Where in this big, blue world is “The World's Sexiest Manager,” Risky Business Ronnie Raines????????

Considering I just stated it in my opening sentence, I think the answer is pretty obvious.  However, considering the IQ of the knuckle dragging, gap toothed, cross eyed, South Jersey swamp dwellers that come to Mid Atlantic Wrestling Alliance events, I know I need to say it unequivocally:  I’m currently in my grand, Risky Business Incorporated, DE-luxe penthouse apartment in the sky.

My grand, Risky Business Incorporated, DE-luxe penthouse apartment in the sky…

..............aw, that's a load of crap...........

I'm not doin' this. I'm not puttin' on the gimmick. Not playin' a role. Not performin' to the cheap seats here.....

No,  I'm actually  in a rundown, beat-up, corrugated steel garage, filled with scrap-garbage that are the remnants of Risky Business Ronnie Raines' grand luxurious empire…the deteriorating and crumbling remains of a lavish and grandiose life…

You mean this is NOT my beautiful HOUSE?!?!?!?!

No, it most certain is NOT.  And the fact of the matter is, NO ONE has given one crap about where I’ve been.

The cold, hard, angry truth is, ONLY people I been hearing from, regarding where Ronnie Raines has been circling the tower these days, months, years, millenia, since my exile from the land of the lavish jetset, are bill collectors, lawyers, unemployment offices, welfare service offices, bankruptcy-precedings officers, future ex-wives, and OCCASSIONALLY the annoying webmaster with the abnormally-sized nose here at the MAWA website – not because he actually cares – no, just bugging me for “new content” to post.
 

And Shaka.
 

Every so many months, Shaka calls me up, giggles into my voicemail like Eddie Murphy, and says, "WHO'S UNEMPLOYED NOW, BOSS???”
 

.......I hate that guy........
 

Since way back in Winter Warfare (insert year here) , I've not received one phonecall, not one PM on Facebook, not one eMail, not one benefit infomercial, not one kickstarter campaign, not one Come Back Soon card, not one candygram with Jane Wiedlin singing Vanessa Carlton's A Thousand Miles....
 

But you guys NOW wanna know where in the world Risky Business Ronnie Raines has been? 

Sigh, sigh, SIGH, sigh, SIGH, SIGH, sigh.  It's painfully obvious, isn't it?  Being's that I’m sitting here writing a shoot piece (on aforementioned Pimp Phone) in this dilapidated, junk-filled garage that I've been SLEEPING in, LIVING in, taking a bath with WET WIPES in, Risky Business Ronnie Raines has been ANYWHERE BUT the lap of damn luxury, the head of an empire, or the hallowed halls of the Mid-Atlantic Wrestling Alliance.

How did all this happen, you say? How did all these HAAAAAHD TIMES raid down hard? How did Risky Business Ronnie Raines, The World's Sexiest Manager, Chief CEO of Risky Business Inc., The All-Business One himself, end up getting the damage put on HIM, instead of the other way around?  How did Risky Business Ronnie Raines end up on the bottom of the heap with the rest of the horizonless, Hills-Have-Eyes, scumbag sheep and plebians? With LESS going for me than those two clinic-visiting morons on TWO BROKE GIRLS!
 

Well, lemmeeeeeee tellya....
 

A Not-So-Brief Background History Of Risky Business Ronnie Raines' Involvement In The Mid-Atlantic Wrestling Alliance:
 

It’s a long story, so it’s best that I pick a beginning.
 

Y’see, “Risky Business” Ronnie Raines, one of the greatest independent professional wrestling managers of ALL-TIME, up AND down the East Coast, has had quite the storied, AND complicated, history in the Mid-Atlantic Wrestling Alliance.  Ronnie Raines brung his excellent awesomeness and super sexiness into THIS shambles of an indy promotion, with my Risky Business Inc.,  took over the show, lifting it out of the mundane gutter of mediocrity, and underwhelming bowl of vanilla-pudding popularity, and single-handedly turned it into the POWERPLAYER of independent professional wrestling it has become today. 
 

Wasn’t our “esteemed” commissioner, Drew Templar, who done it. It wasn't THEN deputy commissioner Dave Patera who done it.  It wasn’t “The Architect” Dave Gumaer who done it.  It wasn't jiggin' Pat Shamrock. It wasn't jumpin' Mighty Mo.  It wasn't the fickle, bandwagonner MAWA fans that filled the seats in Sports-N-More, under that gigantic Clive Barker ceiling fan, or anywhere else MAWA hung its banner, WHAT DONE IT. 

