Clash of the Champions XXVII — Hulk Hogan Walks In and the Old WCW Starts Packing

Cactus Jack, Kevin Sullivan and the Nasty Boys had already discovered at Slamboree that their best match was the one least interested in being a match. WCW responds by giving the rematch two referees and more rules. The result is still entertaining whenever everyone forgets the assignment. Jack launches himself into railings, Sullivan punches with the subtlety of a falling refrigerator and Dave Sullivan eventually swings the crutch that creates the finish. The straight tag structure slows them, but the violence keeps leaking through. Jack's double-arm DDT retains the belts after ten minutes of four men repeatedly trying to turn a wrestling match back into a fight.

Ray Traylor has lost the Boss name, found the Guardian Angels and acquired a three-strikes policy that works much better in a vignette than in a wrestling ring. Tex Slazenger is allowed three shots, Traylor decides the legal system has had enough and then wipes him out with familiar Boss Man offense. The whole thing lasts under two minutes and exists entirely to introduce the new presentation. There is no competitive match to evaluate, which is probably for the best. Traylor still looks powerful, the gimmick is understandable and WCW moves on before anyone has time to ask how many strikes a clothesline counts as.

Regal and Larry Zbyszko wrestle like two men who consider personal irritation a legitimate style. There is stalling, but unlike empty stalling it keeps escalating into harder uppercuts, slaps and increasingly angry counters. Zbyszko is old enough to make every burst feel deliberate, while Regal sells the indignity of being matched hold for hold by somebody he has spent months treating as beneath him. The final sequence is perfectly crooked: Zbyszko tries the Boston crab, Sir William nudges the balance, Regal lands on top and grabs the rope for leverage. The Television title returns to Regal because the aristocrat finally finds a loophole as effective as his wrestling.

Johnny B. Badd has improved enough by 1994 that Steve Austin can treat him like a serious athletic challenger instead of a colorful interruption. They work the arm, trade fast counters and gradually build toward a sprint just as the match should be hitting its finish. Then WCW arrives. Austin uses a foreign object and scores the pin. A second referee produces the evidence, restarts the match and counts a Badd cradle. The broadcast goes to commercial promising a decision and returns by discussing Hulk Hogan instead. The official result becomes a Badd disqualification win with Austin retaining. Good wrestling is once again asked to survive paperwork.

Flair and Sting have wrestled this relationship so many times that the match begins like two musicians playing standards: press slams, chops, begging, hair pulls, a Flair flop and Sting refusing to stay down. The difference is the context. One World title must survive, Hulk Hogan is waiting for the winner and Sensuous Sherri is sitting ringside in Sting paint. The last minutes sharpen everything. Sting launches the plancha, Flair pulls Sherri into the path and Sting stops to check on her. Flair rolls him up with the tights and unifies the belts. Then Sherri embraces Flair, Hogan makes the save and Sting's championship story becomes somebody else's launchpad.