The Midnight News

Well, I asked...

I was just hoping the countdown to 0 was for your long awaited Howard Stern "And Another Thing". Or maybe it is when you will decide to unveil your all new Mop-Up, but this time you can do comic books instead. Comics are just as popular as wrestling! You can double your audience! Or maybe the zero is the amount of weeks you are counting down before you unveil that Howard Stern "And another thing" you have been promising. But by knowing you through your creepy female wrestling stocking column, I believe it is when you will just start reposting old columns and changing the names around. Think about it. It would be great, very little effort on your part, you would still get feedback and praise. Who doesn't want to hear you replace Hulk Hogan with Randy Orton in a mop-up where you record how many beers you have drank. Or have your ex write about TNA. Good times.Your lazy and fat and i didn't proofread. amuse me longer


There's a nice walk down memory lane.

It's definitely time to give up Chris. I love reading your stuff (the non-wrestling stuff anyway)... I'm biased because I haven't watched wrestling for years. But you've always got to listen to the little voice inside yourself. You can't have a passion for writing an internet wrestling column anymore. Find something more constructive to do. Write a book, screenplay... Whatever. I know you've got stuff like that in the works anyway.

Look for a new job. A new hobby. Anything. When you come to the end of your life do you think you'll look back and say... That internet wrestling gig was satisfying? Probably not. We're all old jaded fools who don't believe in love and will probably lead fruitless lives anyway. But what the heck.

Best of luck in whatever you do. Just don't keep writing for the morons for little to nothing in return.


Screenplay? But sir, I am neither Jewish NOR gay.

Eh Chris, how's it going? I know you got better things to do, so I'll make it quick. I've been reading you since you're first column at Scoops. (No, I can't seem to give up wrestling either) and you're just like fine wine, better with age. If not this site, hopefully another, just try to find one with no kids running everything. None of these brats around know a damn thing about wrestling. You're the only one left who does know what you know, and admit when you don't. The rest just plain suck. And if anyone needs proof, why are you the only one who acknowledges Lita's contributions. She deserved so much better, and it pissed me off how things ended.

Anyway, hope you keep going and if not, Thanks.

Pat ---- yes, I'm a Canadian, but I'm of the 2% that ain't a total loser. Keep up the jokes.

Over time I've come to find Canadians very pleasant, agreeable, NICE folk... some of you all just are too fucking stubborn for your own good.

I was accused of being a bit "over-the-top" with my Lita thing from last week. Yeah, she had her bad points but sometimes, you have to slam people over the head with your opinions in order to get your point across.

Saw you were looking for some feedback. I don’t post on message boards. I haven’t routinely watched wrestling in years. And, I wouldn’t know who Wade Keller, Dave Schrerer, or Dave Meltzer was if I hadn’t read your columns. However, every Monday I come into work, I grab a little something in the lobby for breakfast, pour a cup of coffee, close the door, and read your column. 

I learned to close that door because I’d invariably have attorneys and staff peaking into my office to find out what was so funny at 10am on a Monday morning. I couldn’t very well repeat the material in an office atmosphere, so I’d make up some shit about an e-mail a friend sent. I’ve enjoyed your columns going back to the 411 days (missed out on the Scoops stuff), and they’ve always taken the edge of an otherwise shitty start to the week. 

So, if that countdown marks the end of your writing, I wish you the best and thank you for all the free years of brilliant writing and laughter. I hope that maybe after a break you’ll find that you’ve still got enough in you to continue the writing…even if you have to change the focus or format. Whatever the case, you haven’t missed a beat and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed your work over the years.

Now, if you’re jerking our chains and that countdown refers to something obscure, like the amount of times you’ll be running a “Fun Facts” section in your columns, then I say kiss my ass, you magnificent bastard.


I post this just to show you all that yes, professionals DO read me while sipping coffee at their desk in a real suit and tie.

Hyatte, I've been with you since Scoops, even through the Dusty the Fat Bitter Cat debacle. You need to step away for the same reasons I stopped watching wrestling on a continuous basis. The business sucks and you can just see it in your recaps. When before you would effortlessly stream together numerous bits in a well-woven tapestry of bad taste and frottage jokes, now you are just like a duck, paddling like mad underneath to appear calm above. This business is killing you because you have nothing to work from, you can only go to the well so many times before you realize there is nothing out there for you. Maybe just go monthly, or around big PPVs. But you need some time away before you wind up like Scherer, drunk and passed-out on the Vegas strip with a tattoo of a panther on your ass, a parrot on your shoulder and a carrot shoved up your rectum. I am out.


The "Dusty debacle"? Man, if NoSoul was still alive posting this would guarantee a 9 page tirade.

I don't know if you're really serious about feedback regarding what to do. I think that you've had the same plan all along in the countdown and are sticking with it.

But I hope you keep going. For what it's worth. Maybe just do 12 columns per year even. Free up some time for yourself and continue to bless your loathsome patronizing fiendish mob of slovenly idiots. Because we surely deserve it.

Honestly there's nothing like you in your field. You have a legacy and you can do what you want. If the fact that you asked for feedback is true, then there is a part of you that cares to continue. I would be more than happy with one appearance a month or whatever, hell even one whenever you want. If they aren't scheduled it would generate more doi traffic when people start thinking you're "due." That's my two more cents for your millions.


Okay, this one was strictly for my ego.

"tell me if it's time to pack it in". hehe. "pack it in". You would have figured that out years ago. Back when you first realized that you weren't like the other guys on the team. When you get to zero: A big red stripe goes across the page, and you are moved to Tuesdays. ps- Can I be in your new Rat Pack?


Sure, but Flea has dibs on the "Dino" role.

Hello Creepfaces. I'm Chris and this is the Midnight News. I'll get into the reader reaction thing at the very bottom of this column. With reams and reams and reams of nonsense to plow through until. It's a BOOKEND THEME, BABY!! 

Blah blah blah and we get going with....


Going out to no one anyone would suspect...

