FreeCatFights
General Category => Chat Fight Logs And Message Board Fights => Message Board Fights => Topic started by: ThePurpleVixen on January 25, 2018, 08:05:51 AM
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"NO, Megan. For the last fucking time."
Gemma has lots of shades to the ways she says no, and this one is a very distinctive tone that indicates she's wavering between giving in to get me to shut the fuck up and snapping and rushing at me headlong. In fact, the only reason she hasn't done that yet is the thing we're fucking debating.
"GEMS COME THE FUCK ON," I say in my most reasonable and measured tone, getting right into my darling wife's face. "This is THE BIGGEST FUCKING SHOW IN THE UK. EVER. EVERY SINGLE BRITISH WRESTLER ANYONE GIVES A FUCK ABOUT IS GONNA BE AT THIS SHOW. I fucking LIVE here now! I'M A FUCKING BRITISH WRESTLER BY MARRIAGE. I HAVE TO BE ON THIS GOD-DAMN CARD!"
Gemma's teeth grit so hard that I can hear them grating like china cups being slowly mashed together.
"My darling," she says, and now I know she's fucking angry. "Let us review the facts, shall we?"
"Facts are STUPID," I grumble, huffing over to drop into one of the incredibly plush armchairs in the living room where we've been debating this hot topic. I snatch up my iPad and scroll through the emails that sparked the argument again, glowering at the screen like it's personally offended me. Which it hasn't, yet, but the night is still young and there's more porn to look at.
"Yes, pickle, I know." Gemma's tone softens a little now that I've sat down, but she's still got her teeth gritted and her fists curled. "After that bloodbath with your fucking ex you made me watch, we had to get part of a cadaver grafted into your ACL."
I brighten up a little with a grin. "I mean, I AM the fuckin' Living Dead G-"
Gemma is suddenly THERE, snatching me by the lapels, her face right against mine.
"If you make that fucking joke again I am going to MURDER you so it will no longer apply!"
Huffing in irritation (and more than a little turned on, because Gems is super hot when she threatens to kill me), I bat her grip away from my shirt. "Hands off the fuckin' merchandise!" It's literally merchandise, one of my Human Trigger Warning shirts with a cartoon me spotlighted against a brick-wall, with a censory black bar over my mouth and null signs over my extended hands that are clearly flipping off the viewer. Gemma steps back, folding her arms under her generous tits that are always presented so nicely in the fancy blouses she wears (I think this one's a Giambattista Valli, and I never would have been able to even guess at that shit prior to marrying her), and glares at me.
"You have a cadaver's tendon, Megan. The scar is only barely what I would call healed, and the physical therapist only said you could stop using the cane because you said you were going to beat her with it. You do NOT NEED TO BE IN THE RING."
I sigh, melodramatically as possible but with a gust of real fucking despair in it, sinking into the chair. My wife softens finally, and sits on the arm of the chair, stroking my purple hair back with soft fingers as I slump against her chest.
"I do need to be in the ring, Gems. I'm goin' fuckin' CRAZY. I finally get freed of The Brokeback cxnt-" (that's our charming nickname for my ex), "-and I don't even get to enjoy it that fuckin' much since I'm not DOING anything." It's been a long couple of months. Taking the trip to the States to see Red wrestle Jenny Dare was fun, but it also reminded me of how much I wanted to fucking wrestle again. Physical therapy just wasn't doing it. I kept getting impatient and smashing my therapists through exercise equipment. The litigation costs were adding up. And Gemma couldn't even take it out on me like she usually did because of my knee - through most of our marriage, these types of arguments would end up with one of us naked in a single leg crab being fingerfucked senseless. Now that sort of marital bliss had to wait, and we were both fucking frustrated by it.
"I know, pickle." She says, softer than she almost ever says anything. For all our famously loud and brutal arguments and bloody marital brawls, Gemma is better at calming me than anyone alive. "But anyone we put you in the ring with is going to go after your knee like a bloody mad dog, and I can't watch you get tortured again."
"I can fuckin' stop any bitch fro-"
She presses a finger to my lips, softly, and strokes my cheek, shaking her head gently.
"Even an absolute shit wrestler could get lucky and kick your knee out from under you just once, and that's all it would take. And there won't be any shit wrestlers on this show, pickle."
I siiiiiiiiigh again, deeper and slower, tilting my head to kiss at her hand before I slump over and nestle my head against her tits, my arms sliding around her waist as she perches on the edge of the overstuffed chair. Normally nothing makes me feel better than being nestled against Gemma's tits, but even they can't save me from this level of despair.
"EVERYONE is gonna be there, Gems. It's the biggest show in fucking British history. EVERYONE is gonna be there! There's gonna be appearances by Johnny Saint, Marty Jones, Fit Finlay, William Regal, Mark Rocco-"
"I know who's on the fucking card, Megan. I am also on it."
"- Robbie Brookside, and Peter Thornley, and there's so many fuckin' matches! Almost the whole Knight family, Doug Williams, PAC, Marty Scurll, my boy Will Ospreay, Pete Dunne, Christopher Daniels, Trent Seven, Wolfgang, ZSJ, BT Gunn, Colt Cabana, Joe Hendry, fuckin' GRADO, Matt Cross, Lionheart, Kasey, Kay Lee Rae, Bren Rua, Blue Nikita, Emily Layne, Viper, Queen Maya-"
"Once again, Megan: I am on the fucking card."
"- AND YOU ARE WRESTLING CALLI AND IF I AM NOT ON THIS SHOW I AM GONNA DIE -"
My arms tighten around her waist and Gemma begins rasping for breath a little, pushing at my head to try to pry free.
"Megan ... calm unnhhhh down now, pickle ... hahhhh fuck you're hurting my ribs a little, love."
"-I GOTTA BE AT THE FUCKING O2 ARENA, GEMS. I GOTTA WRESTLE SOMEONE OR MY HEAD'S GONNA FUCKIN' RUPTURE AND SPLATTERS MY BRAINS ALL OVER THE PLACE."
Gemma begins pounding on my head in the loving way she has with both fists.
"LISTEN TO ME, MEGAN! THE ONLY WAY YOU ARE GETTING IN THAT FUCKING RING IS IF YOU FIND SOMEONE TO WRESTLE WHO IS NOT GOING TO HURT YOU IN ANY FUCKING WAY AND WE BOTH KNOW THAT DOES NOT INCLUDE ME NOW LET ME GO BEFORE I BREAK YOUR FUCKING HEAD YOU TART!"
And repaired ACL or not, I'm about to yank her to the floor and test my new Donjoy custom-fitted kneebrace against the side of her gorgeous head when suddenly -
- the doorbell of Rox Manor rings.
As per our nuptial contract, the doorbell plays Mick Foley's theme, "Wreck" by Jim Johnston in lovely chiming chords.
Both of us look at each other in mid-grapple and then out towards the entry hall, like ... well, like a couple of bitches who just heard the doorbell ring.
"... if that's Tantalus here for that dreadful fucking mask, shoot him."
"Why don't YOU shoot him?"
"I'm British, love. We don't use fucking guns."
She slides off the chair, and helps me out of it. I adjust my new kneebrace, still getting used to the feel of it, and don't bother getting the shotgun from the hidden panel in the front hall. We each just take a weapon from the umbrella stand which is jammed FULL of plunder as we make our way to the front hall. I get a home-made flail I crafted back in my CZW days, made of lengths of steel chain threaded through drilled billiard balls, knotted and nailed to an axehandle. Gemma gets a G-Force cricket bat. We have a ton of those fucking things all over the house since her merchandising deal with Gunn & Moore.
There's a looming figure outside the door.
"Arguably, we could have checked the security systems or had the staff answer if we were genuinely concerned," Gemma points out.
"I know. I just wanna beat somethin' to pulpy bits."
Gemma yanks the door open ...
-
The door opens and Gemma is standing there with a cricket bat that is almost as long as she is tall. Megan is there with a flail that just looks nasty.
Both of them are staring at me like I'm a zombie about to get smashed. Before I can utter a word, the door closes on me.
This gives me a moment to stop and reflect and wonder what in the fuck I'm actually doing here.
First off, understand this. I hate to fly.
Seriously. I HATE FLYING.
I'm very much a drive around kinda guy. Can't eat at the truck stops if you fly. Funny story. The first time I flew was when I was in high school. This is the late 80s now. So no internet. And all I ever saw of planes was from movies and TV. So I have a window seat, great. But at the wing, boo. When we are coming down, I look out the window and to me it looked like the wing exploded. Metal hunks were pulled up from top and bottom of the wing. I freaked out. We're talkin' William Shatner level freak out with some hyperventilation. Then I realized those were all kinds of flaps designed to slow the plane down. I'd never seen such a thing.
Yeah, I almost Shatner'ed my pants. I'm not proud, but I can look back and have a sensible chuckle.
And to top it all off, after I got over that, I find out my luggage went to Cleveland. Thing is I was in Washington, DC. And guess what, that's become a recurring theme for me. My luggage likes Cleveland. Except the one time I actually flew to Cleveland. Then it ended up in Toronto.
So given my bad luck and distaste for flying, why in the wide world of sports would I get on a Transatlantic flight? Hours and hours of being cramped in a seat with a bad movie and worse food (which considering some of the dives I've eaten in on the road is saying something) and the smell. Lord the smell.
I had to check on Megan. Paris was just damn brutal. I don't know if I'll ever get over Paris. And when she and Gems went to see me fight Jenny, I didn't have too much time to spend with them just hanging out. And I wasn't sure when I would again. So when stuff happened and I had a open spot in my schedule I decided to drop in on the girls and see how they were doing.
I didn't expect to be met with bludgeoning and flailing equipment. I'm second guessing now my decision to surprise the two. Of course when it comes to these two, it doesn't take much interaction to make you question your life choices.
And I'm standing there in front of the door with my beat up Clemson Tigers hat, my dad's aviator shades, my favorite pair of worn used-to-be blue jeans and my Chuck Taylors. Oh and my shirt. Which I thought would get a laugh. It's an old black shirt with white script and a purple heart on it that says.
"I <3 My GothPrincess"
I'm not even sure what that means. I think it got mixed into some of my clothes over at the Mirc Landromat or something. Or maybe it's one of Jimmy Jacobs's test runs at merch. Anyways, it was the silliest thing I could think of and I got a few looks on the plane for sure.
So, I'm not sure how much longer I should wait and my finger moves over to the doorbell again and....
-
Gemma swings the door shut and we immediately draw close, huddling up. We do the same thing every time we're about to jump some bitch backstage or waylay a referee or break a barstool over Calli's back while one of us distracts her with an offer of free gin. We're natural huddlers. It's one reason we work so well together.
"That was really fuckin' weird timing, right?" I say, my voice hushed as I glance at the door with Red on the other side of the oak, faintly visible through the cloudy polymer glazing. There used to be fancy stained glass there but we got tired of paying for it to be replaced everytime someone got tackled or suplexed through the front door. Now it's steel-reinforced oak with bulletproof pearly-white Lexan diamond cutouts. Getting suplexed into that shit is like hitting a semi-truck, as I've both found out and demonstrated.
"REALLY bloody weird," Gemma nods. "Who is that American tourist and why is he here?"
"... Gems, that's Reddy."
Gemma stared blankly at me. "But Red wears a mask."
"You've SEEN Red without a mask, Gemma."
"Didn't he used to wear suits?"
"Calli made him wear suits when he was with the Countdown. You know this. How much have you had to drink today?"
She grins at me, vulpine and teasing with a faint cloud of Scotch on her breath. "Depends on what time it is by now."
I backhand her fondly in the tits, drawing a grunt. "Bitch. No, this is how he normally dresses, like for real. I drove all over the fuckin' south with him and he was probably wearin' that exact same pair of jeans."
She glances back over her shoulder at the door, hefting her G-force bat consideringly.
"Do you think that bitch sent him?"
I shake my head, firmly. "No. She'd never let him show up without his mask on."
Surprisingly, Gemma agrees with me for once, and nods. "And what's that bloody ridiculous T-shirt?"
My eyes narrow and my teeth clench a little for no reason I am ever going to explain, to Gemma or anyone else who might hypothetically read an account of these events now or anytime in the mysterious future. "I have no idea," I say firmly. "BUT - this is perfect! Reddy won't hurt me!"
Gemma looks non-plussed. She so rarely looks plussed, but she's way short on plusses this time.
"Haven't you poison misted, Mindfucked, and superkicked him repeatedly?"
I flap my hand dismissively. "FONDLY. ALL fondly. Besides ... if we ASK, he won't hurt me." I grin, the idea starting to burn irresistibly. A match at the O2 Arena, the biggest show in UK history, the supercard to end all supercards in the Western world, and I'll get to fucking be on it with the man who's basically my oldest friend in the business. "Trust me. TRUST me on this, Gems. In any fight in the world, the two people I'd want beside me are you and Reddy. Besides, you can be at ringside and beat him senseless with a bat if he tries anything. I'll take the DQ." I kiss her, warmly, and she hesitates a moment before wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me close, firmly sealing the agreement. For a moment we get lost in the swirl of our tongues and the familiar velvet softness of each other's lips and the press of our bodies and the flaring heat starts to smolder between us again because we're basically fucking sodium and water and we ignite instantly in proximity, but then the doorbell rings again.
Mick Foley's theme chimes out once more, and I break the kiss with my cheeks flushed. "Can I tell him?"
Gemma nods grandly, and gives my ass a fond squeeze. "Let him in, pickle. I'll go get things started with the contracts. Should be an easy enough sale - Punky's return AND the bloody Red Enforcer? I'll attach your contracts as riders to mine and get us all a bigger payday than even those Bullet Club fuckers." She smiles her wicked business-lady smile that makes my thighs shiver a little and pads away, her ass swaying alluringly, drawing my eyes after it until she turns a corner, and then my head snaps back forward.
I grin, my eyes flashing, and yank the door open, lunging out to fondly snatch Red by the front of that fucking silly T-shirt with the hand not currently holding a billiard ball-and-chain flail, and YANK him inside the house, planting my feet to haul his bigger frame in like someone WAY too eager to buy Avon products. "GOOD NEWS, Reddy! YOU AN' ME ARE GONNA WRASSLE! The O2 Arena! The London Supershow! An' since it'll be my first time in the ring in a buncha weeks they're gonna have to bump it WAY up the card!" My mouth is running at full motor now, and I gesture enthusiastically with the flail, not quite noticing as Reddy has to duck the swirling clack of the deadly weapon. I continue to drag him, down through the elegant tiled front hall and the smell of old Welsh wood that makes up the bones of the house, towards the breakfast hall and the bar lounge-slash-trophy room beyond. As I drag him along I keep talking. I always keep talking. Paul Neary would've written "Motormouth" about me if I wasn't only like 8 at the time it was written.
"And we're gonna do a FUN show and it's gonna be CLEAN an' I'm not gonna HIT you with any weapons-" my flail jingles again, almost crashing the swinging billiard balls through a 4500-Euro Limoges vase on the sideboard. "- an' I'm not even gonna nutshot ya, I PROMISE, an' the only thing, THE ONLY THING, REDDY -" I stop suddenly, drawing up close to him, my left hand firmly clutched around the purple heart on his shirt, going to the tiptoes of my left foot to press my nose against his, "Is ya ain't allowed to try any fucking leglocks or anything an' don't make me run too fast an' don't let me try to do any fuckin' suicidas, an' if ya hurt me then Gems gets to beat you into a coma with her bat. Okay? You'll do it, right?"
We arrive in the lounge as I finish going over the basics of the contractual grappling agreement in perfectly reasonable legal terms. The lounge is the centerpiece of Rox Manor, with its bay window, authentic pub seats, brass railed bar, and huge array of trophies mounted all over the two-story walls. The Red Queen and one of Gemma's original (pre Gunn & Moore) cricket bats with G-Force spray painted down the side and dark blood staining the tip are mounted like swords behind the bar, above the elegant and dazzling array of liquor. One of the new features is the charred but recognizable black leather of Tantalus' mask, sealed in a block of clear epoxy resin, mounted above the bar where once would have hung a huge tusked elephant head. Affixed to the clear block is the simple brass plaque reading "Paris".
But none of that gets a GLANCE from me, because my eyes are on my friend Reddy, alight and gleaming, and a grin is painted on my face because I know that no matter what - no matter how off-guard I take him, no matter how much casual violence is threatened, no matter what Rowan may have said or done to him in the past - there's no one who can have this match with me except Reddy. No one else I'd trust to keep me safe, no one else to put on the show I wanna put on.
Wrestling is fucking fun, and while it can be easy to forget that when your ex is mangling your pussy in front of your blood-spattered wife, I'm gonna make sure EVERYONE in the O2 Arena remembers how much fun we're supposed to be having.
Gemma approaches, with her sexy lil' business-glasses on, carrying a pair of digital tablets and a clipboard with a hand-scanner attached to it. But my eyes are on Reddy. I grin again, broad and bright, and rock back up to my toes to kiss the tip of his nose.
"Say yes."
-
I am seriously beginning to think this has been one major mistake.
I am dog tired. I think I got conned into overpaying for a cab to get here. And this bag is heavy. I set my carry on bag down and I start my nervous swaying back and forth.
Then the door bursts open.
All I can see is a hand snatching at my shirt.
I get jerked inside and the flurry of motion, sound and sight begins.
Megan is excited about something. The speed at which she is speaking would put John Moschitta to shame. But I doubt Megan is rambling about Micro Machines.
I hear wrassle, O2 and London Supershow.
I probably would have heard more if I was not otherwise occupied avoiding being impacted by billiard balls on a flail.
And of course only Megan would have a billiard ball flail with five balls whose numbers match her hometown zip code.
Yeah I think about that as I see the numbers whizzing by my face as I try to keep from being concussed.
You know how they say Italians talk with their hands, imagine that type of frenetic speech while those hands are holding a deadly weapon.
At this point, I know this is a mistake.
Oh Megan is still talking. Something about fun and clean and no weapons punctuated by a very expensive looking vase (with the ahhhh sound) being nearly pulverized.
And then she wheels around on me.
Gets right in my face.
And right there I remember why I love this mad, insane woman. Passion. A lot of people will say that passion burns hot and fades. Not with Megan. She loves completely, without reservation. She is loyal and loving and caring. I look at her now, her nose booping mine and I see that same woman who understands the joy of scattered, smothered and covered while driving those long Carolina backroads.
I honestly thought Paris would have crushed that out of her. I underestimated her. She is still that excitable Megan. And what can you do? Wait she wants me to wrestle her?
I am trying to process all this when Gemma arrives. All business. If I had her as a manager for my career, I would be able to afford a place like this. And she has tablets and a clipboard. I thought I would surprise them but man did I fall into a trap. Of course Gemma would go along with this. Superman has kryptonite. Gemma has Megan.
There are so many reasons to say no to this. Her knee got severely fucked up. The brace she wears now looks like construction equipment. She could step wrong or slip or one of a thousand different things could go wrong.
And just as I am about to list all the reasons why I am saying no, she gives me that smile again.
Kisses my nose.
And I.....
Yes
-
"FUCK YEAH!"
I pounce on Reddy, snaring him in a hug so god-damn tight that it'd qualify as assault in most countries. I know Bayley thinks she's a hugger, but I'd crush that happy bitch into a bag of powdered ribs and squashed tits with the relentless force of my joy. I'm such a hugger that bears are scared. I hug so intensely that I'm sponsored by Apeiro Meditech, and I'll save you the Google search to explain that joke - they make Judet screw-plates that are used to surgically repair fractured ribs. I once hugged a bag of charcoal and ended up with bunch of diamonds. But I don't kill Reddy with my love. I need him alive so we can wrestle at the O2 Arena. Also he's like one of my best friends. So I hug him JUST hard enough to cause a little thoracic splintering and make it clear just how much I love him.
I peel myself off when Gemma clears her throat, bouncing on my toes. Considering we were lounging around the house, we're both looking fairly respectable; Gemma's in her business attire since she was dressed up for an early morning Skype meeting, with a blouse showing just enough cleavage to draw the eye and slacks that cling to her ass just distractingly enough to draw my grabby hands after her whenever she walks by, opening and closing like hungry Missus Pac-Mans. I'm wearing my Human Trigger Warning shirt (a fresh one - it hasn't been cut up for the ring or bled on by anyone yet), shiny workout shorts, my shiny black Donjoy kneebrace with thigh and calf mounts and a custom skull engraving, and a megawatt grin. We're both dressed better than Red, but that's because Red dresses like he's on his way to a flea market dressed in clothes he bought at a slightly worse flea market. Especially that fucking t-shirt.
Still, though. So fucking happy.
Gemma politely snatches Red by the shirt, figuring that's the correct way to drag him around since that's how I hauled him into the house. She drags him over to the bar, and leans up on the brass rail. My wife looks so damn natural at the bar. Sometimes I think she should own a pub, but then we probably wouldn't have met. Have I told you guys about the first time we met, Gemma and I? I mean, I did during the account of my match with Rowan in Paris, but I dunno if all of you had enough vacation time to take off work and finish that story yet. Anyway, Gems was already an established and SUPER-hot wrestler when I was coming up through my training in Portland, Puerto Rico and Japan, and one of my first big appearances was jumping her from the crowd and laying her out with a cradle piledriver in the aisle. It was such a fucking meet-cute. No wonder she loves me so much.
Gemma goes over the details; the O2 Arena show is being put on by a consortium of interested parties, including Jim Smallman, Mark Dallas, Saraya Knight and Marty Jones, represented as a temporary trust and you know what who the fuck cares about THAT bullshit but the IMPORTANT bits are the ones where she shows Reddy where to sign because Gemma is generally as clever as fuck (regardless of what Callista Quinn argues to the contrary) and her contract to appear at the supershow includes riders giving her partial creative control and contractual preference for booking.
Basically my wifey gets to tell those fuckers who else gets to appear on the card, and fuck those chumps if they wanna get the fucking Bucks or something. I mean, I'm actually pretty sure the Bucks are gonna be there and they'd be stupid NOT to put them on the card but WHATEVER, I'M FORMALLY AND OFFICIALLY SAYING THAT MY MATCH AGAINST RED IS GONNA BE BETTER THAN ANYTHING THOSE SUPERKICK PARTYING TOO-SWEETING GLIB FUCKERS COULD PUT ON. DON'T LIKE IT, BUCKS? COME AT ME, BROS.
Wait, telling the Young Bucks to come at me sounds kinda like the start of a porno. Although they'd be more likely to come at Gemma, since she's into that kinda thing.
... I'll tell Gems to get the legal rights to that particular IP.
ANYWAY.
Gemma walks Red through the basics and gets him to put his thumb down here and there and sign here and there and then they get everything finished as I'm bouncing on my toes, pacing eagerly back and forth, shadowboxing and already imagining the kind fo match me and Reddy can put on. Sure, there's some limitations - I can't go SUPER fast right now with the scar on the back of my knee so fresh, and until the grafted ACL gets more integrated I can't risk stretching it too far, which means no leglocks and no superkicks and no springboarding (which I'm kinda getting away from at this point in my career anyway. I had my time flying around like a fucking lunatic. Now I prefer to go at people full speed at ground level). But we can still do a LOT to entertain these fuckers. We can make them have just as much fun as we will.
And you and me, Reddy? We're gonna have some fucking fun.
Shit! I need to get dressed! We're gonna have to do a ROAD TRIP. No time to hang out here at Rox Manor! I've been hanging out at home for fucking months.
Reddy's just wrapping up, getting everything signed, sealed and digitally transmitted. He looks like he's just realizing he left his stuff on the front step when I invited him in. Fortunately, just then Killingsworth, our darling butler shows up, carrying Red's bag! He's such a dear old man, with his high domed forehead seamed with deep wrinkles and crinkly dark ancient eyes and sunken cheeks and oddly sharp teeth, and he has a delightful way of moving so silently you never even know he's there.
He sidles right up behind Red like a proper gentleman's gentleman, ready to give Reddy his bag.
-
Even as the words come out of my mouth, I'm starting to have second thoughts.
Arms like steel cables wrap around me and I can feel my vertebrae realigning and popping and crackling in place. Megan is happy. Happiest I've seen her in some time. No way in hell I'm taking that away from her. We'll figure it out. I'll keep her safe.
And Gemma clears her throat, almost like she's reading my mind and saying "Damn right you will pickle, or I will cave in your skull."
My eyes wander. I admit it. How could they not? Gemma's dressed in her best negotiating wear. She's got an amazing body and she knows how to use it to her advantage. And how she has those slacks hug her cheeks just so while still looking professional, it's just fashion magic I tell you. She's kinda looking at me sideways and I realize this is the first time she's seen me in my comfort gear.
Callista, love her to death, was a fun boss in Countdown. Except the fact she made me wear suits. I understood the idea. I just kinda felt as out of place as Arn probably felt dressing up with the Horsemen. And if I'm on a plane, damn right I'm gonna feel comfortable physically even if I'm not comfie emotionally. I've had these particular set of loose fitting, Wrangler knock offs for close to 30 years now. Mom always did like going to flea markets for what she called "dungarees."
That kinda sums me up too. When I find something comfortable, something that just feels right, I go with it. My friendship with Megan is a lot like that. Sure she's loud, brash, drinks a little more than I'd like and all that, but she's a steady hand and always fun to just hang with. The thing with Megan is there is no guesswork involved. You always know exactly where you stand with her. That foundation of trust means a lot, especially in this crazy universe in which we inhabit where people will trash you or stab you in the back or treat you badly at the drop of a hat.
Now don't get me wrong, she loves shenaxxxxns too. Like that one time in Augusta when she made a new friend and brought her to the room we were sharing. I learned a few things that night. Cheap hotel bathtubs aren't comfortable to sleep in. Megan is loud at pretty much everything. And don't ever fall asleep while she's still drunk and awake or you'll get nicely decorated finger and toe nails.
And as this little tasmanian devilish ball of fun and fury disengages herself from me, Gemma snags my shirt and leads me to the bar. What do these two have against this shirt? I figured Gemma at least would be into GothPrincesses. I dunno. Next time I'll just wear my Scurll Villain Club shirt.
Then we have the Gemma Rox version of the Genie contract scene from Aladdin. Have you ever heard Gemma's voice? Holy crap on a cracker. She could recite the tax code of any country and make it sound erotic. When she's in business mode it's not a flirtatious as when she's plastered, but damn it still holds your attention. Gems and I don't get to hang out near as much as I'd like. She's got her fingers in so many pies (figurative business pies people, not what the Rock calls pie..sheesh) it's amazing she has any time for herself. But still as she's giving me the legal run down for how this whole thing can go and is working I just feel that stupid grin come on my face. The one I get before I say something really stupidly obvious and all.
"Gawd Gemma you're just so fucking beautiful this morning."
And yeah, that stopped things for two seconds as she just kinda smirked and went on. I know she has all the business stuff worked out so I really am not paying too much attention because I trust her. I just love hearing her voice, that accent and inflection. And remembering times when the words being said were quite a bit different. Of course when she mentioned the pay and the zeroes for that, my reaction was erudite and eloquent.
"Whaaaaaaaat?"
Let's just say it was a number that would let me not wrestle for half the year and still be ok.
"Well that's not just the appearance fee but also the merch sales, the meet and greet beforehand and..."
And holy shit.
Holy Shit.
HOLY SHIT.
I'm actually doing this.
I'm in a bit of a daze when I do the thumbprint thing. My handwriting for my signature is mostly a hazy, almost scratchy kinda calligraphy. I'm kinda out of it and I think I might need some gum. Shit, left that in my carry on bag. My bag is still at the front door.
Your baaag, sirrrrr
I don't like being snuck up from behind. I hate it. I blame my dad for that. He was a Marine and did time as an MP and a tour of Vietnam and after retirement did security. He never never liked sitting with his back exposed. He always found the spot in the restaurant where he could put his back to the wall and look outward. He instilled that in me as well. So when a voice cold as winter and biting as that northern wind that brings lake effect snow down upon you echoes in my ears from behind, my head whips around like it was on a swivel. And when I turn and see Angus Scrimm staring at me with a piercing gaze, holding my heavy bag with just his thumb and forefinger, I do what comes naturally.
"HOLY FUCKING SHIT" I scream out about 2 octaves too high and while in midair leap.
Gemma catches me and cradles me in her arms as I tremble when I ask
"Why is your butler the fucking Tall Man?"
