Eric Dane’s “Secret Wrestling Project” Pt. 4: Lance Warner’s Finnish Nightmare

Posted by Lance Warner on 17 Aug 2015

Little travel note for any of the DEFIANCE faithful planning a trip to Finland in the near future. “Finnair” is not nearly as clean and friendly an airline as one might conject. After a fourteen hour flight sitting wedged between two enormous woman that smelled like several different distinct types of body odor and sweaty, cabbagy smelling unwashed asses we, by the grace of God, finally touched down in Helsinki… aaaaand another fourteen hour trip to the far north country. This time in a cramped van with a particularly unfriendly Swedish camera crew, none of which spoke even a word of English.

So… firstly, fuck you Angus. In a hundred unique and awful ways you shitty soulless anthropomorphic garbage pile.

(Pictured: only stock photo of that smarmy prick I had on hand.)

Secondly, as much as this trip was a complete and utter nightmare for me personally, one I’ll probably relive every time I lay my poor head down on my pillow at night… my recommendation is to probably hire these five maniacs immediately.

The following video shows a little bit of the evening I came to that conclusion.

[We click play on the embedded YouTube video.]

“ … PLEASE, for the love of God just point the goddamn camera at me and press play… nobody is going to screw with your goddamn filthy piece of crap van, Gort or Gorp, whatever the hell your name is, Christ almighty... “

[At first the camera is pointed upward at a nearly cloudless sky, the clear blue field jerks wildly as someone grumbles under their breath in what sounds to be Swedish. Finally settled, the camera autofocuses in and out of Lance Warner’s chapped lips and windblown face.]

Jesus, thank you

[Lance Warner is hilariously bundled in what looks like several thick layers of clothing. His thick thermal fur lined jacket gives him a decidedly round, comical silhouette. Before starting, he breathes a heavy, exhausted sigh. We almost feel sorry for the poor little interviewer as the stark white world whirls around him.]

Faithful DEFIAfans, I’ve traveled… honestly, a ludicrous distance in the last several days. Just an irresponsible waste of funds... this trip. Anyway, soldier on, Lance, you can do this... [ahem] The area of northern Finland I’m currently standing in is the location chosen by a man named Cul. The mysterious Viking given carte blanche by my collegue Angus Skaaland to choose any location on EARTH for an in person interview… my suspicion being, Angus just wanted to see me suffer and was fine footing the bill for this insanity himself just to see me squirm… but I digress. We’re here, so lets do this…

[Warner gives his surroundings a weak willed look around.]

[He looks right… nothing… he looks left… nothing… when he turns back to the right, the sudden presence of a strange little man bundled in a black fur lined cloak causes our intrepid reporter to scream like a little girl and fall down on his padded bottom. We recognize the man’s stringy brown hair and narrow gaunt features. The Viking referred to thus far only as the “Lord of Bones” stands quietly besides the pile of clothing and the little man somewhere within it.]

[His accent is that of… an American? Midwest flyover state by the sound of it.]

You’re here to see the Reaper.

[The Lord of Bones reaches down, extending an open hand to Warner. Back on his feet, brushing snow from his parka and now very damp snow pants.]

Ummm… yeah, where…

[The strange little man turns without a word, motioning with a black gloved hand to follow.]

Stay close, wolves about.

[Lance follows quickly, mumbling quietly to himself.]

Of course there is, why wouldn't there be wolves… stupid Skaaland…

[The video skips forward, when normal speed returns the Lord of Bones is leading Lance and the Swedes and their cameras over a steep rise in the landscape.]

… so you’re from Cleveland originally?

Born and raised, believe it or not. I worked as an accountant for a number of years before Cul and Torvald released me from the invisible prison I’d built for myself, showed me the true way of things. I left the trappings of my life back home and joined him in court… Hush now, we’re close.

[As we pass over the ridge we see what looks to be a long wooden log building, the roof of peat and dead limbs is heavy with snow. The sight of a glowing fire through the front flap of the longhouse stirs Lance and his intrepid camera-Sweds forward. After another sloppily edited cut we’re inside the log hall now.