And that's what being ignored feels like. Not fun, is it? Pretty much a bum-out, in fact. Now you know how it feels. Remove the F@#$ing road blocks, tell me a story and let's take it from there. Or - if you can't be bothered - don't and I'll talk to you in a year or two or never. No anger (well... ), just frustration, a little bit of love, and a whole lotta ACES, BABY!


So what can be said about ECW's December to Dismember? 

Not much, I didn't watch it... except for the main event which Sean "The MiC" found being broadcast on the net. No sound or anything... but still....

All signs point to it being a bonafide disaster... but not really. I'm guessing that the WWE, with a major PPV last week and a Smackdown PPV two weeks away, used this to gauge just how loyal the ECW audience is. 

I mean really, all they sold was the name "ECW", a PPV title that is reminiscent of the good ol' days, and the Elimination Chamber gimmick which seems tailor made for the brand. Oh, and the Hardy Boys reunion which covers the high flying aspect of ECW's glory days. Other than that, nothing.

I have to think they marketed this to the hard-core demo just to see how willing they are to support the product.

And... from all reports... the product itself was a pretty depressing ordeal... because as they used this to gauge the hardcore audience's support... they also took a big, fat giant shit on them too. It's almost a big rib on those who ordered it... jokes on you, suckers!


-Styles and Tazz say hello. One assumes Joey could not care less. He's getting big bucks and when he's fired, he can go back to the Insurance racket. Tazz, on the other hand... well... JBL is SO GOOD on Smackdown... when this show folds, he's screwed.

-The Hardyz fought MNM. The joke is they opened the show with this 23 minute match that had plenty of spots and good psychology... and how about that Jeff Hardy for making it this far and not flaking out yet! What, did he grow up or something?

-Anyway, the JOKE is that this opener went a good, long time and seems to be the best match of the night... since it was the opener, it kind of made people think this wouldn't be as bad as it appears... after all, it opened the show! Maybe we were in for a surprise!

-Nope... after the Hardyz won, we get Matt Striker vs Balls Mahony in a drawn out comedy match where Striker announced it would be filled with UNExtreme rules... it lasted 5 minutes... which pretty much gives Balls time to run through his entire arsenal.... TWICE. Balls won.

-I'm getting the Pillman DVD delivered to my house tomorrow... courtesy of Amazon.

-Sabu was taken out of the Elimination Chamber match and sent to a hospital for "unknown causes"... reports say he wants to get fired because... well because he's a god damn idiot who is in position to make some real fucking money before his body caves in on himself but instead of saying, "yes, sir, no sir" and being a model employee (Vince is said to have once LOVED him), he decided to moan and groan and pass out at shows and be a general moron. Won't shock me if we never see him again.

-Elijah Burke and Sylvester Terkey wiped out the FBI in under 6 minutes. Apparantly, either Burke or Terkey used the "Muscle Buster" as a finisher... if they REALLY want to fuck with Samoa Joe, they'll make Triple H start using it! Heh, the net would flip out. 

-Davairi pinned Tommy Dreamer and then Khali flattened him. Nice thing about this new ECW is that you can always count on Dreamer to lose... no matter what.

-Kevin Thorn and Ariel beat Mike Knox and Kelly Kelly after Knox walked out on Kelly. ABOUT GOD DAMN TIME!! THESE PEOPLE BOOK HER TO OPENLY FLIRT WITH CM PUNK FOR WEEKS AND KNOX DOES NOTHING ABOUT IT!! Plus... like... Kelly hardly ever acknowledged her boyfriend's existence! ZERO chemistry! Actually, I hear this is pretty much the way things go between Mr. And Mrs Trish Stratus these days... heh... heee... Hyatte rules.

-Of all the ECW "Orginals" that are treated with a little respect... who'da thunk it's the Sandman (who ran out and caned Thorn all to hell) who gets taken care of! SEE, THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU COME TO WORK IN NICE CLOTHES AND CARRY YOURSELF PROFESSIONALLY!!

-Michael Cole makes a plea to spend that Christmas gift money on Smackdown's "Armageddon"... of all the time to throw out multiple PPVs, they choose the time of the year where people use every penny on gifts. Real smart move there.

-Heyman admits that ECW of old is dead... man, they really are burying the product, aren't they.

-The Chamber... everyone comes out... Punk gets the loudest pop. Hardcore Holly replaces Sabu. I suddenly come to the conclusion that this PPV might be Punk's intitiation! I mean... if JBL isn't the one to beat the fuck out of the greenpeas... then it's always been Hardcore Holly.

-Holly and RVD start off... 5 minutes later, Punk comes out. RVD sells for him... then Holly gets a hold of him. 

-Now, I was watching this on a shitty webcast with nmo sound and talking to the MiC at the same time... but I'm pretty sure Punk got NO offense on Holly. Plmety on RVD, but none of Holly.

-5 minutes later... Test is out. Now everyone who has NO shot at winning is in there... and RVD who might be the underdog fave...

-Punk is pinned. He's going to have plenty of chances soon... first on Smackdown then on Raw... but never as champ... not until he Chris Masters his ass! Quit fucking WHINING! HE IS NOT READY TO BE A TITLE HOLDER YET!

-OUT goes RVD... who is already building a six sided ring in his backyard to practice for next summer.

-and OUT goes Holly... he got to stiff Punk around. That's why he's there.

-And OUT goes Test. He doesn't care about titles... he just wants to fuck every babe in the company.

-Then its the black Brock Lesnar vs the Big Show... annnnnd, we have a new ECW champion! Bobby Lashley... WWE born and bred!

And the show ends... at 2:15... plenty of time for the lemmings to run to the message boards and scream bloody murder before they have to go to bed for work the next day.

Is this brand dead? Sure seems to be heading there.

The funny thing is... when they started this show, everyone started talking about how EMBARRASSING it would be for Vince if he couldn't get a new form of WRESTLING up and running and successful. He couldn't do bodybuilding and he humiliated himself when he tried to reinvent football...

Imagine if he ends up pulling the plug on ECW... if the greatest wrestling promoter who ever lived couldn't make a wrestling brand work.