"Red"
"Megan, who the fuck is this?"
She is snickering and about to lose it. Thanks a fucking lot.
"RED!"
"Holy shit holy shit holy shit"
"RED! I CANNOT FUCKING...."
WHOMP
"Stupid bastard, you deserved that"
Gemma held me for as long as she could, but with me quaking in fear and not listening to her, I guess I deserved to be dropped to the floor a a dumbass sack of potatoes. The Tall Man (I don't care what his actual name is ..Killingsworth? Seriously? How is he not a serial killer?) looks down on me and lets my bag down gently beside me. His nose is turned up and he takes a sanitary wipe out of nowhere and cleans off the thumb and forefinger he was using to hold my bag. I scramble up to my feet, watching to see if he was going to unleash any of his silvery balls of death towards me. He ignored me and looked at Gemma. "If that is all miss."
I swear, that motherfucker is a ghost he moved so silently.
She dismisses him and rubs her arms a bit before grabbing a drink for herself. Megan is just holding her ribs and cackling like bad Halloween toy.
"That was...*snerk*...oh..that was...*snerk* like Velma and Shaggy...OH MY GOD I AM DYING"
I wanna just hide now when another thought occurs to me.
"Hey when are we going to head over to London? Now or tonight?"
I look at Megan and she's still in her tee shirt and cotton shorts with her hair down. She looks like she's finally recovering from laughing.
I look at Gemma for a moment and she just points back at Megan.
I look back and Megan's at the lounge doorway, clothes changed, wearing sunglasses and her gear bag in her hand.
"She's been dying to do this since before you showed up."
I look back at Gemma, then Megan, then Gemma, then Megan.
"Reddy, will you stop practicing for Wimbledon and come on! I got plans!"
And it's at this point I turn and look at you, dear reader,
Yes, this is gonna be a wild ride. So, buckle up.
*wink*
-
I start walking, and Reddy moves to catch up because he knows that once I get going nothing tends to stop me. I'm a real juggernaut of a bitch. I talk as we walk through Rox Manor's lovely breakfast room back towards the front hall.
"So here's the deal, Reddy." I'm dressed to travel, in my Wayfarers with the neon green frames and my lucky Nevermind the Bollocks shirt and my big bomber jacket with the zillion buttons and pins, my black Wranglers with the leather knee patches, and my Wolverines. My boots are the best there is at what they do, and that's be warm and comfortable for road trips while still being able to kick someone's head in if I need to.
Some people might wonder how I got dressed so fast. Those people haven't tried being stuck at home for weeks with nothing to entertain you but a physical therapist who seems to intensely hate you and a wife you want very badly to beat up but can't because of your stupid knee. I am READY to get the fuck out of the house.
"We've got like ... two weeks before the Supershow. Setup starts two days before. I wanna get to London and take some time to fuckin' PRACTICE. I gotta get in the RING again, and not my home ring, because I fuckin' know that one too well. I need a NEW ring. MAMA'S HUNGRY FOR SOME STRANGE, BABY."
"WHAT?!" I hear Gemma's voice down the hall in a tone of dulcet rage. In addition to having excellent hearing, my wife has a voice like cannonfire. Since I also have an artillery yell, we end up communicating this way quite a bit, echoing through the vaulted halls across the old manor.
"I MEAN STRANGE WRESTLING RINGS NOT STRANGE cxntS."
"OH THAT'S FINE, THEN. IF YOU DO FUCK A STRANGE cxnt JUST MAKE SURE TO SEND ME A PICTURE."
"I KNOW THE RULE, BABY. LOVE YA!"
"LOVE YOU, PICKLE! RED, IF YOU HURT HER EVEN SLIGHTLY, I WILL HAVE YOU KILLED SLOWLY AND BURIED IN A FUCKING POTTER'S FIELD!"
I grin at Reddy, who's cradling his ears and blinking like someone who was just standing too close to a bomb test. He seems slightly worried about the ominous death threat.
"Don't worry, Reddy, she wouldn't really kill you."
"Oh goo-"
I nod happily. "She'd just have Killingsworth do it."
Red's face pales beautifully.
"You know he's NEVER been caught?"
Red's lips are moving like a fish out of water that's terrified of a movie monster.
I grin broadly as a Cheshire cat. Reddy'll probably figure out I'm kidding. Unless I'm not. Honestly, neither Gemma nor I know WHAT Killingsworth gets up to on his days off, although he does seem to have an interest in contact juggling.
"C'mon. We're gonna take a road trip! JUST LIKE OLD TIMES!"
I kick the door open and because Gemma had several minutes to plan this and is extremely well-connected and because we're in a comedy story and not a super serious one, Jeremy Clarkson pulls up in a white-as-fucking-cocaine Lexus LFA, grumbling as he unfolds his huge Frankenstein's monster frame from the elegant 2-seat racer with an actual boot you can use.
"This car costs over 350,000 pounds, and I am giving it to YOU, Dow? The one time we tried to have you on Top Gear, you piledrove the Stig into the hood of a bloody Ariel Atom. Tell Gemma she owes me more than a damn favor for th-" he begins in his grumbly presenter's growl. I flap a dismissive hand back at the house as I hoist my bag into the extremely elegant trunk.
"She's inside, done with appointments for the day, bored as fuck, and we haven't gotten to fuckin' wrestle in months. If your giant old ass can fuckin' manage to get her in a Boston crab ..."
And he's gone, leaving just a tall jingoistic dust cloud.
"Quicker'n he looks."
"Well, he's not Captain Slow."
I laugh, and Red hands me his bag - and then bolts for the car!
"I CALL DRIVER!" he bellows, lunging into the seat ... on the LEFT side.
I patiently pad around to the right side, and slide in, where Clarkson has left the keys in the ignition.
"Wrong side, yank." I grin at Reddy as he blinks at me and then glares.
"You've gone native, Megan. That's disgusting. I'm gonna have to reclaim your John Denver records."
"HA! DREAM ON, MASKED MAN. What do you think this iPod is full of?"
I plug it into the incredibly elaborate sound system, crank the Morel Supremo speakers up to ear-bleeding, and cue up "Thank God I'm A Country Boy".
"SING IT WITH ME, REDDY. WE'RE HEADED TO FUCKIN' LONDON."
And I floor it. This'll be a good warm-up for my knee. The Lexus LFA roars like a werewolf that's stepped in a gin trap, and LEAPS up the drive of Rox Manor - leaving behind the sound of my wife throwing famed presenter Jeremy Clarkson headfirst through a window - and onto the Welsh roads, heading towards London.
Or, like, somewhere. I didn't exactly look up directions first.
-
In a car hitting the road with Megan. The car is a bit nicer than it used to be, but hearing John Denver blaring does tend to take me back.
In my career of taking on trainees and road buddies, I've only ever picked up people at the airport twice. I don't like going to airports to begin with, and I really don't like meeting people there. Airports don't react well to people wearing masks. Well except in Mexico. I've done some tours in Mexico where I've never had to take my mask off in public at all. Of course wrestling is part of the culture there not like it is here. I admit, I did learn respect for the mask from Hector Guerrero during one of his JCP runs. Even if the gimmick was dorky, you respected the mask. That's served me well.
And if it weren't Scotty asking me to help this woman out, I wouldn't be here at the airport fully dressed, but feeling completely naked without my mask on. I'm sure I looked to some like a guy jonesing for a cigarette. In fact, come to think of it, I was wearing very nearly this same outfit. Same Clemson hat but in better shape, same bluer then jeans, same Chucks and same aviator shades. The shirt I picked out was to help the person feel comfortable with me. Since she was from Portland and into wrestling, I figured there was only one shirt to wear. I had on a classic white t-shirt with red collar and bands at the arms emblazoned with the words "HOT ROD!" When I was a kid and saw Rowdy Roddy on my screen I knew I wanted to be him. Brash, cocky, yelling at the announcers and fully confident in his abilities, I was none of those things.
But wrestling, wrestling gave me something to latch onto. Here were heroes and villains in the flesh and not just in the comic books and fantasy tales I loved so much. Good guys upheld the cause, bad guys cheated. It was high drama with a physical form.
And now here I was in an airport doing a favor for a guy who helped me out when I was getting started. Passing on knowledge to a younger generation. Scotty told me this woman was different. When Raven, the master of puppets punk lord of ECW tells you someone is different, your imagination runs wild. What he didn't tell me, the bastard, was how beautiful she was.
I could see a faint hint of purple bopping up from the baggage claim area, so I grabbed the sign that had "Megan Dow" written on it and held it up. I saw here long before she saw me and I could see what Scotty meant and then some.
She moved like a fighter. Her head was on a swivel and she looked back and forth like a predator dropped down in an unfamiliar territory. I'd worked security with my dad and his MP training so I recognized the look of someone checking out a place for exits and for possible trouble. I've done it myself on occasion. She definitely dressed differently. Some band I can't remember on a black shirt, those black combat looking boots. Short black shorts that were high enough you could see how strong her legs were and how they contrasted pale to the black clothes she wore. I noticed right away, even as tough as she looked, she was pretty.
But then she turned her head towards me, purple hair swirling in slow motion (I swear) and those intense eyes of hers saw my sign. She went from on guard to recognition in a heartbeat and her eyes moved to meet mine and she smiled.
This wasn't one of those fake plastic smiles or a smile of relief or anything like that. Knowing her now I realize it was a "finally I'm hitting the next stage on my wrestling journey and I'm so happy my heart is gonna burst outta my chest like an Alien" kinda smile.
It was stunning. That was the first time I saw that passion of hers. It was so intense and beautiful I went into awkward nerd mode. I stiffened up and man was I glad I was wearing those aviators. I'm pretty sure I was blushing the color of my hair. Then she got close enough to speak.
"HiI'mMeganandyoumustbeRedScottytoldmeyoucouldteachmealotandI'mreadytolearnIhavemygearsoI'mreadytohittheringorIcanhelpsetuparingordoconcessionsalthoughIreallylikebeersomaybeIshouldn'tbesellingbeerbutIcansellotherstuffortaketicketsorwhateverIjustcan'tbelieveI'mintheSouthwhereRoddyhadsomebigrunsbeforehewenttotheWWEand---"
And I pushed the sign with her name on it right on her face. She kept going for a few seconds so I waited for a ten count before removing it. I was trying to keep a straight face but she had that look on her face with her big doe eyes like she was about to burst waiting and wanting to talk even more. After a while you got used to it and it never ever stopped being completely adorable. So I couldn't help but feel a big goofy grin spread on my face before I began to speak.
You can call me Red. I'm not your trainer or your mentor or your sensei. I'm your road buddy. Scotty wanted me to teach you what it meant to travel some of the toughest roads you've ever been down. The folks around here are old school carny so you can't trust anyone. Always count your money. Don't be afraid to stick up for yourself. But always always be respectful to the vets. If you don't know how to act in a situation, follow my lead.
These are some choppy waters, but you'll learn to swim in no time. And the fans? They may be a little behind in the times, but make no mistake, you show your skill in the ring and they'll respect you. Any questions?
To her credit, I knew she was bursting with more, but she kept quiet and just nodded her head. Respect the vets. She was a quick learner. That earned her a hand on her head and a quick ruffle. I don't know why I did it, it just felt right. And now, even years later I find myself reaching over and putting my hand on her head and ruffling her hair. She gets a funny smile and all she says for now is..
"I know Reddy. I missed this too."
I lean back and look and see some of the road signs. "Megs, you sure we're goin the right way?"
-
I drive the same way I talk, drink, get into fights, and get chicks into bed.
Fast, hard, and reckless without really paying a lot of attention to rules, traditions, or the presence of police chasing me.
And I especially don't read signs. Signs are mostly liars.
"Of COURSE we're goin' the right way," I assured Reddy. I had no idea where which we direction we were going presently. I swung around a roundabout twice and shot off down an arbitrarily picked sidestreet past a bleating Fiesta. "I've been livin' here for years." That was true. "I know EVERY fuckin' highway and byway." I either had Gemma's driver take me places while I was drinking and reading Palhaniuk in the backseat or I took the train. "I made this trip just like two days ago." I had not been to London in months. "We just stay on here, take a left, then a right, get on the M5," I had heard that name on TV and it was in a Douglas Adams book but I had no idea where left or right might take us, "and Bob's your uncle." My uncle's name was Kyrylo, and he lived in Zaporizhzhia and sold Soviet surplus grenades. I had no fucking idea who Bob was.
I grinned at Reddy, big and bright, arching my eyebrows above my Wayfarers. I'd had this same pair for like 12 years, come to think of it. Shoplifted on Wilshire Boulevard during ANOTHER road trip. I didn't have them back when I rode with Reddy for the first time, though. Getting my hair ruffled took me right back there. It was - like 2005? I had finished training in Portland, done a few months learning how to bleed with the IWA, and done my time scrubbing floors and toting water with Michinoku Pro. This was my first real RUN. This was me, out on my fucking own, pushed out of the nest (by a Raven, hah!) and on the fucking road with a genuine veteran. A veteran with hair like a glorious flock of cardinals - yes, I had that thought like 12 years ago, so Sadie totally ripped me off - and jeans that looked almost ragged enough that I'D wear them. I liked Reddy right off. It was something in his eyes, something I could see even behind the license-and-registration glasses. A lot of wrestlers I'd met in a few short years had eyes that were disquieting in one way or another; rheumy and bitter, or constantly angry, or narrowed in suspicion while they protected their spot, or glassy with drugs. But Reddy's eyes just sparkled. They were intelligent, and kind, and warm. It was the first time in a long time I felt like an older wrestler was happy to see me. Also he had the nicest eyes I'd noticed on a boy in quite some time.
I liked pretty much everything about arriving at that airport, except when we left the nice air conditioning and that smell of brushed metal, antiseptic, burnt coffee and Cinnabons that clung to every single airport in the fucking world - and suddenly it was the fucking South outside.
"So I just wanna say-" I was still crazy excited, but I'd manage to find my spacebar again, "- that I will absolutely fuckin' work harder than anyone you've ever m-OH HOLY FUCKING CHRIST ON A DRILL RIG!" I'd gasped as the humid sun-drenched heat and torpid harbor air slapped me in the face like a steamed towel. "Dear gods, it's even hotter than San fucking Juan!"
Puerto Rico was in the god-damn tropics, but it was also leeward of the Gulf Stream, and ocean breezes washed over the whole island. This place was not getting ocean breezes until after they'd slowly rolled over all of Charleston Harbor and a blackwater swamp and gotten REAL warm. This place tasted like lowland rivers and plug mud.
Red just smiled.
"Damn yankees," he said, in a kindly sorta way. "Close your eyes, count to 30, and breathe slow while you do. Then take a BIG breath."
I didn't want to breathe slow. I felt like I had my face pushed into low tide and everything was wet - but he was the vet. So I closed my eyes and let myself count to 30. I forced myself to be still, not to drum my fingers or bounce on my heels or do anything but breathe. Just breathe. It was one thing I could do, one way I could always center myself. Breathe.
And breath by breath, it was easier.
And at 30, I took a BIG breath.
But the air smelled - so DIFFERENT.
I'd been around a bit by now. Gotten out to Philly a few times, been to New York once or twice, made it as far Chicago ... but I'd never really been down South. In later years, I'd come to love a lot of the cities down there. I'd do runs in Texas, in Memphis, on the Florida circuit. I'd practically live in New Orleans for a while. But nothing ever hit me like Charleston did.
Brine and sun-warmed brick, tangy and earthy. The low dark sulfur funk of the swamps. The roil of the rivers and hints of fish. The burnt corn fertilizer smell that I'd later learn was a paper mill. And more; the whore's perfume of jasmine and the church lady scent of gardenias, the sweet tease of roses. The crispy flaring sizzle of fried chicken and the nose-twitching sweet burn of barbecue.
"Oh FUCK I'm so hungry!"
My eyes popped open, wide and alert. I bounded towards Red and resisted grabbing him by the shoulders just barely, hands twitching with the effort NOT to seize him and communicate my sudden urgency as I bounced on the toes of my surplus combat boots. "I HAD NOTHING TO EAT BUT PEANUTS."
Red laughed, but gently, and started walking. I padded along after him. "Didn't you get a burger or something in Portland?"
I shook my head. "When I got back from Japan I barely had any money 'cuz young-girls are mostly paid in like really stiff slaps, I guess? So Raven bought me the ticket here but that's like all I had. So it was peanuts for me. Y'know eventually they cut ya off?" I patted my bag, which crinkled, stuffed full of foil packets. "But I'm HUNGRY."
"Then it's time you learned, kid."
My eyebrows went up and I grinned. "If you're gonna show me parking lot suplexes, lemme get my hair up."
Red chuckled again.
"No. Time you learned the way ... the way of the Waffle House."
"... the what the fuck now?"
I'd learned, though. OH, how I learned. In fact, as we ripped the Lexus at a roaring dragon's pace through Pontyclun, apparently on our way to Llantrisant (whenever I went driving in Wales I felt like I was hauling ass through a sword-and-sorcery novel), I had one great regret I had to share with my Reddy as John Denver thanked the good Lord for cakes on the griddle. "Ain't no Waffle Houses in this joint, Reddy." I grinned at him, tilting my head down to look at him over my Wayfarers like fuckin' Ferris Bueller. In doing so, I looked really cool and also ran a Mini off the road, driver honking furiously as he plowed into a cowfence.
"But you're gonna fuckin' LOVE Nando's."
"Yeah? Let's go! I haven't had anything eat but peanuts!"
I laughed so hard I almost ran into the guardhouse outside the Royal Mint. Which is in Llantrisant. A lot of people don't know that.
-
She did haveta mention Waffle House. Now of course my tastebuds buzzed of sweet maple syrup mixed with the butter that wasn't really butter but fuck it, it was creamy and smooth. Then a dash of potatoes only slightly burnt, some of that melted pasteurized American cheese and the tang of some quality ketchup. FUCK I'm so hungry now. I bet this is how she felt that day at the airport.
I had to give her credit, she was adjusting to the humid heat fire of weather we had down here in the Lowcountry just fine. People joke about "dry heat" and whatnot. I don't care what folks in Arizona say, humidity is what kills you when it gets hot. If you've never experienced it, lemme describe it for you. First, it's hot. Then due to physics the water vapor level in the air is able to contain more water when it gets hotter. I think I'm explaining it correctly. Anyways, when the humidity gets high, your ability to cool your body via sweat is reduced. Because the air is saturated with water vapor already, your sweat can't evaporate. So you get all sweaty and still hot as hell. Plus when you breathe in high humidity hot air, it feels like you're inhaling lava mist and burns your lungs. Suffice to say, heat in Charleston is nooooo picnic.
So we made it through the parking lot to my vehicle. I wasn't sure how she'd react. It'd been a while since I did that stint in the Pacific Northwest, but a lot of the outlying areas felt like some of the small towns in the Carolinas. There are values such as decency and politeness that know no geographical restrictions. And I've found that wrestling fans for the most part tend to be some of the nicest people you'll ever meet regardless of location. Anyways we got to my truck.
Like most things I had at this time, my truck was a hand me down from my dad. a 1980s issue fire engine red Ford truck with a white cab. It had one of those sliding windows in the back of the cab mostly so my dad or I could talk to whomever was riding in the truck bed back when that wasn't illegal. It also had one of those rather large and thick CB antennas complete with tennis ball shoved down the shaft. The now sun bleached grey tennis ball was set so that it would hit the top of the tailgate so that the antenna wouldn't whip crack against it and snap in half. We were Macguyvering things in the South before there was a Macguyver.
It was probably 20 years past her prime, but she kept running and was cheap to maintain. I looked over at Megan to see how she'd react.
"Fuckin' A! Can I ride in the back!?!" she asked after tossing her bag into the truckbed.
"Later, once we're out of the city. There's too much stop and go here, you'll burn up."
She scooted her merry self over to the passenger side and hopped in like a pro. Yeah I was gonna like this one. I can see why Scotty sent her to me.
I opened my door and on my seat was my mask. I had planned once we got back out to the parking lot to take a moment and put it back on. Preserve my identity you know. Keep the tradition going. But then I looked over at my passenger seat and there's this girl in black with purple hair bouncing up and down on the seat while the springs creaked, checking out my glove compartment, ("What the fuck!?! Are these actual 8 Tracks? ") and just being a ball full of chaos. At that point in my life, my wrestling career wasn't going very far. I pretty much went from indy to indy. I wasn't big enough for WWE then but I did have a bunch of fans who liked seeing me when I traveled. It wasn't very amazing or profitable, but it was what it was. Seeing this girl all giddy in my truck reminded me of what made me fall in love with wrestling to begin with. Wrestling is Fun. Belief is Suspended, heroes fight villains, the day is saved. All that corny stuff. It's like traveling theater where the stunts are done by the actors themselves and the dialogue is much more physical.
I don't know why exactly I decided to do what I did next, but it just felt right. I don't think she even realized the importance of what I was doing. I grabbed my mask and reached over and put it in the glove compartment. "Pick us out an 8 track." I took my shades off and hung them on the front of my shirt. It was around dusk now and I couldn't drive with the shades on. I looked over at Megan for the first time with my naked brown eyes and smiled as I saw her carefully consider which of my selections to choose.
"Not this one. Elvis? Maybe later. Glen Campbell? Kenny Rogers? Oh wait! Here we go!"
She grinned and handed me over the track and I popped it in, fired up the truck and off we went to the Waffle House.
Almost heaven, West Virginia
Blue ridge mountains, Shenandoah river
Life is old there, older than the trees
Younger than the mountains, blowing like a breeze
Country roads, take me home
To the place I belong
West Virginia
Mountain mamma, take me home
Country roads
A short time later, we pulled into the Waffle House and her eyes lit up again. It's a rather spartan style diner, but this one did have a jukebox which she ran over to check out.
"Hey Red, back again? Want your usual?"
Yeah I've had plenty of meals in that Waffle House over time. Once a month back in those days. I always tip nicely too so they remember me. Of course none of them knew what I did for a living. And come to think of it, this was the first time I brought anyone with me. I finally tore Megan away from the jukebox.
"Fuck I can't believe there's twenty songs about fucking Waffles."
"Rule number one for being in public, try and curb the cussing. Especially the f-bomb."
"Oh shit. Sorry Red.
And the look on her face was just adorable, like I'd popped he hand for trying to steal a cookie.
"I went ahead and ordered for you. Hope you don't mind."
And like Magic, Tracy was there with both meals. The All-Star Burger with a hashbrown covered and a waffle. She was hungry, that's for damn sure. She attacked the food like she was scared if she didn't finish it fast enough I was gonna take it from her. I remembered those early, starving days. I was glad I was in a position now to help someone else try and live their dream. When she finally got done and went to down her tea, I just had to laugh again."
"We like our tea on the sweet side around here."
"Sweet? Hell this'll give you diabetes!"
"So what do you think of Waffle House?"
"Oh gods, this is fu--..this is like heaven."
I grinned. Yeah I was gonna enjoy spending time with this girl. I can tell she's good people. I just wondered how much I could mess with her though.
"Just wait till I show you Vietnam."
-
We burned through Llantrisant, leaving a scatter of furiously shouting Royal Mint guards and a couple of terrified pedestrians in our wake with the Lexus LFA roaring like a wolf unchained, and shot along the road we were currently on since it seemed like as good a one as any. We powered our way on through more of what I assumed was probably still Wales. It's kind of hard to tell Wales from the rest of the United Kingdom, if you ask me, but Gemma always assures me it's TOTALLY different. I dunno. It's green, at least. Almost everywhere, really, at least until you get pretty far north or into one of the cities. So that's good. We get lots of scenery to whiz by the windows in a pleasant blur of green and Keep Left signs and roundabouts and startled pedestrians and comically whistle-blowing bobbies as Reddy and I blabber our way through the United Kingdom. After an hour I'm reasonably sure we're no longer headed precisely towards London since signs directing you towards London start to crop up like signs for fucking Wall Drug in the Dakotas or Stuckey's anywhere from Iowa to Alabama. London defines the United Kingdom like a heavy steel ball defines the shape of a stretched rubber sheet, drawing everything towards it. So we weren't headed TOWARDS it at this point.
But y'know what? That was fuckin' fine. I liked riding with Reddy. When we were on the road in the old days, we were always going somewhere, but Reddy was a master at leaving early enough that we had time to roam around a little. We'd be headed for the VFW Hall in Macon, but he'd make sure we got a chance to see the World's Largest Peanut in Ashburn first and take a picture of me pretending to hump it. The ol' red truck would be plowin' for the fuckin' Dorton Arena in Raleigh but Reddy would make sure we had enough time on the schedule to swing by the Shangri-La Stone Village in Prospect Hill and pretend we were giant monsters stomping over the tiny stone buildings. It was a good god-damn time. One of the best times, ever.
And day by day Reddy and I found out that despite the incredible unlikeliness of the thing, it had happened: an older Deep South grappler famous for a mask and a rough attitude with a noble streak as wide as Route 1 that had stopped him from making the big time, and a purple-haired and tattooed and pierced riot grrl from Stumptown with a self-destructive urge that was only held at bay by her constant need to fight had ended up stickin' together, like good waffles do. I'd have friends I treasured forever, some of whom were also my enemies; I'd have lovers, who'd occasionally betray me; I'd eventually fall in love for real and find out I could be fucking happy. But Reddy? Reddy's my god-damn best friend.
AND I WANNA GET MY BEST FRIEND SOME FUCKIN' NANDO'S.
So fuck London! For now! I mean eventually we'll have to get there because that's where the O2 Arena is, but we've got a week to get there and the whole fucking United Kingdom is about the size of Alabama, and we crisscrossed that state twice in one day in that damn truck once, going to the Mobile Civic Center, then back to Mike Goggans Junk Creatures featuring Junkasaurus Wrecks in Fort Payne where I'd left my fuckin' duct-tape wallet (I spent part of my payday from a show in Tuscaloosa getting a sweet-ass Junkasaurus Wrecks shirt), then back to Mobile.
I screeched to a halt midway through a relatively empty roundabout (someone cue Yes, please) to accost a pedestrian by leaning out the window to shout at them in a friendly way. Most of my shouts are friendly. People don't realize that.
"HEY, DO YOU KNOW WHICH WAY IS FUCKIN' NANDO'S?"
"Megan, we can just use your phone."
"IT'S IN MY BAG AN' I AIN'T EVEN ABOUT UNPACKIN' IT."
"Why isn't it somewhere you can r-"
"I PACKED THAT BAG IN TWO SECONDS, REDDY, GIMME A FUCKIN' BREAK. ANYWAY," I turned my attention back to the helpful Welshman peering attentively at the expensive white Lexus with the purple haired woman in big sunglasses leaning out the window. "NANDO'S?"
"Rwy'n siarad Cymraeg am effaith gomig," he replied.
"RIGHT."
"Nid oes unrhyw un o'r deialog hon yn ddefnyddiol."
"GO ON."
"Os bydd unrhyw un yn poeni cyfieithu hyn, byddant yn siomedig."
"GOT IT. THANKS, MATE."
I sped off and shot to the right, roaring down a road towards Trebanog, apparently.
"So where are we going?" Reddy asked, scrolling the wheel of my modded iPod Classic through my friggin' terabyte of road music.
I snerked.
"Pfft. Fuck if I know. Ya think I speak fuckin' Welsh?"
-
I can't remember what city we were in in Wales, just that it had a lot of consonants that I'm not used to seeing put together and very few vowels. Considering Megan's Ukranian heritage, I could see how she felt comfortable here. First time we hit a roundabout I started thinking to myself "Look kids, Big Ben...Parliament..." for a chuckle.
But you know what, as lost as I knew we were. I didn't care. Honestly I figure this was her way of getting me back for all the short stories and side trips I took her on whenever we got together to tour the South. I knew she was gonna enjoy it when I took her to Prospect Hill and she lost it when I did my Godzilla impersonation (complete with aping the badly dubbed bystanders) in the Stone Village there.
Probably the best moment though started when I took her to Vietnam. No, not actual Vietnam and no not a community in a big city thing. One little tidbit that people don't realize about South Carolina is that it has a wide variety of climates just in one state. You start in the upper left with the mountains, there's foothills, the piedmont, rivers, swamps and coasts just to name some of them. Hollywood in the past has taken to filming parts of movies in SC using the different climates to represent other places. So I got the truck going towards Beaufort County (pronounced Bu-fort) near Charleston and took Megan to Vietnam. Well, the area they used to film the scenes from Vietnam from the movie Forrest Gump. It really is a neat area and being a Cinephile like me, Megan loved the story behind it.
