You want Undertaker? Get your Phenom stuff here. WWF Undertaker pics, graphics, loads of multimedia, music, animations and more, Over 15,000 pics, 650+ videos and growing!
Got Undertaker?
Sabretooth's Corrupted Crypt


Undertaker



The Undertaker is the undisputed Phenom of the WWF (accept no LAME imitations!). The Crypt was built and serves as a dedication to the Undertaker, and a place for Creatures of the Night to find extensive picture and multimedia archives. With some extras here or there. It's a place to entertain fans of the Undertaker and educate wrestling fans who don't know what the Phenom is all about.


Layout/HTML design and original art/characters ©1999-2002 Sabretooth/Cryptic Creations and may not be swiped without permission.



The Undertaker, WWF logos and media from TV are trademarked/copyrighted/and in whatever ways owned by the WWF (WWFE/Titan Sports). Cryptic Creations is not affiliated with WWFE/Titan Sports (nor does it want to be), or the Undertaker(well, we wouldn't mind being affiliated with him..).

©1999-2002 Sabretooth/Cryptic Creations.




>





















Are you looking for something?


















MUST you scroll to the bottom of EVERY page??















There is such a button called "END" on the Keyboard, you know.







































Are you scared?


























No?

















I supposed I should reward you for sticking around so long.














I'm thinking! I'm thinking!






























































What should I give ye, oh wandering surfer?








































































































Something...Undertaker?



























































Yes! Hmm... let me find something...

























































































How about....














........
.......





























An article!!!!!

This article was sent to me by GG, big thanks go out to her!

The Toronto Sun

December 14, 1999, Tuesday, Final EDITION

SECTION: NEWS, Pg. 3

LENGTH: 2023 words

HEADLINE: HELL IN A CELL MANKIND DETAILS THE BIGGEST AND MOST PAINFUL MATCH OF
HIS CAREER

BYLINE: MICK FOLEY

BODY:


It took quite a while for me to remember the events surrounding Hell in a
Cell. Which should give you some indication as to how it turned out. It took
several weeks and repeated viewings of the match itself, to piece the whole
scene together. I felt kind of like a private eye trying to put together the
mystery of my own life. Now, almost a year later, I've got a good handle on the
biggest and most memorable night of my 15-year career.

I had told the Undertaker a week before the match that I was planning on
starting the match on top of the cage. He hadn't seemed real positive about it.
Let's face it, I had to tell him. Otherwise, if he walked out, saw me standing
up on the top and decided not to follow, I would look like a big dummy climbing
back down. Every day I would ask him, and every day he would shoot it down.

The day before the match, I asked him again. He shook his head and asked me a
question -- not as the deep and dark Undertaker, but as a guy who had known me
for eight years and who had, over the course of some titanic battles, developed
a bond with me. We'd beaten each other half to death it seemed and then looked
out for each other when we were hurt. We hadn't ridden together or shared a room
since we first hooked up under different names, but we nonetheless shared a deep
and mutual respect. "Jack," he said, "why are you so intent on killing yourself
up there?"

"Because," I answered seriously, "I'm afraid this match is going to stink.
You can't walk, and, let's face it, I don't have any heat. We've got a heck of a
legacy to live up to, and I don't want this match to ruin it. If we can start it
out hot enough, we can make people think we had a hell of a match even if we
didn't."

'Taker thought it over and I thought I could see him cracking. "I'll think
about it," he said before we parted ways.

My music played and I walked down the aisle with my rusty steel chair. I got
to the cage and threw the chair onto the top, as I planned to make use of it
later. I put my fingers in the mesh and started to climb. I slipped. I tried to
climb again, but my toes wouldn't fit into the mesh to get a foothold. I cursed
PAGE 2
The Toronto Sun, December 14, 1999

my half-thimbleful of natural athletic ability. For a minute, I didn't think I'd
ever be able to climb the damn thing. I did, but it sure as hell wasn't pretty,
and when I got to the top, I had no feeling in my right index finger from
pulling so hard on the fence. It would actually take a week for all the feeling
to come back.

I looked down at the Spanish announcing team, who had the most hazardous jobs
in the business. The height was incredible -- 16 feet down, but over 22 feet
from my vantage point. I had been scared before, but it had always been a "good"
scared. This was not good at all. I saw no chance for a happy ending. I walked
back to face the aisle, and the 'Taker was about to ascend. "This is it," I
thought. "Showtime!"