Wow... the emperor is getting naked.

This is both a great time and a HORRIBLE time to be a wrestling fan... it sure is.

Let's move on...


Ahh that Russo... living proof that there is no "Off" switch on the Creative lightbulb!

Becausze he wants DX to get over, he has given Mr. Ass Billy Gunn and Road Dog Jesse James the storyline where they have declared WAR on Vince McMahon, Shawn Michaels, and Triple Chin Helmsley. To date, we haven't been given a decent reason as to why. 

Anyway, because they mean BUSINESS... Ass, Dog, Russo, and that cocksucker Jeremy Borash went to a Raw house show, bought tickets, and actually got Triple H to acknowledge them! On paper... it looks like a STARTLING VICTORY in this Godless WAR!! SCORE ONE FOR THE GOOD GUYS!!

On paper... in real life, things didn't go QUITE as planned...

There are PLENTY of TNA plants FANS who mailed in LIVE, AS IT HAPPENED reports to all the big news sites to make sure it got FULL coverage (Russo... he is the Internet Charlie Daniels and we are his FIDDLE)... but these OBJECTIVE Russo Plants FANS forgot to mention just what people said to these old farts as they jumped and wazved and begged for some attention. Luckily, I caught wind... luckily, I have the info...

The following was said to the TNA Invaders at the Raw house show...

-"Who are these assholes?" 

-"Hey, who's the geek with the fake tan?" 

-"Holy shit, looks like Road Dog hasn't missed many meals since he was fired." 

-"How much cock has Mr. Ass gotten?" 

-"Where's Chuck???" 

-"Get out of the way, you faggot! I didn't pay to see you jump around like an idiot!" 

-"Why did you guys retire?" 

-"How is the car sales business these days?" 


-"Man you guys are old." 

-"Give it up, Billy! No one ever cared about you!" 

-"Hey, got any weed?" 

-"This isn't a very proud way to ask for a job, you know." 

-"HAH! You clowns ripped off Kanyon!" 

-"You here to see what a REAL wrestling show looks like?" 

-"Why is Borash staring at my pants?" 

-"David Arquette? Why, Russo, why??" 

-"Hey Russo, say something in that gay new yawk accent!!" 

-"Holy shit, Road Dog has some yellow ass teeth!" 


-"Hey, what's Chyna like in the sack?" 

-"Which one of you has the coke?" 

-"What happened to you guys anyway?" 

-"Ha! Candice makes more money in a week than you do all YEAR!!" 

-"No one misses you!" 

-"What's TNA now?" 

-"I'll have a popcorn and a Pepsi please!" 

-"You guys give wrestling a bad name!" 

Imagine that...

TNA should focus their money more on magazine ads and TV spots then on these silly ideas.

Speaking of dumbasses...


So... just to set the record straight because gosh DARN I find him annoying...

When Kevin Sullivan ate his way out of professional wrestling (and drank… oh Lord, did he drink) Jim Mitchell surveyed the business and said, “By God, we need to get SATAN back into this profession!”

So he showed up on TNA and, after some fine tuning, now plays the Devil!! 

And he plays it to the hilt, with tweaked eyebrows, flaming red suits, and long, jet black hair sitting behind a widow’s peak! Oh that cackle of his… nothing says “Satan’s Infernal bitchdog soldier” more than a good cackle!! He is money, baby. Money from HELL, but money all the same!!

The WWE took notice and offered him a contract once… a standard (I guess, how would I know?) managerial contract of about $500 a week! More if he assumed an agent role.

Mitchell said no… why? Because a WWE gig would surely MESS UP his OTHER job… that of running a Karaoke business.

Can you imagine? Can you imagine a bloated, middle-aged guy with jet black hippie hair and fey eyebrows with a penchant for gaudy suits running around the South hitting every bar he can with his unique brand of karaoke?? He probably smokes too… like a chimney… 

Can you imagine your sister going to a bar for a few beers and being hit on by… by THAT???

That boy ain’t Satan… but what you have here is a walking, talking, living, breathing PERSONIFICATION of something worse!! 

He ain’t Satan… but I have looked at that trash and BY GOD, IT IS WHITE!!!

In other words… Mitchell… grow up, fool… karaoke died 5 years ago… you are embarrassing yourself. You are just one small step below DJ at a strip club!

Right now, I am totally seeing this guy singing “My Way” in a quarter full room of depressed drunks and toothless waitresses…. 

I’m sure the REAL Satan would have a BIT more class.



Flea: Only three writers in the world have ever meant anything, Buy-R8

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


For those who don't whip past these segments ("Fuck Hyatte, I don't need him to tell me to REDE!!"), you know I'm all about new authors... trying out voices that are new to me, and probably new to YOU since all I hear about is how great/lousy so and so's WRESTLING book was. For this time out, I'm featuring a pretty popular writer whom I've never read before and who wrote something out of his genre.

Bret Easton Ellis wrote books that were made into movies that you probably saw. He's the guy who wrote, Less Than Zero, American Psycho, and Rules of Attraction. Now I've seen this films and, other than stroking off PLENTY of times to Jamie Gertz's sex scenes in Less Than Zero, found nothing good about any of them. I didn't get Rules of Attraction and positively HATED American Psycho. So as far as reading his shit goes, I wasn't exactly rushing out to the bookstore.

But the premise to his latest book, Lunar Park intrigued me. It was Stephen King in his Entertainment Weekly column who talked about Ellis's latest book, and how it was a Stephen King-like horror novel. Of course, King disagreed with that theory and endorsed it. One does not disagree with Stephen King. He reads more in a week then most of us do in a year. He knows his stuff.

Lunar Park starts off brilliantly. I'll say this again, it starts off BRILLIANTLY. The first 40 pages is a confessional/autobiography of his life, not a fictional character, but the life of Bret Easton Ellis, who wrote a best selling blockbuster (Less Than Zero) out of college, that, without his permission or intent, made him an instant voice for his generation... the fabled "New Important Writer" that the publishing world is always after. His follow up books, Rules of Attraction and American Psycho only increased his fame.