But I didn't stop there. I showed her one big landmark from the movie. I drove her to Plum Hill plantation (which unfortunately is private property now) and showed her Jenny's tree. It was near sundown and we just sat on the hood of my tuck and soaked it in. It's funny, with how technology is nowadays most folks don't stop to just appreciate moments. Too much hustle and bustle, gotta get it here and now. One thing I do love about the Carolinas is how easy the pace is. Megan, for all her amazing energy and chaotic Happy Fun Ball personality also liked to take a moment and just be.
I figured this was the best place, best time to mention the elephant in the room that had been dancing about in my head for the past couple of weeks as I'd gotten to know this crazy, intense, amazing woman. She was sprawled out on the hood of my truck which may not have completely cooled, but she'd never let you know. Her legs dangled over the edge of the hood and those heavy boots of hers beat out a syncopated staccato rhythm that echoed in the field. I reached into the cab of my truck and grabbed a cold beer for her and a Dr. Pepper for me from my cooler.
She looked over at my choice of drink and giggled in that not so serious way of hers.
"Hittin' the hard stuff today Reddy? It's lovely out here."
I popped the top of my Pepper and took a long drag. And then a deep breath
"So, you're into girls?"
Travelling up and down the road does a few things. You end up spending so much time with your travel buddy that you pretty much have no secrets. Or expectation of privacy. You really get to know a person when you spend time riding with them, working out with them and training. Our practices got to be really intense once when she challenged my knowledge of grappling, calling me just a stupid brawler. I showed her some moves I aped from Johnny Saint and that impressed her. So like any normal guy hanging out for a long period of time with a beautiful, wonderful woman, I found myself crushing on her. Of course, being the suave, ultra cool stud I am, I choked it all down and got scared to mention a word. Yeah I was that guy in high school.
But then I did notice how she acted around some of the women wrestlers and how she talked to the guys. It was the South and the Aughts (is that what we're calling it? I'm never sure.) and you didn't see openly what I was seeing. But I wasn't stupid. I can be delusional at times, but not stupid. And as backwoods and behind and ignorant as people make us Southerners out to be, I've found it's more a really loud section that gets the publicity but the ones of us who don't judge like that don't get noticed.
"So...we're having this conversation."
"Yeah, I figured I'd take you to a romantic spot, get you drunk and hand you a note that said Notice me Senpai."
I wasn't looking at her, but I did hear the beer spray out when I said the last part and I have to admit, I cracked a grin myself.
"Dammit Reddy, you know I hate wasting beer. *giggling..then..pausing...taking a deep breath* You know I love ya Reddy. But not like that."
"I know darlin. I know. But that doesn't change how I feel about you. You're probably the best friend I have out here in this crazy universe of wrestling. I know, low bar. But still. I see why Scotty put us together. "
I hopped up on my hood and sat beside her and looked over at the sunset with her and leaned over, putting my cheek on top of her head.
"Just one thing. Can I be Bing Crosby every once in a while? Don't get me wrong, being your wingman is really eye opening for me, but just once I'd like to be leading man and not plucky comic relief."
"Tell ya what Reddy. First time I meet a girl I think lives up to the high standards of being worthy of you, I'll send her to you gift wrapped. After I do some quality control of course. *punches my arm* And there is no way I'm being Bob Hope. If I have to sit through those stupid Road To movies you love so much, I'm gonna be Bing. Besides, I sing a helluva lot better than you."
And that was it. No earth shattering, Scott Summers level angsty extended melodrama about the whole thing. Real life so often is not like the movies. And I honestly think that after we aired out that bit we became better friends for it.
And that's the thing about this whole match that hits me right in the Irony bone. See Megan trusts me to have this match so she can show off in front of the biggest crowd of independent wrestling fans ever just how amazing she is. But she needs someone who can keep her safe. But for me, Megan's always been a safe space. When the pressures of the ring or travel or just, hell, life in general got to be much, she'd notice and do the crazy thing or get really quiet and just listen while I'd rant. A lot of times all I'd need is just for someone to listen. Not try and solve the problem, but just let me talk it out and figure it out in my own head. And as loud and verbose as Megan can be, she's even better at just sitting and listening. And in the fake world that we worked in with people double talking you and going behind your back and putting up fake fronts, I always know where I stand with Megan. I know she cares deeply about me and will walk through hellfire and brimstone by my side if I asked her to. I think I knew it all the way back when we first met, when I decided I didn't need to have my mask on around her. I finally found someone I could just be me with. No expectations, no pretensions. So yeah Megan may be a Human Trigger Warning (tm) but she's also my Human Coat of Warmth.
So after our conversation with the Welshman who was either trying to be helpful or taking the piss out of us being lost, I reflexively grabbed for my phone. But then I looked over and saw the mad grin on Megan's face. Paris took a lot out of her emotionally as well as physically. But right now, she had that same grin on her face that I saw when I first picked her up at the airport. She was enjoying this, hell enjoying life again.
I put my hand back and left my phone where it was. We had plenty of time to get to London. I lately don't have the chance to spend as much time with Megan as I'd want. So I'm just gonna enjoy this for as long as it lasts. Besides....
"Y'know Road To The Nando's would make a great title of a movie."
Snerk "I'm still Bing."
-
So we're on the road to Nando's.
Okay, even though I'm CLEARLY Bing, I'm still not gonna make up any "Road to The Nando's" lyrics because it's gonna come off way too Seth MacFarlane-ish (he's ruined road movie references like he's ruined so many other pop cultural things just by recognizing they exist), and frankly that dude is a super creeper. But if I WAS the type to do that, there'd be a pretty sweet song break right now with refrains and rounds and lots of belting, because this is a pretty god-damn good day to drive. It's not January, because driving in January in Wales would be terrible, and this is our story so it's idealized and the fourth wall is already in fucking rubble. It's spring. No - let's say summer. Summer's a good time for supershows anyway. And since this is, as mentioned, our story so we can set it when we want. It can be fuckin' Christmas in July. But it's fuckin' beautiful, that's the point.
The best way to see Wales is at high speed, rocketing past the windows of an overpriced luxury sports car that you don't own.
I mean, that's the best way to see a LOTTA places, but Wales in particular. Douglas Adams had it right; the best thing to do here is count the stones. At least if you're not married to a hot wrestling queen who spends most of her time naked and challenging you to pin her down. In that one case there's more exciting things to do in Wales than count stones. Also the Eisteddfods are pretty fun. Last year we got tanked on Blorenge Golden and catcalled the Loughiel Folk Dancers until we got tossed out, and then we snuck back in to get bara brith on a stick. But aside from the hot naked wrestling and the super fun festivals and the pretty excellent pub scene and the heartbreakingly beautiful scenery, Wales is all rocks.
I grinned over at Reddy, still getting used to someone sitting on my left when I'm driving. It's a really fucking weird sensation, and I cracked up two Renaults and a Rover SD1 trying to get used to it when I first moved here. But I'm so damn good at it now I can drive in my usual way, with one elbow dangling out the window, fingertips on the wheel at 4 o'clock, and my other hand at around 10:50, since I like to leave a little time free before lunch. Reddy had clicked over to Glenn Campbell's "Galveston" (I still hear your seawaves crashin', while I watch the cannon flashin'!) and I was bopping my fingers to the tune on the Lexus' fancy wheel grip, which is so damn soft and luxurious and British that I think it must be crafted from the tender skin of Irish children. Like most fancy British leather goods. It's tradition.
"AWRIGHT. A few ground rules. A coupla proclamations. Simple things to make sure the road stays steady an' I don't gotta kick your ass with my one good leg before we get to London."
"Seems like risky business to threaten the guy you're demanding keep you safe in the ring," Red chuckled, his big ol' brown eyes twinkling. "But go on."
"No, risky business is me in a button-down an' panties slidin' across the floor in my socks," I grinned back, looking over my neon green Wayfarers at him. I figured that mental image would shut him up properly, and I was satisfied to see his jaw gently unhinge. "Awright, so -"
I brought my knees up to the bottom of the wheel, hissing a little through my teeth as the big ol' Donjoy kneebrace under my black Wrangler jeans with the leather knee patches clunked against the wheel and made my right knee bark at me a bit. But I needed to drive with my knees so I could gesture with both hands, so I sucked it up. Besides, I'm pretty sure this made the road trip count as physical therapy. So I raised my left fist and started counting off points with my right hand, veering with my knees to avoid a bread truck we were about to run into.
"Firstly - if we're gonna talk about chicks, it's limited to either how hot they are or how they wrestle. I don't wanna hear no lonely hearts columns."
I grinned at him, and extended a second finger, tapping the tip of it.
"Unless we're talkin' about Jenny Dare, secondly. I've got plenty of advice about her. Ya goofy lug."
I tapped a third finger, and my face grew a lil' chillier.
"Thirdly. Neither of us knows anyone from Arizona, an' we ain't got anythin' to talk about on the subject of mouthy cxnts with broken backs."
A fourth finger popped and I tapped that one as well, nudging the wheel with my raised and bent legs to keep up with a gentle curve in the road as we shot north, headed through Merthyr Tydfil - famous as the town that sounds like the name of someone who gets killed in three sentences into one of the "A Song of Ice and Fire" books - and into the shockingly pretty emerald sprawl of the Brecon Beacons National Park, a vast swath of rolling green hills and low worn old mountains riddled with shepherd's tracks and cropped by shaggy mountain ponies right out of Tolkien.
"God damn that's fuckin' gorgeous," I murmured poetically. I was nominated for Poet Laureate to the Crown this year. Fingers crossed. I shook my head, clearing it of the majestic verse, and continued.
"Fourthishly, we ain't stoppin' 'til we get to Nando's, so if yer super hungry yer just gonna have to chew the fat with me. An' that includes runnin' outta gas, so time to pray we find it soon. At least Clarkson filled the tank."
Campbell's "Galveston" gave way to Depeche Mode's "World In My Eyes", which led me to believe Reddy had stopped steering the music and let the Shuffle feature take over, since I don't think he'd be able to pick Depeche Mode album out of a jukebox lineup even if he was offered Some Great Reward (god, I'm fucking clever).
I tapped my thumb, all five fingers splayed now.
"An' fifthly, I think we should talk out everything that's wrong with Star Trek Discovery before we get to Wre- Reddy?"
I leaned over and waved a hand in front of his eyes, the car swooshing dangerously across the mountain road.
"... are ya still imaginin' me in my panties doin' a Tom Cruise dance or are ya shell-shocked about me bringing up Jenny?"
A glassy stare.
"Yer imaginin' both of us doing the Tom Cruise dance now, aren't ya."
A faint nod.
"Awright, keep at it 'til the song ends."
Lord knows I'd said THAT often enough, paying my way through Raven's wrestling school with work as a stripper.
-
You know I actually had hoped during this trip that we could make a side stop in Cardiff. I have two big time fandoms in my life. Pro wrestling of course, the other is Doctor Who. Growing up in South Carolina in the 70s, our public television played Doctor Who all the time. And it has always been better to me than Star Trek. So I have no idea where in Wales we were or how far from Cardiff, but I figured if we didn't get there before the match, I'd make it a point to go after. I don't get on a plane every day so no matter what, I'm going to check it out.
And that's what was going on in my head when Megan decided to show once more that Mindfuck wasn't just the name of one of her finishers (or was it signature. She's got so gawddamn many of them.)
She starts in this spiel about rules which kinda reminds me of the Genie from Aladdin with his addendums, provisos etc. So I decide to get snarky and bust out a Dusty line. Risky Bidness.
Which she then throws back into my face with an image of her doing the Tom Cruise thing from that movie. And my mind just went BSOD.
Lemme tell you something about Megan. She shows affection by fucking with you. I can completely relate. My family was the same way. So after we have our little talk to clear the air on my attraction for her and how things were going to be, she decided to go into complete fuck with me mode. We had always been careful to not change in front of each other. I mean it wasn't too weird for a guy and a girl to travel together and most just thought we were a couple, but I've always been one to respect my road buddies. Besides I have an older sister and I always thought of her and how I'd want people to treat her if she were the one travelling with them.
After our talk, that all changed. Megan made it a point to just walk around in t-shirts and panties all the fucking time in the hotel rooms. I was fortunate in one respect, Megan never wore thongs. She once told me that underwear should be comfortable, not instruments of torture. That being said, the cotton, form fitting panties she wore weren't much better. She's brash and tatooed and purple haired and all, but man she has an amazing body. Nice firm bottom that looked damn good in those panties and abs under her shirt. And nice curvy breasts with barebelled nipples that you could see through any shirt she wore. So in the mornings, she'd wake up and stretch and scratch, usually scratching her belly then up her chest so I'd get a flash of boob and then turn around and walk away, giving me an eyeful of black or bright colored panties ("I like superhero colors, make me feel strong Reddy." she'd say between bites of breakfast one time.) She knew I knew she was doing it on purpose. I think her days making money in the PNW gave her a real sadistic streak when it came to making men squirm. But I'd never tell her that. She always knew just how far to go teasing me before crossing that line. And she'd love to pat me on my head when I'd get flustered and say "You're a good boy, Reddy. One of the best."
I remember once when we got shafted out of a gig in Monroe, NC and needed a place to crash before our next actual paying gig in Rock Hill, I decided to do something I had never done before. I took my road buddy to my hometown to my dad's place. Crusty retired Marine. (Retired, not ex. Call him an ex-Marine and you'd be ex-Alive.) Tough as nails badass who served 21 years in the Corps. He was the one who got me into wrestling. We'd watch every Saturday and this man was hooked. I remember him wanting to go find and beat the hell out of Abdullah the Butcher for carving up Wahoo McDaniel. He wanted to wring Piper's scrawney little neck. He cheered loudest for Ricky Steamboat and Jay Youngblood to beat those Brisco Brothers (Jack and Gerry, the original ones, not the guys from ROH.) But most of all, up to his dying day, my dad was a horndog. Hell if he wasn't, I wouldn't be here today. So I kinda knew the risk I was taking bringing Megan around him.
I didn't warn Megan at all about my dad. Didn't have to. He had mementos of his days as a Marine about the different rooms. When he met her, the old man smiled big and said "Welcome pretty lady. As long as you're here you're family. Even if you do hang out with low class people." Yeah, that's a thing we did. Anytime my sister or I would bring in newcomers, whoever brought them in became the whipping post for jokes. It was our way of making sure the newcomers felt comfortable and to feel them out. When Megan replied, "If you don't hold it against me for hangin' with him, I won't hold it against you for birthin' him." I thought dad was gonna cough up a lung. She was in.
The next morning, I'm not sure if Megan forgot my dad was around or just didn't care, but she came padding out of the guest bedroom (which was my sister's room before) and did her scratch/stretch thing. My dad nudged me and said "Damn son, you finally brought home a hot one." And I replied "Yeah, but she's like my sister." Dad chuckled and said "Yeah, that's just your luck ain't it? The really fun ones have other interests. Still though, I don't mind enjoying the scenery." I spit out my orange juice and just shook my head. Horndog.
But really the only difference between me and the old man is that I didn't vocalize my thoughts often. And here I am in the damn car with Megan picturing her sliding across a floor in socks, a button down being tented out by one of the 5 most perfect sets of breasts I have ever seen in my life that are jiggling freely underneath that shirt and a bright red pair of panties clinging to one of the most luscious bottoms ever whose cheeks are jiggling as well as she stops but they keep going. So to say I was a little distracted was an understatement.
I barely hear her talking about hot chicks and wrestling until she mentions Jenny. The BSOD just turned into a memory dump complete with corrupted registry entries. I guess Megan remembered seeing Jenny with me in Paris. And then me wrestling her after. But I hadn't seen nor heard from her since. And that along with Sadie going her own way. Yeah complicated. I don't know if Megan knew just how much.
Galveston is wrapping up and I need something that won't remind me of any of that. I zoom past the artist list, but don't have to go far. Depeche Mode. Holy shit. I wonder if...there we go. Violator. I get it cued up next.
I do have enough sense to hear that certain people will not be spoken of. Which I understand. But it hurts.
You remember how I mentioned earlier how Megan said if she found a girl she thought worthy of me, she send her giftwrapped? Well she was true to her word. Several times after shows, Megan would pick out a ring rat to help her work after the rush she got from wrestling. I know what you're thinking, In the South? Yes, we do have women here that have the alternative lifestyle, it's just at that time they didn't really advertise. Those nights, I'd go to the hotel room and find her occupied or about to be and I'd just grab my laptop and head to the lobby and spin up City of Heroes for the night.
A few times she would find a gal for herself and one who was into masks so I could, you know, have my own fun. I know Megan thought I would you know, but more often than not, I'd just talk with the girl in her room and chill and fall asleep. Yeah I was a grown adult, but I was raised in the South as an Irish Catholic in a time when you just didn't do such things. I never complained. I'm glad Megan had her fun. Seeing her happy made me happy. And I got to level up my Tanker pretty high.
So to have this one thing still eating at Megan even if it's healing and fading made me a little sad. I almost cracked a joke about my Uncle Tom in Phoenix, but thought better of it. By this time Depeche Mode started and instead of reminding me of my senior year it just reminded me of what I was trying to distract myself from and my brain locked on Jenny.
My life was complicated now. Sadie...I'm not sure how to define my relationship with Sadie. She's a bright comet, full of chaos and fun. In many ways a lot like Megan. She came into my life when I was about ready to hang up the boots and her spark and fire kept me going. Then somewhere along the way, I guess I fell in love with her. But life conspired against us. She found herself moving away from the whole wrestling thing and moving on. We still send notes at times and I love her as much today as I ever have. We just don't see each other very much anymore.
And then there's Jenny. We've fought each other and side by side. But she's been in and out of my life like a will o' the wisp. I don't know about her or how I feel, just that thinking about her makes me all...goofy.
Megan sees me lost and she mentions the Tom Cruise bit again, so of course there goes my mind and she mentions Jenny as well and now that scene is a double act.
Fuck.
Megan sure knows how to get to me. That has to be the longest four and a half minutes...
But the song ends and somehow I find my voice and manage to croak out.
"So, about Jenny."
-
Here's the thing about me:
Okay, no. That'll take too long. There's too many things. We'll be here all night.
So here's *A* thing about me:
I'm a flaunter. I flaunt. I've got it and baby, I fuckin' flaunt it like Cady Huffman sang (look, Uma was fine in the movie, but Cady fuckin' DEFINED that role. I take my musical theater fuckin' seriously. It's the pro wrestling of the stage). Everyone who's in wrestling is an attention whore by any definition - if we didn't want to be the center of attention and chew the fucking scenery we'd be bouncers or judo instructors or just really angry retail employees who occasionally dropkick the fucking breakroom wall. We'd be violent and risk-taking and angry, but we'd be regular people. It's that extra thing that makes us wrestlers; the need to have eyes on us. To not just beat someone, but to have EVERYONE SEE US BEAT THEM.
But even by the standards of professional wrestlers, the most attention-needy spotlight-hogs in the fucking world who aren't in politics, I'm a fuckin' attention whore. A whore among whores. Should I put that on a T-shirt? I'll put it on the list (it's a long fucking list).
I didn't just strip because it was an easy way to make money to pay Raven for my training; I could've fuckin' done the overnight shift at Roxie's serving strawberry pancakes to drag queens to do that, and I'd have gotten better tips and free food, and I fucking love strawberry pancakes. But no - I like having eyes on me. And once Reddy and I had set the rules, I liked having his eyes on me. It was FUN. Still is. I've never met a boy more fun to torment, and I know a thing or two about tormenting men (just ask Archibald Peck, who I beat up so badly during our match in Chikara that he ended up retiring and joining WWE's creative team. Although that was a different kind of torment, I guess. Less psychosexual and more, like, twisting his head around until he could see behind him) Although I HAVE beaten up Reddy, too. Wait, where was I? Oh right -), but Reddy is a special case. He's so damn sweet. He's sweet, and funny, and kind, and loyal, and smart and he's every damn thing I want in a friend. That might be why I love tormenting him so much - because he loves it, and I love him. Even if I do occasionally have to superkick him.
People who saw me and That Brokeback cxnt in Paris might assume that it's the loss of love that leads to violence, but I'm plenty violent with people I love. I think I've given Gemma more concussions since we've been married than I had in our whole wrestling rivalry previously. I only try to fucking maim people who I hate, and those are thankfully rare.
So, anyway - we're in the car. And we've been barreling through Wales this whole time at what the speedometer tells me is 241 km/h. I'm still a bit shaky on my British measurements, but I think that means we're probably doing about 45 or something. Suitable for driving in a hospital zone, surely. Wales seems to be going by pretty fast, but y'know, that's just road hypnosis or relativity or something. The Lexus is roaring pretty loud but whatever, it's a loud car. Some brilliant person said it sounded like a werewolf in a gin trap. Interesting fact - Callista Quinn won't finish this sentence after she finds her name with a word search because she'll see the word "gin" in the same paragraph and wander off to find a bottle.
Anyway, we're making great time, so I'm gonna give Reddy a lil' bit of a talkin'-to on the road to Nando's.
"So, about Jenny," he says, now that he's finally come back online. That man has a richer visual fantasy life than Walter Mitty.
I hold up a hand and talk over him. I'm good at talking over people. I'm like a conversational main battle tank.
"Here's the deal, sugar cookie," I gun it to get around a hay truck and leave a tornado of alfalfa swirling in our wake, "Jenny is a wrestler, and there's no such thing as a wrestler who's not fucked up. It's just how we are. If we were normal we wouldn't be fuckin' wrestlers. You know that. Everyone knows that. But she's about as damn close to normal as you can get and still be in this fuckin' business. She's like Sting or Tully Blanchard or somethin' except she doesn't seem to be a fuckin' evangelical. If she is she hides it well. And no Christian girl should have an ass like that, right? God wouldn't allow that shit. Way too many sinful thoughts in church. Either way, she's as close to straight as anyone is gonna fuckin' get in this bent business. And I don't mean sexually. I mean, I mean everythin' KINDA sexually, but I mean like MENTALLY straight. All of us have heads fulla bad wiring but she's like an arrow. An' that can be good for you."
"Okay," Red begins, "But I-"
I snatch him by the ear and gently yank to politely inform him I'm not done talking yet.
"She's gorgeous, and she fuckin' knows it, but she don't know what to DO with it just yet. You're in good with a lotta hot chicks, Reddy, present company certainly fuckin' included, but all of us know that we're fuckin' hot and all of us USE it. Jenny doesn't USE it an' that's WEIRD in wrestling. I mean, she's smart as a fuckin' whip, so I'm sure she knows that it ain't JUST her fuckin' bad-ass lariat that's gettin' her a few extra hundo at the pay winda when she gets booked - but I mean she doesn't use it like the way R- the way Sadie does, by way of a ferinstance. So ya gotta deal with that. Bein' with a beautiful girl who's still learnin' how beautiful she really is can be some fuckin' John Hughes shit."
"Sure, an-"
A gentle snatch of his thicket of red hair and a shake of his head brought him back to thoughtful reflection as we burned rubber through Caersws, the town that lost some of its vowels in the Great War. I continued with my philosophy.
"She can kick yer ass, too. On the regular. That's important. You're a big guy who's gotten used to manhandling most every girl you've ever been or outta the ring with, an' even when you get beaten it's usually because you get tapped out or choked out or somethin' clever like that. But Jenny can hoist your ass up outta your chair if you don't do the dishes and drop you on yer damn head, and that's GOOD. You need someone who can keep you from gettin' cocky an' keep ya from getting COMPLACENT. That's what kills, Reddy. Complacency, not speed."
I cut through a field to save a few seconds, ravaging a few hectares of barley and farmhands dove out of the way, cursing violently. Not a one of them was killed, proving my point.
"I don't th-"
THWAP! A solid backhand right to the solar plexus blasted the breath out of the big guy, puffing his cheeks like Aeolus and letting me continue with my peaceable conversation as we ramped a small hill and caught air on our way past and partially over Llanymynech.
"An' she's sweet, an' that's IMPORTANT. Because YOU'RE sweet. Yer the sweetest dork I know an' I know fuckin' Lindsay Campbell. An' Jenny is genuinely really fer-real sweet, an' I think she'll take care of ya if you let her. But you've gotta trust her an' you've gotta give her time and space an' let her LEARN because I feel like this would be somethin' NEW for her. Somethin' DIFFERENT than fuckin' the usual sluts you fuck around with, my wife included. I think Jenny could take care of you as well as you could take care of her, an' THAT'S why I think it's important you two give it a fuckin' chance, weird as it sounds. An' it'll be weird because I don't think she quite knows what to do with kissin' you yet. She looked like a deer that kicked the grill off a Mack truck an' stopped it fuckin' cold - like she tried somethin' because she didn't have any other fuckin' ideas and it shocked her tits off that it worked."
"Meg-," he began.
"An' I know what yer gonna say, that it'd never work, an' that some cxnts would get all salty about it, an' that you're too world-worn for someone as innocent an' fulla daisies as she is -"
"Megan," he got out, a little more firmly this time, and I flapped a hand at him, driving one handed as I have a wont to do. Especially when I'm driving with Gemma and need to get her off before we go to the cinema so she'll behave herself through "Thor: Ragnarok".
"- but ya gotta BELIEVE, Reddy. Someone as sweet and as different and as fuckin' CLEAN as Jenny Dare CAN fall in love with a masked fuckin' monster because you're NOT a monster. Maybe a fuckin' cookie monster. I know what some fucking cxnts try to make you BELIEVE you are, and I know some of them use you and some of them lie to you an' FUCK, it's all such a stupid fucking game, but Jenny can be GOOD, Reddy -"
"MEGAN."
He emphasized his point by grabbing the back of my neck and slamming his battered old Converse down on the brake, kickin' my Wolverine off the pedal to do so. The car screeched to a pterodactyl halt, leaving thick peels of expensive black rubber on the road. The car stopped in a cloud of smoke and I whirled on Reddy, figuring I might've been so fucking persuasive that now we would have to fight. I dunno, I figure everyone is always ready to fight over discourse. That's how wrestling works.
He kept a grip on the back of my neck, and turned my head forcibly around to make me look out the window. Sometimes I forget how fucking strong Reddy is. He pointed with his free hand at the sign glowing just outside the car.
Nando's. Home of the Peri-Peri Chicken.
"We're here."
-
The fork squealed across the plate with a sound that makes your teeth hurt as Megan snatched up her peri-peri with the gusto of a bear catching salmon in a river.
I've seen some sights that will make your eyes bug out and your jaw slacken. The Giant Rat of Sumatra, Weng Chiang's homunculus, someone pulling the mask off the Lone Ranger, the first half of the first level of F.E.A.R (because that's as far as I got when I turned it off), cats and dogs sleeping together, some real end of days shit...but none of it, and I mean none of it could prepare you for the sight of Megan Dow, a hungry Megan Dow, attacking a plate of food at Nando's.
I also have to add that Megan wasn't in the best of moods at that Welsh Nando's when she found out that their menu was slightly different than the one she was used to. Sure she got her boneless peri-peri breast, an order of livers and macho peas, but they didn't have her blackberry Izze. The waiter looked at me when she ordered it and honestly I've never heard of an Izze either. I did save that poor sap from finding out what a Tongan Death Grip feels like when he asked her if that was a real drink. And here I was feeling sorry for myself for having to get a Sprite instead of a Pepsi like I wanted. Of course I've never wanted to disengage someone's jaw from their skull for not having a drink. But Megan was in a mood.
You know how when you're a kid and your parents would say something like "Let's get Ice Cream" or "How about I get you a toy after school" or something like that. Then weird things come up like the water heater breaks, a relative needs a loan or something and that one thing you've been looking forward to doesn't happen? Yeah it's a kick in the teeth. Now Megan's been going stir fucking crazy since Paris. Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder levels of Stir Crazy. And when I appeared, it looked like that dream of performing in London was gonna happen. And to reward me, she had her mind set on Nando's. I'm not sure if she'd ever been to the one in this town, which I would try to spell but would get wrong and neither Rhod Gilbert nor Rob Brydon are here proofreading for me, so I'll pass, but they didn't have the Izze. Sure it's just a drink, but in her current mindset Megan is so close to London, she can taste it. And if one little thing doesn't go right, it's like the whole thing is gonna collapse.
