In his latest match [#308], Quinn Harper boasts that he is the "Master of Chokes." For the record, he's also a master of skull fucks, elbow drops, and "oil checks" (his euphemism for gooses, by which I do not mean geese). The argument can be made that, for about five months now, you cannot consider yourself truly on the UCW roster till you take on Quinn. He's already something of an institution there.

Having previously faced the well-mannered Michael Hannigan and Pvt. Jack Marino, tall and strapping Tyson the Hammer obviously does not know what to expect of Quinn. That much is clear when he naively extends a sportsmanlike hand to the violence-crazed berserker. But then it's also clear that Quinn does not know what to make of Tyson either, whom he immediately pegs as a jobber. 

The Hammer soon educates the Choke-Master otherwise. This 33-minute nut-buster veers wildly between favoring Quinn to favoring Tyson, then back again, not five minutes passing before there's another reversal. This kind of unpredictability makes a wrestling match for me, so I was thrilled to discover this fight wasn't going to be just another rookie-hazing. 

Once again, Quinn manages to be both frisky and malevolent, like a boy raised by wolves--with the tenacity of a barracuda and the quick wits of an eighteenth-century chevalier. Tyson's statuesque elegance packs heaps more cunning and fury than you might think. Resilient and persistent, Tyson the Hammer has built a great deal of credibility with fans through his work in his first two bouts. But when Quinn Harper's on the card, there's no telling what's going to get dished up, and the only thing certain is that it won't be sweet, soft, cuddly, twee, ... or painless.


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