The Cobra Challenge, by the way, was founded by UFC veteran Mark Hall. Hall's most famous for throwing a fight to Don Frye and getting beat up in a casino by Ken Shamrock, which is too bad because he also had some memorable wins against much larger fighters like Koji Kitao and Harold Howard. He gave Frye a tough fight on two occasions (Breaking Frye's orbital bone in UFC 10) before being forced to throw their third meeting by the manager who handled both of them. In recent years it's been reported that his wife and sons had been busted for meth.
The Cobra Challenge was a short-lived promotion that ran in the late 90's/early 2000's, and allowed for the fighters to not use gloves if they wanted. That was a fairly outdated practice even at that time, but Hall apparently wanted his promotion to resemble Vale Tudo/the old UFC.
Mark Hall had a speech impediment. Usually he was able to articulate properly by speaking slowly, but after fights his stutter would show.
Here's his first Don Frye fight, where he lost legitimately:
Omega gave me some background on this fight, so maybe he'll come and tell us more about it here.
Really not much to say about this fight.
1. The promoter asked me to carry the fight. Gave me an extra $150.
2. At the end of the round you can see my body go into shock. I was taking ephedrah at the time and it had an adverse reaction. My heart rate was 180bpm 1 hour after the fight. I nearly died.
3. Fun facts:
a. After he punched and missed he turned around and I was waving at him.
b. He didn't choke me out, I couldn't feel my body so I kept asking the ref to stop the fight.
c. I actually knocked him out on the suplex. He told after that he had blacked out.
d. He's not wearing gloves, this was one of the first attempts at a unified rule system.
e. They just told us before the fights "No head butts".
Out of all my fights this is the one you found? Asshole. LOL.
c. I actually knocked him out on the suplex. He told after that he had blacked out.
If anyone else said this I would call bulllshit, but yeah that fight went really weird at some point.
Also, I got 99.999% choked out in a judo match today and pretty much went limp, but I still won because the ref decided that I had osokomi at the time. I've been looking for a way to subtlety slide this into a post all night.
I've been looking online forever forever for this.
This fight is great because Wiezorek entered with a broken back and won. Tragically, the match-up was so aesthetically ugly that he was never invited back to the UFC despite his victory (A major rarity in the Zuffa era).
I feel bad for Wade Shipp, though, because I like him.
The Middle Eastern cashier cautiously eyes the over-muscled black man who had just entered his store. With a customer base primarily composed of elderly bus commuters, shoplifting is seldom a problem in his little corner shop. As he watches this steroid-junkie ramble about the back of his store, however, he begins to wonder if today's the day he'll have to put his karate black belt to use. This veiny, bronze-skinned man, unseasonably dressed in a Fubu jersey and shorts, looks like he's having an adrenaline dump just wandering around the magazine section. He's up to something, that much is certain, but it's not easy to read what his first move will be.
After about a minute of rapidly pacing around the floor, the brutish man unexpectedly turns around and approaches his slightly trembling observer. The cashier's penis shrivels up to a nub, but he steadfastly keeps his gaze fixated on this thug's eyes... Or at least his general neck and chest area. Whatever the case, he's ready to react to whatever **** this n*igger might try to pull.
Delta Jackson: Friend, is there a bathroom in here?
In the span of three seconds, every ounce of tension floods out of the cashier's body, leaving him feeling like a moronic, racist husk.
The Cashier: Yeah... I mean, no. Well, yeah, we have one, but it's private. Employees only...
Delta Jackson: Are you sure you can't open it?
The Cashier: Sorry, I'm not allowed to leave the floor. I'm the only one working right now... It's pretty busy here.
Jackson looks around the convenience store. The only other customer he sees is an old, criminally obese woman scratching lottery tickets into the pot of stale coffee.
Delta Jackson: No it's not.
The Cashier: Why don't you try the pizza joint next store?
Delta Jackson: It's closed. C'mon, mang. I really have to go. If you don't open it up, I'm going to be cumming all over the place... I mean pissing...
The Cashier: ... Cumming?
Delta Jackson: I didn't mean to say that.
The Cashier: ... Do you want to use the bathroom just so you can jerk off?
Delta Jackson: No, no. I-
The Cashier: I'm not going to let you use our private bathroom just so you can masturbate, sir. Please buy something or get out.
Jackson pinches the tip of his penis as he feels a wave of pressure shoot down his shaft. Whatever's coming is coming soon.
Delta Jackson: Listen, mang, irrespective of what bodily urges I need to satisfy... You're the only store open within walking distance from here, and your facilities should be made accessible to people who need them. Open. The. John. Please.
The Cashier: Oh, go jerk off into a bush, man. Get the **** out of here... I hate your type.
The cashier immediately regrets saying that. Delta Jackson slams his fists on the counter, causing several cartons of cigarettes to fall off of the overhead display case. All the tension that had deflated from the Arabic man earlier now rushes back into him and causes his entire body to shake. He takes a step back from the register as the furious goliath on the other side of the table looks down on him with squinted, bestial eyes.
Delta Jackson: Mutherfucker, do you know who you are fucking talking to?
The cashier begins hyperventilating. As his mind starts regressing into instinct, he responds to this threat in the manner he had been training to do so for the past two years.
The Cashier: KIAI!!!
Without a hint of style or grace, the cashier drops into a sideways karate stance and begins bouncing up and down.
The Cashier: I hope you know you're messing with a BLACK BELT in Sikaran karate, ************! If you want to dance THAN JUST COME AT ME!
