[color=green][b][u]Bury the Hatchet[/u][/b][/color] --------------------- Brian Matthewson is my real name; you know me as the Dog of Doom. One question I am often asked is why my wrestling name is still the Dog of Doom, even though I no longer wrestle as a heel (the villain) in wrestling. Well, I figured it would make it easier for the audience to identify me, even though I am no longer a villain in the wrestling universe in which I am portrayed. Instead, I reinvented myself as a self-misunderstood anti-hero of sorts, looking for my own true destiny. The true destiny ended up being my legitimate induction into the G-52 Organization of Superheroes. The main difference between me and my fellow Aussie wrestler in the G-52s, Beatdown Bobcat (also known by his wrestling name, Captain Beatdown), is that he has been a face (the hero) the entire time, whereas I began as a heel and made the full heel-face turn later on. Because I am a G-52, I am not turning heel anytime soon, either kayfabe or in real life. Yet such an act did lead to another in-universe controversy on my record, one that I had to explain to Super C was part of the storylines, even though it was real at first. However, this feud doesn’t count as part of the Sydney Screwjob. That was ultimately CNG’s fault. You know this. In addition to the feud that I had going with the original Captain Beatdown, which really only ended when CNG turned Bobby Winston from a human into a bobcat and made him the new Captain Beatdown, I had a feud going with about four to six other bloodhounds (four originally, six in total, as the other two joined the WWE’s furry division later on). These dogs call themselves the “Hound Pound,” and assumed that because I was a heel at first, I should have been part of that gang. However, that storyline didn’t start until shortly after my heel-face turn, and what angered the producers was the fact I was still calling myself the Dog of Doom. This leads me to make an unfortunate announcement here, but it’s the truth: while there is a furry division of the WWE (and other wrestling organizations such as TNA), what do they all have in common? They’re run entirely by humans. Do not forget that the name most associated with the WWE is Vince McMahon, somebody either you love or you hate, and most of the people I know really hate him. After all, he blew it in 1997 when the Montreal Screwjob took place. (Note that Super C has never spoken to Vince, but after hiring the other wrestling G-52s, he did meet Canada’s Bret Hart and the USA’s Shawn Michaels, and spoke to both of them about the incident, explaining, “If my recruits did that, I’d legitimately kick them out and fine them $250,000. I don’t blame you, Bret, for giving Vince a black eye, though.”) Historians meant to make a bit of a joking reference to that by calling our story the Sydney Screwjob. (By the way, Australia’s Nine Network is filming a documentary about the incident. The USA and the other Commonwealth nations, from Canada to the UK and New Zealand, will have access to it via various streaming platforms.) The human producers managed to brainwash the Hound Pound into feuding with me by threatening to take their jobs away from them, in a similar manner to how referee Earl Hebner was threatened by Vince and his right-hand man, Gerald Brisco, to throw the match the way he did, or else lose his job. Earl did as he was told, but feared for his life, because he ran for his life right after the match ended. Since then, however, just as Bret Hart buried the hatchet with Shawn, he also did so with Earl, and says that had he been in his place, he might have done the same thing. After all, it was either obey or end up looking for work down at the job center. ------------------ I’m not willing to reveal their names for their safety because the McMahon family eventually (kayfabe) began going after them and making (kayfabe) death threats to them, only to get their butts (legitimately) kicked big time by the hounds. I can only refer to them by number (1 through 6), with number one being the leader of the Hound Pound. (While safety rules and regulations do say that the furries never wrestle against the humans and vice-versa, this wasn’t a violation of those policies, although the McMahons threatened to fine the Hound Pound a ton of cash for doing this, ultimately wanting to fire them. That didn’t happen, though, because IC3 was legitimately doing bad things to these people.) It wasn’t uncommon for spoken parts of our dialogue to include lines such as Hound #1 saying to me, “Why you didn’t change your name is beyond comprehension. If you’re going to go traitor on us, you should have at least changed your name. You were in for a much better future had you stayed loyal to us!” “I never was part of your gang to start with, and I never will be,” I would answer, and this, by the way, is where my famous catchphrase originated. “I move to my own beat, and I can call myself whatever name I want to call myself! Tell me this: do you know what day it is? It’s doomsday…FOR YOU!” Then the bell would ring to begin a brutal match. Some of these were victories for me, and some were for the Hound Pound. “The HP is losing all its HP!” the commentators would say, making a video game joke. ---------------- While other world events took place, such as the nations of Africa discovering that there was at least one (Niger) that had a parallel of Leo the Patriotic Lion (in this case, Lawal the Sun Lion), making Africa’s people regret everything they ever did (a CNG/IC2 aftereffect that IC3 was boosting), the latest WWE broadcast to air live from Sydney began with me acting as the special guest host. (It was entirely matches featuring the human wrestlers, but it began with the scene here.) The opening feature here consisted of me announcing that I wanted to bury the hatchet with the Hound Pound, just as Bret and Shawn did (and also Bret and Earl). “I thank you, Australia, for having me as your guest host for this special edition of ‘WWE Raw,’” I began, “even though the WWE usually has me compete in the matches featured on its other show, ‘WWE SmackDown.’ As you are all aware, I am certain, the other dogs in the Hound Pound and I have a major problem erupting over a trivial issue, which is something that can legitimately get me kicked out of the G-52s if I let it go out of control. Yes. I’m a G-52, ladies and gentlemen.” Naturally, the crowd erupted into loud cheers and applause, eventually barking and clapping in tempo. “Thank you for that,” I continued. “Anyways, whether or not it was right or wrong for me to do so, I opted to continue to call myself the Dog of Doom. I figured that would make it easier for you all to identify me. Does that help?” The crowd agreed. “However, this didn’t sit well with the Hound Pound. They claimed I was guilty of treason. They said I betrayed their gang by doing this, because I didn’t change my name to something else when I switched allegiances. However, here is the important part to remember: I was never part of that gang! I had also been a soloist. If ever comes the time where I am to tag team with somebody, it will be Captain Beatdown!” More cheers and applause followed. “Having said that, can I get the Hound Pound out here, please? Let’s bring them on out! Just don’t boo them now, or IC3 will come after you!” (This happened in the same arena, by the way, where the Sydney Screwjob happened.) The crowd agreed to cheer for the Hound Pound instead of boo, and did so when the six bloodhounds entered the arena, complete with loud music and pyrotechnics, plus highlights of their best bits playing on the jumbotron. Each bloodhound wore a special wrestling tank top with the letters “HP” on the front, and the numbers on the back, from 1 to 6. Again, the leader of the group wore number 1. The tank tops used to be black and red, though not the same shades as my black and red getup; here, they were green and gold. After each one got in the ring, the main public address announcer, the usual golden lion in the glitzy green and gold tuxedo with green top hat (whom Super C made an ally, by the way), handed #1 a microphone so that he could speak. “I’m going to be honest; I didn’t expect you to do this,” he said. “Well, I called you here for a reason,” I said. “I know we had that long-standing fight going with one another, but I feel embarrassed to admit it even happened, because it was all over a trivial issue of what my name would be. As I told the crowd of witnesses here tonight, many of which you’ll recognize because they were here that fateful day when the Sydney Screwjob happened, I wanted to make it easier for them to identify me. Thus, I am still the Dog of Doom, but the doom I bring is to my enemies. That includes you six at the moment, but I want to change that. Why? Because I am now a G-52; that’s why. I fight for good, not evil, and so I cannot continue doing this. I therefore feel it is about time we bury the hatchet, even if we never become friends.” “As scandalous as this may sound,” the leader replied, “the six of us wanted to do the same thing. Technically, I broke up the Hound Pound, and it is now each dog for himself. We just wore these tank tops to prove to everybody that it was us, a bit like how you still call yourself the Dog of Doom.” “Yes.” The leader then turned to the audience and said, “I’m sure you all know about this, but in case there are any that don’t, this industry has long been controlled by wacky human beings. I guess you have to be wacky yourself if you are going to be involved in this industry. In any case, you all might remember that one night where the Dog of Doom here screamed, ‘UP WITH THE UNSCRIPTED FIGHTS!’, after he showed anger towards the producers, all of which were clearly trying to use him as their puppet. If that CNG stuff was still around, it would have killed them on the spot, and there’s no doubt it ultimately wanted to kill Vince McMahon for everything he did. However, it didn’t; he lives to see the consequences of his actions. I’m just here to point out he had nothing to do with this; these are different producers.” He handed the microphone to Hound #2, who continued the thoughts. “The producers you saw yelling at our rival here are the same producers who basically bullied us into feuding with him over something as silly as what one’s name in the wrestling is, and frankly, there was no need for it to happen whatsoever. There’s more to wrestling than just making money off everybody and profiting off one’s greed, only for it to bite back at you at the end of your life when you’re forced to give an account of your life to the big man in the sky.” Then Hound #3 took the microphone. All six took a turn at speaking, as a matter of fact. “As a result, all of us had been yelling at you for what you did, but in fact, you didn’t do it. It was just the producers’ imaginations running away with them. In this day and age, it is hard to tell what is legitimate versus what isn’t, so we applaud you for crusading to make wrestling legitimate. For too long, it wasn’t. The public knew the companies were deceiving them, but they didn’t know what to do about it. You figured it out.” “It was either we stand up for what is right and get fired, or we go with what they say and keep our jobs,” said Hound #4. “We took that second option because we didn’t know what to do, or how to go about it if we had been willing to jump ship to a different organization. Anyhow, it was their idea, and all we did was go with it.” “After you snapped, however,” said Hound #5, “that was the wake-up call for us, and so our boss here announces the gang has been broken up. Collectively, we might still call ourselves the Hound Pound, but we’re no longer what we were once before.” “And so we wish to bury the hatchet with you as well,” Hound #6 concluded. “I do believe it is high time we put aside our differences and become friends. Will you be our blood brother?” “Let’s not do the oath ceremony that goes with that; that’s unsanitary,” I said. “However, I agree with you; it is time we become brothers-in-arms, so to speak.” I then offered to shake their hands, and the crowd let out various interjections, because some wanted to see us bury the hatchet, while others wanted us to keep hating each other. (This was because my fans and their fans had a history of hating one another, and the last time we spoke to the human stars, Bret Hart and Shawn Michaels revealed that their respective fans had hated each other long before the Montreal Screwjob. It should come as no surprise that Bret had been recast as an anti-American Canadian nationalist, a fact that Goldduster, the sensational Canadian wrestling wolf, had complained about time and time again.) However, each one shook my hand. We turned to the audience to see how they would react, and again, the same mixed responses were showing. However, when I turned back to the Hound Pound, I could see tears flowing from the leader’s eyes, and so he and I proceeded to embrace one another so I could help him calm down. The whole crowd burst into thunderous applause here, seeing that this was a legitimate end to an illegitimate feud. Let’s be honest. There’s no reason to hate each other over something trivial. (Ask the Krieglandonians and they’ll tell you the same thing; their whole Civil War was fought over whether any feline other than a lion was worthy of being their king, for crying out loud! Animal stereotyping at its worst!) ------------------ Anyways, after the Hound Pound exited the ring, I continued to make my remarks, and we proceeded to get the first match going. ------------ Thanks for your time, and remember, if you only tell me or my fellow furry wrestlers half the truth, we’re giving you a half-nelson! ------------- [color=gold][b]THE END[/b][/color]