And, like any young star with a sudden truckload of money dumped on his lap, he detailed his fall into heavy drugs and partying, how he hit rock bottom, and how he tries to save himself by reaching out to the girl who bore him a child and who loved him the most.. Ellis tells his life story, without any great detail as this isn't an autobiography, but with enough so as to lay the foundation down on this story. It's a fascinating first 40 pages.

And that's the hook to Lunar Park, the main character IS Bret Easton Ellis, and he IS the writer of all these books, and now he is at rock bottom and ran away from the fame and tries to save himself by becoming a husband and father in surburbia. 

All of this sounds boring, but as I said, Ellis is trying his hand at straight horror here, so after we get the crash course to his life, the fiction begins. In the suburbs, with his wife (who doesn't trust him) and two kids (one of whom hates him) and their family dog (who prefers he not be there), Ellis's past comes to haunt him. He starts getting emails late at night from the bank where his Father's ashes are kept; his daughter's toy bird, called a "Terby" starts coming to life, and Patrick Bateman, the Yuppie Serial Killer-Star of American Psycho has come to life and is up to his usual tricks. His house starts changing too. It's all connected to Ellis's past and, really, Ellis does horror pretty damn well.

The best thing about this book is that Ellis doesn't make himself super-heroic. He's always drunk or high or both, and he doesn't waste time in lusting after a young student named Aimee Light from the college where he teaches. In fact, Ellis is ballsy enough to make himself a bit of a pussy in this book, a reluctant hero who runs to his liquor at the first sign ofd stress. You find it hard to root for him because he's such a pussy here.

The worst thing about this book is... well, I'll get to that after the excerpt. 

The excerpt I selected is a long one and covers many things. In it, Ellis and Jayne (the wife) are at a dinner party next door. I picked this one because not only is there a pretty good scary, page turning sequence in here, but we see Ellis try to adapt to life in the suburbs (and can't), and we get to see the beginning of his family breakdown. Enjoy:

The women cleared the table and went into the kitchen to prepare dessert while the men sauntered outside to the pool area to smoke cigars, but Mark Huntington had brought four prerolled joints, and before I realized what was happening we started lighting up. I wasn't a pot fan but I was surprised at and grateful for its arrival: it was going to take forever to get through the rest of the evening - the sorbet with frersh fruit and the lingering goodbyes and the dreary promises of another dinner - and without getting stoned, falling into bed seemed impossibly distant. After the first toke I collapsed onto one of the cahise longues that were set in some particular and artful arrangement around the large yard, which unlike ours sat off to the side of the house instead of the back, and the night was dark and warm and the light from the pool shadowed the men's features in a ghostly phospherous blue. From where I was slumped on the chaise I was facing the side of our house, and while taking deep drags off the joint I squinted my eyes and studied it, I could see through the French doors into the media room, where Robby was lying on the floor in front of the TV and Sarah was still sitting on Wendy's lap as the babysitter read her the story about those stranded boys on that lost island, and above them was the darkened master bedroom. And surrounding everything was the great peeling wall. Yesterday morning, up close, the patches on the wall hadn't seemed as large as they looked from this angle. The entire wall was now almost entirely covered in with pink stucco, with only small patches of the original lily white paint remaining. A new wall had been uncovered - it had taken over - and this was alarming enough to spread a chill through me (because it was a warning of some kind, right?) and after I was handed another joint and took a heavy toke, I hazily thought, How... strange... and then my thoughts drifted away to Aimee Light and I felt a faint pang of lust followed by disappointment, the usual combo. The silhouettes of the women could be seen in the kitchen and their voices, distant and muffled, were a gentle backdrop to the men's conversation. The men were trim with flat stomachs, their hair expensively colored, their faces smooth and unlined, so none of us looked our age, which I supposed, while yawning on the chaise, was a good thing. We were all a little detached and had a tendency to snicker, and I really didn't know any of them - everyone was still a brief first impression. I was looking at a weather vane on the Allens' roof when Mitchell asked me with an actual aura of concern and not the overlay of malice I had braced myself for, "So what brought you out of this part of the world, Bret?" I was drowsy and scanning the dark field behind our neighbors's house.

I aimed for the right note of detachment, and snickered, "Well, she read too many magazine articles about how children raised in fatherless homes are more likely to become adolescent delinquents. And voila. Here I am." I sighed and had another toke. And enormous cloud was billowing across the moon. There were no stars.

A chorus of grim chuckles was followed by even more snickering. And then it was back to the children.

"So he's taking methylphenidate" - Adam pronounced it effortlessly - "even though it really hasn't been approved for kids under six," and then he went on about Hanson's and Kane's attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder, which naturally led the conversation to the 7.5 milligrams of Ritalin administered three times a day, and the pediatrician who discouraged having a television set in the kid's bedroom, and Monsters, Inc.. - so old school - and Mark Huntington had hired an essay writer for his son, who'd pleaded with him that he didn't need one. And then the talk turned to the missing boys, a lunatic, a recent bombing in New Orleans, another pile of corpses, a group of tourists machine-gunned outside the Bellagio in Vegas. The marijuana - which was pretty strong - had turned our speech into thick parodies of drug talk.

"Have you ever tried the deaf-daddy routine?"

I wasn't asked this, but I sat up, intrigued, and said, "No."

"When he starts whining just pretend you don't understand what he's saying." This was Mitchell.

"What happens?"

"He gets so annoyed he simply gives up."

"How many hours did you spend on Google to get that info, Mitch?"

"It sounds excruciating," Adam sighed. "Why not just give him what he wants?"

"I've tried that. It does not work, my friend."

"Why not?" someone asked, even though we all knew the answer.

"Because they always want more" was Mark Huntington's response.

"Hell," Mitchell said with a shrug, inhaling, "they're my kids."

"We played hide-and-get-lost," Adam Gardner said after a long silence. He was also sprawled on a chaise, his arms crossed, staring up at the starless sky.

