The Most BRUTAL Wrestling Match You've Never Seen Before
Joe Vs. Necro is a derangement of pro wrestling, an almost complete subversion of what it seeks to do. It is not how it is meant to be done. Conversely, it is also a major achievement in crowd psychology that - for reasons you can fairly understand - has never been repeated. The atmosphere generated is unlike anything two performers have ever conjured. These fans in that building aren't just hardcore, knowledgeable. They are denizens of the old ECW Arena. They are watching, having paid money for the privilege, a show promoted by Ian Rotten. They are the sickos. They have watched every spectacularly ill-advised spot imaginable and should, by rights, be desensitised to the ugliest stripe of pro wrestling violence. Punk and Kingston are workers. They more than anybody else know that what they are watching is predetermined and discussed ahead of time. They don't act like it, nor do they act at all. They are losing their minds. In the intimate confines of an unwashed ass-scented sh*thole, the audience and the professionals alike react to the pro wrestling match as if they're watching a real bar brawl break out, and somebody just withdrew a knife.
Joe takes Necro back in the ring and attempts a pin, which feels surreal in whatever context this is. It's easy to forget in this moment that pinning the other guy ends it.
Necro introduces a guardrail. He drapes it over Joe and delivers a senton, which is probably the tamest moment. The most horrifying moment, however - possibly in the entire history of the form! - follows shortly thereafter. After a brief struggle on the apron, Joe splatters Necro onto the concrete with an overhead throw. Necro, again, takes it on the forehead. Prazak screams. It's a sustained, high-pitched squeal, actually, one that feels like it lasts forever, as if he could spend the rest of his life failing to comprehend how Necro survived. The thick, congealed blood that pools below him is grotesque. Upon impact, his head looks like a burst, bruised fruit dropped from the top shelf. Joe hits what is left of the back of it with a chair before, back in the pointless ring, smashing him with a powerbomb onto the suspended guardrail. Necro takes it on the back of the head. There's such little give and it happens to dangerously fast that it's as if it's happening at 1.75 speed. The squelching, the thudding, the squealing from the crowd and from wherever you are watching it: the match is such an onomatopoeic disaster that you feel animalistic, maybe even immoral, for lapping up.
Necro survives another jarring pin attempt, to Joe's disbelief. Remsburg, who you also forget existed, again counts to two when Necro takes a German on a chair to the sharp point of his elbow.
CONT'd...