And that's why I'm here. To let her know this whole thing isn't a house of cards. It's the house made of brick. But to do that, I need to first make sure we're not arrested for assault. I see the flash of anger in Megan's hazel eyes (lemme tell you, green and brown in that kind of mix is different and stunning) and I just watch. When her arm shoots up towards the waiter, I use the flat of my palm to intercept the underhand curl of her hand.
She immediately twisted her wrist 180 degrees and had her hand palm down. I brought my fingers together to a point like an eagle's beak (not a chicken, Megan, a fuckin' majestic eagle) and jabbed it into her palm. She clamped her fingers down on my hand and brought her other arm swinging around at me now. I catch her swinging arm at the wrist with my free arm held up like I'm making my bicep flex. At the same time, I make my eagle's beak into a fist and twist to get out of her hand grip. Her eyes meet mine and I grin.
"So, your Wu Tang style has improved" I say with overexaggerated lip movements.
"I have trained until the moon chased the sun from the sky" she said seriously, or as seriously as she could while her shoulders were twitchting.
"You have brought honor to your family. I salute you" and I did with a short bow.
She lost it there. I mean, when I go full on Kung Fu Theater with my Filipino looking face that's dotted with freckles, I kinda look like a slimmer ProZD. And if you think a Shaolin fist fight in a Nando's is a bit much for the story we're telling, what the fuck have you been reading up to now?
That broke the tension a bit. But when the food came and she had to drink some berry Rubro ("It's a damn Izze knockoff Reddy!") she wasn't completely calm. So when I say she attacked her food, think Tasmanian Devil, the Warner Brothers classic Looney Toon not the "updated" version that actually talks in coherent words. I watched her go after that food and gutter mind that I am, I had a sudden tinge of worry for her wife.
[In Wales, we see Gemma pause for a moment like she's going to sneeze. But instead she places her right hand between her legs and grips. "Aww, someone's thinking dirty thoughts about me." ]
Oh, yeah, my food. I was a bit peaked so I got myself a whole chicken, some creamy mash and some chips. I'm mostly a carnivore. And if you think it's sacrilegious that I would go to a Nando's and not get anything peri-peri, I would just like to point out the lovely 12 inch scar that starts about midway in my abs, circles around my belly button and stops just above my...err bikini line. The other thing Brock Lesnar and I have in common besides wrestling is we both had bouts of diverticulitis. That scar is my reminder of how bad that could be. So I try to avoid things that could explode my intestines any more than they've already been.
Besides, the Irish side of me just really loves potatoes.
Anyways, I take a leg off my whole chicken and start eating and take advantage of the fact that Megan is engaged in very serious consumption of mass quantities to finally get a fucking word in edgewise about this whole subject she brought up out of nowhere when I'm thinking about wrestling.
"So about Jenny. I just don't know. There's so many reasons just to let it go."
"Nid yw hyn yn Gymraeg"
"You know, with your mouth full of food it sounds like you're speaking Welsh. But no, I'm not forgetting what you told me in the car. I understand that. Shall I go on with my list of reasons?"
"Mae cyfieithu Google yn beth hwyl i'w ddefnyddio, ond rwy'n gobeithio nad ydych chi'n gwastraffu eich amser yn edrych i fyny."
"Look, I know you think it's a waste of time, but lemme tell you what I'm thinking. First, I really don't know how Jenny feels about me. I mean,
that whole kiss could just be spur of the moment thing, emotions all rushing in at once or even just an attempt to put on a show. Hell, I haven't even heard from Jenny since that whole thing. She's busy travelling around, although she somehow got my mask from R...got my mask back for me. And all the promoter would tell me was that she was unavailable for the rematch. So I had time to come here. I dunno. Maybe I'd feel better if I heard from her."
Megan was carving up the livers ok, but when I almost slipped up, she dragged her knife hard on the plate, so much so the entire Nando's went quiet and groaned. But she recovered. And continued eating. When I was sure she wasn't going to stab me with said knife, I continued.
"Second. There's Sadie. Yes I know Sadie hasn't been around very much either and she's pretty much retired from the wrestling scene, but she's still a big part of my heart. I've known that little spitfire for years. Hell just this past Valentine's Day she sent me a letter that melted my heart. I don't know if I'm ready to..I dunno, not give up...move on? I don't know what to call it. Sadie and I have never had a normal relationship. It's something deeper. She knows I play with other women and I know she has fun with other guys, but when we're together, we're together you know.
And we're still the reigning, defending FCF Mixed Tag Team Champions of the World. So...
"Sounds like you got some real Betty and Veronica shit going on there Reddy. Whoa, I'm speaking English. I must be almost done with my food. Hey Garcon! I need some dessert here!"
I sighed and put my head on my hands. This was all a big swirl of emotion and desire and craziness all wrapped up in one. Hell it felt like I was turning into the protagonist of one of those anime harem stories. That or caught up in the B plot of some completely wacky Road movie. I started munching away on my chips when
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HgzGwKwLmgM
Don't Stop Me Now by Queen started playing. I grinned big because it reminded me of an article Sadie sent me a few years back saying that this song may be the most up beat song ever.
"Who the hell put this on?"
"It's on random."
-
"They're lucky I fucking love that food so fucking much or I'd have destroyed that whole god-damn place."
Reddy tilted his head and looked at me funny as we roared away from Wrexham and down a road I arbitrarily picked because it seemed to be heading away from Wales. Like everyone else who lives in Wales, I'd had more than enough Wales. Behind us there was the faint cry of those weird British sirens. Well behind us. I was really puttin' my foot down and seeing what the Lexus could do with its monstrously overpowered and ludicrously expensive German engine. I always like driving fast after a good meal. It has a real Holden Caulfield feel to it. Plus it was a good time to be driving fast in any direction leading away from Nando's, I felt. For totally normal post-prandial reasons.
"You smashed the jukebox with a chair."
I rolled my shoulders, flapping a hand dismissively as I goosed the Lex in a roaring slalom past a bin lorry.
"It was fuckin' broken already, OBVIOUSLY. It wouldn't stop playin' Queen!"
"It was on random and the album that was randomly picked was 'Best of Queen'."
I snorted.
"Look, s'like this - it MIGHTA been broken, but now it DEFINITELY is and that'll make it easier to fix. I just CLARIFIED the issue for 'em."
Red nodded thoughtfully.
"You also superkicked that busboy."
I grit my teeth.
"HE KNEW WHERE THE IZZE WAS AN' HE WASN'T TALKIN'."
"And what made you think the busboy knew where your weird bubbly soda drink was when the counter girl said they didn't have it?"
"What am I, the fucking Shadow? I don't fuckin' know what secrets lurk in the minds of assholes. But he had a LOOK in his beady little eyes."
"Was it fear, maybe, darlin'? Because you were yelling at him?"
I glowered, looking fiercely at Reddy and swerving around a handful of schoolbuses to a chorus of youthful screams as the bus drivers unnecessarily panicked and swerved to get out my way. Bus drivers are always such fuckin' pussies.
"I WAS YELLING FOR PERFECTLY VALID REASONS."
"Because they didn't have blackberry Iz-"
"BECAUSE THEY DIDN'T HAVE FUCKIN' BLACKBERRY IZZE WHICH IS LISTED ON THE GOD-DAMN WEBSITE AS ONE OF THEIR DRINKS AN' ALSO THE JUKEBOX WAS PLAYING QUEEN AN' ALSO ..."
I gritted my teeth and torqued my fists on the wheel, jerking around a caravanner and setting their little comedic stickers flapping in the breeze.
"... YOU reminded me how fucking DUMB you are about girls."
I jabbed a finger at Reddy, meaning I was driving one-handed and also hot-eyed with rage, but that's basically my standard 10 and 2.
"Your fuckin' MASK ..." I gritted my teeth even harder, hearing little crunching sounds like porcelain cups rolling together in an overloaded dishwasher, and boy was Gemma upset when we found out what THAT sounded like, not least of all because she didn't even know there was a dishwasher in the house where I could find it.
"... how THE FUCK, after everything she's fucking done to you, do you go back to H-" I snapped the words off like a radio, and when Reddy started to talk I reached out and firmly clapped my hand over his mouth, glaring straight ahead through the windshield for a few long moments. A few slow, deep steadying breaths clarified me, and when I started talking again, it was about what I was really worried about.
"Do ya REALLY wanna know why I think Jenny'd be good for you, Reddy?"
His eyebrows went up, but he couldn't say anything since I still had his mouth clamped shut.
"And if you lick my hand I'm gonna fish-hook your nose even if it means crashin' the fucking car. It's because Jenny could put a fucking stop to this Enforcer Muyo shit."
He gave me a bit of puppy dog eyes with honest confusion in them, and I glared and then released his mouth, stroking his cheek with soft fingers and giving him a long considering look that almost got us killed as I roared through an intersection in Saltney, horns politely blaring in mortal terror in our wake.
"Ya give too much to too many, ya big ol' soft-hearted lug."
I ruffled his thicket of curly red hair and resumed driving two-handed just in time to swerve onto the A483 with a squeal of tires, since obviously 483 has always been my lucky number.
"An' I don't want any more bitches taking chunks of your heart since I've got fuckin' dibs on some. Now, if Sadie has managed to settle her hash down an' maybe found some real pants to wear that occasionally cover more than 40% of her ass, I might consider her to be worth your time, too. Whoever it is, they just gotta take care of you."
I grinned and stroked my thumb softly along his cheekbone, cradling his handsome doofy face in one hand as cars whipped past in inconsequential panic and chaos bloomed behind us like beautiful foxgloves blossoming behind the trailing gown of a faerie queen.
"Whoever you end up with, they gotta love you like ya deserve. You big goof."
I slapped the wheel with both hands suddenly, glancing back to make sure the bobbies hadn't caught up. There seemed to be a lot of hubbub behind us, but I didn't see those silly blue lights, so I whomped the accelerator's candy ass and floored it, ripping through Chester faster than the Celts had ever gone through the old Roman walled city. We didn't have time to appreciate the Grosvenor Museum, though, both because we were running at a solid 241 km/h AND because we both had to distract ourselves from being too sappy, so I decided it was time to play some our Famous Road Trip Games?.
I fucking love road trip games. I love everything about road trips. The food, the music, the loud singing, the vicious arguments, the occasional death-defying bits of rough-housing in the car, the novelty t-shirts, the roadside attractions ... and one thing I love more than almost anything is road trip games. I Spy, Six Degrees, I Am Going On A Trip, The Alphabet Game, License Plate Bingo, Zitch Dog, Cow Poker ...
... and I can really only play them with Red. Gemma mostly hates those games, and Calli will play them but she and I get so intensely competitive that we've never gotten through a game of I Spy without coming to blows. But Reddy and I? We can play for fucking ever. So I start us off. I just hold up one finger, and hear Reddy drag his hand over his eyes and snort his nose clear of sniffles, which I intentionally don't notice.
"Barry Horowitz."
Reddy doesn't even need a second.
"Hulk Hogan."
"Oooh, reverse -"
We say reverse even though there's only two of us. It's the rules of the Name Game.
"- fuckin' fine. Horace Hogan."
"Oh, c'mon! He was barely a wrestler! Fine, reverse. Hakushi."
"Watch it with the one-words, ya nerd! Henry O. Godwinn!"
"Better. Gorgeous George."
"REVERSE! Old bastard. Betcha mean that chick who hung around with Savage."
Red just grinned. And I continued.
"Greg Gagne!"
He winced as if slapped.
"Why're we STARTING at the bottom of the barrel? REVERSE. Greg Valentine."
"Oh, fuckin' dirty pool. Villano V!"
"No WAY do Roman numerals count as a reverse!"
And the miles just rolled away under us like a fuckin' magic carpet, even though the signs were in kilometers. I'm not sure where we were headed, even looking back. And looking back, it doesn't matter at all, and it didn't matter then. I was on the road with my fuckin' road buddy, and my knee didn't hurt too much, and wrestling is fucking fun.
... and I was full of fried livers and macho peas. Mmmm. Macho peas.
-
Timing is everything. There's a famous quote by....somebody
(Hell if you wanna know who just take your mouse and click and highlight the text and Copy it and paste it into Google. Why are you expecting me to hand feed everything to you. Sheesh. Active reading!)
..that goes "The difference between comedy and tragedy is timing." That is very true when dealing with a certain boisterous purple haired vixen with borderline homicidal tendencies. The difference between Megan and Sabu at times is that Sabu tends to destroy his own body. Megan will destroy yours.
So I knew now was not the time to point out to Megan that while her beloved Blackberry Izze's were on the website menu for Nando's, she needed to switch over to the menu for the Welsh Nando's and not the ones in America.
I did fell bad for the jukebox. I fucking love Queen. Ever since I saw them perform on Saturday Night Live (yes I stayed up late for that when I wasn't allowed, and gawd damn even in black and white [You youngins may not know this but there was a time when televisions didn't come with color. {Oh and by the way, nested parenthetical statements are fun, but always remember to end them in the correct order or stuff might not compile.}]) I was hooked. The Flash Gordon soundtrack is on my top five all time greatest movie soundtracks. (Purple Rain, Batman [The Tim Burton/Michael Keaton one], The Empire Strikes Back and The Big Chill round out my list, although mother fuck that Black Panther soundtrack kicks some serious ass too.) And their performance at Live Aid was just spectacular. So I felt bad that that jukebox got smashed because Megan didn't get her Izze drink. I sent a text to Gemma to ask what the shipping address was to Rox Manor so I could send Megan a case which'll be waiting for her when we're done in London, so psst, don't spoil the surprise and tell her. (HA FUCK YOU RYAN REYNOLDS! I fourth wall break so hard, I'm slamming into that fifth wall. That makes no sense Reddy. Megan! Stop horning in on my meta jokes! Come on! You're the one who said make this more funny! Yeah, I did *burp* but read back. Is this shit really that funny? *grumbles* Hey look, Kenny Omega and Ibushi are doing a Shatter Machine on Alexa Bliss! What? Where!?! *dashes off*)
So where was I?
Oh yeah. the purple swath of destruction at Nando's. I felt so bad for that busboy. I think his name was Stan. That boot flew up over his dishware tub and caught him square in the jaw. I was impressed that she could extend her bum leg that far. Of course, if she had full extension, Stan would have no teeth.
Then she wheeled on me and started in on my fortune with women. I thought she was actually going to talk about you know who for a moment when she wanted to yell at me about my mask.
Losing my mask...
That should never have happened. I was just looking in on...Ro...her. She's trying too hard to come back, to prove herself. And she just had to show me she still had her gifts and skills. To drive home the point, she took my mask. I don't know how Jenny got it back for me. That thing is a whole 'nother story. And it'll be told somewhere else because we're having fun here.
Megan complains about me giving too much to too many. I honestly don't know how to be any other way. I doubt very seriously we would have hit it off or be as close as we are if I weren't that way. So sure, things get confusing and there's a small circle of women I'd run through hell for and chances are they'll hurt me because we're all human. We all fail. It happens. What proves how much you care for someone is acknowledging you failed them and working on making things right. I guess I was born a troubleshooter. I'm always trying to fix things. Hell, in another life I'd probably be just another voice on the end of a call support line talking you through your issues and helping things get fixed. It's how I'm wired.
But here Megan was trying to give me advice on how to fix me.
And that's another reason I love her so much. She's willing to look me in the face and smack me around when I'm being stupid because she thinks I deserve better. I can't get it in her head that having a friend like her is better. But I find other ways to help her out when she needs me. Which is why I'm in this car that's feeling a bit more cramped with a belly full of Nando's, whizzing about at speeds that would make Andy Green say "whoa, slow down there," heading for a London ring so this marvelously crazy woman can have her time in the spotlight that she so richly deserves.
Even if she can be a judgmental, obnoxious, loud piece of work. She is who she is and that's good enough for me.
(HA! We're back on the emotive squash match now! I'm putting you over, Megan!)(And yes that's a personal joke that only Megan will get, but fuck it, this is our story.)
And she loves road games. (Please excuse the sniffles.) Oh my fucking gawd. (Side note, I honestly didn't used to cuss this much. Dad wouldn't stand for it while I was a child. But somehow being around Megan has made me a little more....colorful in my metaphors.)
Road games are what we in caveman times used to do to pass time during long car rides when there was no Internet, no smartphones, no satellite radios. Believe it or not, there were times when you would ride along and if your cassette player (small rectangular devices with magnetic tape that would spool over receivers and play music...you know, the Dark Ages.) wasn't working you either played road games or sat in silence. First time I played a road game was as a kid with my dad on a trip north to see my grandpa. Grandpa Enforcer loved music and salt water taffy. That's pretty much all I remember from that trip. That and the cold. Well other than the road games. We'd play license plate bingo, I spy, but the best was the Name Game.
So on a trip in the mountains of North Carolina, I think around the Boone area, I stopped the 8 track and tapped Megan and said "Dusty Rhodes".
It took her about two seconds before her eyes lit up and she said "Roddy Piper". We've been doing the road games thing ever since.
In this go round I had to call her out.
No, you can't say "The Undertaker" for T. Nope, No way
Bullshit! That is his actual name on the WWE website!
Like hell it is, he's listed as Undertaker
You're wrong, Reddy. The Undertaker.
If that's true you already lost. Because "The" Big Bossman won't work for B. Brian Blair...unffffff
She won said argument with a backhand to my sternum.
Say Reddy, I think..I think we may be heading north.
*koff koff* Well fuck. I hate the North.
-
"It's not THAT North, Reddy. I think. I mean, they had civil wars here but it was for something else."
"Not the economic oppression of the industrialized Northern plutocrats in the War of Northern Aggression?"
"... no, I think it was something about churches. Like maybe if they were allowed to serve wine or not. Some sort of liquor licensing debate."
"Alcohol causes so many unnecessary fights."
"That's silly. There's no such thing as an unnecessary fight."
For the record, Reddy was mostly kidding about the War of Northern Aggression stuff. Mostly. I don't know a lot of men as open-minded as he is, and I can confirm firsthand that he's as gentle, sweet, and thoughtful a man as has ever been born. But still, he's from south of the Mason-Dixon, and there's some damnyankee in every bloodline in the South. It's just how they're raised. I was just lucky I had so much Badlands hick in me - it gave us some commonalities, like an appreciation for manners (I DO FUCKING SO HAVE MANNERS, SHUT THE FUCK UP) and a taste for fried eggs in butter, and a mistrust of fancy assholes. I realize I live with my rich wife in a huge old Welsh manor home, but if you've ever seen how Gemma lives when the cameras aren't on her, you'd know she's not a fancy bitch. But the important thing is -
- wait, where was I going with this.
"Gretna Green?"
"OH SHIT WE'RE IN SCOTLAND."
Repeating the infamous words of Guy, Count of Namur in the Battle of Boroughmuir, I quickly screeched to a halt in the middle of the scenic village - and in the middle of a flurry of young newlyweds. Gretna Green was kinda like the Scottish Las Vegas, but with less topless showgirls; a place to come for quick scenic weddings when you didn't want your family to know you were getting hitched. And something about anvils, I dunno. Anyway, the little lovebirds flocked the fuck out of the way of my slaloming Lexus LFA as white as a fuckin' diamond snowbank, scattering a litter of flower petals, veils, and cheap Scottish wedding licenses behind them as they dove for dear life. I whipped the back end around and left a thick black patch in front of Ye Olde Blacksmith's Shoppe, where presumably they sold some of their surplus of extra letter Es, and burned rubber back the other way.
I think. I burned rubber in SOME direction or another. Out of Gretna Green, at least, leaving angry and terrified couples behind me as I do at so many weddings. We had to keep going. There was more road to ride, and more jokes to tell and more stories to share and more laughs and more fond cuddles (which are incredibly dangerous at the speeds we were going, but that's never stopped me from cuddling before and won't now) and more food at some point. And some beer. We were gonna need some beer if we were gonna keep driving. That'd mean Reddy would have to drive, since he doesn't drink and I don't fucking drink and drive - not even I'M that kinda crazy - but it'd be his turn by the time we got to a point where I needed me a beer. But the important thing - the CRUCIAL thing - is that we had to get back on track. It was time to start thinking about the match to come. This was the O2 Arena! The biggest venue I'm gonna have ever worked in - even bigger than Budokan! Which I'm not allowed into any more! Not since the incident, at least.
We don't speak of the Budokan incident.
But we needed to get to London, get the ring rust worked out, get our entrances set with the production team, get the final contracts affirmed, get ready for the meet and greets. A supershow is a HUGE fucking affair. It lives and breathes and eats, and you gotta feed the beast. We have shit to DO. It's time to get on the right road, get southbound, and make our way to London with no further wacky hijinx.
Not even one.
And smash cut to -
"You have the manners of a goat and you smell like a dung-heap. And you've no knowledge whatsoever of your potential!"
The fucking old bastard with the fancy little mustache and the triangle soul pattch and the big plumed hat was coming after me with a god-damn sword. WHY DID HE HAVE A BIG GOD-DAMN SWORD.
Meanwhile, Reddy was grappling with some long-haired dude who seriously looked familiar. I can't remember how we got to A'Ghaidhealtachd, because while I was seriously focusing on getting to London I kinda got sidetracked telling Reddy about one of the unreleased videos from my "Punky By Night" series that featured an apartment match with Sadie and how NEITHER of us really used much of our traditional in-ring moveset although we did do some REALLY creative things with whipped cream ..
... anyway, it was hard to focus, and now we're here among these rocky crags with a storm-torn sky overhead and a ruined castle looming on the cliffs above us and these two assholes attacking us on their way to a fancy dress party. I don't even know why they're so uppity. I just asked the older one where he got those tights because I wanted something that showed off my ass like those did his saggy buns.
And maybe a few other words were exchanged, but he still didn't need to come after me with a SWORD just because I interrupted him and his boytoy doing some fucking LARPing!
So the older one rears back with a thrust that telegraphs more than Emily Layne going for a right hook and lunges, and I skip out of the way with a little creak of my knee brace. His sword hits one of the many jagged stones, scattering a shower of sparks, and as he's staggering off that I snake in behind him, dipping my head under his sword arm. My right hand drops, hooking under his right knee and hoisting it up, leaving his fancy swashed boot flopping in the air and I sling my left arm around his skinny old shoulders. With a growl and a pulse of pain in my knee, I HOIST the old fuck up and get his boots pointed at the sky, kicking my feet out from under me and DRIVING him back and down as I PLANT his ancient bones into the stony heath with a MINDFUCK. He folds up like a cheap suit with a crackle of dusty ligaments and flops over to his face, the sword clattering away on the stones as I roll my hips and come staggering up to my feet, leaning over to have a little conversation with him.
"YOU SMELL LIKE OLD MAN FARTS AND CHEAP WHISKEY, YOU SACK OF HOKEY SHIT! LET'S SEE YOU COME BACK TO LIFE AFTER THAT ONE!"
Reddy and the long-haired guy are still grappling when Red suddenly stops, holding the guy in a hammerlock and leans over his shoulder, looking intently at him.
"Connor MacLeod?"
"What? No! I'm Christopher Lambert!"
"Oh. Oh shit. MEGAN. I THINK YOU JUST KILLED SEAN CONNERY."
"What? PFFFT, no. These dudes are fuckin' magic like in the movie."
I thudded my Wolverine into the facedown old man, and his form barely twitched. I bit my lip in slight concern.
"... well, he shouldn't have fuckin' slapped me. But, uh." I poked him one more time with my boot and got nothing but a little burbling sound that might've been a collapsed lung. "Let's get outta here anyway. We're like 531 miles from where we need to be."
"Should we call the police?"
"Nah. This is fictional. It's not in their jurisdiction."
-
Just so you know, I have an amazing Foghorn Leghorn impersonation. I usually only bring it out when I say "Wahr of Nahthen Aggression" or something similar. As far as being a Southerner goes, I was born and raised in the Carolinas, yes. However Dad was from the North (albeit a very country part) and Mom was from a Pacific Island. So I have no romantic feelings about the Civil War...well unless you mean the Marvel Comics one. In that case I think the movie version was waaaaay better than the comic book version. Anyways, I nearly lost my shit when Megan called the historical conflicts in Britain a "liquor licensing debate." (Also for the record, I was raised Irish Catholic, so yeah I'm a mess of contradictions.)
And somehow we end up in Scotland. Land of kilts and bagpipes. But it's really more than that. Sidenote, I bet you didn't realize a lot of the Southern/Appalachian accent in America comes from a major influence of Scots. After the battle of Culloden in 1746, a huge wave of Highland Scots migrated over to North Carolina in particular. And every year since 1956, they've had Highland Games up on Grandfather Mountain. So there's a bit of me that feels the call of this area. As a matter of fact, since we mentioned Queen a bit back, one of my favorite movies was Highlander which had the bitchin' Princes of the Universe song as a theme. Between that and some really cool Shaw Brothers movies, I used to love having a "sword" or "staff" to fight with as a kid.
So, you can just imagine my surprise and awe when we run into LARPers doing the full Highlander. I was having fun with the "Connor" when I hear the familiar sounds of Megan giving someone a Mindfuck. And she's yelling at him. That's when I look and holy shit, this isn't a LARPer. He breaks character enough for me to realize we've shattered the Hikita-Banzai barrier effectively destroying the 8th wall. I get up with Megan and we work on getting the hell outta there and she reminds me of something when she says "Nah. This is fictional. It's not in their jurisdiction."
Fuck.
That means more than likely, she's gonna show up. And I can't run out on this.
I slow and then turn, heading back to the mostly dead body of Ramirez when I see the flash announcing her arrival.
"When I saw the level of disturbance, I should have known you were involved."
"Hi Thursday. You're looking well. Haven't changed a bit since I saw you last. Although I'm a bit confused as this is a scene from a movie, I thought you just handled the literary stuff."
*cue slow saxophone*
Of all the hyper violent pages of fan fiction across the entire Internet, she just had to come walking back into this one. Thursday Next. She was a copper. Retired British military and now member of SpecOps, Literary Division. We'd crossed paths over the years as characters in written stories are want to do. She was married, two kids or three depending on what she was believing that day. That didn't stop me from thinking she was one of the most beauti--
"Reddy, skip this nouveau noir thing you got going on here and get back to the fun. You're kinda killing the vibe."
"Well you killed James freakin' Bond!"
*sighs* "Just get on with it."
Fine, skip to the end it is.
So Megan didn't kill the guy, just messed him up bad. Thursday sent this version ahead in the story to the confrontation with Kurgan and takes that version and puts him here. No harm, no foul. She yells at me and tells me I better not see her at a crime scene again. I make my apologies and head back to the car. I open the trunk (boot? Why do y'all call it a boot?) just to make sure there's not an oscillation overthruster hiding on board. and to stash something.
"Reddy, you didn't" she says barely containing her laughter.
"Do I look that guilty?"
"Yes. You do. Tell me you didn't."
Shit she knows. I can't lie to her.
"Yes. I did. I--"
" fucked that hot cop back there?"
" --took..wait..what? No..NO! She's just a friend. "
"Then what did you do that's got you lookin so guilty?"
"I grabbed Ramirez's sword."
And with a loud delightful cackle, we were back on our way....
somewhere...
Trust me, we'll get to London eventually.
-
See, all the signs were there.
My Mom is from the Old Country (Slava Ukrayini!) like my Babusya. But my Pop? He was Irish, through and through. He was an Eastern Oregon farmer, but his family was so auld Irish that his father still referred to putting butter and salt on food as "kitchening". They were so Irish that they carved turnips instead of pumpkins at Halloween. They ate colcannon that's made with lovely pickled cream, and the greens and scallions mingled like a picture in a dream. So I should've known it, right. From the signs.
The first and most relevant sign was "Stena Line Cairnryan", that was posted on the dock I drove us down as I accelerated onto the ferry, amidst screams and people diving out of the way and scattered luggage and general disarray (That's also my military rank when Gems and I do Grand Army roleplay in bed. She's Private Parts).
"Megan, this looks like a ferry."
"Everything up here looks like Faerie, Reddy. It's very fae territory."
"That's ... okay, that's kind of a reach for wordplay which isn't that great to begin with, and we're still on a ferry."
"YOU'RE ABOUT TO HAVE A FAIRY ON YOUR FACE IF YOU DON'T SHUT IT."
