, just let him try to take a share.

Rudd, now standing at the service area of the bar, what Jill or the stiff in the freezer, as service staff would call the well, just picked up a fucking bottle of whatever scotch was there and took a long guy-drinkin'-whickey-in-a-western-movie-bar swill right from the bottle 'cause it was take-what-you-want time - all you want - and there'd be plenty time for crafting selection later. Plenty of ways for a drunk in a bar to define his personality.

Plenty of everything, thought Rudd, getting drunk enough now to think clearly, and if it weren't for Reagan then this place might never have existed, When you think about it. In a twisted sort of way. Or Hollydale. But more scotch, now J & B since out head is clearer, made the thoughts vanish quicker than a fart in a breeze.

RUDD seated himself at the head of this fine slate bar and felt alone and empowered in the room. The trick is winners and losers; those fucking kids outside can't change that no matter how many guns they've got. it works best this way, a few men at the levers, those who can distinquish between good and bad scotch, cars, automobiles, so on. Hollydale had a limit on how many tee-offs they'd allow so that members were never crowded, and even in that there was a hierarchy, of lesser members who had been waiting longer. This way the strong links were placed in the chain by a natural selection of sorts. They would click around that course - Pacemakers, or Pacesetters, is better - click around that course gently (and sometimes not so gently)nudging ahead or pulling along the lesser men, men who would likely in time step up to become the Pacesetterws themselves by virtue of their very presense at and membership in Hollydale. A good world, a world that worked and will work again.

And was working now, for chrissakes, it occurred to Rudd as the J & B flowed like water then some fine twenty-year-old Glensomethingorother into wine. Not his favorite stuff but hey: twenty years old, and who the hell in here is more likely to apprecviate it than me. I, make that. Was working now, glitches aside, some green motherfucker stuck in the rough and taking six strokes out. Nudge him along, Pacesetter, shoot a ball his way or see that he waits a few hours for his next tee. There's always a way. Up is still up, even a guy like Rudd couldn't change that, not if he ewanted to. Question is... but his thoughts trailed off.

"Power's out," announced Fenton, matter-of-fact son-of-a-bitch, brusquely, from elsewhere in the bar, a place where Rudd was not.

He flicked the switch again, Fenton did, the third one of his confirmatory circuit; across the room, this, and most certainly on a different breaker than dud number two in the kitchen. Wonder if Jill will have enough light in her bathroom, he thought for no reason and admittedly somewhat out of priority, "Power's out," he said again, but softer like to himself. He stood there alone in the corner, a pricey ivory dimmer switch futily awaiting the tickle of his pinkie.

Waiting, too, was Fenton, and didn't care at all about the power. Alll things were summing to minor details for him, like he was standing too close to the televsion of French Impressionism. Pointillism. Focus on the end though; he saw it coming, and it was really the only thing to grab for at this point. best be a part of it. best keep drinking, learn to catch up. A crash course, going well if you stayed with it and didn't stand back. Fenton strode to the bar for drinks and discussion of power, its outage.

Miles turned curled in his booth and awakened spared the clutch of hangover, quite incredibly, yet cast into the morning's bad news just a second too late to hope Fenton's pronouncement had sprung from a dream. he wanted to panic but had grown accustomed to leaving that role to Osmond's Costello and then playing things a bit cooler. Plus, no lights led to immediate drinking. Somewhat gratuitous perhaps at this point, like creating a flow chart after the program has been coded. Senoir year of high school, BASIC, programming in the math lab, Miles remembered, and the only way for him to get the whole flow chart thing was to write the actual program ("Hello, World") then use it to draw the stupid triangle pctures and arrows, What a waste of time, but the only way he could do it.
Hello, World! a BASIC statement.

So in the face of power outage, Miles proceeded directly to scotch. Osmond watched him from Osmond's booth where Osmond had only now opened his eyes and was pretty sure something was up but, having missed the news as spokenm had no idea what it was.

"Miles," said Osmond with some new uncertainty rearing a nose over the old uncertainty.

"Power's out," said Miles, weary enough to not give a shit about parroting Fenton and weary enough of Osmond to not give a shit period.

Scary stuff, and what's more; Osmond knew he was right about Miles, the backing away. Sense in that quick, one thing he was good at. Power's out.

Osmond wanted out of this knowledge, all of it, just as Miles wanted out of Osmond at the moment. He, Osmond, good at the game or at least not without practice in the tenous affairs of men-friends and surrogate big brothers, tacked eyes down at the bar, tried hard not to quiver frightfully as he took his liquor. A medicinal excuse, always. For him the best. The fat of his belly and his revolvers and the booze, all warming, cvooling each other. Warming for now.