Holy Christ…

[If not for the stereo blasting some sort of garbled Finnish death metal at a absolutely deafening volume we might think we’d walked back in time… or maybe into goddamn Winterfel or some shit, either or. Inside several huge iron braziers burn bright near the door, giving off enough heat to make the far end of the hall quite comfortable even in this sort of storm.]

Where the hell am I?

Cul’s true home, we rarely make it back now, with the wrestling and all...  but since Mr. Dane barred them from opening the door, well, needless to say the Reaper was quite disappointed. So he came back here, repaired the hall in the blistering cold with his bare hands as he is want to do, lit the braziers and brought life and revelry to The Black Lodge once more.

Pardon me, stopped you from opening the door? You’re talking about Eric Dane banning Cul and his group from BRAZEN showcases after the vicious attacks perpetrated by the…

[The booming voice seems to blow away the hazy brazier smoke that fills the entrance end of the hall. We then get a clear view of the daius a long rough hune platform, table and chairs. There in the high seat right in the middle, larger and more opulent than the others chairs the line the table… Cul the Reaper, a large breasted Viking wench draped across his lap. His right hand on a bare breast, his left a flagon of heavy dark ale.]


[muttering to himself] … swear to God, Angus… piece of fargin'… goddamn Swedes and their...

[Sitting at the right hand of the Reaper is the massive masked Destroyer, Torvald. He doesn't eat, he doesn't drink. Torvald just sits. Sits and waits for the Reaper’s next brutal request. As Lance and the camera crew finally make it to the front of the hall we’re shocked to see the Lord of Bones already there one the other side of the Reaper, enjoying a beverage.]

Wait, how…

[The last seat on each side is seemingly occupied by the same plain faced blond Scandinavian. The brothers Holmström. Which is Ivar and which is Floki… your best guess is as good as mine. They speak at the same time, finishing each other's sentences.]

Holmström on the Left:
Lancey, listen. It’s best not to ask questions…

Holmström on the Right:
… you don’t want to know the answers to, yes?

Holmström on the Left:
Good. And just to get it out of the way…

Holmström on the Right:
… I’m Floki.

And I obviously am Ivar. We are all so pleased you got here…

… in one piece. The wolves have been such a problem up here…

… This season. Unseasonably warm winters usually mean…

… more wolves about.

[Lance Warner is speechless, he pinches his nose in confusion, frustration, wonder, awe… pick any emotion you like. He takes another hard look at his surroundings. At the five men lining the table.]

So let me get this straight, you come out here to these just beautiful wolf filled ice fields of death you have here. You and your crew repair this Game of Thrones set piece and just hang out in here like Wildlings, drinking a banging "wenches?" … [mumbling aside to himself] I see why Skaaland loves these yahoos so much now…

[He speaks up again. Always the intrepid reporter.]

So you wrestle to pay the bills? To fund this… troupe? Am I on the right track here?

[The enormous bearded Viking, Cul, sits eerily quiet on his high seat.]

You are quite perceptive Mr. Warner. While our pursuits in sports entertainment are indeed a financial means to an unfortunately necessary end. You however are missing the BIG picture. The world has lost its way, Lance. You see it every day, cages masked as cubicles. Proud men, WARRIORS subjected to the corporate yolk hanging heavy around their necks. Besuited inmates in the invisible prison of the workaday world, we…

[Lance interrupts the little man mid-diatribe.]

So… it’s like Fight Club.

[Cul raises an eyebrow as the Lord of Bones sputters and spits in complete shock.]

How DARE you!

Yeah, unshackle yourself from all the materialism, punch each other in the face, etcetera and so on… [nervous laughter] right, hehe…  

[Cul raises a hand to the stringy haired little man. Leaning forward to finally speak… he lets the awkward silence hang in the air for a moment, making Warner squirm in discomfort.]

[with a small grin] I love that movie.

Pardon me?