"How do you play that?"

"Kane is 'it' and has to count to a hundred and seventy." 

"And then?"

"I drive over to the Loew's Multiplex and catch a matinee."

"Does he care?" Adam was asked. "I mean - that he can't find you?"

Gardner shrugged. "Probably not. Just goes and sits in front of the computer. Stares into that damn thing all day long." Gardner pondered something. "Eventually he finds me."

"It's a whole different world," Huntington murmured. "They've developed and entirely new set of skills that sets us way apart."

"They know how to handle visual information." Gardner shrugged. "Big fucking deal. I, for one, am not impressed."

"They have no idea how to put things into context," Huntington again murmured, spacing out as he took another hit off a fresh joint. We still had two going now and everyone was toasted.

"They're fragment junkies."

"But they're more technologically advanced than us." Mitchell said this, but I couldn't tell from his flat and detached tone if he was arguing with Mark.

"It's called disruptive technology."

I could suddenly hear our dog, Victor, barking from our yard.

"Mimi doesn't want Hanson playing Doom anymore."

"Why not?" someone asked.

"She says it's a game the U.S. military uses to train soldiers." A deep sigh.

The only thing seperating our property from the Allens' was a low row of hedges, yet the houses were spaced so widely apart that any complaints about a lack of privacy were irrelevant. I could still see the children in the media room but my gaze traveled upward, and the lights in the master bedroom were now on. I double-checked, but Wendy was still sitting in the chair, holding Sarah.

Again I thought, How... strange...but this time the thought was laced with low-level panic.

I was sure the lights in the master bedroom hadn't been on before. Or had I just noticed this? I couldn't remember.

I refocused on the house, glancing first at the media room, but then a shadow behind the window in the master bedroom caught my attention.

Just as suddenly, it was gone.

"Look, I'm not exactly a strict disciplinarian," one of the fathers intoned, "but I make sure he takes responsibility for his mistakes."

I shifted restlessly on the chaise, still peering at the second floor.

There was no movement. The lights were still on but there were no more shadows.

I relaxed slightly and was about to rejoin the conversation when a silhouette darted past the window. And then it reappeared, just a shadow, crouched down as if it didn't want to be seen.

I couldn't make out who it was, but it had the shape of a man, and it was wearing what looked like a suit.

And then it disappeared again.

Involuntarily, I looked back at Robby and the babysitter and Sarah.

But maybe it wasn't a man, I automatically thought. Maybe it was Jayne.

Confused, I sat up and craned my neck to look behind me into the Allens' kitchen, where Nadine and Sheila were filling bowls with raspberries and jayne was standing at the counter pointing out something in a magazine to Mimi Gardner, both of them laughing.

I slowly reached for the cell phone in the pocket of my slacks and I hit speed dial.

I saw the exact moment that Wndy's head bobbed up from the book she was readint to Sarah, and she carried her to the cordless phone hanging near the pool table. Wendy waited for whoever it was to leave a message.

The silhouette appeared again. It was now framed by the window and simply standing there. It had stopped moving when it heard the phone ringing.

"Wendy, it's Mr Ellis, pick up," I said into the machine.

Wendy immedieatly lifted the receiver to her ear, balancing Sarah in her arm."

"Hello?" she asked.

The silhouette was staring into the Allens' yard.

"Wendy, do you have a friend over?" I asked as carefully as possible.

I swung a leg - it was tingling - off the chaise and looked back down into the media room, at three of them there, oblivious to whoever was upstairs.

"No," Wendy said, looking around. "No one's here but us."

I now stood up and was moving unsteadily toward the house, the ground wobbling beneath me. "Wendy, just get the kids out of there, okay?" I said calmly.

The silhouette continued to stand in front of the window, backlit, featureless.

I ignored the inquiries from the men behind me as to where I was going and walked along the side of the Allens' house and unlatched a gate, and then I was on the sidewalk, where I still had a view of the second-story window through the newly planted elms that lined Elisnore Lane.

As I got closer to the house I suddenly noticed the cream colored Mercedes 450 SL parked out front of the curb.

And that's when I saw the license plate.

"Mr. Ellis, what do you mean?" Wendy was asking me. "Get the kids out of the house? What's wrong?"

At that instant, as if it had been listening, the silhouette turned from the window and disappeared.

I froze, unable to speak, then moved up the stone path toward the front door.

"Wendy, I'm outside the front door," I said calmly. "Get the kids outside now. Do it now."

Victor kept barking from somewhere out back, and then the barks turned to howls.

I started knocking on the door rapidly until it became pounding.

Wendy opened the door, startled, still holding Sarah, who smiled when she saw me. Robby was standing behind them, apprehensive and pale.

"Mr. Ellis, no one's in the house but us..."

I pushed her aside and walked into the office, where I opened the safe in a matter of seconds and grabbed the small handgun, a .38 caliber, I kept there, and then, breathing heavily and dizzy from all the grass, tucked the gun into the waistband of my slacks so as not to frighten the kids. I began moving toward the staircase.

But I stopped as I passed the living room.

The furniture had been rearranged again.

Footsteps stamped in ash crisscrossed the entire space.

"Mr. Ellis, you're scaring me."

I turned around. "Just get the kids outside. It's okay. I just want to check something."

Saying that made me feel stronger, as if I was in control of a situation I probably wasn't. fear had been transformed into lucidity and calmness, which in retrospect I realize came from smoking Mark Huntington's grass. Otherwise I wouldn't have acted so recklessly, or even thought about confronting whatever it was in the master bedroom. What I felt walking up those stairs was, I had been expecting this. It was all part of a narrative. Adrenaline was smoothly pumping through me yet I wasn't moving quickly. My steps were slow and deliberate. I kept gripping the railing, letting it assist in my ascension. I felt so neutral I might as well have been in a trance.

At the top of the stairs I turned. It was dark in the hall leading to the master bedroom, and it was silent. But my eyes soon adjusted, and the corridor took on a purplish tint. The strength it took to walk through that hall came solely from a rising panic.