Lemme tell ya, it was NONE. OTHER. THAN. ME! 
 

Risky. Business. Ronnie. Raines! That’s right, everybody. You all know MAWA debuted less than epic, with the Cremator representin' as its first heavyweight champion, and it wasn’t until the World’s Sexiest Manager swooped in with my entourage, and liberated that championship gold away from the big damn blueflame bully, that this wannabe company took off into the stratmosphere, like a raven haired rocket to Mars.

Now how was I rewarded for the Herculean efforts I  enacted to put MAWA on the stinkin' map, you may or may not ask? I was repaid with Commissioner Ten-Pound Nose undermining me at every turn, doing his interferingly best to keep me and Risky Business Inc. SUPPRESSED, OPPRESSED, SILENCED, and in the Timeout Corner! That sneaky, smarmy, manipulative conniver, and Championship Committee browneye kisser, didn’t like that MAWA GOLD was in MY possession, Risky Business Inc.'s possession, right where it belonged. To remedy this, he dreamed up some imaginary “Breach Of Contract” bollicks as an excuse to strip my man of his title, all so one of Rules-doctor Drew’s golden chosen few -- Ed House or Cremator -- would end up with the MAWA championship gold instead....
 

Mindblown at such ridiculousness, I was NOT about to settle for it, though. Even when the incompetence of my very own stable -- a stable, I might add, which was composed of 4 of the finest examples of legendary indy greatness EVER (Olympian Dave Patera, Preacher Jon Cannon, Shaka, and Serious Business Andy Header), with I at the reigns, no pun intended --  drove me to failure of face, and forced me to make one of the most painful and dangerous decisions of my career -- to disband my faction of Risky Business Inc. --  I forged forward, onward, and upward.  Lemme tell ya, you don't get where I was on the ladder of success without always having a NEXT and 'NOTHER plan of attack.  You always think and plan 2, 3, 4, 5 and 27 steps ahead of your opponent. It's like playing Chess, people.  It's always about your moves, your strategy.
 

After the failed approach of using WRESTLERS to win me rule over MAWA, I decided it was in my best interests to wage TOTAL WAR on THE ENTIRE Mid-Atlantic Wrestling Alliance, AS A WHOLE.  EVERYONE. EVERYBODY. Wrestler and Fan alike. That guy with the do-rag that runs the music. That Irish Referee pretending he's from Puerto Rico. The owner's wife. The Commissioner's wife.  The Right Side of the tracks, the Wrong Side Of The Tracks. Everybody was now a target!  No one was safe! I was on Nobody's Side. And nobody was on mine! 
 

I was one of the founding forefathers that built this place, dammit, so I figured I could just as easily tear it down, one brick at a time, as well.  Now would be that time. And I'd do it on my own! Me calling the shots! Me taking all the credit! Me reaping all the rewards!
 

The first brick ended up being Mighty Mo. What better way to destroy the business I built by first destroying everyone’s favorite happyface goblin bungler? I set him up, sullied his good name, ruined his reputation, told people he kicked puppies, reminded him he didn't have his own action figure, and turned the fans against him. And I actually made it happen for a short while by manipulating The Chief Nose's chosen one, Ed House, and convincing him to don Add-water Tiger Mask Ranger's mask, and let the villainous high-jinks begin.  Scandalous yes, devious absolutely, BRILLIANT EVEN, and it had to be done to enact my plan.
 

Now, prior to all this, I thought I had recruited a new ally-of-sorts, “The Architect” David Gumaer, in this initial war to rule MAWA. When Jason Havok brought Gumaer into the promotion as his manager and legal counsel, I welcomed “The Architect” with open arms into my elite inner circle. We were thick as thieves. And I tought him everything I knew. After all, what did I care? If I had my way, the Mid Atlantic Wrestling Alliance wasn’t going to be around much longer anyways as it presently-existed.  It was going to be a brand-new MAWA, with BIGGER vision, BIGGER horizons, BIGGER $$$$$$$$, and with ME wearing the crown of a brand-new empire! And every empire has its agents. Forget stables, I needed agents.

But things started to get a little hinky. Go NOT entirely according to plan. "The Architect" started to get a little ambitious on his own, a little enthusiastic, and jumped in line at the Chicken Restaurant.  Even John Pinette wanted to tell him "GET TO THE BACK OF THE LINE!"   He went from Double Dog Dare to TRIPLE DOG DARE almost overnight. Business etiquette, OUT. THE. WINDOW.  Moving out of the shadows of my masterplan, the shadow of my awesomeness, the shadow of MY rule, he seized the opportunity and got his grubby managerial paws on the MAWA Heavyweight Title, via Jason Havok, before I could bring it back into my secure possession.
 