Fight Club… I love that movie. Better book, but most are. Meat Loaf’s performance in that film always gets to me. Underrated actor.

Meat Loaf, riiiiiight…  yeeeeah… Okay, so what’s the deal here… what, uuuuuh... so what IS all this?

[Cul sits back and steeples his fingers.]

We’re not claiming to be mystical or magic in origin, Mr. Warner. This longhouse was built generations ago, maintained season by season by my fathers fathers fathers as a tribute to our ancestors. They were men. Strong men with strong backs and strong hands. They didn’t shuffle paper around all day like pathetic eunuchs. They didn’t kowtow to women and weaklings. I am offering freedom to those that feel trapped in the oppressive system this world has become. A respite from the beeping and the buzzing and the whining of small petty people.

But… it’s just the five of you, what’s wrong, not many takers?

The respite is in the words, Lance. The refuge the lessons we espouse. The people you see here are more than just followers of my teachings, they’re my family.

[He reaches over and pats Torvald on his massive shoulder.]

Go back and tell Eric Dane. Go tell his wench. Go tell anyone who’ll listen…

[All of a sudden the whole group stands as one. Cul slapping the rear of the busty wench as she hops down and joins the rest of the "ladies" invited to this insane party in the freezing Finnish tundra.]

We’re coming…

… one way or another.

Soon the Reaper will open the doooooor and the Cul’s war for the golden prize will begin! He’ll walk through any gauntlet laid before him. If the Nu-Father beckons Torvald will rip LEGIONS of men in two with mighty Gungnir! … The door must be opened, my friends!

Stop, that, that door thing again. You keep talking about opening the door. What are you talking about? Are you planning to disrupt more…

[As the Lord of Bones was holding Warner’s attention Cul managed to make his way down and around the table. Lance hops back as the Nu-Father steps into his field of vision.]

I send you back to Eric Dane with an offer.

And offer? What kind of offer?

Eric Dane is a man who appreciates men of bold action, as is evident by his continued employment of beasts like Bronson Box and Frank Dylan James. So to him I make a bold request. Dan Ryan, the old Moore and the mouthy wench bring SHAME to the DEFIANCE gold they carry around like BAGGAGE… it’s disgraceful. The door my thrall has been going on about is the DEFIANCE World Trios titles, Mr. Warner.

[The Holmström Brothers hop over the table and deftly tumble to the floor, taking places on either side of the Nu-Father.]

Let my brothers and I loose on these three fat, lazy, complacent “main eventers” that waste what should be an honored prize. All I ask of you is merely unlock the door. I’ll GLADLY open it.

We’ll play nice…

… We promise.

[The video ends with what looks to be Torvald’s giant hand grasping the camera from behind the camera. How he managed to get there without us noticing is a mystery. Our view is all palm as all that horseshit and ads that always pops up at the end of a YouTube videos flash across the screen.]


Not much else to say, my Swedish camera crew and the Vikings all partied into the night. Passing around dark beer that makes Guinness look like a Lite micro brew, swearing and telling stories in their muddled slavic tongues. I tried to stay out of their way, to be quite honest.

One of the… erm… “wenches” that were there at The Black Lodge (prostitutes, they were prostitutes) got to talking, sweet girl. She told me Cul paid them all in cash, drove them up there in this big snow van on these huge tank treds to get them up there. Every so often he and the boys apperently swing through town, grab what they need and bolt to the high country, to this Black Lodge.

This Cul, honestly, seems right up the folks upstairs ally. Eric and Kelly get all yappy when people make a mess in the living room but at the end of the day, chaos and destruction pays the bills around DEFIANCE wrestling. And these five weirdos are that personified. Even Lindsay Troy herself has made comment of the lack of competition for the titles “we don’t have a trios division, what we have is three people and some belts” Something tells me some terrifying combination of those creepy twins, that ice giant and Cul himself could prove to be just that, competition.

STIFF... competition.

Knock knock, folks. The Viking War Cult is coming… Whether we like it or not.

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