'Taker climbed the mesh and even with a broken foot, he did it a hell of a
lot quicker than I did. He peeked his head up and I gave him a shot, which left
him hanging by a hand. Another one had him dangling again, but he blocked a
third and came firing back. This gave him time to get up, but when he did, I was
there to meet with a chair across the back. Thwack! It was a good one. Thwack!
again. Another solid shot. I took the 'Taker and started to walk with him. The
crowd gasped as the cage sagged and almost gave way. We took another step, and
the cage sagged even more beneath our 600 pounds. I attempted to suplex him on
my chair, but he cut me off and had me headed toward the edge of the cell
structure. He grabbed me by my shirt and trunks, and suddenly I was airborne --
16 feet high and falling fast, as the Spanish announcers dove for cover. It was
the scariest moment of my life, but almost a relief when I landed on the
announcer table and felt it crumble beneath my weight. I had missed the
monitors, which was my biggest concern, and landed about as perfectly as one
could hope for, but the impact had spun me halfway underneath the security
railing so that my legs were in the audience. My upper body, meanwhile, was
covered with debris of the table. "Good God almighty," the announcer J.R. had
yelled upon the impact. "With God as my witness, he's been broken in half."

Actually, I felt surprisingly all right as I lay there among the wreckage. My
shoulder was hurting, as it had become dislocated from the fall, and I felt a
dull pain in my kidney area. Other than that, I felt okay. I actually had a
feeling of inner peace about me as I was tended to by officials, Terry Funk, and
even Vince McMahon, who had broken character by being legitimately concerned.
"At least," I mistakenly thought as I enjoyed the attention, "the worst is
over." I was about as wrong in that assessment as a human being can possibly be.

The reaction of the crowd was phenomenal. I have never experienced or seen a
reaction like it before, and I doubt I ever will again. For several days after
the fact I would watch the video, and I never ceased to be amazed by the
reaction. It was like a chain reaction as every single person in the place stood
up, even though there was nothing left to see but a prone human body lying
underneath what used to be a table.

'Taker looked almost mythical as he stood perched atop the cage, especially
when the cage began to ascend to make room for the stretcher, which was
accompanied by a crew of emergency medical technicians. The technicians placed
me on the gurney, and J.R. apologized for the short duration of the match. The
Undertaker was already down the cage and on the floor when I rolled off the
gurney and got to my feet. "Can you believe this?" said J.R. in disbelief as I
attempted once again to scale the cage. "And he's got a smile on his face."

PAGE 3
The Toronto Sun, December 14, 1999

Climbing the cell with a dislocated shoulder was no easy task, but this time
I wasn't scared or hesitant -- I was running on adrenaline. I was literally
flying in my heart, as the Undertaker and I both raced to the top. The crowd
reaction was unbelievable. They had sworn the match was over. They had just seen
the damnedest thing in the history of the business, and now we were going to
give them more.

If I could change one thing about the match, it would be my next effort. A
dynamic exchange of punches atop the 16-foot structure would have sent the crowd
into a frenzy, but instead I stood there, sluglike, as the Undertaker battered
me without any retaliation. He clubbed me once across my back with the chair and
then unceremoniously dropped it on the cage. I really wish he would have put it
somewhere else. Then he grabbed me around the neck for the "goozle," or
chokeslam.

I didn't remember a thing about the next two minutes as I watched the tape in
great pain the next day. It was the only time in 15 years that I have been
knocked out cold. I had been knocked goofy countless times. I'd seen stars and
rainbows and black patches as a way of life for a long time, but this was the
first time that a period of time elapsed and I wasn't aware of it. Like I said
earlier, however, video and time have helped me to not only see but remember
almost everything. Everything except what I was feeling as I broke through the
mesh and crashed to the canvas.

I landed hard on my back, my neck, and the back of my head. If I'd gone
higher, I would have landed directly on my head and I probably wouldn't be here
-- at least not in control of my limbs. It was indeed a violent, brutal fall,
made worse by the fact that I landed in one of the "old" WWF rings, which have
little give. The new Federation rings obviously have some give to them --
actually, too much give for my taste. But the old rings were torturous in the
stiffness, and guys were getting hurt too often and careers were ending early.
As a concession, new rings were made, and yes, they bounce -- but to tell you
the truth, the fans don't seem to care.

To make matters worse, the chair that was placed on the cage followed by body
down and smashed into my face. The blow would result in one-and-a-half teeth
being knocked out, a dislocated jaw, and a hole beneath my lip that I could
stick my tongue through.