The anger that had engulfed Jackson moments prior ebbs away at the sight of this hopping numbskull. He quizzically stares at his pot-bellied, zealous aggressor for several seconds. The sepia-toned grappler manages to suppress a burst of laughter, but just barely. With a wide smile stretching across his face, he backs away from the counter and begins calmly strolling towards the exit. The cashier looks on at this in amazement, a fleeting thought crossing his mind that he might've actually punked this mammoth goon. Those notions quickly disappear when Jackson flips the "Open" sign to "Closed" and locks the door.
Delta Jackson: Ok, we'll tango, but I'm going to lead.
The cashier's confidence vanishes instantly as Jackson approaches him, a vicious intent in his eyes. His bouncing has all but ceased by the time his mesomorphic opponent has made his way beyond the counter and sallied up next to him. The young, tenderfoot convenience store grunt can't help but close his eyes in anticipation of what's coming next.
Eight Days Later
The fat lady's pile of lottery ticket scratchings has long since engulfed the pot she originally used to deposit them. With pupils as large as saucepans, she continues to scrape off the silver filing of her stolen stubs in a vain and feeble to attempt to score wealth.
Fat Old Dingbat: Damn, the odds are really stacked against you here in Jersey. It's been over a week and I haven't won once.
Jackson, meanwhile, kicks through the snack cake wrappers that have accumulated on the floor to get to the refrigerated section. Wiping the honey bun frosting off his fingers, he ransacks the nearly empty soda display to get the last few three-liter bottles of Diet Coke. Taking his haul back to the register, he makes sure to grab a handful of Mentos packs before stepping over the counter. The leathery gambling addict doesn't take notice of him until she begins hearing the brawny grappler grunting and shuffling around behind the table.
Fat Old Dingbat: Oh, are you up dear? I didn't realize it was so early. Is he dead, yet?
Jackson continues grunting behind the table.
Delta Jackson: He's more or less a vegetable. I just needed to do some things before taking off.
Fat Old Dingbat: You're leaving? Darn, I guess my fun will be over too, then...
Delta Jackson: Not necessarily, Hattie. You'll probably get a fairly decent grace period before someone calls the police about what they find here. In the meantime, just keep the doors locked and use the shank I gave you to fend off anybody who tries to get in. You've got enough lotto tickets to last a month.
Hattie smiles and nods, satisfied. Jackson sees her gratification and delights in the radiance of her smile. Perhaps now's the time for him to make his intentions known. Tip-toeing up to her, he gently puts his arm around her blubbery shoulders and moves in to plant a big one on her lips. A sharp jab from her shiv, though, quickly gets him backing off and hauling ass out of the store. After he's gone, Hattie (With a six-inch thick stack of tickets in hand) calmly walks over to the door and clicks the lock closed. She looks out into the morning horizon, a beaming glint of hope reflecting in her eyes.
Miles away at the Newark Liberty International Airport, the all-sheathing light of the Sun is reflected by a darker set of mirrors. Five men, each wearing identical business suits and sunglasses, wait shoulder-to-shoulder on Brewster Road for their ride to come. The trip from Canada was long, but well worth the pay.
Ganjo Sakakibara: The big man spent a good deal of his resources tracking Jackson down. We should have an accurate handle to where his general whereabouts will be. When we find him, we will strike... And he will fall. That will be the end of this matter.
The fellow standing next to the very succinct Mr. Sakakibara chortles a big, throaty laugh. The square-jawed man breaks the line to make sure all of his companions can see him while he speaks.
Duke Martin: I can't believe how fucking loaded we're going to be after this! Hookers on me, guys. I've been dying to bust a nut in a Jersey girl for years.
Mitch "Felch" Armour: Hehe... I'd like to do that, too.
Duke pats his skinny, wall-eyed comrade on the shoulder, nearly knocking his glasses off.
Duke Martin: I'll tell you what, our boss must really like that new chew toy of his to send us all the way to Jersey to off this bozo! I never thought that feller's ass was all that tight, to be honest, but you know how the big man has always had a weird taste in men...
Tyler Metcalf: The judge's whims are not what drives our leader to send us on this search and destroy mission for Delta Jackson.
All eyes turn to the slender and elegant assassin standing in the middle of the pact. Tyler Metcalf breathes in deep through his long, Roman nose before continuing.
Tyler Metcalf: Well... Maybe they're part of his motivation. The real reason why he wants Jackson dead, though, is to strike a blow directly into the heart of the entity that's impeding his business ambitions. I've seen this coming for a while. Bit by bit, our leader has been seizing control over various pieces and chunks of the fight game. A judge here, a ringer there... All to help fuel his already respectable criminal empire. But he wants to take it a step further. He wants to break big in the business and use the spectacle of violence to squeeze his wealthy clientele out of even more money than they're already drowning him with. Problem is, those tycoons he's servicing already have something to indulge their need to witness illegal, gladiatorial combat...
Duke Martin: ... Underground PitFighting.
Tyler Metcalf: Bingo. For our leader to succeed... Underground PitFighting must fall.
The entire group falls dead silent and drops back into line. A half a minute passes without anyone moving a muscle.
Ganjo Sakakibara: ... What does Mr. Henderson think of this matter?
All eyes suddenly shoot towards the largest man in the bunch. This beastly juggernaut, with a beard completely encapsulating every square centimeter of his neck, stands like a wall at the end of the group. He takes a moment to answer, his stone-like face not moving a twitch as he stares out into the vast morning sky.
"Judo" Ryan Henderson: All I think is that by the end of this day I'm going to have Jackson's lifeless neck in my hand, ready to be mounted on our boss's bedroom wall. The job at hand is all I need concern myself with.
The other four look away once again, their disposition falling back into uncomfortable quietness.
Last edited by Holy Moment; 11/30/2013 10:06pm at .