He wisely didn't ask whether I meant the Black Eye Fairy who grants black eyes to naughty children by kissing them on the eye, or whether I was referring to a lesbian sitting in a breath-depriving way on his face. It was both. I meant both.
The next sign and portent I should've foreseen was when we drove down the Stena ferry ramp and blazed past the Garda just pulling up to question the people about the madwoman driving an LFA, roaring through downtown Belfast. "Belfast", the sign said. That really should've told me something.
"Megan, I am at least 90% sure that London is not in Ireland."
I flapped a hand airily, gunning the roaring beast through Donegall Square so fast that I sent flat caps flying like leaves in autumn. "It's the UK, Reddy. Everything is basically like right next to everything else. Basically."
Then it started raining, on a clear and sunny day, and that REALLY should have been a sign, see. Pop warned me about that specifically a bunch of times. When it rains while the sun is out, that means they'll go roaming in the moonlight.
But I didn't watch the signs. I didn't even really watch the road. I was still kinda pissed off about that old Scottish Egyptian I had to backdrop driver back there in the Highlands, but I was also thinking about how GOOD it had felt. I'd had to duck around that guy AND hoist him up, and my knee had barely complained. The adrenaline had fed off the pain and shaped it, molded it. That was good. I wanted to WRESTLE, god damn it, and I wanted to put on a good fucking show. I wanted people to watch YouTube clips of this match after we finish and be like "Oh, shit, that was awesome!" and not like "Aw, good for her with her bad knee" like I'm fuckin' Andre in All-Japan in 1991. So I was on EDGE and when I'm on edge normally I hit the heavy bag or kick Beat-Em-Up Bob or tackle Gemma through the Tackling Wall we had built to save on reconstruction costs for when Calli or Lisa Starr come to visit or I go for a run so fast and furious that I end up nine miles away steaming like a drafthorse. But I can't do any of that shit right now, so instead I just drove really fast without looking where I was going.
We ended up needing gas and food eventually, so we stopped in Dundalk as the night fell and I filled up the Lexus' hungry tank with one of Gems' platinum cards (I had my own, but it was more fun to steal hers. She kept a few extra accounts open just so I could steal her cards. Her accountant hates us) while Reddy went across the road to the Windsor to procure us beer and sustenance. I asked for Skittles. I like it when life is all Skittles and beer. Plus if you put the candy IN the beer, you get Skittlebrau, preferred drink of dreaming nuclear safety inspectors.
Naturally, Reddy was taking forever, probably because there were freckled redheads in the bar for him to talk to about whatever it is gingers talk about en masse (probably how sunblock is too expensive - she said, putting on her expensive tattoo-protecting SPF 150). I got bored and stomped down the road, turning down a path at random and walking past the shops along the main drag into the hills with the stars twinkling overhead - I wasn't worried about Reddy leaving without me, both because he was a beloved and loyal dear friend and because I had the car keys - because I was thinking about whether or not I could do a flying headscissors at all. A 'rana was right out (too much tension of the Achilles tendon), but maybe that old Ricky Morton rolling side headscissors thing ...
"You are new here, I think."
I blinked. There was a stone gate to my right, leading up to what looked like an old house that had sort of fallen by the wayside. If there was anyone living there, they weren't doing much - but the gate was still standing neatly, stoned joined smooth and dove gray. On the left of the gate was a heap of jagged rock, curiously out of place. On the right was a little bench, and curled up on it was a black dog. Perky little thing. Big floppy ears with curly tufts that popped up alertly, big brushy tail that curled over its back, and a white chest like an Australian shepherd. Or a penguin. I grinned at the little dog while glancing around for the itinerant Irish wanderer who'd addressed me, possibly from behind the stone wall, only for the dog to gently clear its throat to draw my attention back to it.
"Many years ago," it said with a musical lilt, "I used to live in this house."
"... well, fuck."
The signs were all there. I really should've known.
"So anyway, there was nothing for it," I explained to Reddy as we headed down the M1 towards Drogheda. "It was a fuckin' pooka. I shoulda KNOWN, but I talked to him, an' since he was sitting on the right side of the wall I figured he was okay, and he really only wanted to know if we could get him as far as Dublin."
Reddy stared blankly at me. More blankly than usual. He was driving now since he didn't drink and I wanted to enjoy my Skittlebrau. Apparently he'd had a bit of trouble getting the Skittles, since at first when he'd asked they'd brought him a bunch of tiny bowling pins. I drank back my Harp with a bag of Skittles in it, enraging everyone everywhere, and peered back at Reddy, eyebrows raised. This was pretty basic stuff for Ireland, really.
"If this is an elaborate set-up for a joke, I don't get it."
"The POOKA, Reddy." I jerked my thumb at the grinning black dog curled up at the rear console between the LFA's seats.
Reddy glanced, not seeing a thing.
"Megan, I feel like I should probably take your beer away, but last time I tried that you separated my shoulder."
"Fuckin' right," I growled. I glared back at the pooka, its golden eyes shining gently. It was still grinning. Pookas REALLY think that invisibility shit is funny.
"And you're an ass."
"Nope. A dog." It replied primly. I snerked and poured some Skittlebrau into my empty takeaway tray of boxty, and set it down on the console. Reddy glanced sidelong and cleared his throat but didn't say anything - until the beer and candy vanished from the tray.
"... well fuck."
"Don't curse in front of the pooka."
"Aye. It's bad fookin' luck."
-
So...Ireland. The Home Country. Well one of them for me. Grandma Enforcer on my dad's side was from Eire which explains the ginger hair I have sported pretty much since birth. And the fact that I've been called Red just as long. And also why when I was put into a tag team of masked wrestlers in my early days in Mid-Atlantic, I was given the red mask while my partner got the black mask. You tend to roll with nicknames or lean into them as the kids say these days. It gets you respect from the older crew.
Anyways, I couldn't remember much about Grandma Enforcer short of the stories my dad would tell of a strong woman with bright red hair who would ride herd on her boys with eyes of lightning and a shillelagh of blackthorn with a knob the size of a baseball that she would crack on their asses or heads as needed. My dad loved his mother and when she passed all he asked for was that shillelagh. Which is now in my possession once he passed. And, knowing Megan and knowing I was going across the pond for possibly the only time in my life, I decided to take Grandma Enforcer's shillelagh with me. I knew I couldn't get it on in my bag, so I got an old knee brace out and hobbled onto the flight with it. Then after the airport I put it in my travel bag.
We get to Ireland and I have to say it's as lovely as it looked in the movie The Quiet Man my dad loved so much. (John Wayne as an Irishman. Sure. But the cinematography was outstanding. And Maureen O'Hara.....anyways..) And of course Megan had to have some beer. She decided to send me for it, since Megan + bar especially after a scuffle = major damage...mostly to Gemma's bank account. I decided to hit the trunk first and get the shillelagh out. I'd come to start callin' her Bess. Not sure why, just felt right. Bess and I got to the bar and I got recognized immediately as a foreigner.
One thing people like to do when they realize you don't speak their language is to use it to talk about you when you're standing right there. Now, I never learned Tagalog, but my mom and her friends would talk about me all the time with me sitting there. If you are curious like me, you learn pretty quickly to read people's body language. That also helps out in wrestling as one little hitch or hiccup can let you know what your opponent's weak spot is.
Anyways, I'm pretty sure I looked like a rube to these folks and when I asked for beer and Skittles, they decided to see if I could take a joke. They brought out some pins and a beer and I ended up playing a few games. I honestly don't know the rules, didn't care. I had the charge card so it wasn't my money they were bleeding from me. After a bit they realized I'd been a good sport and handed me the beer and actual Skittles candy. But the waitress noticed I hadn't touched the original beer and asked me about it. I said, "Oh, I don't drink."
You could hear a pin drop.
I found myself clutching Bess tightly as everyone's eyes narrowed. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
Then this English guy in a white trenchcoat comes up to the bar and grabs the beer and downs it in one very long swallow.
Gulp
Gulp
Gulp
Gulp
Gulp
You get the idea.
"That just means more for me then."
And suddenly the bar erupts in laughter. I lean in over the cacophony of guffaws and say to the stranger
"I appreciate the help."
"These Irish take their drinking seriously." He nodded over to Bess and said "but I bet you know that. Grandmother's?"
I nodded.
"Reminds me of one I'd seen in....another place in another time. Take care of yourself out here, friend. All kinds of spooks are about."
"Thanks again. My name's Red." and I held my hand out to shake.
"John. And...here's my card. In case you run into something...strange."
I smiled and took his card, the beer and Skittles and skeedaddled. John Taylor, private investigator. I tucked his card away. You never know.
When I got into the car, I knew something was off. Not my driving. Megan seemed a bit, distracted.
Then she mentioned the pooka.
I'd heard stories of pookas. They can be hobgoblins or fairies or any kinds of spirits roaming. I was just hoping she was kidding to try and rattle me. I'm not too superstitious, but man have I seen things. Anytime you deal with the Fae, you have to remember two things.
1. Don't eat anything they offer.
2. Treat them like you would an opposing lawyer.
The Fae do so love mischief and if you're unlucky, destruction. They can tie your shoes together or make you trip into broken glass. And if you ever try to cut a deal with them, you better damn well have the exact wording down and any fine print examined because they will trip you up worse than Apple's EULA.
When I saw the beer disappear, I knew Megan wasn't kidding. It's then that I was glad that I tucked Bess on the inside of the door next to the seat where I could grab her if needed.
"Now that I know you're here, could you at least let me see you?"
And this black dog appears out of nowhere with a cheesy, slightly buzzed grin on his face.
"Please tell me you're more Harvey and less Mab?"
The dog's tongue came out of his mouth and licked up beer from his hair before he replied.
"That would be telling."
-
Megan "Punky" Rox-Dow ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. She liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. What she wasn't in the fucking mood for was grilled mutton kidneys which gave to her palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine, because who the fuck wants to eat urine. So she had double bacon instead. No, triple. And streaky bacon, not that big slab stuff they ate over here. This bed and breakfast at least got that part right. And the giblet soup kicked ass.
Kidneys were in her mind, mostly about how she enjoyed punching them on other people, as she moved about the kitchen softly by her standards, only causing the occasional crashing clatter, righting her breakfast things on the humpy tray. Gelid light and air were in the kitchen but out of doors gentle summer morning everywhere in Dublin. They were in Dublin now, in case that wasn't clear. This was some little backwater B&B in Wood Quay on the bricky side of Dublin. The kinda place where you made your own breakfast, but at least they had roast heart.
The coals were reddening.
Another slice of bread and butter: three, four: right. Reddy didn't like his plate full first thing in the morning. Said it made him feel heavy. Right. That didn't apply if he were at the Waffle House, natural. Then it was a whole new set of butter pats. Reddy was sleeping in after a night of romp with the pooka. She turned from the tray, lifted the kettle off the hob and set it sideways on the fire, and thought again that maybe they should have found somewhere a little less fucking rustic to stop for the night. Who the fuck uses fire to make tea in this day and age. Whatever. At least the liverslices fried with crustcrumbs were pretty boss. The kettle sat there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out. Cup of tea soon. Good. Mouth dry. Too much fucking whiskey. The pooka walked stiffly round a leg of the table with brushy tail on high.
-Mkgnao!
-For the last fucking time, I don't speak Gaelic, Mrs Rox-Dow said, turning from the fire.
The pooka snorted disdainfully in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the table, chuckling. Just how Megan stalks over to Gemma's writingtable. Prr. Scratch my head. Prr.
Mrs Rox-Dow watched curiously, kindly the lithe black form. Clean to see: the gloss of his sleek hide, the white button under the butt of his tail, the golden flashing eyes. She bent down to him, her hands on her knees, including the braced one.
-Milk for the pooka, she said.
-Fookin' hell, I want beer! the beast cried.
They call them faeries. They understand what we say better than we understand them. She undestands all she wants to. Vindictive too. Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it. Wonder what she looks like to him. Height of a tower? No, he can jump her, as she has jumped so many before, oft backstage.
-Afraid of the Enforcer he is, she said mockingly. Afraid of the Reddy. I never saw such a pussy pooka as the pussens.
Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it. Was mocking faeries a good idea? Who's to say. Not me. I'm just a narrator.
-That's a damned lie! the dog said loudly.
He blinked up out of his avid shameclosing eyes, growling plaintively and long, showing her his milkwhite teeth. She watched the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till his eyes were yellow stones. Then she went to the dresser, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled because apparently there's still milkmen in Dublin and here she was only used to Dead Milkmen, and poured warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it slowly on the floor.
-FREE MILK! he cried, running to lap.
She watched the bristles shining wirily in the weak light as he tipped three times and licked lightly. Wonder is it true if you clip them they go soprano. Why? Dogs sing in the dark, perhaps, for tips. Or only faeries sing in the dark, perhaps.
She listened to his licking lap. Ham and eggs, no. No good. No good eggs in this joint. Want pure fresh water because she was hung over and Dublin's tap water was the color of ouisgeah. Thursday: not a good day either for a mutton chop at Buckley's. Fried with butter, a shake of pepper. Better a pork chop at Dlugacz's. While the kettle is boiling. He lapped slower, then licking the saucer clean. Why are their tongues so huge? To lap better, all floppy disdain. Nothing he can eat? She glanced round her. No.
On quietly creaky Wolverines she clomped up the staircase to the hall, paused by the bedroom door. He might like something tasty. Thin bread and butter he likes in the morning after he's taken a beating, and that pooka put him through a wall. Still perhaps: once in a way.
She said softly in the bare hall:
-I'm goin' round the corner. Be back in a minute. I'll see if I can find some fuckin' decent sausage. The kind with fatty bits and green flecks.
And when she had heard her voice say it she added:
-You don't want nothin' for breakfast?
A sleepy soft grunt answered:
-Mn.
No. He didn't want anything. She heard then a warm heavy sigh, softer, as he turned over and the loose brass quoits of the bedstead jingled. Must get those settled really. No idea what a fucking quoit was but apparently they'd paid extra for a room with quoits on the bedstead. Wonder what her father would think of that. Old style. Ah yes! of course. He'd bought it at the policeman's auction, all woody and brassy for the farm. Got a short knock. Hard as nails at a bargain, old Pop. Yes, sir. At Bend that was. She rose from the ranks, sir, and she's proud of it. Still she had brains enough to make that corner in lunatic purplehaired wrestlegirls. Now that was farseeing.
Just in cases none of this was so clear as it could be: Punky and Reddy have made it to Dublin and crashed at a B&B, where Reddy is recuperating after rough-housing with the pooka who has hung around despite promising he only needed a ride to Dublin. Now she's eaten a bunch of fried organ meats for breakfast and is off to try to find something Reddy wants to eat.
This may have been a trifle obtuse.
Dublin has that effect on some people.
This is still a wrestling story. Don't worry. We'll get there.
-
The Previous Evening
Translating Drunky Dow is a chore. I was driving (finally) but not as fast as she would've liked (I tend to keep vehicles to double digits speed wise). Add to that, I wasn't sure where we were going. She mumbled out something that sounded like "bed and breakfast" then collapsed into snores. Irish beer and skittles are a powerful brew. Plus I think they made it extra strong as a gag on me for saying I didn't drink.
On the road in Ireland without a map or smartphone handy and my navigator passed out. I looked over at the pooka.
"Any ideas?"
"I know a place. But it's a strange journey."
I laughed because ever since I showed up at Rox Manor this has been one strange journey. But knowing the Fair Folk and how they love to play with words, and remembering how my dad told me to never volunteer for anything, I chose to dig deeper.
"Define 'strange'"
"Well it involves knowing our destination and taking the time it would take to go there and the space between us and that location and folding both of those planes onto themselves in such a way that we can go from A to Z without bothering all the hops in between. I could go more in depth, but you dunna strike me as a Hawking."
"So wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey?" I said looking ahead at the lovely Irish night, full of a waning moon and bright stars. Something you don't really see in the city. I'm a country boy at heart even if that country is a whole ocean away from my home.
The pooka snorted through his doggie nostrils. I wasn't sure if that was a chuckle or derision. I let it slide because my joke wasn't really that funny.
"So...what's the catch? There's always a catch" and with the Fae, there always was a catch.
"The human brain. It isn't made to process the sensory information contained in the warp field. For sleeping drunkly over there, time passes in an instant, but for wide awake you and someone does still haveta drive, you'll experience....strangeness. It's different for everyone as your brain is different from other peoples. Probably the only person I've ever seen not come out the other side changed forever was that Ginsberg fella who was already properly fooked when I met him."
Great. It could be hundreds of miles to the next place with lodging, we've got a half a tank of gas, a passed out navigator, it's dark and I'm wearing sunglasses.
"Hit it."
The pooka laughs. And suddenly...everything.....changes.
No car. No Megan.
Just me and the pooka. In a field.
Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a pooka coming down along the road and this pooka that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named Red Enforcer
I shook my head. Couldn't afford to get drowned in a stream of consciousness. The pooka looked rattled.
"I shouldn't be here. Why am I here? How did you drag me along? Fookin' hell, what's that stick you're holding?"
I didn't realize it, but while driving with one hand, I had reflexively gripped my gran's shillelagh. It now had a glow about it. And the pooka is here. And scared. That makes me worried. Before us is a path. The sky looks like the set designer for Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory provided the storyboards for this place.
"I guess we go forward."
........
The car just appears from nowhere, as if blinked into existence. There's a snoring, blissfully ignorant woman in the passenger seat and a frazzled ginger man behind the steering wheel. Both hands gripping a shillelagh like a baseball bat. In the backseat, with his haunches up is the pooka, teeth bared and looking ready to pounce. After a couple of beats, man and dog both remember to breathe again. They relax and the man opens the door and slowly uncurls from the car, grip still white knuckle strength on the cudgel he's carrying.
"Fookin' Hell man. What kinda demons do you carry around with you in your brain? I've never seen such beauty be so...so..evil...you clearly have issues."
I know. I think everyone does. Mine scar me. Make me feel the need to hide behind masks. I rest gran's shillelagh on one shoulder as I let go with one hand. That now free hand moves onto the purple mop of hair that rests along the door, softly stroking...combing that tuft of hair with care. Fingertips resting on the soft cheek. She doesn't stir. Let her sleep. Looking down and smiling at her. Such a beautiful woman. Such a tender soul. She covers it up with brass and volume and outrageousness. But there it is all the same.
I go to the door of the bed and breakfast the pooka brought us to. I hold up the cane to strike the door with the knob but I pause and turn to the dog who has finally gotten out of the car and stretched a bit.
"Any tricks here?"
"No. No tricks here. I've had too much of the shenaxxxxns tonight to endure any more. Even us Fae can get worn down. That being said,
I think I'll keep my distance from you all the same."
Fair enough I say. It's crazy in my own head for me. I can't imagine what it must look like for an immortal trickster. I end up knocking on the door with the cane and I am greeted with a lovely face crowned with the reddest hair I've ever seen in person. The green eyes met my brown eyes and she broke out in a smile.
"Well now, do we have a merry wanderer of the night?"
Before I could reply, she looked past me and noticed the pooka. I don't know how she saw him, but since this was the place he recommended, I shouldn't have been surprised. She nodded his way and then turned to face me again.
"Will it be just you for the night then?" and her smile got broader.
I gave her my most suave and debonair look while raising an eyebrow and smiling and saying just the most amazing words to impress and flatter this lovely Irish lass. ----is what I wish happened.
Instead it was more of:
"Uhhh...well...see...uhh...M..meg...n.nnno...ummm...Megan...girl..there..." with me raising my gran's cane and using it to point behind me at the rough direction of the car.
The pooka put his head down and murmured something like "..can stand up to a fookin' ogre clan but falls apart in front of a pretty face.."
I somehow get my legs to move and turn back to the car. I try to wake Megan, but she's done. What is in this beer? I open her door and take her in my arms, a nice wistful smile as I remember the first time I had to carry her like this.
She'd jacked up her ankle in Matthews, or was it Concord? And she was dead set on walking to the back. I gave her side support till we got to the makeshift curtain (It was one of those theater class, big heavy drapes on a metal support which we got from the high school when we set up the ring in the gym) and once we got out of sight, I just scooped her up in my arms. At first she yelled at me bloody murder, all kinds of curses and how dare I and all this while fighting tears of immense pain. I ignored her of course and took her to the basketball training room where I could help her take a look at that ankle. It blew up like a beach ball and got as purple as her hair is now, but she didn't break anything. She taped up and went full bore the very next night.
Because that's just how she is. When it's something she's passionate about, she's all in. No matter what. That includes the people she loves. This crazy, wild haired, wilder eyed buzzsaw of a woman. She isn't perfect by any means. She'll have times when you can't find her, when the melancholy hits her. She's brash. Sometimes too hot. Sometimes too cold. But she's my friend and I love her, warts and all.
I think some of that shone on my face when I got back to the door. The lovely lady looked at Megan's hand which was swatting invisible flies or something and saw her ring, then looked up at me and got a slight frown.
"Oh...no...she's got a wife...just friends..."
And like that, her smile returned. She showed me to the rooms she had and I gently placed Megan on top of a nice bed and tucked her in after removing her boots. I left the rest on and glared at the pooka who had entered the room, as if daring him to touch her. After giving me a nod, he shrank back in the corner and curled up for the night.
The innkeeper showed me my room and man did that bed look comfortable. Before I knew it, I staggered in past the threshold and started pulling my shirt off.
With it covering my face and over my arms like someone on the wrong end of a hockey fight I turned back and said.
"Thank you very much! This looks like exactly what I needed."
Before I could get the shirt off, I could feel a pair of soft hands slip around my waist, gently gliding over my hips and around to where their warmth met my abs just briefly and slid down to the belt at my waist. I could feel the belt being loosened.
"Are you sure a bed is all you needed?"
-
Sidenote: Thanks to everyone who is reading and enjoying this crazy ride. We'll get to London eventually.
-
First things first.
I had to run.
It had been a long fuckin' drive. Real long. From Cardiff through Wrexham and somehow up through Gretna Green and then the Highlands and back down through Galloway to Portpatrick, then over the ferry to Belfast and down to Dublin and that was all in basically one fucking day, or maybe it was two. Felt like a few weeks. In either case, it'd been a long god-damn drive and the only exercise I'd had was when I murdered Sean Connery (before Red's weird fictional girlfriend fixed him up). I needed to get shit GOING.
Normally my exercise routine is pretty brutal. I like to run for a bunch of miles, in long ground-eating strides. Then I come back to Rox Manor and I fuckin' hit it in our basement gym — arms and legs, a set of curls, a set of tricep pushdowns, and then grab the bar and squat 40-20-30 and do it over again. I hit that a couple times through, then go in the sauna I made Gemma put down there even though she complained about having Finnish shit in her house. In there, I'll do a couple calf raises, then back out and hop on a treadmill at 15 — that's the highest fuckin' incline it can have while goin' fast. And I keep mixin' it up like that. Short wind sprints. Lateral crunches. Skywalker situps with my legs hung over the chin-up bar. Fuckin' medicine ball and kettlebells like a 1920s strongman. Back to the sauna, out to the pool, back to the machines. I do what I gotta.
So I can't go for the crazy fuckin' run and I've gotta take it a little easier on the treadmill - but I walk my ass into Raw Gym in Dublin and buy the fanciest membership they have, and a headband and a sports bra and one of those wicking fabric tee shirts and running shorts (all in black, natch) since I didn't bring gym gear with me 'cuz fuck it I packed in like 3 seconds. I borrowed a pair of scissors to get rid of the sleeves and lower half of the shirt, as is my wont, and since I don't wear unbranded shit I borrowed some girl's nail polish and wrote PSYCHOPATHIC BRUTALIST on the front in drippy red. Looked good. I always loved that nickname. Gems gave me that one.
Anyway, I went through my circuit, doing all the shit that didn't make my braced knee scream too much. But I could FEEL it shifting. I could feel that cadaver tendon learning what it meant to be in a crazy bitch's leg. Welcome to the party, you fuckin' corpse chunk. You're gonna do shit my way or I'll rip you back outta my leg myself. By the time I was done my leg was trembling and I was dripping sweat and soaked in endorphins and grinning like a god-damn lunatic, so I took a shower, threw my new gym clothes on the locker room floor, and got dressed again, leaving my membership card on the desk when I left since I don't go to fuckin' Dublin much. Kept the tote bag, though.
Now for breakfast for Reddy.
It was actually easier to find a sausage that'd be familiar to a Southern boy in Ireland that it would be in England. And way easier than it would be anywhere in the continental part of Europe. The Irish like to make their sausages with rusk and a little egg binder and a fair amount of spices, so the texture is familiar to someone who came up on Waffle House's sausage links. The trick was to find a butcher who'd make some skinny links up with sage and marjoram since those were the favors prevalent in American breakfast sausage, but no white pepper, nutmeg or ginger, which were the more popular spices in the UK's bangers. A lot of people don't know that. And even more people don't expect to learn that helpful culinary fact in a story ostensibly about wrestling.
I eventually found a likely lad with a crisp white apron and a straw boater over near Smock Alley who made me out a chain of very passable American-lookin' sausages. And then at a little Aldi I was able to get a box of American-style pancake mix from the international section (they called it "Aunt Maple's Pancakes and Waffles Mix", which struck me as kind of offensive but I couldn't really figure out why it would), and a dozen eggs. I even found a can of frozen orange juice, and I didn't feel like making hash browns so I stopped at the Boxty House on the way back to the B&B and got a great big takeaway carton of 'em.
And then a quick stop at a bakery for a small soda bread I wanted for somethin' other'n breakfast, and I popped into the first curio shop I could find to get a souvenir I thought I might need. They had what I was looking for. They were common enough knick-knacks here in the auld country.
So when I got back to the little bed and breakfast, my limp was way more pronounced after that workout and walking a fucking Family Circus dotted line all over Dublin so that I was rolling like a fuckin' pirate. I swaggered in the door with my parcels of groceries and whatnot, and wasn't entirely surprised to see a buxom and sexily disheveled redhead in a green housedress that artfully managed to show the whole length of delicately freckled milky thigh AND an astonishingly deep valley of cleavage lounging at the kitchen table, speaking in some musical language that sounded a trifle older than Gaelic to the pooka who was at her feet and laughing as I came in. I was kinda expecting someone like her - like a mix of Bren Rua and Brigitte Bardot - and I still stopped cold for a second and felt my pierced nipples stir to attention. The sight of her must've hit Reddy like a hod of fucking bricks hitting Tim Finnegan. No wonder he was still in bed if he spent the night tangled up with her. But I shook it off as she tilted big green eyes the shade of a hidden glen up at me, and smiled a smile so warm I could feel it like sun on my skin.
"Welcome, my merry wanderer, to the White Hart, where-"
"Yeah, yeah, I've read it. Thanks f'r not takin' us through Wendel's Door while we were sleeping. I got some groceries since Reddy doesn't like liver an' crustcrumbs as much as me. He's a picky boy, but what can ya do. I dunno how he can turn his nose up at livers and kidneys when I've seen him eat those Big John's pickled sausages from the huge jars." You had to keep talking to keep this type distracted. Both the girl and the pooka were staring curiously at me, with their heads almost identically tilted as I gestured with both hands, grocery bags swinging from my arms. "An' he'll actually eat pimento cheese - like the real fuckin' gloppy stuff - but show the boy an honest gizzard and he gets all squidgy, fuck, I dunno. At least he has good taste in some things," I grinned winningly at the redhead, who managed an alluring smile after re-composing her face from the kind of blank stares I get when my motormouth gets in gear. I set the grocery bags I was toting down as I continued. "But I've still gotta keep an eye on him, y'know how it is, let a masked man wander and ya never know WHERE he'll end up, amirite. Here, put these groceries away? Like one time, we were in Columbus, right, and doin' a weekend stretch and he was booked in a cage match for Saturday, so I told him he oughtta get ready for it so I got him to come down to these batting cages with me at the putt-putt-" I kept rambling as I reached into a bag and passed over the small loaf of soda bread, the green eyes of the fae innkeeper glazing again - and as she took hold of the powdery rustic crust of the small round loaf, I grinned big.
I squeezed, and twisted my wrist, and there was a rich crackle and the smell of fine soft bread - and we were each left holding a torn half of the small loaf. The pooka's doggy mouth dropped open and I stepped immediately up to the redhead, dipping my free hand down into the tote bag and coming up with what I'd bought from the curio shop.