Disgusted, Carey was beyond the point at which reasonable men hold their tongues. Up for hours, watching them all salivate in their sleep, hangovers percolating. Yet all that careful observation and winning the I Found the Power's Out award still goes to a drunk, He wanted so much to... As much as Carey wanted to embrace the apocalypse this little stuff kept getting in the way, So much happening with even more about to happen, a world in flamesm and all he could think about was how unfair it was for bachelor number 3 to have made this discovery before he did. So dearly did he deserve to fuck that waiutress Jill, and all he could think about was the obfuscation that went with such an act. Find a light switch and you're the hero; fuck a girl and you're a creep. Go figure.

Now THAT'S writing. Perfect characterizations. Fully fleshed people, all but one dead drunk. This O'Brien knew what he was doing. He knew the atmosphere he wrote about. He lived it, right up until he took his own life. Which was just a few days before Hollywood bought the rights to Leaving Las Vegas and made him rich.

The plot thickens after the power went out, but what happens outside the bar is only a backdrop to what happens inside. To these characters, everything's fine so long as the war outside stays outside. So long as they have all the booze they need...

So, of course, the booze is suddenly taken away. What happens then?

O'Brien didn't get to finish this book. He had all but the last few pages written, then took his own life. but his sister Erin took his outline and finshed it off. The ending is nightmarish, and leaves you with a final glimpse at just how desperate these characters are. Just how much they needed to drink. Twisted stuff.

O'Brien wrote three books before he killed himself. I've covered two. The third one is called
Stripper Lessons, and it's missing O'Brien's voice. That one he only got to the outline. His sister had to write the actual narrative, and it showed.

The Assault on Tony's isn't a great book, but it's a unique one. There isn't a happy ending, but you go into it knowing that the characters were never happy to begin with. It's a solid read, different from anything you might have looked at before, and it comes from the mind of a sad but brilliant writer who walked the walk he writes of. It won't knock your socks off, but you'll learn how the minds of hopeless drunks deal with the unimaginable, and what measures they take to survive on their own terms. You'll get to know these people. You won't much like them and will pity them, but you'll get to know them all the same.

My name is Chris Hyatte and I wont rest until every professional wrestler LEARNS TO READ!!

Want one more thing before we wrap it up? NO??? Okay... cool. One last thing...

LADIES LOVE COOL HY (jailbait edition)

We close with yet, ANOTHER example of the suaveness that is the Hi8!!

17yearoldhottie: hi :-)
Hyatte1com: hi

17yearoldhottie: whats up
Hyatte1com: not much
Hyatte1com: you?
17yearoldhottie: procrastinating..have an anatomy test tomorrow

Hyatte1com: really? I know all about the human body, ask me anything
17yearoldhottie: i have tostudy.
Hyatte1com: THE PENIS!!
17yearoldhottie: what about it
Hyatte1com: you were supposed tpo ask me a stupid anatomy question then I would immediately shout THE PENIS!!

17yearoldhottie: whats the shortage appendage on ur body?!
Hyatte1com: well, first it's shorTEST
Hyatte1com: second, the little pinkie toe

17yearoldhottie: u were supposed to type. MY PENIS
Hyatte1com: you have a penis?
Hyatte1com: Whoa
Hyatte1com: that actually explains a lot
17yearoldhottie: fuck you hyatte

Took me two weeks to swoon her back into my awesomeness.

Rule of thumb, boys...17 year olds aren't like 27 year olds. They are more fun, more smartassish, often times actually more intelligent, but you can't hit them with adult humor... they are muy sensitivo. Gotta treat them with the kid gloves. Gots to tone down the charm. Go from R to PG-13. Then they'll belong to you.

Another life's little lesson, courtesy of the Net God.

Next week... umm... an April Hunter update, another TNA PPV that I won't bother to order. My exclusive, in-depth commentary on waffles, the strange case of CM Punk, and the return of Across the Boards.

I know... I know... can't be relied on, you say. Hyatte a flake-out... you say. Well, since I for DAMN sure ain't sitting here doing a column on Dec 25... you're guaranteed at least 3 weeks worth of hard core columns now.

And hey... you Indy kids... the newbies... yeah, you... the asshole Indy worker/promoter/ticket seller who finds him/herself reading this douchebag column from this douchebag writer who thinks he's all that. Got a little upset when I vanished, didn't you? Not liking these weeks off, ARE YOU???

Everyone underestimates me... everyone. Everyone I've ever known underestimates me... you think you got me pegged then BLAM... I'm entertaining your ass... I'm charming you.

You fucking NEED me around. You'd go nuts without me.

I'm one of a fucking kind. Zim, Zam Zoom.

Eat me, nuggets


This is Hyatte