“Okay, let him have his fun,” I thought, “…while it lasts. He'll learn.”  This was just a lucky windfall for him. A complete neophyte, no way would he be able to keep it in his possession for long.  Not without me whispering my golden guidence in the big ol' bowling-ball fingerholes on either side of his melon.
 

After his man, Havok, lost the title to Mr. Magically-delicious himself, Pat Shamrock, Gumaer brought in a new shooter......one that kinda stung a little, since I had managed him triumphantly for the best part of a decade...... Triple M,  “Mean” Mark Mest, the biggest-one-quarter of The Intimidators.... to chase that prestigious MAWA title.  A man who I'd gone up and down the roads with. A man who I together waged war with against the Cremator, show after show after brutal show.  Once again, Gumaer snatching any chance of my Mighty Mo masterplan away from bringing that damn championship gold back to me.
 

Still, I let it slide.
 

But then? Well, heh, then Gumaer had to go and get a little too big for his Dr. Bunsen Honeydew britches. Lemme tell ya, after I was nice enough to nominate him for Smart Mark Radio’s prestigious Independent Manager of the Year award, which I had won just one year prior, he had to go and snatch victory from me, steal MY award from ME, denying me the honor of being the first back-to-back recipient of such an accolade.  And I KNOW HOW HE WON! Once again he showed the levels of his manipulativeness and sway! He proved how much of a schemer he was! He got HIS WIFE TO DO ALL THE FOOTWORK!  SHE won him ALL THE VOTES!!!  I HAVE PROOF!!!  AND to make it an even bigger fly in the tunafish sammich, he somehow, got the MAWA goons to make HIS major award, a WHOLE HELL OF A LOT BIGGER THAN THE ONE THOSE MONKEYS IN SHIRTS PRESENTED ME!!!!!!  Mine was the size of a damn 5x8.....HIS WAS A BLOODY 8 1/2 x 11!!!!!!!!!!!
 

On, NO.  No, no, no. HELL no.  See, that dog don't hunt for me!
 

Enough was enough! Our building disagreements and growing animosity ended up with the Championship Committee allowing a three way, tag team, main event match at MAWApalooza 3 in which I would finally – FINALLY – get my hands on Gumaer in the center of the ring, and learn him for his gross insolence. Bald-headed upstart.
 

Now, being one of the dirtiest underhanded players in the game, little did I expect someone to use my own tools against me, but I guess I tought the ungrateful goon a little too, TOO well. While working a PCWS show up here in Pennsylvania, The World's Sexiest Manager got jumped.....JUMPED..... ME?!?!?! The King of the Pearl Harbor, got JUMPED by a handful of masked muscle-bound meatheads the size of a football defensive line.  They all kept their identities hidden from me, but I'm DAMN sure I know who each and every one of those stinkin' turncoats were.  Guessing sometimes money DOESN'T guarantee you the best protection ever.  After the dust settled, with of course no one to come to my aid, my broken tail was ambulanced outta the firehall parking lot, and I spent the next x-amount of weeks mending up from a number of broken bones, numerous lacerations and contusions, and a whole world of internal bleeding.  I looked like I ran face-first into an STS bus. And felt like I ran into ten of them.  So it looked like I was dispensed with. Whoever's (*cough-cough* Gumaer) sinister plan it was to take me out of the picture, conveniently kept me from participating in the match.  Conveniently kept me from putting some damage on the hairless wonder.  And conveniently knocked me off the tracks, derailed me from my course of total domination over the business dealings of the MAWA., the empire that should have been MINE.
 

Now while I was laying in a hospital bed, eating apple-blueberry through a squiggly straw, being sponge-washed by a nurse that looked like Tony Shalhoub, my friend, my ward, my agent -- Ed House -- at that event, revealed himself  to be my Mighty Mo, to ALL the unsuspecting MAWA fans, completely changing the direction of my masterplan.  House’s betrayal of MAWA at my hands WOULD HAVE BEEN the culmination of months of meticulous planning and tireless effort. My war with all the Mid-Atlantic Wrestling Alliance WOULD HAVE BEEN in full swing. Only it didn't quite go the way I'd planned.
 