"Looks like we've broken bread under yer roof, sugartits. That means the Seelie Court'll take it real personal if you pull any wicked shit on me, bein' under guestright and all." My right hand came up, holding an old battered iron horseshoe that made the pooka yelp and scamper away. The redhead tried to back away, but I slammed the horseshoe down, pressing it to her wrist, pinning it to the table. There was a faint hiss like water pattering on a hot pan, and she growled, a deep and throaty snarl of a sound with harmonics in it that sounded nothing like her sultry broguish purr from earlier, and tried to pull away - but the cold iron weighed on her like a fuckin' anvil, just like I'd hoped.
"An' THIS is to make sure you tell me the fuckin' truth. My Pop's Da might've been an old nutter who talked to a potato by the time I met him, but he had some shit right."
I took an almost casual bite of the torn half-loaf of soda bread still in my left hand. It was real fuckin' good. Needed butter though. I leaned down, nose to nose with the innkeeper - and with the touch of cold iron on her, the glamour fell away, and showed her for what she was. If anything, she was even more beautiful than her seeming - it was just an unearthly beauty. Great huge eyes like pools in a dark place, luminous hair the dancing colors of a summer fire, angular features that made her seem elfin or alien, and skin like pale softwood, etched with glowing swirls of faint blue. She was taller, more slender, more graceful, with extra joints in her long fingers. "You had better tits as a human," I smirked. Then my gaze sharpened and I leaned closer.
"That man upstairs is my best friend. He's a sweet, gentle, clever fuckin' GENUINE man in a world where that shit is as rare as hen's teeth and fuckin' five star Randy Orton matches," I snarled. I dropped the bread, wrapping my tattooed fingers around her slim neck and cranking her chin up to stare into those big star-dappled eyes. "I love him better'n almost fuckin' anyone I know, an' if you're plannin' to pull ANY shit on him, I'm gonna crack your skull open an' go buy a white wool mob cap so I c'n fuckin' dye it red, get me? So you tell me fuckin' true, you cobwebby tart - do you intend any harm of any kind b'tween heaven and hell to ***** *******?"
I used Reddy's real name. Didn't want her getting fuckin' tricky on me.
She stared with as much pride as she could muster at me with my hand around her throat and cold iron pinning her hand, and she knew she could do me no harm after breaking bread with me. Must've dug at her, since a fae lady like her coulda tossed me through a brick wall if Sir Pratchett's accounting of the Fair Folk had it right. Finally she shook her head, as arrogantly as she could.
"We merely ... passed the time."
I smirked. The cold iron said she was tellin' the truth, as well as she could. That meant she wasn't intending to get a hold of his soul or turn him into a bird or make his feet grow to the size of cartwheels or any of the other shit the Fair Folk think is funny.
"Good. Reddy needed a nice roll in the hay. I hope you were as good a fuck as ya made yourself look, sugartits." Satisfied with taking the last word, I peeled the horseshoe off her wrist, leaving a little curve of angry bruise behind. Whatever. I'd put worse bruises on girls who'd tried to mess with Reddy. I hooked the shoe on my belt, though, just in case she got any funny ideas despite the breaking bread. Then I got on with making breakfast.
A bit later, Red came down, trying not to look immensely satisfied, and I had the table set with pancakes, butter, honey, fried sausage links, and eggs scrambled with milk and shredded Irish cheddar. There was coffee, tea, and orange juice - and I was about ready to eat again after that workout, so that worked out. Our hostess was back in her human glamour, all ample freckled tits and dimpled smiles, and the pooka was keeping a carefully respectful distance from both me and Reddy, sitting like a good boy.
"Mornin', sleepyhead," I chuckled, nudging him towards the table and sitting him down. I took a seat nearby as the innkeeper purred in his ear and made his cheeks color up and helped serve him, and made myself a plate. As the redhead sat nearby, and Reddy tucked into his pancakes, I stabbed a sausage with a fork and held it up consideringly.
"I got a chance for a little girl talk with our hostess this mornin'," I said with so much nonchalance that the sentence almost tipped over. I heard the clatter of Reddy's fork dropping in momentary panic as the innkeeper looked steadily and intently out the window and away from us.
"She seems nice," I grinned, and casually started on my second breakfast.
-
I must be getting old.
Time was, I could go out and go Broadway for 60 minutes at a show in the main event and leave the crowd happy and head to the hotel and spend the night with an appreciative fan and still be fresh the next day. This morning, I didn't think anything was gonna get me outta bed. Between whatever the hell happened in the Nevernever that got us here and the innkeeper.
The innkeeper. I don't think it's too far a stretch to imagine she's fae. No one could have skin so soft, flesh so tender, smell so sweetly and just be so warm when pressed against you while feeling like a new sensation and yet very very familiar. It was almost as if she were shifting her form in response to my reactions. Which, come to think of it, she probably did. All I know is after hours and hours of.....well, I'm content to be near comatose.
And then the smell hit me. There's few things in this world that can seep into my consciousness and penetrate my brain when I'm tired. Sound? Good luck with something less than the decibel level of an airplane on final descent. Well unless you have somehow copied the voice of my mother or father. Touch? Yeah, shaking me doesn't do much good either. But the smell of delicious sausages frying up and sizzling in a pan gets me on several levels. After exercise of the sort I got up to last night, my hunger for food increases exponentially. Smell also serves as a pointer to memory locations of all sorts. My mom just loved making sausage for me in the morning. I think because they were an easy American food to adapt too and she just loved frying pretty much everything. My dad would at times take me out for breakfast at the local fast food joint and not even (insert fast food chain here) could mess up sausage biscuits.
Now this is to say that I did not bolt upright like the Undertaker. I still had to slowly rise and work out the kinks and all. And where I am in my life, with the abuse I've heaped up on my body, I sounded like a breakfast cereal myself. You know, the kind that goes Snap, Crackle, Pop. I slowly get to where I'm seated on the edge of the bed that's pretty durable considering what we put it through last night.
I'm naked. I don't usually sleep naked. I must have been really tired. So usually this doesn't phase me. My jaw drops down and a loan groaning rush of air is sucked in to my body as my back arches and my arms extend out and my eyes shut and I let out a deep yawn. I wipe my eyes again and look about.
No clothes.
My clothes are missing.
Well fuck.
Surely they have to be somewhere around here. I get off the bed and start looking. Nothing in any of the dresser drawers. Nothing out on the table or chairs.
There's nothing around for me to wear. And don't call me Shirley.
Yeah I often joke to myself inside my own head. Usually to keep myself from freaking totally out. The fae. This is part of their mischief. No physical harm. And in fact if I were a little more DGAF about things, no emotional harm either. Except. Megan. Despite all the times we shared the road and she toyed and teased me by letting me see flashes of things here and there, I've never ever been completely naked in front of Megan. If this were just me, the pooka and the fae, no problem, I'm having naked breakfast. But I know for damn sure the reason there's sausage cooking down there is completely Megan.
Fuck.
Time to explore. I take my gran's shillelagh in my hand just in case and I go in the hall of the second floor and look about. I peek in Megan's room just to check, but of course my stuff isn't there. There are doors that are locked. One's a bathroom and there's not even any towels. Fuck a duck. I grasp the handle of one door and Bess starts feeling warm. The door is locked. Probably best if I leave it that way. Finally there's what looks to be the master bedroom at the end of the hall. Great. Sure enough, it's her room. And no, my clothes aren't here. I let out a big sigh. However in one of the chairs is laid out a red tartan flannel nightrobe. I move over to it and Bess...glows. Hmmm. I approach slowly and touch the robe. It's actually softer than I expected for flannel. And as I stroke it, gran's cane shines a bit. Like it's meeting a familiar friend. Not sure what that means, but it doesn't seem harmful. I still pause a moment. Accepting gifts from the fae can be tricky. I'm not sure what my status is here or would be seen as from the Seelie Court should things go sideways. And when you've led the type of life I have, you expect everything to go sideways. I take Bess and point her nobby head forward, poking the robe and there's a big flash of light and then things settle down. Bess is...humming in my hand?
"Is this...something from the ******** clan?" I mentioned my gran's family name and Bess glowed in a warm way. Fair enough. I take the robe and put it on and it felt even better on my naked body. I wrapped myself up in it and it fit perfectly. I exited the innkeeper's room and headed down the stairs. I probably had a bit of a goofy grin on my face as I surveyed the lavish spread in front of me.
Megan gets me. She really does. And she likes for me to be happy. I probably should tell her about me and the innkeeper before she goes and gets all pitbull level of protective about me. I mean, I'm a grown ass man over a decade plus older than her and she still treats me like her little brother. This one time I was approached by this gal on the circuit who I had seen on the road over some years but never really interacted with. She was charming and I figured sure, this can't be bad. It turns out this person was looking to improve her standing on the circuit and had set up a match with me on down the line figuring that a win over me would really boost her stock. All that is fine and fair play in the wrestling world. Thing is, she decided she wanted to have an advantage on me. So she came onto me to try to get me to not be as sharp in the ring as I usually am. Megan caught word of this girl trying to use me like that. Let's just say that she didn't make it to our scheduled fight. The sad thing is, if the girl had just come to me honestly and let me know what was going on with her, I would've had a fun, competitive match with her and done the job. At this point in my career, I'm not going to be the main event. I'm closer to the end than the beginning of my time in the ring. It's that phase where I do what I can to push the younger group of wrestlers forward and help them out in their careers much like the men who shaped my style and knowledge did for me.
Megan loves me. Completely. She's as loyal as they come. That can cause conflict between us at times when I end up taking bookings in more sketchier locations. I'm a pretty open book and I take matches as they come. But every once in a while, I'll end up taking on someone Megan has had issues with. I keep telling her to give me a list of people I should avoid like Low Ki (oh man, I dunno what that asshole did, but yeah, we never speak of him) or El Mal Aliento (she cringes when this guy's name pops up, not sure why. I took him on once when I wasn't at my best, severe head cold. Could barely breathe with my nose so stopped up, but I still put him down) or others but she once jokingly told me "I ran out of space. Text files can only be so big" And apparently on this trip there's another name to add to that list. Anyways...
All this lets me know I need to come clean with what happened last night. I don't think Megan would care, but you know it is me and a fae. So, could be a big deal.
"Mornin', sleepyhead," she tells me with a little lilting laugh and a grin that makes my heart feel warm as she urges me towards the grand feast before us. I get settled and this is one of those Megan things. We have to alternate pulling out the chair. It's Southern manners that I pull the chair out for a woman I'm eatling with and help her get settled. I started to do it the first time for Megan and she looked at me crosswise.
"I can pull out my own chair" she said with a bit of a growl.
To be fair, this was in the 90s and people were still feeling their way through changing societal norms. Of course I think we're still doing that to this day, but I digress. That sparked our first conversation about how I was raised and how she wanted to be treated. Of course she wants to be seen as an equal, stand on her own two feet and such. But by the same token, it's part of my nature to show respect by having a core set of manners. Once she realized my intent wasn't to dominate over her and be all patriarchal, but to show her and other women that sometimes men just wanna do nice things for them, we came to an agreement. And honestly I wish more people would just take a moment to take a breath and just talk out differences and find middle ground on things instead of polarizing into extreme positions, but I digress again. So over a toast of whatever draft she had and a Dr. Pepper, we decided to alternate who pulled out the chair for whom. Yeah we get odd looks here and there, but I think for some people, we're making a larger point. Small victories can add up.
So this time, since I did the honors at Nando's, she kindly held the chair for me. As she left, the innkeeper came by my side. Soft lips on my earlobe, that familiar wash of hot breath over my pale flesh, a hint of desire still in her voice that gave me pause. "Your clothes have been washed. They'll be ready for you when you're done eating. In my room. You know the way."
I blushed pretty hard there. And I was very glad that I was seated so the only thing that could be seen is how pink my cheeks got. I didn't move right away after and the innkeeper laughed just a bit at me and fixed me up a plate before I finally recovered my composure. I got my pancakes buttered and stacked and cut up and properly syruped when Megan finally decided to chat.
"I got a chance for a little girl talk with our hostess this mornin'," she siad and my fork just jumped out of my hand. Fuck. I fucked up.
"She seems nice," she said and grinned. I felt myself ease up and breathe again hearing that. Awesome. She approves. Looks like we're gonna get out of this without there being a scene.
"Why thank you so much. It has been a..pleasure having you in my home" out hostess said cutting her eyes once at Megan before the pause and staring at me with that sweet smile as she drew out the word pleasure.
Fixing me with that look that made me blush again, she continued, "But I am curious. Who is this Rowan person? You kept saying her name many times last night?"
PTHBBTBBTBTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT
-
Buys a Ticket for the show at the door and proceeds to make my way to my seat in the second row..
-
Wonders how long it will take Hawk to realize the Arena is empty....
-
Glances at Becca and chuckles. softly..."perhaps you should ask Eva that ...Becca..She beat us both here.. I think I see her sleeping in the front row.."
-
After spitting out a healthy misting spray of coffee over the table like I was Tajiri trying to get a job as a barista, there was one of those awkward silences that seems to drag on.
This one seemed to drag on for at LEAST a month and a half.
Finally I took a deep steadying breath and neatly napkined some of the coffee off the table, drained the rest of my cup, took one last bite of sausage and neatly set my fork and knife down, and then calmly and reasonably lunged across the table to murder Red with my bare hands.
Reddy was caught a little off guard since he'd been sitting there staring blankly in mortal horror for 3 fortnights, but fortunately the pooka caught the way the wind was blowing (south by southwest with a strong chance of murder) and lunged up, snapping his teeth neatly on the back of my jeans and stopping me just shy of Reddy, leaving my hands clawing at the air just in front of his face. "YOU KNOW THE FUCKING RULE ABOUT THAT FUCKING NAME, REDDY! ONE RULE! I NEVER MAKE RULES AND I HAD THAT ONE FOR THIS TRIP!"
He looked at me that way he does that reminds me of a hound dog, a combination of world-weary and knowing and comforting, and said the only thing that would've possibly worked to calm me down.
"I'm sorry, darlin'."
Listen, I've been begged for mercy plenty of times. I've heard "Please, don't!" in seventeen languages (sometimes all in one match if I'm wrestling a polyglot like Generico), and "Somebody stop her!" in a half-dozen more. My favorite is the musical "Omnye ummise!" I heard it in Capetown when Amagqirha Sandile Aah! Noloyiso was trying to get me to let go of the heel hook I had her in. Even with the ragged pain making her voice kind of raspy, the phrase had a wonderful beauty to it.
But I didn't let go.
I don't stop horrible violence just because someone is asking me to.
Apologies from Reddy, however ...
... they stop me fuckin' cold.
I huffed and puffed and then gave up and sagged back down, irritably swatting the pooka away. Damn thing was lucky it had managed not to bite the horseshoe on my belt which would've caused it searing pain from the cold iron AND had managed not to bite my butt which would've caused it swift vicious death at my hands. But luck was what pookas were best at.
I flopped back in the chair, glowering at my pancakes like they'd wrong me, and then ate them in a few huge bites just in case they had. That'll show the fuckers. The fae who was our hostess looked awkwardly between us.
There was another one of those silences as the pooka drank a bowl of beer in slow laps, Reddy stolidly ate his sausages with pink cheeks, and I gnawed my pancakes to death. The redhead fairy at last cleared her throat.
"So she's not a tree, then?"
My eyes lit up like jack-o-lanterns.
"A tree? Naw. Look, darlin' - Reddy pines for her, but he's tryin' to turn over a new leaf."
"Megan. Please stop."
The pain in his voice was almost as intense as Amagqirha Sandile Aah! Noloyiso's, although less frantic.
The fae winced, the pooka shying away. The Fair Folk hate puns. I dunno why. They're fuckin' hilarious.
"But she's all bark and no bite. Besides, I kicked her ash, oak-ay."
"oh god stop" Reddy's voice was Stuart Little-sized.
I grinned.
And I didn't stop.
"I sapped the taste out of that beech's mouth, and yet Reddy still wants to commit adul-tree with her."
"... the pain."
It was a lovely breakfast.
...
Eventually the pain receded and we ate the food and took advantage of the hospitality of the faerie chick by not doing any dishes and also taking most of her beer in the car. The pooka gave us a fond farewell that rambled on for like half an hour (they're a grandiose breed), and also blessed the car with the Umar deiridh de leann lasracha by way of saying thank you. That was nice. It meant we wouldn't have to stop for gas. Of course, accepting a fae's mystic blessing on a tangible object also meant we were immediately excommunicated, but that had already happened to me way back when I wrestled a one-night only show in Vatican City. Sure, your Holiness, it was "for charity" and "all in fun" and there was "no call to break Sister Margaret's back" but you put me in the ring with some fuckin' hardbody nun who keeps goin' after my neck and cramming my head under her habit and settin' me up for piledrivers, yer damn right I'm gonna snap her in the Dollbreaker when I get her up there, no matter how many saints she cries to for help.
Anyway, we headed to Liverpool. Pretty easy trip out of Dublin. We passed the time with a game of "I Am Booking A Show" as we watched the blue sea roll away in churns of milk white foam behind us.
"Okay, I Am Booking a Show, and I'm booking Allison Danger, Becky Lynch, Charlie Haas ... ahhh ... Delirious, Edge, Fit Finlay, Gangrel ... fuuuuck who was it ..."
"Ha! Point for-"
"... HAKUSHI, I REMEMBERED FUCK YOU, Ian Rotten for some terrible reason, Jack Evans, Kane, LuFisto, Mercedes Martinez, and I get N ... N ... "
"Oh, there's so many. Come on."
"SHUT UP I'M THINKING OF A GOOD ONE, DILLFACE ... AH! HA!" I grinned so smugly that the gleam off my teeth probably confused distant boat captains. "The Nacho Man."
"Bullshit! HE is NOT a wrestler! That was a lame joke from a bad era!"
"Yep. BUT he had a match against the Huckster on the Free-For-All before WrestleMania XII. SUCK IT."
"Gawd, darlin', you got a twisted mind. Ugh. Fine. I Am Booking A Show and I'm booking Allison Danger, Becky Lynch - yum, Charlie Haas ..."
That passed the time and we eventually made our way to Liverpool. We'd pulled the car out and gotten onto Water Street, and then I basically burned rubber up Castle Street to Cook Street and down John Street to get us straight to the Cavern Club, because OBVIOUSLY we were gonna go to the Cavern Club. I might live my life to the beat of Black Flag and the Ramones and sing Tori Amos in the shower, but fuckin' everyone loves the Beatles. People who say they don't like the Beatles are lying fuckin' trashmouths trying to sound iconoclastic as if it makes you a better person to not understand people's fondness for the most comprehensively appealing band of the 20th century, and if you disagree feel free to talk to me about it so I can beat out "Eleanor Rigby" on your fuckin' forebrain with two crowbars.
So we went in after fondly touching the shoes of the John Lennon statue like penitents brushing the icon of Ganesh, and realized we'd walked into a real scene.
Let me explain real quick. REAL quick, because we have to do a musical montage of running away shortly here.
FTW had been the first real national exposure for most of us in it, and it had been a cult favorite. Like, a BIG-TIME cult favorite. We had ECW-level obsessives but instead of being a bunch of toothless yobs like the Rottens and mutants like Sabu and the Sandman, we were a bunch of super hot chicks who were bad-ass wrestlers. And Reddy. Who had a level of sex appeal I'd never quite understood but certainly couldn't deny. Something about the mask, I think.
Anyway, we had fans. Don't get me wrong, we all had big fanbases - that's one reason FTW worked so well, but these were SPECIAL fans bred after we went national. Obsessive, devoted, horny fans who wrote slashfics and match specs for us and followed us around like we were the Grateful Dead. Even years after FTW dissolved, they followed its former members around. I'd heard two girls had even waiting in the parking lot outside the Days Inn where Sadie was defending her Northeast Alabama Regional Apartment Wrestling championship thong, hoping to get her to sign a tattered garter belt they'd taken from a Motel 6 after a previous title defense.
They were a fanbase as diverse and perverted as Harry Potter's, but running a little older. They had lots of different names, but just called them the Swarm.
And the Cavern Club was hosting a meeting of them in preparation for the O2 Supershow, since at least 7 FTW alums were gonna be there.
Reddy had the mask on. I'd said in the car he should wear it in so we could try to get free drinks in case the bartender watched wrestling, or maybe we could put it on the bust of Ringo Starr.
So there was a purple haired tattooed chick and a tall man in a Red Enforcer mask walking into the Cavern Club.
Eighty eyes snapped onto us as if riveted there.
"Aw ... fucknuts."
They shuffled forward one step, all in unison, hands extending. Reddy and I backed up in sync.
"Reddy, I got a knee brace on, I can't sprint all the way to the fuckin' ferry."
"I don't think the Irish Sea is gonna be enough to keep them off anyway, Meg."
"Hell. Here they come."
They sniffed the air one last time, scenting it like rats smelling blood - and charged.
"CUE THE MUSIC!" I howled as we turned and sprinted out the heavy doors. We'd have to be CRAFTY to get away from this bunch. As crafty as a really fab band trying to get away from a legion of fanatics in British schoolgirl uniforms.
And for that, we'd need -
Help! I need somebody
Help! Not just anybody
Help! You know I need someone
Help!
We dashed down the street, pursued by a mob in Rowan Chance and Staten Island Stomper and Platinum Queen and surprisingly convincing Monstro cosplays, leaping an alley fence in such a way that we were dramatically framed against the sky for a moment.
(When) When I was younger (When I was young) so much younger than today
(I never need) I never needed anybody's help in any way
The mob of wrestling enthusiasts dashed past a pair of bobbies giving a lost Japanese tour group directions to Albert Dock just outside the Slug and Lettuce, their helmeted heads ducked down behind a gatefold map. As the mob rampaged past, the bobbies lifted their heads, revealing Red Enforcer and Punky under the tall silly helmets. British constable helmets are silly. They are. Google a picture of them, right now.
RIGHT?
(Now) But now these days are gone (These days are gone) and I'm not so self assured
(And now I find) Now I find I've changed my mind, I've opened up the doors
The rampaging Swarm ran past the Sweeting Street sign in a flurry of Lisa Starr Chi-town pennants and SAFE-Team 8x10s, looking wildly around for our heroes as a couple of window washers in white coveralls and deal caps idly scrubbed the glass of the Tune Hotel, up on their hanging platform. They both turn to peer down at the raucous mob of wrestling fanatics below - and then the hotel window opens and Red and Punky yank the window washers into the room, before mounting the platform and riding it to the roof as the fans roar down below.
Help me if you can, I'm feeling down
And I do appreciate you being 'round
Reddy and Punky emerge from the roof stairs into the hotel's top floor hallway, just as the Swarm emerges from the hotel stairs at the other end of the hall. After a beat, the fans charge as Reddy and Punky nod - and each open room doors facing each other and disappear into them!
Help me get my feet back on the ground
Won't you please, please help-
*record scratch*
*saxophone cues*
(Play for maximum effect: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZnHmskwqCCQ)
The mob splits into two, each piling into the doors Red and Punky went into, only for the two to emerge from the same door, three doors down. The mob comes chasing out after them as they run across the hall into another room. Doors swing open and closed as the chase continues.
At one point Punky is chasing Scooby Doo and Shaggy.
Red is pursued by a man in a gorilla suit.
The Swarm is chased by a pair of bobbies and then chase Red with pitchforks only to find Punky in the middle of the hallway, holding up a Stop sign and dressed as a traffic warden, waving them to the left.
The gorilla chases a bunch of girls in their underwear, who are chasing Red, and being chased in turn by Punky.
Callista Quinn opens a door at the end of the hall, peers out and rolls her eyes before closing the door definitively.
... and then I remembered horrible violence and took a fire axe and chased the whole buncha nerds into the stairwell with it, then barred the door with it while Red and I took the elevator down an' caught a cab back to our car, and got the hell outta there.
We had a lotta England to get through, after all.
-
Brushes the cobwebs off the motionless Hawk... I'm hoping that smell isn't what I think it is...
-
(Apologies to all faithful readers of this for the delay. Real life struck hard.)
*Freeze on image of Punky and I speeding off in our car after one of the most Oscar worthy chase scenes since The French Connection. To paraphrase the master of Shaq Fu, Google it.*
I know what you're thinking. I'm supposed to pick up the story right here. But there's just so much to unpack from my perspective you know? Besides, shows love to flashback, flash forward, flash sideways, and generally mess with the concept of Time so badly that you can never define what the rules are. Anyways, the chance to take a moment and do an homage to the Bellasario TV shows I grew up on, specifically Magnum, PI (which is being rebooted...yay!) as well as shoehorn in many more strange and colorful pop culture references will not be missed by me. Apologies to the time it took me to write this, I'm still in a weird place since Infinity War. (NO SPOILERS, Just watch the damn thing already!)
So where was I? Oh yeah, let's back this up to Megan nearly killing me. Yeah, that's kinda vague I know, but specifically the breakfast scene.
*rewind cut back to the moment where Punky is lunging for me hands clawing like a madwoman with only the pooka pulling on her jeans stopping her from homicide*
Damn, even crazed like that, Megan has such a fine ass. And how her back shows just a bit of a dimple over...oh..yeah..back to the story...
Ahem.
My default is to apologize. Folks that know me know I can quick draw an apology faster than the Lone Ranger could draw his six shooter. Just because I am quick to apologize doesn't mean I don't mean it. And that's one of the best parts of my friendship with Megan. She knows me. She can read me like a kid's book. I don't know why I kept thinking of Rowan while having some seriously mind-expanding, senses blowing, intense, almost supernatural sex....Oh, yeah..nevermind. I do know. But I didn't think the Fae would just drop that outta nowhere. Even though it was accidental, I felt bad because I hurt Megan. And that always shows.
I think that's why I'm still here to tell this tale and not some ghost writer. Puns, I got 'em too.
But even though I did break the one rule of this trip, no one...not even your worst..ok well maybe your worst enemy if they knew the location to a weapon that would wipe out a city and needed to be interrogated...but most people do not deserve the pun-ishment that came out of Punky's mouth next.
You know you've gone too far when Piers fucking Anthony pops his head up from his latest Xanth manuscript and says "Ok, you've punned too far." Megan when she's angry, silly, happy, drunk, hell pretty much breathing, will assault you with a metric shit ton of puns. I've seen her in a mixed tag we did against Monstro and the Blue Fairy put Monstro down on his knees hands covering his ears begging her to stop with the puns. Trust me, do not push her to that point.
Anyways...lemme skip ahead here...oh..back to the car. The chase was excellent enough to stand on its own. We couldn't get Richard Lester to direct it, but I think the woman we got was pretty good.
"That was insane."
"You think our fans would be anything less than crazy?"
"Good Point. Hell I don't remember something this crazy since...The Crazy Horse."
"You enjoyed that as much as I did Reddy. Admit it."
"Just now or the Crazy Horse?"
"Both."
And to be perfectly honest, I did enjoy it. Madcap shenaxxxxns are just part of the deal when you're friends with someone like Megan. You never know what insane thing is gonna happen next to you. Best thing to do is just buckle up and ride the wave. Despite all the craziness, there's no one else around here I'd rather have at my back or by my side than her. Of course, she is the reason I get into the weirdness to begin with...sooooo...where were we?
Oh yeah, the Crazy Horse. Now that's a story. One long ass story. I'll try to tell it in this space here, but I make no promises about getting through it. Although I guess y'all do deserve a big reward for sticking with us this long in the story.
First off, the Crazy Horse we're talking about isn't there anymore. I think it's called Thee Dollhouse or some such now. But in its heyday, the Crazy Horse in Myrtle Beach was one of the best places to go for...adult entertainment. Ric Flair approves. There are all kinds of stories about him going there when he was in the area.
So during one of her excursions back to the Carolinas, (Megan liked to do the old school territory hopping. Ostensibly to emulate wrestlers of the past who would go from territory to territory to keep themselves fresh as a special attraction, but I figure it was more of her hitting the road before she wore out her welcome. Some of the indy bookers during that time were sketchy, but even the best ones could get frayed nerves by her.) We got to talking about what we did before we got into wrestling.
"I'm sure people loved getting their groceries bagged by the tall masked guy."
"They didn't complain or else I'd clothesline them. *chuckling* Seriously though, that was just stuff in high school. "
"And computer stuff? What was it like working on an abacus back in the day?"