"Hello?" I called out into the darkness, my voice vibrating hoarsely. "Hello?"

I kept saying this as I moved down the hall toward the door at the end of it. A sconce flickered and then dimmed as I passed it. Another one followed suit.

And then I heard something. A shuffling sound. It came from behind the door of the master bedroom.

And from where I was stadning in the middle of the darkened hallway, I saw, in the gap below the door, the band of light go black.

And then I heard giggling.

I moaned. The giggling continued from behind the door. But it was giggling disconnected from humor.

The sconces had stopped flickering, and the only light in the hallway was the moon flooding through the large window that looked over the backyard. I could see Victor sitting on his haunches, staring intently at the house, as if he was standing watch (But against what?), and behind the dog was the field, which in the moonglow resembled a flat silver sheet.

The giggling turned into a high pitched squeal.

I blindly made my way toward the master bedroom; I couldn't see anything. I was letting the wall I was leaning against guide me toward it. I was only a couple of steps away when I heard the door opening.

"Hello? Who is it? Hello?" My voice was toneless. I reached under my shirt for the gun.

The squealing had stopped. In the darkness the door opened and something rushed out.

It was padding toward me but I couldn't see anything.

"Hey!" I yelled, then it leapt into the air and flew by me. 

I spun around, flailing at it.

And then the door to Robby's room slammed shut.

I was now holding the gun by my side and felt my way in the darkness, once again relying on the wall, until I was at Robby's door.

"Mr Ellis?" I heard Wendy call. "What's going on? You're frightening the kids."

"Call the police," I shouted, making sure the thing in Robby's room could hear me. "Call 911 now, Wendy. Just do it!"

"Dad?" This was Robby.

"It's okay, Robby, everything is okay. Just get outside." I tried to keep my voice from wavering.

I breathed in and slowly opened Robby's door.

The room was completely dark except for the screensaver moon glowing from the computer. The window looking onto Elsinore Lane was open.

I thought I sensed movement in the room and for about four steps inside I heard soemthing breathing raggedly.

"Who are you?" I shouted. fear was crawling through me. I had no idea what to do. "I have a fucking gun," I shouted uselessly. (That you don't know how to use, I could imagine the thing chuckle, mocking me.)

I backed up and ran my free hand up and dopwn the wall until I found the light switch.

And that was when something bit me on the palm of the hand that was reaching for the light switch. There was a hissing noise, then a stinging sensation in my hand. I shouted involuntarily and flicked on the lights.

Holding the gun in my outstretched hand, I swept it across the room. The only thing that moved was the Terby, which had landed on the floor and lurched forward before tilting over onto its side, its strange eyes fixed on me.

It was lying next to a small dead mouse that had been gutted.

But there was nothing else in the room. And I almost broke down with relief.

I swallowed hard and slowly and moved to the open window. When I heard the screeching tires I ran towards it.

Outside on Elsinore Lane, the cream colored 450 SL disappeared around the corner onto Belford Street.

I stumbled down the staircase and out the front door, where Wendy and Robby and Sarah were now standing, dumbstruck. Wendy reached down and picked Sarah up and held her tightly, a protective gesture.

"Did you see the car?" I was panting and suddenly realized I was going to be sick. I turned away from them and leaned over and vomited onto the lawn. Sarah started crying. I vomited again - this time more violently - in spasms. I wiped my mouth with the back of the hand holding the gun, trying to regain my composure.

"Did you see anybody get into that car?" I asked again. I was still panting.

Robby stared at me with disgust and walked back into the house. "You're crazy!" he shouted before I heard him furiously burst into tears. "I hate you!" he screamed, his voice filled with sureness and certainty.

"What car?" Wendy asked, her eyes wide with not fear but an awful incredulity.

"The Mercedes. That car that just drove down the lane." I was pointing at an empty street.

"Mr. Ellis - that car just happened to be driving by. What is going on?"

"No, no, no. Didn't you see the person get into that car and drive off?"

Wendy was staring at something behind me. I whirled around.

Jayne was walking slowly toward us, her arms crossed, her face grim.

"Yes, what is going on, Bret?" she asked quietly, nearing me.

I mistook the expression on her face for compassion but then I saw she was furious.

"Wendy, could you take Sarah to her room?" I walked up to the babysitter, who backed away as I reached out a hand toward Sarah, who turned her head from me, crying so hard she was drooling.

Jayne brushed past me and whispered something to her daughter and then to Wendy, who nodded and carried Sarah into the house. Still panting, I wiped the spittle from my mouth as Jayne walked to where I was standing, limp with exhaustion. She was staring at the gun and then back at me.

"Bret, what happened?" she asked quietly. Her arms were still crossed.

"I was sitting in the Allens' yard talking with the guys and looking up at the house and I saw someone in our room." I kept trying to control my breathing but failed.

"What were you guys doing out there?" She asked this in the tone of a professional who already knew the answer.

"We were just hanging, we were just..." I stopped. "Jayne, there was something - a man, I think - in our room and he was looking for something, and then I came over here and went upstairs to check but he pushed past me and ran into Robby's room and..."

"Look at yourself." She cut me off.


"Look at yourself. Your eyes are completely red, you're drunk, you reek of grass and you freaked out the kids." Her voice was low and rushed. "Jesus Christ, I don't know what do do anymore. I really don't know what to do anymore."

Our voices were contained because we were standing on the front lawn, out in the open. I involuntarily scanned the neighborhood again. And then, wracked with frustration, I said, "Wait a minute, if you're telling me the grass caused me to hallucinate that thing upstairs..."

"What thing was upstairs, Bret?"

"Oh fuck this. I'm calling the police." I reached for the cell.

"No. You're not."

"Why not, Jayne? There was something in our house that should not have been there." I kept gesturing. I thought I was going to be sick again.

"You're not calling the police." Jayne said this with a calm finality. She tried to reach for the gun but I pulled away from her.

"Why shouldn't I call the police?"