I would have marched into Winter Warfare to lay siege with my foot soldier, Ed House, side-by-side, only I discovered that he TOO had betrayed me as well! A TRIPLE BACKSTABBER it would seem!  Nice one, dirtbag. I don’t know what Gumaer told you, Eddie boy, but lemme tellya, I know he got to you. Got inside your head. Just like I had been trying to do since the very-first MAWA show FIVE WHOLE YEARS ago!    You, you’re a damn sheep for believing one single, solitary syllable of what line of bull that follicly-challenged ratfart fed you.  Just like all the damn MAWA FANS are big damn sheep for believing one single, solitary syllable of what line of bull he's been feeding them, show after show after show.   But that’s fine, though, it's ALLLLL fine.  It's alright. I always kinda knew that you weren't never that bright, Houseboy. Didn't know how to see a REAL opportunity when it presented itself to ya.  Dim dam dumb, just like Mo was when I offered him the world.  So, go on, GO ON, frolic off with The Architect, build a skyscraper of bald-headed stupid together, and buy into his fairytale, pie in the sky promises of rainbow-farting unicorns as part of HIS Master Plan (#FeelTheGu), yes I just used a damn hashtag. You’ll get yours too. Everyone will get theirs. Just like I did.  Y'see, it's the devil you deal with, brother.  I didn't think he could do it.....but that walking bald-headed roll-on deoderant proved he may be THAT MUCH more deviant than The World's Sexiest Manager himself, I hate to admit.  Or just THAT MUCH luckier. All lightning in a bottle, and no authenticity.  And I would find out just to what lengths he would go....
 

So why hasn’t anyone seen the World’s Sexiest manager at any MAWA events the past year plus, is the question at hand? And just how in the blue hell did he end up working for food, living a life worse than a homeless transient?  That's the question on all you keyboard-squintz's eyes? The Mysterious Disappearance Of The World's Sexiest Manager? Well...
 

There’s no mystery.
 

There's no "where do the rest of the Easter Island heads attach to"?
 

Nah, it was something a whole lot LESS x-files, but a whole lot more realworld scary.

Gumaer didn't just stop with trying to eliminate me from the Mid-Atlantic Wrestling Alliance.  Didn't just try to eliminate me from the WORLD of professional wrestling, on the whole.  The bald wonder wanted to eliminate this old dog outta the picture ENTIRELY.  Not wanting me to make any form of a comeback, realizing just how much of a dangerous threat to his grand scheme I could still one day be...... he wanted me removed, erased, GONE.  Having  his background in legal mumbo-jumbo, business consulting, and every other underneath the radar backdoor area of expertise, "The Architect" was able to get inside MY financial empire, MY COMPANY, Risky Business Inc., shift funds around, finagle accounts payable, monkeywrench accounts receivable, deconstruct legal arrangements, bumfungle corporate agreements, re-neg on services rendered, ad infinitum, quo vado vadis, dominus omus, ipso facto, Ronnie Raines is now in the toilet-O.   Under his wretched machinations, Risky Business Inc. simply crumbled........and The Worlds' Sexiest Manager, was left with nothing.  NOTHING!  He succeeded in DESTROYING ME! Everything was gone.  The penthouses. The lear jets. The stretch limos. The fashion starlets and Facebook models. The fancy suits. The wine NOT in a box.  Gone.

It was all gone.
 

Risky Business Inc., one of the premier empires in the business of business....it was gone.
 

And with everything gone.....I was now penniless, nearly homeless, no one to turn to, and no where to go. I was officially at the BOTTOM. A failure at life, as the memes say.  Out in the realworld we don't get to write the angles, and Gumaer knew it.  Destroy me there, he can destroy me anywhere.
 

And he did. 
 

I went from being the man with the money, to being the man who's scratching to find enough change to eat ramen and vienna sausage sammiches.  I went from being the sexy sunglass-wearing jetsetter, to being the guy living on floors, sleeping in stockrooms, and walking the roadsides just to find a dime.  I went from being the life of the party, the loudmouthed jerk who was all about the goodtime, who kept the fun coming, WHO WAS ALL ABOUT ENTERTAINING YOU PEOPLE, whether you liked me or not, whether you cheered me or not, whether you booed me or not... to becoming a 2016 Robin Williams story waiting to happen.  No more keeping up the Wile E. Coyote facade, being the zany, laugh-man, the overgrown Kevin Smith character, being the six-figure suit-wearing rodeo clown of professional wrestling.  No, that all got replaced by the hopes that one morning the six-feet under would catch up to me before my millions in debt would.  Everywhere I turn, I'm surrounded by the unending grays of a sickly and pathetic mortality, and an ended legacy.  My Tony Atlas years, sleeping on the park benches.  I got  scumbags, ain't worth the sweat off'a my back putting hits out on me for the small fortunes I owe them, thanks to Gumaer. I'm surrounded by the scum of the earth, that I am forced to work with, each one thinking its my job to lick their feet and shine their bread for them because its my job to make them feel like they are the most important lifeform on the planet.  I go from useless employer to useless employer who get to live their lives like I USED TO, but when it comes to mine, it's secondary, invisible, and worth less than plastic dog poop off the back of a chinese dock truck (the dressing up like the Statue Of Liberty job, yeah, that was just the best....makeup burned, it hurt my eyes).  Like I'm now some kind of Sarah MacLachlan dog in an SPCA commercial, I'm not allowed to live.  Someone always slaps me down. Me, Risky Business Ronnie Raines.  Someone/something always craps it all up. Me, Risky Business Ronnie Raines! The universe comes along and knocks over my ice cream cone.