"Jeez, I'm not that old. Give me credit. It was punch cards."
I wasn't surprised at the blank look that got because it's a very niche joke. But the 2 or 3 older programmers out there are chuckling. Anyways, her reaction to that wasn't as strong as my reaction to what came up next.
"So how did you get the money to pay Scotty for training you? He's nice enough, but he always makes sure he gets his pay."
She took a long pull from her Coors Banquet. (She earned it. Won a triple threat even after both gals got together before the match and decided to go into business for themselves.) "I danced." She took another long pull from the beer.
"Wow, a dancer? I thought so. The way you move is fluid, but with precision. Grace and power. I was gonna ask if you were a gymnast or a dancer. So what type? Freestyle street or ballet?"
"Pole"
Head turns, sprays Dr. Pepper out in such volume it'd put a HHH entrance to shame. Sits up. Blinks.
"Had to pay the bills somehow Reddy. Although I do think my ass would look glorious in a tutu. And come to think of it, having a loaded toe wouldn't be a bad idea. Hey, you still with me? You act like this is the closest you've ever been to,,"
"It is."
"Wait you've never been to a strip club? You're. Oh my god. You're blushing! Your face is as red as your hair!"
After about 20 minutes of her trying to recover from laughing at me, she made the decision that she was going to pop my strip club cherry. We were working in Florence and Google Maps wasn't a thing yet, but I remembered some of the guys telling me about this club in the Myrtle Beach area that was amazing. So off towards the ocean we went and soon we were at the Crazy Horse.
Side note here. This was in May and in May there is the Memorial Day Holiday which is an insane time for tourists in that area. But there are also not one, but two biker rallies. I forgot what time of year it was but was soon reminded when I pulled into the parking lot and saw rows of Harley's.
I was about to protest, but Megan would not be denied. She wasn't about to lose the opportunity to see the big strong Enforcer look as awkward as an underclassman at Senior Prom. I'm sure she thought she was Iceman and I was Maverick going into the Danger Zone of the club, but to be honest, I really felt more like Goose at the moment. I rubbed my hands on the well strung, new pair of black sweatpants I was wearing wishing they were my lucky jeans so I'd at least feel comfortable. When I asked Megan why I had to wear these and not the jeans she just said, "Grinding on jeans is like - well, rub your lips back and forth against a pair of jeans and see how it feels after 15 minutes. "
Point for the Purple One.
We entered the building an it was a weird juxtaposition of sensory assaults. It was very dark in the front but massively bright at the stage area. And it was loud. The kinda loud that made your teeth rattle and bones feel like they'd break. I imagine they had to crank it up for the bikers to enjoy. And man were there a lot of them there. I admit, I was a bit nervous. Wearing a WCW Nitro shirt and black sweat pants amongst guys who made the Sons of Anarchy look like the Vienna Boys Choir.
But Megan was not to be stopped.
She scanned the room quickly, checking out the dancers on stage and the women mingling in the crowds. I could see her in full on analytical mode, scoping out people like she assessed opponents in the ring.
I had no idea what to look for. I was lost. It was a kinda funny experience. When she first got to the area, I had to show her around the small towns. Not as much as I'd expected. But then again I've always believed that country folk are everywhere, not just in the South. I guess you would say rural people, but I prefer country. In the ring some as well, I could see she had some of the basics down and just needed some experience and guidance here and there, but not for long as she absorbed lessons faster than my Auntie's biscuits sopped up gravy on Sundays. But in this place, I was the fish out of water and she was the shark. She knew exactly what she was looking for too.
"So what exactly are we looking for?"
"So what you're looking for is gonna be a girl who's understanding.
You don't want someone TOO hot. She'll be in too high demand.
Same with anyone too exotic.
But not a pure girl-next-door either. They're just as popular as the ludicrously hot ones.
We'll want either a slightly older girl who's been in the game a while, or a younger and more enthusiastic one who's maybe shorter and curvier than the other girls.
Someone who can be soft."
"Soft?"
"Soft. We want you to enjoy your first time, Reddy. So...hmmm..I'm thinking an older girl. An older girl is more likely to be willing to agree to not try to upsell you or get you cadged for drinks as long as I give her a good bit of bread up front.
Plus she'd know how to control herself better to not get you uncomfortably excited. There's an art to that. Of course a younger girl who's not in demand would agree to the same things as well. I guess....hmmm..there we go...Tell you what Reddy, sit down here, don't say a word to anyone. I'll be right back."
"But..."
"Not one word. Don't touch anything. You're Persephone here and I don't want Hades getting his claws sunk in on you. Understood? Nod like a good boy. There you go."
I dutifully took my seat and she melted into the shadows of the club. The lighting was so weird. Everything around the stage was brilliant, almost too bright and everything else seemed too dark. I did my best impression of a chair when some people passed by asking if I wanted a drink or a dance or what not. They didn't go wanting as the bikers scooped up pretty much any woman that came there way.
Soon though, Megan came back with two women in tow.
On her left was a darker haired woman. Reddish-brown I'd later find out with kind brown eyes. She seemed a little older than most of the other dancers, but unlike many, when she smiled, her smile found her eyes. And yes, that's what I first noticed believe it or not. I did let my eyes trail down and check out her body. She had the club uniform on which was topless save for pasties (which I think still is the law in Myrtle) and some very short, very tight black shorts. Very little of the leg of the shorts made it down to mid thigh. She didn't look enhanced like some of the others, but her Cs were perky and I could tell she had a nice bottom on her as well.
On her right was a ball of energy. This gal couldn't have been more than five feet tall tops. She was a brunette with hazel eyes and had a great smile as well. She also just...bounced. You ever meet people that seem to be so happy and optimistic it feels like they're in constant motion? That was this girl. She was swinging Megan's arm back and forth as she walked to me and she made extra sure that her hips would just nudge Megan's a little at just the right time. She definitely was younger than the other and was curvy in all the right places. Her shorts couldn't have been any tighter and she looked to have a bit more in the chest area and knew how to work it.
"So this is your friend? He's kinda cute." That was the younger one and she flashed me a big smile and made a show of looking me up and down.
"He is, but don't let the looks fool you. He's a beast."
"Meg..."
"I'm pretty sure I'd love to tame him." said the other one before I could say anything more. I looked at her and, I dunno, the way she looked at me convinced me that she really did want to play with me. I felt very warm all of a sudden.
"Now lookit that. He's as red as his hair now. C'mon Reddy, decision time. Do you want Candy here or Auburn?"
Candy was the younger and batted doe eyes at me. Auburn, the older one, just kept that look of real interest on her face and a slight smile. I couldn't speak so I just kinda nodded over at........
"Reddy? Reddy? You still with me?"
SMACK
I blinked after feeling my cheek get slapped hard. Strong Style. And the memories of the club went away and Megan was sitting beside me and driving along after out big chase.
"Yer lucky I'm sideways of you or I'd've put more into that one. Where'd you go?"
"Oh I was just remembering."
"Well you were taking too long to get to a point so you'll just have to finish up that memory later. We've got more stories to tell and people are waiting on us and this is just way too long as it is now."
"So my part's to be continued?"
"Yes to be continued. That's a good Reddy."
-
As the bellhop exited the suite, I closed the door behind him, let the latch click shut, and then walked into the bedroom, stood at the foot of the large four poster bed, and then allowed myself to take a gentle back bump onto the plush mattress, my arms extending outwards as I revelled in the sensation. It might be a hotel bed, but it was a hotel bed in Kensington.
I was home.
Megan once observed that I never did the traveller thing of letting myself fall happily into bed, instead opting to unpack and set everything up first. She found it quite risible. I declined to tell her that I quite loved to do that, but when I was travelling with HER, doing that was a guarantee of an unpaid wrestling match of one sort or another because she took such as an invitation to jump on me, and I generally wasn't in the mood after a long drive.
This time, though, I luxuriated.
Understand, I've travelled the world. Wrestled on six continents, in forty-four countries, in front of what I conservatively estimate to be over a half of a million paying punters, but never in my life had I gone such a long stretch, nearly 3 years, since just after FTW disbanded, without being home.
One of my rules of the road is to never pay for a plane ticket. If I'm flying somewhere, then one way or another, it should be because a promoter is paying me an acceptable sum of money to come wrestle for them. It's a good rule, and I stuck to it, which was why it'd been such a long time since I'd been home.
Funny thing, that. I'd done a quick tour of Britain and Ireland after FTW's premature demise, and it had gone quite well, I thought. My time in the fledgeling promotion, especially as its sole champion, had raised my profile and status. Crowds seemed into me and my matches, payoffs were good, and the promoters seemed happy. I figured I could come back in six months or so and do the tour again, only when it came time to book dates, I couldn't seem to find a buyer. Calls to promoters went unanswered and unreturned. If I got a hold of someone, they said they had no room. I tried the bookers and got the same answer, except with one Dubliner lad who'd been given the book in Ireland. He sounded ecstatic, assured me he'd get it done, then ended up leaving a message saying "Sorry, not to be."
Suspicious, quite?
Well yes, but I'd been chasing down some other suspicions at this point, and I had some pretty strong indications that that particular fox hunt and this was going to turn up the same bitch.
That bitch's name was Gemma Rox.
I'm not entirely sure what methods she used. Simple payoffs? Carnal favours? Threats to unleash Megan on their locker rooms? In any event, every promoter on the British Isles decided not to book me.
So I didn't go home. I stayed on the road, building myself up. I started bringing the FTW championship with me, wrestling as FTW champion, even defending the belt, though only if the payoff was good enough. And all along, the British audience with its YouTube access and its hardcore fanbase, were positively rabid to see me. When the O2 show started coming together, I didn't have to sell myself. They called me.
Whatever pull Gemma had, she couldn't swing me off THIS card, so she did the next best thing: Made herself my opponent.
She always was a glutton for punishment.
Look I'll give Gemma every finger of her due: She's a fierce and tenacious fighter. She's schooled in multiple disciplines, cunning as an alley cat, (if half as hygenic,) and loath to ever quit, but we'd clashed on many many occasions, and the fact was that more often than not, I'd had her number. There's just some opponents you never do quite get a handle on. For Gemma...that's me.
And whether she meant to or not, her machinations had gotten me a PREMIUM deal on this card. My first match on home soil in years? At one of the largest wrestling venues in the country? And my first FTW title defence in England to boot? Oh yeah, the promoters paid for that plane ticket, and it was first class. Same as the suite I now lay in. The suite I was going to charge every single meal to over the course of my stay.
I was thinking about having one of those meals, when a commotion arose from outside. It sounded like a damned stampede. What was going on?
I pushed myself back to my feet, heading to the door and opening it before peering out into the hallway. The scene I saw outside beggared belief.
First, there was a hallway that was decidedly NOT the hallway I had walked through to get to this room in the first place. Second, I saw what appeared to be the Red Enforcer being chased by a coterie of young women in their underwear. Before I could fully process this, I observed that the women were being pursued by what looked to be a man in a gorilla suit. At this point, it was no longer surprising that whoever was in the gorilla costume was being chased by Punky Megan Dow.
She'd gotten herself in a musical montage of running away again, the kind that warps space and time and ultimately disproves the concept of a benevolent, loving God. Could that woman be ANY more of a cliche than she was?
I rolled my eyes, closing the door definitively, double-locking it to prevent any further interaction with the chase, and waiting for reality to reassert itself. I wanted some proper British seafood.
-
"DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE -"
For once, it wasn't fans of Broken Matt getting on my fucking nerves with that shit.
This was even worse. And I once worked an OMEGA show in a triple threat against Broken Queen Rebecca and Rosemary, and believe the fuck out of me, that's bad shit. I don't know what's in the water in Cameron, but it feeds the shit out of chanting idiots. A few thousand Carolinians all roaring about deletion over and over and over and over and over gets into your head like a fucking Black and Decker to the temple.
AND SOMEHOW THIS WAS WORSE.
"- DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE -"
"That's REALLY gettin' god-damn annoyin'," I snarled, hoisting and shouldering the extremely odd baseball bat I'd pulled off the rack inside the old bastard's phone booth. When I swung it there was a hum that sounded like it was coming up through my feet, and the curious sensation that I was swinging something HUGE, even though I was only really swinging a meter long length of gleaming silvery metal. When the bat struck the attacking robot's metal torso, it hit with a shockwave that visibly pulsed in the air, flapping my cheeks and blasting my purple hair back in a Conair stream, and sent the god-damn thing rocketing back over the shoppes. But more kept coming, marching in an endless clattering line across Saffron Road.
"- DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE -"
"Admittedly, they're not marvelous conversationalists. But it could be worse."
The lank man with the giant eyebrows that looked like they were trying to crawl off his forehead and escape to the seaside for a vacation was busily adjusting something inside his phone booth. His police box. Bigger on the inside, and whatnot. I'd actually run into the Doctor a couple of times before; once back in Germany when he was wearing a bowtie and had a forehead like a cliff in a Wile E. Coyote cartoon, and once in Nevada, when he had 3D glasses and looked like the villain in a Netflix serial. Reddy said he'd met him once in Poughkeepsie when he had a floppy hat and a long striped scarf. The guy had more faces than Mil Mascaras.
"HOW could it be worse?" Red growled. He had been roped into carrying a some sort of futuristic blast shield to cover the TARDIS door while Doctor fiddled with whatever the fuck he was fiddling with.
The old bastard leaned out the door of the booth, his big caterpillar eyebrows crawling up his wrinkly forehead. "Lots of ways, actually! There could be Daleks flitting about wiping everyone out with weapons even more dangerous than the Cybermen's blasters, or a black hole could be forming 3.2 meters above us, or a time collapse could be destroying the entire continuity back to the beginning of eternity ..."
He was Scottish this time, ya see. The Scots are fuckin' great at thinking of ways things could be worse.
This had all started simply enough. We'd made it to High Wycombe, just fuckin' 62 kilom- I MEAN 38 MILES GOD DAMN IT MEGAN YOU ARE A FUCKIN' AMERICAN - away from the O2 Arena! It had been a fast trip before we pulled up short in the middle of Wycombe Road with a line of toy robots pointing blasters at us and chanting for Matt Hardy. Fortunately, I'd managed to slalom us off the road before Jeremy's 300,000 pound car could be shot to expensive flinders, and I'd rocketed down an alley by a pub called The Sausage Tree (even fleeing for our lives from robotic menaces, I made a mental note to come get some of the Drunken Duck sausages) and the dingy bricky alley was where we'd run into the blue police box, and the old bastard with the eyebrows said he'd be happy for a bit of help.
Before that, Reddy had been in a strip club memory daze all the way from Liverpool, roaring in our hyper-expensive cocaine-white Lexus LFA down the M6 fast enough to leave bobby helmets comically spinning in our wake. We'd burned past Stokes-on-Fire, Wolverinehampton, Birbinghammer, the Royal Lemmings Spar, and Worcestershiresauce, I think. I was a bit hazy on the signage at this point since I'd done a handful of yellowjackets and red beauties from my bag to make sure I had enough energy to get to London on time - although now that I was thinking about it a little more clearly (nearly getting killed by Cybermen does wonders for sobriety, and I'm thinking of patenting the process for rehab clinics), those red beauties might have actually been incredibly powerful dilatory hallucinogens, which is why it felt like months had gone by in the car.
MONTHS.
And we already did a version of this joke once about how long this was taking, so you KNOW we're in the shit now! But I swear to whatever assorted gods listen to dangerous maniacs in narrative asides (I'm guessing it'd be a Norse god), we ARE gonna get to the end of this saga (see, Norse). And soon! We're practically in London!
Just gotta get past these Cybermen!
"And if you're QUITE done with the narrative reverie, Miss Vixen, I'd great appreciate it if you'd continue holding off the robotic hordes long enough for me to fix this wee convective verger!"
The Scottish Doctor's voice hit me like a burly slap, and I swung the hyperbat around with another pulsing thrum of gravity and the eerie brain-twisting feeling of holding something that was bigger than it seemed (really the Doctor's specialty, when you think about it), and I Negan'd the bucket heads of two more Cybermen, sending them spiraling back into the street, their constant chants briefly interrupted. Unforunately, more of their brethren were there to pick up the slack.
"- DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE -"
"What the FUCK are these guys doin', Doc? Is it another fuckin' turn-everyone-into-buckets scam?"
"It's an insidious infiltration of Earthen technology, culminating in an inorganic conversion process that-"
Reddy interrupted. "It's a turn-everyone-into-buckets scam," he grumbled, driving the shimmering forcefield shield into the oncoming horde, sending them scattering like clanking tenpins back across Saffron Road towards a car park. The Doctor snorted.
"If you want to make it sound all SIMPLE like that, fine."
He resumed whatever the fuck he was doing with his little sonic dealie just inside the door. I mean, presumably he was just inside the door. He might've been way the fuck down inside that inverted-space police box thing and just popping back up every few seconds for a pithy comment. I was a little wonky on how space and time were working at the moment, to be honest. I'm tellin' ya, red pills you buy from a guy with a radioactive pink mohawk in Shinjuku will make you feel REAL fuckin' wibbly-wobbly for a long timey-wimey.
"Reddy, we GOTTA fuckin' stop this. If everyone gets turned into Cybermen it's gonna - nNNrrgghh ..." I was cut off briefly as a Cyberman lunged at me with his eyes flashing, and I was forced to remonstrate with him in a vigorous debate that involved me smashing him into a wall with the hyperbat until he went through it in a cloud of brick dust and drifting sparks.
"End all civilization as we know it?" Red prompted helpfully.
"NO."
"It will, actually," the Doctor unhelpfully added, poking his head back out the door.
"FINE, BUT THAT AIN'T WHAT I FUCKIN' MEANT! FUCK OFF, CONKY 2000!" I bashed another one so hard its head whirled around so it was able to watch how hard I was kicking its ass.
"Spell a certain doom for humanity and lead us into an era of unending Cyber-horror?" Red asked with a certain flip delivery that made me think it'd be a bad idea to let him keeping hanging around the Doctor. He maneuvered like a Spartan at Thermopylae to force more marching Cybermen back with the big glowing Reinhardt riot shield, scattering them into a handful of broken toys.
"FUCK NO!" I snarled, overhand swinging onto a Cyberman hard enough to drill its legs three feet into the road, and then teeing off on its head and launching it over the Scrap My Car next door. "IT'LL KILL MY GOD-DAMN GIMMICK!"
There was a certain blank silence in the alley, only slightly marred by the constant mechanical grind of "- DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE -".
"I mean, how the fuck am I gonna get booked as an iconoclastic - like, fuckin' icon - of societal rebellion if everyone on fuckin' Earth is a Cyberman? We'll all just be identical hardbodies. It'll be fuckin' 2005 WWE all over again."
Red looked into the abyss, and saw the true terror there.
"Oh NO."
With our resolve thus fuckin's steeled (that's important when you're fighting metal guys), we fought in earnest, returning to the fray. Using muscles honed by years of headlocks and dropkicks and leapfrogs, we battered dozens of alien robot parasites into sparking heaps in the middle of High Wycombe. I'm pretty sure it's exactly what Lou Thesz would have done if he'd had the chance.
It was fruitless, though. There were just so many of them and they kept coming, and eventually Red's shield started to run out of juice and I lost my hyperbat when I was trying to do a sweet ass running zweihander sweep. We tried battering at them with our bare hands, but that didn't do too much. Pounding on Cybermen bare fisted is like headbutting Samoans. We even managed to hit one with a Total Elimination, but they weren't fucking selling ANYTHING. It was like fighting god damn Antonio Inoki in Tokyo.
And yeah, that's right. I broke kayfabe in a story about wrestling being real, but also there's been magic and celebrity cameos and a Benny Hill scene and Doctor Who is here, and his name's not Doctor Who. IT'S JUST THE DOCTOR. SO COME THE FUCK AT ME, CORNETTE.
Anyway, where was I.
Right, Cybermen no-selling. Fuckin' robot aliens going into business for themselves (isn't it weird how you go into business for yourself by NOT selling? Seems like a bad business plan).
So Reddy and I are getting slowly iron-fisted (uh, not like that) back down the alley, and all seems lost, and of course THAT'S when the TARDIS finally flares with a blaze of heavenly radiance and the music swells and there's a relatively economic lightning effect that jumps between all the Cybermen and they all peacefully shut down and slump over, coin operated toys who've run out of playtime. I shoulda figured. We'd crossed over into the Doctor's story, which meant we were on HIS narrative now, and that meant that everything could only be resolved at the last minute, after an hour of build-up less time for ads from Money Supermarket and Carling Black Label. It's just how his stories work.
The gruff Scot gave us doses of glowing yellow Saradomin Brew to get us back on our feet and restore us to a healthful glow. It also whitened our teeth and cleared up my bursitis, but regrettably didn't magically heal my knee since that was an important angle for another story I had going. We spent a little while with anti-gravity pushbrooms sweeping the deactivated Cybermen into a convenient portable hole before putting all the sciencey-wiency fictiony-wictiony stuff back in the TARDIS - except the hyperbat, which I hid behind a a heap of spare robot bits and then totally snuck into the boot of the Lexus when the old bastard wasn't looking. I was keepin' that shit. (I had visions of blasting Okada through the roof of the Tokyo Dome as I conquered New Japan, but when I eventually opened the trunk again, I'd find only a lovely bouquet of gardenias with a handwritten note that said only "Nice try". Old bastard.)
After we'd gotten the alley by the Sausage Tree (home of the award winning Chicken Peri-Peri sausage - see, it all comes full circle from the Nando's thing) back into a proper High Wycombe order, the Doctor stuffed his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat and peered at us intently from under the shelf of those shaggy brows with eyes like distant stars.
"Now - what am I t'do with you two? Your narrative threads are wandering all over the place, you've intertwined yourselves into multiple paradoxes, and it's half-uncertain whether you even exist."
"Is that bad?" Red asked with an earnest curiosity.
"Not so bad, no. Most things are unlikely to exist, when y'really get down to the mathematics of it."
He hummed, fiddling in his pockets like a man remembering he'd carried candy there a few lifetimes ago. I just leaned against some sort of quietly beeping console, and puffed contentedly on my Otto Carter engraved vape with its proprietary blend of Owl Farm cannabis oil, dreamfoil extract and taduki.
"Look. You two did me a great favor by blundering in here and committing acts of horrible violence."
I grinned broad as a lazing dragon. "Pretty much our fuckin' spécialité de la maison."
He nodded briskly and moved to a console with wheels and dials and other things that seemed like they were from another era with cheaper special effects, and began cranking and adjusting things. The big box began to rumble.
"I'm going t'do you two a favor. I'll cut through this tangle you're in and move the plot along. You're headed off to fight somewhere. Some sort of arena, was it? The Colosseum? Chicen Itza?"
"O2, in London" I offered helpfully, since I didn't want to end up in the fuckin' Yucatán. At least not until after the Supershow. Then maybe I'd hit up Mérida, get some chilaquiles.
"Right, right. Where the Terminal Incept begins in 2019."
"... what?"
"Nothing to worry about for now. So, then! Let's get you t'yer show! Is Big Daddy still champion?"
"Not ... not lately, no."
"Too bad. He's always been the tops. Well! Off to see the wrestling!"
He pulled a lever, and a flare of white light consumed the world like a cheap transition animation. When it faded, we were parked outside the Armitage, just a dozen blocks from the O2. A valet was taking our bags and I was on the phone with Gemma, telling her we were checking in. I shared a sidelong glance with Reddy, who also seemed to be trying to get accustomed to the sudden transition in dimensional normality.
"You all right, pickle? Your voice sounds a bit slurrier than usual."
"... I think we were just fuckin' dragged through space and time to get here, Gems. It's all an insane blur of nonsense and I can barely remember any of it except being at a constant risk to life and limb and maybe killing Sean Connery!"
"Good! One of your usual road trips, then. So long as you're not fucking late. Now go get changed and then get up here and fuck me senseless. I need to unwind before I wrestle that fucking cxnt Quinn."
"... yes dear."
-
"What do you MEAN, 'Oops, I guess I don't need you and the Legends after all' ????"
"Calm DOWN, Sara! It's not like I..."
"Jumped me in 2018 New Jersey, where I was trying to find replacement parts for Beebo, and refused to let me up until I retrieved WHOMEVER 'Red' and 'Punky' are, and used the Waverider to get them to London?"
"To be fair, you went down pretty easily. League of Shadows master assassin, and I wrapped you up like THAT? Not to mention how you went down in other.."
"SHUT UP! Fine, back to New Jersey it is... and if you tell ANYONE about this, I'll... "
"Well, I may have told Ray. The one who looks like some dumb actor, but he shrinks?"
"RAY! RAY???? Why on EARTH would you tell...."
"He's CUTE! And he got me away from that Brit who smokes like a chimney... Constantine, or whatever....I think THAT one would fuck anything that moves!"
"He would. And he HAS. But that's not the point! You mean to say that everyone KNOWS what we do on this ship?"
"Sara, you're on the CW. The only way you'd get LESS attention was if you were an actual female wrestler in the WWE."
"No need to be nasty about it, Becca. OK, you go back home, since they're in London, and we forget this happened. Well, most of it..."
"Actually, there is one favor I need, still. We need to go by Minneapolis and pick up Rowan Chance. That sick bay of yours will do wonders for her, and then I can break her when we get to London?"
"Chance? Why would I go get THAT piece of work? She should be in traction, not getting into a ring!"
"Because I can put her out of commission for good. And, it will give Constantine someone to play with for a bit."
"You're on. But you have to show me that move where you..."
"Honey, that's how I got a daughter. You SURE you're ready for that? A 3-year-old spouting whatever Mick Rory just said?"
"FINE. But you're going to think of SOMETHING to make this trip worth my while."
"Never fear, Sara. It's not like we're going to destroy the fabric of time and space. You did that LAST season. Now, get over here. Becca want CUDDLE."
(Yep, we went all that way for that joke. Deal with it.)
-
I don't know about you, but when I experience travel in both the time/space dimensions in an old Type 40 TARDIS that's been redecorated since the last time I spent time (not to mention the driver has changed faces who knows how many times), I get pretty disoriented. Grabbing stuff, hopping in a vehicle and speeding away from certain destruction tends to make things a little hazy. And after all the other things that have happened, I felt like I'd been deluged with all kinds of issues and nearly flooded out of my mind. So after checking in to my room, all I wanted to do was just rest until time for the show.
I did try.
I promise.
Thing is Gemma made these reservations so I got the adjoining room to them.
Normally not a problem, but they must have missed each other or Megan had extra energy from being near the Eye of Harmony. Let's just say no amount of sound proofing could have prevented me from hearing them.
Finally I gave up and headed to the shower. And stayed there for a while.
Soon time for the gathering at the show and the walk through for entrances and all that special stuff came and so I put on my jeans and shoes and my Godzilla World Tour tee shirt, Then I grabbed my mask. It was time to go and even though I'm not as much a hardcore adherent to the traditions of masked wrestlers, I still only let a select few see me unmasked. In fact from what I saw of the card and online rumors from Uncle Dave, Jules from WhatCulture, the Cultaholic guys and Oli and the Wrestletalk crew, there were going to be people there I'd known almost all my career who'd never seen my true face.
For these walkthroughs and testing out the ring, I have an old school Dick Beyer style mask I wear. It reminds me of my days as a noob, learning how to actually build the ring as well as the fundamentals for my wrestling career. I was given this mask by my first trainer, Kabuki because he thought I'd look more impressive under a mask as opposed to a ginger kid all covered in freckles. It took a bit of getting used to, Also, he wanted to hide the fact he was training a young teenager. Of course when I graduated high school and others went to college, I went south to Mexico to work on my skills. I learned a whole lot as the Lucha Libre style was waaaaay different than it is now. And I met these Japanese wrestlers on excursion going by the names Punish and Crush. They helped me learn some workable Japanese and I helped them with their English. Later on, my trips to Japan were arranged by them. I was never high on the cards in either country, but I didn't need to be. I was having fun travelling and holy shit do I love Akihabara.
But I digress...
I've been doing this kinda thing a long time. And I know my opportunities to experience super shows like this are going to come fewer and fewer. So I guess I'm just feeling a bit nostalgic. Holding that old mask in my hand, thinking about my sensei and then the men and women I've encountered on this long strange journey to get me to here. I let out a sigh and slip on the old girl once more. And my mood shifts. I'm no longer...who I was...I'm the Red Enforcer now...and I go to the door and stride to the elevator.