"Because I am not having the cops coming over here to see you in this pathetic condition and scaring the kids even more than they already are."

"Hey, wait a minute," I said, teeth clenched. "I'm scared, Jayne. I'm scared, okay?"

"No, you're wasted, Bret. You are wasted. Now give me the gun."

I grabbed her arm and she let me pull her toward the house, where I pushed the front door open. She was standing behind me when I pointed into the living room and the rearranged furniture. ANd then I pointed at the footprints, in some kind of sickly triumph. I waited for her to react. She didn't.

"I arranged the furniture this morning, Jayne. This was not how it was when we left tonight."

"It wasn't?"

"No, Jayne, and don't take that fucking condescending tone with me," I said, scowling. "Someone was in this house and rearranged this furniture and left those," I pointed at the footprints stamped in ash and realized I was jabbering and soaked with sweat.

"Bret, I want you to give me that gun."

I looked down. My hand was a white-knuckled fist clenched around the .38. I breathed in and glanced at the palm of my other hand. The small puncture wound appeared to be healing itself already.

She calmly took the gun away and resumed talking in a hushed tone, as if to a child. "The furniture was rearranged for the party..."

"No, no, no - I rearranged it this morning, Jayne."

"... and those footprints and the discoloration are also from the party, and I've already called a cleaning service..."

"Goddamnit, Jayne - I did not hallucinate this," I said scornfully, bewildered by her refusal to believe me. "There was a car out front, and there was someone upstairs and..."

"Where is this person now, Bret?"

"He left. He got in the car and left."


"What do you mean?"

"You said you went upstairs and saw this person and then he ran outside and got into a car?"

"Well, yeah, but I couldn't see him because it was too dark and..."

"He must have run past the kids and Wendy then," Jayne said. "They must have seen him as he ran right by them to get into this car, right?"

"Well... no. No... I mean, I think he jumped from Robby's window..."

Jayne's face collapsed into disgust. She walked away from me and went into the office and put the gun back into the safe, locking it. I followed her silently, glancing around for any evidence that someone had been in the house and that this vision was not caused by too much sangria and marijuana and the general bad vibes that were now slouching toward me relentlessly. Jayne started moving up the staircase. I followed her because I didn't know what else to do.

The sconces in the hallway were lit, bathing the corridor with its usual cold glow. Robby's door was closed, and when Jayne tried to open it she realized it was locked.

"Robby?" Jayne called. "Honey?"

"Mom - I'm fine. Go away" was what we heard from behind the door.

"Robby, let me in. I want to ask you something," I said, trying to push the door open.

But he never opened the door. There was no answer. I didn't ask again because I couldn't bear what his reaction might be. Plus the Terby was in there, and the dead mouse, and the open window.

Jayne was sighing as she went into Sarah's room, where Wendy had put her into bed. Beneath a lavender comforter, Sarah was holding that awful doll and her face was radiant with tears. I consoled myself with the lame fact that eventually the tears would stop, but how could I have asked her at that point how that thing had gotten from Robby's room into her arms during this time frame?

"Mommy!" Sarah exclaimed, her voice trembling with dread and relief.

"I'm here," Jayne answered hollowly. "I'm here, honey."

I was about to follow Jayne into the room but she closed the door on me.

I stood there. That she didn't believe anything I told her, and that she was moving away from me because of it, made that night even more frightening and intolerable. I tried in vain to downplay the fear, but I couldn't. Frantic, I just stood outside Sarah's door and tried to decipher the soothing whispers from inside and then I heard a noise from elsewhere in the house and I thought I'd be sick again, but when I walked downstairs it was only Victor scratching at the kitchen door, wanting to be let in, and then changing his mind. I kept peering out the windows, looking for the car, but the lane was quiet tonight, as it always was, and no one was out. What could I tell Jayne or Robby and Sarah that would make them believe me? Everything I wanted to tell them I witnessed would just serve as the potential catalyst for pushing me out of the house. Everything I had seen would never be believed by any of them. And suddenly, on that night, I knew that I needed to be in that house. I needed to be a participant, I needed to be grounded in the life of the family that lived there. More then anyone else in the world I needed to be there. Because on that night I came to beleive that I was the only one who could save my family. I convinced myself of this hard fact on that warm night in November. What caused this realization had less to do with the phantom shadows I saw pacing the master bedroom while I sat stoned in the Allens' yard, or the thing that rushed past me in the darkness of the hallway, or the Terby with the dead mouse, than with a detail I could never share with jayne (with anyone) because it would be the last straw. It would be my exit ticket. 

The license plate numbers on the cream-colored 450 SL that had sat in front of our house only minutes earlier were the exact same ones on the cream-colored 450 SL my deceased father had driven more than twenty years ago.

Not bad for a non-horror guy. It gets better too. Plenty of ghosts and demons and monsters from his past show up. And what happens to the dog is downright creepy.

But this leads me to the worst part of Lunar Park. Ellis ends up over-plotting the mystery, throwing in too much stuff that ends up convoluting the finale. I'm not even sure I understood the climax... it involves his son and a bunch of missing boys and Patrick Bateman and his father and... well the whole thing goes pear-shaped. And Ellis ends up going gay too. Yes he does.

But other than that, the book will keep you turning the pages. Ellis keeps the pace brisk. He also is not afraid to make himself look like a total coward. You have to admire that. And again, those first forty pages truly rock.

There is no wrestling in Lunar Park. No one named "McMahon" is even mentioned in passing. I know it might be tough for some of you to try a book NOT about sports entertainment... but why don't you goddamn well TRY!!

My name is Chris Hyatte and I will not rest until ever Indy Wrestler LEARNS HOW TO READ!!!


*A pig's orgasm can last up to a half-hour*

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

Hyatte LIVES to inform.

This should surprise no one. Considering how thrilled she must be to actually have someone get on top of her sweaty fat ass...


Since day one, Kevin Nash has been shat on by Internet marks everywhere. Well.... enough is ENOUGH! 