ME!  RISKY BUSINESS RONNIE RAINES!!!
 

THAT's my plebian life right now, readers. That is the existence of Risky Business Ronnie Raines.  THAT is where Risky Business Ronnie Raines has gone.  I count the minutes til the next time I get done dirt by someone or something else. That's just what Dave "The Architect" Gumaer has succeeded in doing to one of the GREATEST professional wrestling managers of all-time.
 

Now I'm not here crying Argentina. Hell, some of this IS a result of my own damaging decisions.  I know why there is no one to fill in the ranks, no one to call ally, why everyone has turned their back on "The World's Sexiest Manager".  That is all of my doing.  Remember, I'm the bad guy. A monster of my own design.  But apparently, someone a whole lot WORSE than me, has risen to the status of a demigod in the MAWA, it would seem.  Lemme tellya, this destruction of my empire, this destruction of my very life, doesn’t change anything Gumaer. It slowed me down maybe, slowed me down like a slug sleepin' on an iceberg... but it hasn’t stopped me. And, lemme tellya, I know there's gonna be a wait involved.  But if there's one thing revenge bedfellows with quite nicely, it's patience.  I can wait in the wings, burning, seething, stewing, building, waiting, biding my time for the perfect moment to enact that revenge. Plotting. Planning. Crossing every “t.” Dotting every “i.” Obsessing over your big, round, stupid face -- like Steve Buscemi in BILLY MADISON, only I ain't puttin' on any lipstick for you pookie -- Making sure everything is in place, down to the smallest most minutest detail. After all, we all know the devil is in the details, and that devil will be ME! I've learned much in the many decades that I’ve been in this abusive, cold-hearted, merciless, thankless, two-hot-dogs-and-a-bag-of-chips business, brother, and lemme tellya, the most important of which is most definitely "Money Don't Buy The Beans", brother.... you wait and see what that means.
 

But you won't see it coming, Gumaer!  You won’t know what hit you!  Just like what you done with me, you won't know a damn thing! You won’t know where. You won’t know when. You won’t know how until it’s already too late. So I wait, just so YOU, The self-styled Architect, can sweat it out. So that every day between now and the moment I strike, you’ll be constantly looking over your big ol' stupid bald-headed shoulder. So that every night between now and the moment I strike, you’ll lie awake in your big ol' stupid bald-headed bed, gripped with your big ol' stupid bald-headed anxiety, over the hell YOU YOUROWNBALDHEADEDSELF have BUILT, Mister Architect. And no one – NOT Jason Havok, NOT Troy Mest, NOT Mark Mest, NOT Ed House, NOT Firebreaker Chip, NOT Ranger Ross – NO ONE will be able to save you! Rest assured, David Gumaer, your Master Plan will pale in comparison to the grand designs I have in the works for you.  This ain't my first rodeo. The ONLY thing you're building here "Architect" is the highway to your own swansong.  A hate-paved path to your own destruction..... and the fans will see. They will see you for what you are. And they'll have to make a decision, will have to choose between the lesser of two evils.  Whether they choose right, I could care less. Whether they love me or hate me, I don't care anymore. This is my quest, my crusade.  On Nobody's Side.
 

Oh, wait. Y’know what? I’m actually wrong, with my earlier statement. Let me rewind a stretch. There is one thing you WILL know, David Gumaer. When someone asks you that all-consuming question, “Who will put the damage on?”.... you’ll know damn right, you'll know damn well, that the answer will be...
 

“Risky Business” Ronnie Raines!
 

WITH or WITHOUT allies.
 

WITH or WITHOUT the MAWA Fans. 
 

I'm on Nobody's Side.
 

I'm on a mission. And that mission is, Dave 'The Architect' Gumaer....imma be your nightmare dressed like a daydream there, honeydew.
 

I'm coming for you.