"Enough is enough! Would somebody stop the damn match!" J. R. yelled as the
ring filled up immediately with medical personnel, office personnel and Terry
Funk. I get goose bumps thinking about it even now, as Ross' call was not part
of a wrestling match, but a legitimate cry for my well-being. It was probably
the most dramatic call I have ever heard in any sport. Purists can have "The
Giants win the pennant, the Giants win the pennant," but I'll take "Would
somebody stop the damn match!" any day.

I actually rolled over at one point, and when I regained consciousness, I saw
a pair of sneakers in the ring. What happened while I was out was actually a
marvel of impromptu ingenuity and a credit to the business. In a real sport, the
action would surely stop if a player was knocked out, But no, we are not a real
sport, and the action doesn't stop. Instead, all the guys tried to buy me some
time in hopes that I would come to, in time.

'TOUGHEST SOB'
PAGE 4
The Toronto Sun, December 14, 1999


The Undertaker held on to the cage, but free-fell several feet, and you could
see him visibly wince and hobble from the pain in his broken foot. Unlike
gymnast Kerri Strug, who vaulted to fame on the basis of one landing on a
sprained ankle, there would be no White House visits for the Undertaker -- only
the recognition from the people who know what a tough bastard he really is.
Terry Funk was there to meet him and willingly took a chokeslam to give me more
time. TV showed multiple replays of my fall through the cage, and when they came
back, I was on my feet, but just barely. "I don't believe it," said a stunned
J.R. "He's either crazy or he's the toughest SOB I've ever seen."

The Undertaker threw a punch, and I went down -- slowly. It may have been the
saddest bump ever taken, because there was no strength left in my body. I don't
want to sound dramatic or pat myself on the back, but I really had been standing
on sheer will alone. Now, as I lay in a heap, it seemed that even my will was
gone. "Jack, let's go home," the 'Taker quietly said to me.

"No, no. I'm okay," I replied in a statement that had to be right up there
with the biggest whopper I ever told.

He took hold of my hand and, in a trademark 'Taker move, ascended to the top
rope. Usually, this move results in a massive flying forearm across the chest,
but this was no usual match, and I forced the Dead Man off his perch, so that he
crouched himself on the top rope. In reality, he was trying to buy me more time,
as it was still readily apparent that while the lights might have been on, there
was nobody home.

Students of the wrestling game have talked about this match for the last
year, and most of the accolades have been in my direction, as if Undertaker was
just some innocent bystander who happened to be in this historic match. The
truth is, without the Undertaker's poise and experience, the match would have
been over right after the chokeslam though the cage. The Hell in a Cell is
actually the closest example I've ever seen of one wrestler "bottle feeding"
another, until I was able to take my first baby steps.

I returned with a large canvas bag. I reached into it and withdrew about a
hundred silver tacks that sparkled in the light of the Pittsburgh Civic Arena.
I scattered the tacks on the ground, and as the crowd stood in anticipation, I
dumped the contents of the entire bag, revealing about 6,000 tacks in all.

The Undertaker went down to his knees, and I slid behind him while still
employing the claw. In an instant, though, 'Taker had me on his back. BAM. There
it was. The audience groaned as I writhed in pain among the tacks. I was up
slowly with several hundred tacks sticking into my flesh and clothes.

"My God, what else can be done? What else will the Undertaker do to Mankind?"
yelled J. R., and the question was answered immediately as a tombstone spelled
the end of what countless fans have told me was the greatest match they ever
saw.

NOTES:
World Wrestling Federation (WWF) superstar Mick Foley (aka Man-kind) takes fans
-- and disbelieving readers -- inside the ropes in his No. 1 NewYork Times
bestseller "Have a Nice Day! A Tale of Blood and Sweatsocks."Foley, a former
high school wrestler, clawed his way from small-town rings tothe big time. Along
PAGE 5
The Toronto Sun, December 14, 1999

the way he suffered more injuries than any "legitimate" athlete could ever
endure. His story, written at night on the road, reveals the man behind the mask
and the "real" side of professional wrestling. In the final part of an exclusive
series of excerpts from the book, Foley recounts his greatest match blow by
violent blow.Excerpted from "Have A Nice Day! A Tale of Blood and Sweatsocks" by
Mick Foley(Mankind). Copyright (c) 1999 by World Wrestling Federation
Entertainment,Inc. Reprinted by arrangement with ReganBooks, an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers Inc.


Wasn't that spiffy? In case you forgot where you were, enter-

Sabretooth's Corrupted Cypt

For all your Undertaker needs!

Click Here!