This isn't going to change a damn thing, but I'm doing it anyway. Someone has to point out the obvious, SOMEONE has to defend the big guy, SOMEONE has to show the WRESTLING WORLD that Kevin Nash... maybe the greediest, laziest, sneakiest wrestler who ever lived, deserves a HEARTY round of applause... not for thumbing his nose at those who actually WORKED in the ring, but for doing it and getting rich at the same time. He IS the American dream... all 7 feet of him. 

But is he better than YOU, John Q. Workrate? Bet'cha ASS he is... Why?

Kevin Nash Is Better Than You Because... 

When Angle approached him backstage with gimmick advice he started giggling right in his face.



Every so often, a character shows up on television who pretty much takes the country by STORM! 

And every so often, an actor who's time seems to have passed, gets to completely win over a whole new audience.

Right now, the actor is William Shatner, the show is Boston Legal, the character is "Denny Crane"...

And he will rock you: 

The fiance: You want to rehire the sandwich guy?? 

Denny Crane: Well... it wasn't that big a deal.

The fiance: Not a big deal?? Wa... How would you feel if he raped me? Would you just sweep that under the rug too??

Denny Crane: Oh come on Bev. I know the guy upset you...

The fiance: Damn right he upset me! He was COMPLETELY rude!... But Denny, my feelings don't matter here. He didn't disrespect Beverly Bridge. He disrespected the fiance of Denny Crane.

(she moves in closer. Denny's eyes widen.)

The fiance: He disrespected YOU! 

Denny Crane: ...... that son of a BITCH!

Screw ECW! Its on its way out anyway... Boston Legal, Denny Crane, WILLIAM SHATNER... Tuesdays at 10 pm on ABC...

And James Spader is the rocks on too.


Nope. Let's try this.


This is going to be completely retarded and lowbrow... even for ME...

I got to thinking one day last week... and I'm not even sure WHY because I am SO not gay... but I got to thinking just what YOUR favorite wrestling writers would sound like in the throws of ecstacy...

In other words, what do they say when they are getting laid.

Again, I'm not gay... but... well who the fuck ELSE is going to report this shit???

Dave Scherer in the sack...

"Huurph.... hurrph.... blorrrph.... arghphhh.... phweeew.... mnnnfph..... shuh... shuh... Francie... gah... awww phlishhhhhh.... lorrghph.... Uhm the fuckinn MAN.... YEEEERPH"

Mike Johnson in the sack...

"*Wheeze... wheeze.... huhhr.... huhhr.... joey.... fshhhhh.... pfffth.... *fart* "Sorry... hunh.... lemme suck that shit off.... *slurp* Gah.... ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh YESSSSSSSSSSS *gargle*"

Dave Meltzer in the sack...

"Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm POWEEEE... WORKRATE Now get the fuck out.""

Bruce Mitchell in the sack...

*no record found*

Pat McNeill in the sack...

"Oh... oh... OH.... *gasp*... *pant*... my.... heart... dial... 9....1....1.... huuuuuuuuu... huuuuuuuuu.... can't... brea.... *GASP*.... "

Scott Keith in the sack... 

"I told you, not unless "24" is on! Yeaaah.... aw Jack... fuck.... juh.... juh.... KEIFER!! BENOIT!!! Hewww... huuhhhhh.... waitasec.... my hair.... fuck you.... gahhhh.... just lift my belly.... fuckin'..... sloooore.... phew.... five stars for Scooter.... shyesss"

Wade Keller in the sack... 

"Okay... okay... okay.... okay... what is.... how do.... okay... okay... okay.... OKAYOKAYOKAYOKAYOKAYOKAYOKAYYYYY..... whew... so that's... the fuss.... *pant.... *pant... sorry... did I pull the belt too tight? Do you always turn blue... wake up... WAKE UP.... oh not again."

And of course...

Chris Hyatte in the sack... 

"Oooh yeah... ohhh yeah... oh you bad fucking bitch.... *whap... *whap... tell me I fuck like a black man.... yeah... yeah... tell me I'm the greatest... yeah... YEAH APRIL... OH APRIL... fuck you, tonight you're name is April.... whah? Daddy's home....DADDY'S HOME.... whah... huh... of course it's in! Fuck you! Whaddaya mean you can't feel it? MOMMY!! Canadian girls suck... APRIL!! APRIL... GIMME THAT HAIR... Yeah, it's in your butt now.... no, really... bad girl... put that away... Net... God.... *splatter*.... crunch."

Yeah well... the tales I could tell...

And we are done. Next week... MORE, MORE, ALWAYS MORE!!!!

Well, that's not exactly true... heh.

Anyway, if you made it this far, good for you. I want to take a few lines to thank you very much for writing to me and telling me to keep on going. A LOT of you reported that you've been with me since Scoops... (that's 9 1/2 years, daddio). Some of you found me at 411. And even a couple of you started out with me at ScoopThis (no one discovered me at Inside Pulse... which is to say no one discovered Inside Pulse yet... heh... never should've left Ashish, Widro... never.) A couple of you longtimers even told me to pack it in, but just a couple.

Funny, on those rare times my name cmes up on any given message board, there are always SEVERAL people who just fucking HATE ME and wish I was DEAD and I SUCK TOTALLY.... none of them bothered to rtell me to go away. You pussies. You chicken shit COWARDS. Internet tough guys. I piss on you.

Anyway... look... whatever happens, (and I'm not sure yet), I want to say thank you for e-mailing me. I KNOW I don't answer back... but that's because I have nothing to say, I read everything and I appreciate everything and I'll always be proud of the fact that I never asked you for money or anything like that. I just did what I do for free and if I'm making you laugh inappropriately, I'm satisfied.

And BIG ups to April Hunter who called me the other day and asked me to keep writing if I can. She's been with me since Scoops and she didn't have to personally tell me that I am a big part of her chill time. I'm still amazed that she can take a few minutes out of her day and actually CALL me without acting like it's this huge big deal. The calls aren't long and we won't be exchanging Christmas gifts, but its still nice of her.

So thank you, my friends. For real. 


This is Hyatte