July 2002
After the chaotic end to 2001, Dean lost most of his power and, more importantly, sway with his roster. The defectors returned with the promise things would be different. And, they were. SiLVeRFReaK returned with the guarantee he’d receive an increased role over the one he previously held.
And, so, 2002 looked bright. The roster grew once again. Harmony returned. OCW was, arguably, as healthy as it had ever been.
But the curse remained. It grew agitated at the tranquility.
Abruptly during the spring, Dean announced his resignation. Frustrated over his lack of control. With him left the problematic ‘old guard’.
An act that might almost sound like a net positive, right? Well, before he left, he promoted The Big Bifford to the rank of commissioner, placing him directly under SiLVeRFReaK. It was sold as a move to continue ushering in new faces when, in reality, it was meant to undermine SiLVeRFReaK.
In the end, it worked. SiLVeRFReaK couldn’t handle the issues that come when someone has to sit in the same room as Bifford and he eventually quit the promotion for good.
This left Bifford in charge. Insanity would ensue. A steady ride along the freeway instantly turned into an 80 mile per hour journey down a narrow dirt path.
And that’s when Dean saw opportunity.
Smith is backstage. He looks as though he hasn’t slept for days, “Yes. He wants the ropes to be pink and the canvas to be purple.” The ring attendant stares at Smith like he has five heads. “Don’t ask. He’s the boss, just do it.”
“SMITH!”
Smith turns around and lights up, “Sir!”
“Whoa!” Dean steps in front of Smith, grabbing him by the arms and flashing a knowing smile.
“Right, right...MR. Dean.” Smith dives in for a hug. It’s a little awkward, but Dean allows it. Smith breaks the vice grip and looks up, “Where have you been? What are you doing back?”
“Clearing my mind, sucka! And I saw…” Dean turns Smith around and motions out toward the distance, “a vision.”
“A vision?”
“Yes, a vision of what this company can become, sucka. And tonight, we’re going to see that vision.”
Dean pats Smith on the hand and walks off.
“Wait, so are you back?”
“I never left, sucka!” Dean laughs, rounding a corner leaving a concerned Smith to ponder what’s next.
On that night Dean unleashed hell on the OCW roster. Scott Syren and Lurrr would both return and lay waste to the OCW faces who had carried the company throughout all the turmoil. OCW Champion Andy Murray, put down. LightWeight Champion Josh Allen, put down. In short, Dean nuked the company.
The angle was met with hate. Vitriol. The final straw in undoing all the goodwill that had been built up over the years. A month later OCW was dead and the Golden Era had come to an end.
We cut away.
---
“But would it stay dead?” We cut back to Cocco Ricci as he spins around, staring deep into our souls. His eyes dark, nothing behind them. His face going in and out like a bad reception. “I think you all know the answer to that.”
“The thing about a curse is while it may weaken its host to near death it will never let the host die. The curse needs the host to survive. Which is why it allows it to resurface for air once in awhile, sometimes enjoying an elongated walk in the sun before dragging it back down into misery.”
A car drives up behind Cocco Ricci. Ricci tries (poorly) to act unaware. A normal looking man hops out, carrying a pizza box. This guy must be a real pro because nothing about the area bothers him as he casually strolls up to the front door and knocks.
“I um...sorry,” Ricci regains the danger in his voice, lowering the top of his hat to the point it covers one eye, “OCW would return a few years down the road under the leadership of Dean. The promise of better days. A promise he would not, could not keep.”
LCP answers the door and takes the pizza from the delivery guy. He shuts the door and re-enters the haunted house.
“But that is a story for another time.”
Ricci turns and sees the delivery guy casually strolling back to his car. The delivery guy stops and looks at Ricci. Ricci’s demeanor is unnatural. The delivery guy halts. His blood runs cold. Darkness closes in. Spirits dive from the house and overtake the delivery guy as his screams die a quick death in the cold, dark air that surrounds.
We cut away.
Monday Night Massacre
No idea but I’m sure it was hot