"Hang on! You better fookin' hold that..."
"Punky"
And here was this ball of chaos and fury that swept into my life like a sudden thunderstorm. I honestly think she's part cat. She came around and pretty much put her paw on my face and let me know I was hers in the way that cats adopt their humans. She loves cuddles and she has her own mind. You only touch her when she wants and she walks around like she owns the place. And at times, she breaks things just because. Yep, Megan's a cat. Except when she's Punky. The incarnation of everything that is punk and alternative and just plain bad ass. Just like me putting on this old mask put me in my Red Enforcer persona, Megan putting on her Doc Martens and that Joshi style skirt and whichever is her favorite band at the moment's shirt sends her mind into that mode.
*DING*
The elevator opens and I pause as I normally do and Megan takes off like a shot.
*WHUMP*
And she promptly ran into a woman of similar height and build and fell into a tangled heap.
I moved to go by Megan's side and a smartly dressed gentlemen moved to be beside the other woman. Meanwhile, our two companions were laying into each other with yelling and insults.
"Stupid..not looking where I'm going...gonna mess you up..."
"Ooooh Eddie, lemme rip this one apart"
I successfully disentangled Punky from her new friend and held her back with a full nelson that may or may not have been fully locked on. I was taking care to not mess with her legs or knee for fear of the wrath of Gemma. I looked on and my opposite had a firm grip on his friend, and I thought for a moment I saw a hint of silver covering his hand. And I could've sworn I saw a bit of green flame coming from the woman's own hand.
I decided to take the initiative.
"You'll have to excuse my friend. We've been on a really oddball journey that seems to have taken months and we're almost at our destination. So she's a bit excited."
"That's quite alright. Molly here is a bit excitable herself. She's been dying to get here for this big wrestling show because her favorite wrestler is on the card. I take it from your mask, you might be involved as well?"
I had to hand it to him, this Brit was charming. Normally I'd not like people trying to be too nice, you know like clothing store salesmen or car dealers. But I kinda felt like I could trust this guy. The look in his eyes told me he'd been through all kinds of hell and his companion was pretty cute. And she was just the kind of curvy I liked..and oh..whoops, she caught me staring and I started blushing and I think that actually calmed her down. I turned back to the guy who had a smirk on his face that let me know he was used to other men checking out his friend and as long as I was polite, he'd let it go. Thank heaven for small miracles.
"Actually yes I am...err we are. We're headed to the arena in fact. Punky here is itching to get back in the ring."
Molly's eyes lit up. "Punky? Megan Punky Dow? Really? Really? Wait..that means...you're..you're the Red Enforcer!" Her expression softened and I could feel Megan relax. The fan reflex. Megan has learned to leash her anger when it comes to the fans. I eased up a bit but kept my arms where they were just in case.
"So lemme guess, I'm yer favorite wrestler and all. You do kinda look like my type."
Molly laughed like she'd been told the funniest joke in the world. "Oh no, hahaha no..that's funny...no..not you. Gemma Rox. Gawd that woman is so hot she could melt steel. Now her, I'd love to..."
In a flash, Megan turned to Punky again and I scooped her up in the nelson and just started running for the door of the hotel.
Megan was still fuming when we got to the O2 (See we made it. Those of you in the pool that had us not ever getting to the arena, you all lost.) And she decided to split off from me and we went our separate ways. I love seeing a ring being put together. It's like the opening credits of a movie to me. The promise of what's to come. I felt frisky and made my way down and decided to help the crew with tightening the turnbuckles. Not all rings are created equal. They can come in different sizes. Also the canvas on the ring can be stretched tightly or loosely. And the ropes, it's always good to know how the ropes feel. If they are slick, you can mess up a high spot. If they are looser than you're used to, bouncing off them could be a problem. If they're tighter than you're used to, you could get whiplash. And I always fo a couple of back bumps on the mat. Gives me an idea of how hard a surface I'm dealing with. Some rings are springy or bouncy. Some are pretty much concrete disguised as blue mat.
Then I head to the back to see who's here yet. I see someone I haven't seen in ages hanging out in the back talking to one of the youger British wrestlers who looks like he's taking mental notes. Smart kid. Steve..no William now is a brilliant source of information.
"Kid, if you're smart, you'd take video of this conversation and play it back later. Willie here forgot more about wrestling than you'll ever know." The older Brit whipped around with a sneer at hearing himself called 'Willie' but when he saw it was me he got that cocksure grin.
"Seems they let anyone in this place. It's been some time, Redward."
I hated that name and the bastard knew it. The story behind that involves alcohol (not for me), bad directions, a dark night on Peachtree Street, and doughnuts. Maybe I'll tell it some day.
He and I spoke some and he asked me to stop by Orlando when I was nearby and before I left I told him to tell Paul I said hi.
I made my way next around back to a secluded corner and saw the back of a familiar form. It was the red obviously that caught my eye and the down nearly to her bottom braid that came out of her red mask. Lycra shorts that hugged so tightly only the make up squad knew if they were actually painted on. Red boots, red kneepads and elbow pads. The look of a complete new person. But this was someone I met in Japan, a true legend among the masked community. And she was here. So I decided to go say hi.
"Kon'nichiwa" I said from behind her and she slowly turned and I saw the letters DDT in black on her mask.
"DDT" was the response. I had moved closer as if going in for a hug, but that reply stopped me. I nodded and backed up. See I met this lady in Japan and I think we crossed paths once there. Maybe twice. So, see, I'm not that friendly with her and all. So I shouldn't be acting all nice and such if she's here because you know, I don't know Lady DDT all that well.
I chuckled and put my arms to my sides and did a very deep formal bow. I looked back up and her dark eyes glistened under her mask.
"DDT" she said. I bowed my head once more.
"Anata no shiai de k?unwoinoru, DDT-sama."
"DDT"
There were others back there. People I hadn't seen for years and people I didn't even know. It was such a blur and a fun experience getting to see old friends and foes. I'm glad Megan talked me into doing this. It really is cathartic to get out and think about old times and the ones you don't hear from anymore or the ones you keep in touch with regularly.
Pretty soon I found myself thinking back to the very beginning. The one decision that made me go on this path and not the other. Deciding to pursue wrestling and not basketball. Who knows how that would've turned out. As it is, we're here. The final preparations are being made. And soon, the bell is going to ring on this match and it'll be like nothing you've ever seen.
-
I arrive at the O2 arena with the mask already on. In fact, when the car with the dark windows showed up at the hotel, I already had the mask on. I ducked out the back, through the kitchens, out to the loading bay. That's where the car with the dark windows waits. I jump inside and the driver takes me to the arena, going down the delivery entrance. I'm there three hours before the show starts.
And no, the show didn't pay for any of this. I did. The driver, the hotel, everything. All paid with cash credit cards. Live the gimmick.
I sneak inside, stay in a box way above the crowd. Yeah, I paid for that, too. Just me, all alone. I drop the shades and sit. I take out my iPad and open a PDF of Gary Hart's My Life in Pro Wrestling. I'm on page 123.
I've been in the business only a year and it's been hard keeping secrets. Secrets like...oh...that I'm not starving. That I don't come from a family with money. Sure, they're nouveau rich, started with very little and earned every dime, but they've got money. And they made sure their daughter was going to be whatever she wanted to be. They never thought "professional wrestler" would be on my list. And I've had to keep it secret. I flew to Japan and stayed in shitty apartments, ate cheap, wore old clothes, chose a pseudonym so nobody could track my past down. "Rowan Chance." Sounded like a damn comic book superhero.
But it worked. I got in. And after serving as a young girl for a year, I got my first gimmick. "Lady DDT."
I still remember the promoter saying the same thing over and over again. "You only do DDT. That's it."
Thankfully, half my family is Japanese, so I speak the language. Not that it helped. "But if I only do DDTs," I said, "it completely diminishes the move."
"Only DDTs. That's it. Nothing more."
"Hai," I say, giving him a bow.
"And only say 'DDT,'" he tells me.
I'm confused. "I don't understand."
"Only say 'DDT.' Your promos are awful. Only say 'DDT.'"
Well, that hurt. I thought my promos were...
No. He's right. They suck.
So, I only did DDTs. Slingshot DDT, reverse DDT, flying DDT, hurricane DDT, jumping swinging flying DDT...
And after a while...I started to understand. Do one thing. Over and over and over again. One thing. And you'll do it better than anyone else.
And the whole time I was there, sitting in front of a camera, I only say one thing.
After a few hours in the box, it's time to head backstage. I put the iPad away and tuck it under a chair in the box. Then I head out, locking the door behind me.
Backstage. Lots of faces. Lots of people I've seen and have wanted to meet forever. I'm trying not to smile under the mask.
That's when a voice says, "Kon'nichiwa."
I turn and see him. Lucky I'm wearing the mask because my cheeks blush. I feel my eyes blinking. Stop that. Stop it.
We met once before but it was only in passing. Lucky for me. I almost collapsed. It was a polite conversation. He said complimentary things to me and I said, "DDT." Because the promoter was there and that's all I was allowed to say. But I wanted to say so much more.
That promoter isn't here now. He's half a world away.
He's walking up to me. What do I say? What can I say?
Live the gimmick. Don't break it. Honor the gimmick.
I suddenly feel like Percival sitting before the Fisher King wanting to ask, "How fare you?" when I know I can't. But this is The Red Enforcer. I've watched his matches on my brothers' VCR. I've studied them. When I heard he had a wrestling school, I was pissed off that I didn't know before I went to Japan. I would have gone! And here he is! Right in front of me!
What do I say?
Do I tell him I had a crush on him the moment I saw him? That the first time I saw him smash a fool with his power bomb was one of the first times I ever felt a rush of sexual arousal? Watching him hold the jobber up over his head, the jobber's body floating back and forth, so helpless. So...goddamn...helpless... And the SLAM of that drop.
OH
MY
FUCKING
GOD
Vader had nothing on this guy. Nothing.
And here he is.
I studied all his promos. Studied his matches. Watched those muscles move with intense fascination.
And here he is.
I don't know what to say. I don't know how to say it.
He's walking toward me. And I feel like a school girl. Butterflies in my stomach. My knees almost buckling.
Keep it together... keep it together...
Say something. Tell him how awesome he is. How he inspired you. Just watching him made you a better wrestler.
"Only say 'DDT.' Your promos are awful. Only say 'DDT.'"
He's getting closer...
He's... right... here...
My lips open. And I stammer.
"DDT."
He looks confused. Shakes his head a little. He speaks more Japanese. I...can't even make sense of what he's saying. He's saying it perfectly but I'm...trying...
SAY SOMETHING, GODDAMMIT!!!
I nod. "DDT." And I bow.
He returns the bow. Then, he walks away.
NO! NO! COME BACK! LET ME TELL YOU...
Too late. He's gone.
Dammit. Dammitdammitdammit.
Good one, "Rowan Chance." Nice job.
-
Podcast Transcript: Marty & Sarah Love Wrestling, episode 123, "Punked Up In the UK"
Ooooh-ooooh-ooooh ~
Time to get in the ring
Our favorite thing!
Marty & Sarah love wrestling!
Marty DeRosa: Hey buddies.
Sarah Shockey: Hey buddies!
Marty sounds exceptionally tired even by his Wrestling with Depression standards, and Sarah is her usual chipper self.
M: 'tis I, Marty.
S: 'tis I, Sarah.
M: And we - are ACROSS THE POND right now.
S: Which is just NOT AT ALL the right name for what we just flew across. That flight took FOREVER.
M: Did it? I didn't really notice.
Marty has an audible smirk.
S: That's because you drank about 6 mini-vodkas and then took a Ric Flair nap. We're lucky your pants stayed on.
This prompts Marty to launch into his infamous lispy and nasal Ric Flair impersonation, Uncy Ric.
M (as Uncy Ric): Ha haaaaa! Sarah! BAYBEH! You didn't yike fyin' a JET PLANE wit' UNCY RIC? WOOO!
Sarah groans.
S: Noooooooo! How did you get to London, Uncy Ric? I thought you were barred from flying!
M (as Uncy Ric): BAR ME? I'M ALREADY BARRED! BAR ME!? I'M ALREADY BARRED! WOOOO! WOOOOO!
There are shuffling noises, followed immediately by a pained groan.
S: ... buddies, let me assure you that Uncy Ric is NOT going to get out of the chair and drop an elbow on his suit jacket, because I feel like NOTHING is going to get Uncy Ric out of his chair.
M (as Marty again): You might be right. I think that last mini-vodka had horse tranquilizers in it.
S: Awww, poor Marty. They just didn't want Uncy Ric taking his pants off.
M: Well, we'll see whose pants stay on tonight!
S: ... no one's, right? Because they're in wrestling gear? I don't think anyone here tonight wrestles in pants.
M: Actually, Callista Quinn has been rocking jeans lately!
S: You're RIGHT! I forgot all about Mom Jeans Quinn!
Sarah immediately drops into a faux-posh English accent that's every bit as good as her Becky Lynch voice. Take that as you will.
S (as Mom Jeans Quinn): Ooooh, I'm in LONDON once more! With my LOVELY HIGH JEANS.
Okay, she's kinda doing a Julia Child.
M: Mom Jeans Quinn! What are YOU doing on the show? I thought you said you would only appear on Talk is Jericho or Being the Elite!
S (as Mom Jeans Quinn): Oh-ho! My moods are mercurial as my jeans are high-waisted!
M: Mom Jeans Quinn, do you have some Ecto Cooler juice boxes in that fanny pack on your jeans?
S: I'm afraid not, Martimer! For you see -
M: ... Martimer?
S: - I drink only FANCY drinks! OOOO-ooooo-OOOOH!
M: ... and there she goes, off to get fancy drinks.
S (as Sarah again): I'll miss her. And her mom jeans.
M: We all will. But who can blame her? There is SO MUCH TO DO IN LONDON TODAY.
S: THIS IS *CRAZY*! It's like 'Mania weekend but it's all our UK buddies and some just NUTTY amounts of money being tossed around!
M: Okay, buddies, let us break this down for you, in case you haven't read the news. We are at the O2 Arena in London, for what's simply being called the London Supershow.
S: And they DIDN'T put a hyphen in it, or called it the Show-Down.
M: Show-DOWN! That was Vince's headphones code for when Paul would trip over something backstage.
S: Aww, be nice to Paul. He's so sweet!
M: Also he could crush my head like a grape in one hand.
S: He COULD! And that'd be SUPER sad because you two look so much alike now and I was hoping you could be like his Petey Williams.
M: Petey Wi- you want me to be the Lil' Show?
S: LIL' SHOW!
M (adopting a squeaky voice): WELLLLL, IT'S THE LIL' SHO- resuming his normal tone - okay, wait. Wait. This is inevitably going to lead to a bit about some part of my ... anatomy getting a public nickname.
S: LIL' SHOW! PLEEEEASE?
M: MOVING ON.
S: You're no fun.
M: So we're at the London Supershow, and it is being funded by a HUGE conglomerate of media interests AND wrestling personalities, with personal bankrolling by people as diverse as William Regal, Joey Styles, and Gemma Rox! We have people from ALL over the UK, from EVERY promotion out here, buddies from PROGRESS and Eve and Revolution, from ICW and Tetsujin and World Association Wrestling. We have legends and up-and-comers and big names from ALL OVER, and it is just CRAZY. This is a 2-day show!
S: TWO DAYS! And get this - so apparently a deal was worked out with the help of Sky Media to get sponsors to bring over, for the first time ever, EVERY wrestling podcast at once to work the same show! And the sponsor who jumped on the deal was ... JD ...
M: Say it right, Sarah. Please. C'mon. They're so rich.
S: I will! Shut up! ... Wetherspoon! JD Wetherspoon, with the deal that we do a podcast at the O2 AND a podcast after the Supershow at one of their pubs!
M: So basically we got paid to come to London and do a podcast here, in the most awesome city in Europe - uh, sorry Paris and everyone, but c'mon -
S: C'MON.
M: - COME ON. We get to do the show, SEE the best wrestling in the world, and we get to go to a pub and do ANOTHER show with the buddies! And our pub is - which one is ours?
S: rustling paper Weeeee arrre at ... The Half Moon on Sunday at 9 PM! Oh, that's a pretty name.
M: SO pretty.
S: SOOOO PRETTY.
The alien voice modulator is activated.
S (as Brad the parasitic alien): Ohhhh, I loooooooove the pretty moooooooon.
M: Oh boy. Hi Brad.
S (as Brad): Are yooouuuuuu goooing to get Saaaaraaaaah some beeeeeeeers on the mooooooon?
M: I guess I will! I know Sarah likes beers, sometimes. Even if she has to go use the loo - that's what it's called here, the loo -
S (as Brad): Oooooooooooooooh.
M: - even if she has to use the loo lots of times, I will still buy her beers, because she is pretty amazing.
S (as Brad): Awwww. Youuuuuu loooooove herrrrr.
M: Even with an alien inside her, I sure do, buddy.
S (normally): Aww. Marty!
M: Oh, stop.
S: YOU stop.
There is a sudden clatter, as of a metal folding chair being rapidly clacked open and slammed hard to the presumably concrete hallway of the O2 Arena's backstage, and a shriek from Sarah, followed by the rustle of headphones being hauled onto someone's head. Someone who sounds throaty, purry, somewhat crazy, and with a bad habit of dropping the ends of words like they're on fire.
Meg "Punky" Dow: BOTH of ya stop. Neither one of you is even TALKIN' about me! An' how AMAZIN' I am!
M: BUDDIES, SHE'S HERE!
S: Our AMAZING GUEST is here! She's our first ever guest!
M: Well, I mean, we've had DOZENS of famous guests, from Uncy Ric and Nathan to Emmalina and Kyle the Choir Boy, but we've never had anyone -
P: - who doesn't *BEEP*in' sound like you guys?
M: I have no idea what you're talking about.
S: I have a guess. But either way -
M&S (in unison): IIIIIIT'S PUNKY!
P: HAAA! Do that again! DO THAT AGAIN!
M&S (in unison, once more with feeling): IIIIIIIIIIIT'S PUNKY!
P: the distinctive snorting in-drawn giggle described as a snerk *BEEP*in' awesome.
M: And yes, sharp-eared buddies, those sounds you're hearing are the ORIGINAL censory beeps used by the hardest working audio editor in sports entertainment, Mitch Gillum, formerly of FTW and currently over at Skywalker Sound, workin' the boards for us as a special favor -
S: And thanks to a SPECIAL grant from JD Wetherspoon and Sky Media because WE sure as heck couldn't afford him!
M:- and most importantly because we could not think of anyone else experienced enough, fast enough or seemingly psychic enough to help keep our special guest family-friendly!
P: HA! I KNEW I RECOGNIZED THAT MOTHER*BEEP*ER EVEN WITH HIS *BEEP*IN' TWEEDY NEWSBOY HAT COVERIN' HIS *BEEP*IN' BALD SPOT! HIIII, MITCH!
There's a rattle of headphone rumbling and static as someone wearing headphones vaults away from the table everyone is presumably sat at, followed by a sudden blare of noise as a sound engineer is aggressively tackle-hugged.
M: Megan "Punky" Dow, buddies. She's our first real guest.
S: I'm gonna tweet at Colt and tell him to EAT A BUNCH OF SOUR GRAPES.
M: Sarah, I'm 100% sure Punky's been on Colt's show before. At least twice. Remember the Countdown episode that turned into a drinking game?
S: I could never possibly forget it. But we got her on Supershow weekend and HE DIDN'T!
M: ... yeah, that's true. Get at him.
Headphones are resumed and Punky returns with an audible grin.
P: And make sure to tell him I'm gonna tell the story of when I beat him in Des Moines even AFTER he cheated at Marco Polo.
S: He CHEATED? Wait. Was this at the hotel pool, or -
M: No, they were in the ring. It was during the match. They started playing Marco Polo.
P: And Colt *BEEP*IN' CHEATED.
M: He did cheat.
P: Hidin' outside the ring.
S: OH, HE WAS A FISH OUT OF WATER?
P: And I STILL found him. And Perfectplexed him!
M: And that's pretty much the story you were gonna tell, so that was easy.
P: Yeah, basically. OH, WAIT. I ALSO GRABBED HIS DICK.
S: I mean, so has Marty.
M: I ... that's true. Wait, is dick okay? Mitch is giving a thumbs up. I guess dick is okay in Britain.
S: I mean, any other word just sounds MORE offensive. You grabbed Colt by the penis.
M: Oh god, don't say that.
S: By the penis!
P: I remember that! I was at Pancakes and Piledrivers when that happened. Sick match, by the way. But I actually flipped Colt by the dick. I call it the Reverse Joey Ryan.
S: Friend of the show Colt Cabana, allegedly flipped by the dick by our guest, Punky!
M: ALLEGEDLY.
P: I totally Reverse Joey Ryaned his ass.
S: That sounds like it means something COMPLETELY -
Snorting laughter and cackling.
P: *BEEP*! THAT'S NOT WHAT I-
S: - COMPLETELY different!
M: So SPEAKING of dick flips and Joey Ryaning someone's ass -
P: As we so frequently are.
S: CONSTANTLY.
M: - tonight! You are making your return to the ring against your friend and mine, the Red Enforcer.
P: Yeaaaaaah. Reddy's so *BEEP*in' cool. I'm still gonna tap his ass out, OBVIOUSLY, but he's so *BEEP*in' BAD-ASS.
S: Red's amazing. We got to hang out with him at AAW and he did commentary with me at Resistance Pro! He's such a sweetheart!
P: HE IS. He's like a big sugar bear, fulla sweetness an' light an' all that *BEEP*. Who I'm gonna pin down so completely that *BEEP*in' lepidopterists are gonna be callin' me for tips.
M: That's heartwarming.
P: I know, right?
S: So you've known the Red Enforcer -
P: Reddy.
S: - you've known Reddy ... he's not gonna mind if someone who's not you calls him that?
P: He won't mind. You'd be *BEEP*in' amazed at what he puts up with from me.
M: I kinda get what people put up with from hyperactive weirdos.
S: And now I'm hurt.
M: Who are also beautiful geniuses.
P: Oh, I like him.
S: I'd say dibs, but I don't think-
M: - yeah, there's no risk.
P: Not that you're not a sexy lil' minx in yer own way, Marty-chan.
M: Aww.
S: He's blushing. I can't make him blush! How did YOU make him blush?!
P: I have that effect. You should see what I can do to Reddy. It's why he has to wear the mask all the time.
S: OH! But you can still see it around his eyes!
P: YOU TOTALLY CAN. And he does that thing where he folds his arms across his chest-
S&P: AND LOOKS DOWN!
Slightly mad cackling laughter, trailing off into hitching giggles, followed by the unique monotone deadpan of Marty DeRosa.
M: ... so you're taking on the Red Enforcer.
P: That I am.
M: Are you concerned about your knee going in? Not to tell tales out of school, but you're kinda rocking the Steve Austin look there.
S: He means your knee brace, and not that you've grown a goatee or anything.
P: Not that I couldn't pull off a goatee. Did you SEE Keala Settle in The Greatest Showman?
S: OH MY GOD, THAT WAS SO GOOD.
P: RIGHT?!
M: ... so you're not too concerned.
P: with a snort Naaah. Reddy's my best friend. We've fought a few times, but pretty much always in the ring. He's not gonna throw the match or anything - if he can get away with pinning me or getting me to tap, he's gonna. But he won't hurt me on purpose, and he won't go after my knee. Not least of all 'cuz a huge guy kickin' some chick in her bad knee ain't gonna be good TV for anyone who's not wearin' a *BEEP*in' MRA fedora.
S: Those hats are so *BEEP*ing dreadful. Oh, *BEEP*, now I said it.
M: She has that effect on people. She got TYLER BATES to start cursing when she brought him and Wolfgang drinking in Chicago.
S: NO NOT TYLER, HE'S SUCH A HANDSOME BOY.
P: Mouth like a SAILOR under that *BEEP*in' mustache once he gets goin'.
M: So that makes sense, though; if I was gonna work hurt, I'd want it to be with Colt or someone else I really trusted.
S: And I know this is like - okay, I'm a little nervous to even ask this -
P: Stop. I won't hurt ya. Yer too cute.
S: Wow, that really is a naughty grin. WOW. Stop! Okay. So ... you have a kind of reputation for only taking bookings for matches that you think will really, like, blow up the crowd.
M: And that's not like saying you only demand to be in main events or whatever, but -
P: Yeah, I like to be in matches that are gonna entertain. I'll take on anyone I'm booked against, but I'm always gonna make sure the audience gets their *BEEP*in' pennyworth. And I know I can work a good match with Reddy. We've been wrestling each other for like ... gods, a long *BEEP*in' time. Longer than I wanna think.
M: So you've got a Flair/Sting thing going. He drops into the Uncy Ric voice STINGAH! Sting baybeh, ya think ya reddeh to take on the LIMOUSINE RIDIN', JET FLYIN'[/i]-
P: Whoa, hold up, hold up - did you guys get a limo?
M: Oh, *BEEP* no. No. The pub guys flew us over but we're just on foot here.
P: *BEEP*. I wanna go out in a limo later and lean out the sunroof and go WOOOOOOOOOOO.
S: Doesn't Gemma get in limos? And jets? And wheel and deal and all that stuff? Oh my god, is Gemma Ric Flair?
P: GEMMA IS TOTALLY RIC FLAIR! She even takes her clothes off more than him! And she probably nails even more ring rats. Hell, I was her biggest ring rat and she *BEEP*in' MARRIED me.
S: SO romantic.
M (as Uncy Ric): NO ONE GETS NAKEDER THAN ME, BAYBEH! WOO! WOOOO! Woo- resuming his normal tone -okay, you get it. But yeah, you've got a thing going with Red. I'm actually interested to see how you two work around what you've got going on with your knee.
S: Yeah! I know you're a big kicker, but that's clearly not gonna be the case.
P: Ya think I'd pay for a *BEEP*in' custom-fit Donjon knee brace that DIDN'T let me throw a god-damn superkick? C'mon. I'll superkick someone right now!
M: Oh please don't. It's just us and Sarah shouldn't take bumps. She's too cute.
P: Pfft. I like workin' heel but even I'm not *BEEP*in' crazy enough to superkick the world's cutest podcast team.
S: Awww! Does that make me Candice?
P: Do you wanna be Candice?
S: Actually, can I be Joey? He's so confident.
P: Tell Marty to grab your pussy.
M: ... aaaaaand we're out of time. Buddies, thank you for checking this special show out, and any of our London buddies, be SURE to come by the Half Moon Pub tomorrow night - and hopefully everyone catches this, because we are uploading this one TONIGHT! Be sure to catch the London Supershow, buddies!
P: And watch Punky and the Red Enforcer steal the *BEEP*in' show! And my wife'll kick Calli right in the taco!
S: RIGHT IN THE TACO.
M: You are literally the worst influence in the world.
P: You *BEEP*in' love it.
Ooooh-ooooh-ooooh ~
Time to get in the ring
Our favorite thing!
Marty & Sarah love wrestling!
-
I slipped past the VIP fan access areas where for some reason a few kids shouted "MOM JEANS" at me. Probably some Twitter thing, that. Can't be arsed.
In any event, I was by them and backstage. Quite a collection. Thankfully it seemed like there was a bit of laxity on the whole "introduce yourself to everyone" rule for this event. It'd take hours, at this show. Anyway everyone on this card had paid their dues and could be reasonably trusted to show proper respect for the business. I had one last task to take care of, and then I'd be free to devote all my attention to final preparations for the match. Gemma was going to crawl back into that sheep-smelling Welsh dungheap she and Megan infested feeling every one of those nine hundred and seventy-nine days I'd had since my last match on British soil.
But in the meantime...I found my target finishing a conversation with Darren. Well damn. I couldn't well pass up a chance to talk to HIM. It was always good to catch up with Darren. Unfortunately he was always so damned perceptive it was almost a waste of time trying to hide anything from him. My career was...what it was. And one of my biggest moments was cutting a promo that pretty well tore apart his employer. That I was right and even they acknowledged that now was irrelevant, and we both knew that. So for that and other reasons, all those lofty dreams and goals had just had to go away, replaced by a simple goal of putting away enough money to see me through the years that would be left to me once I stopped wrestling. It was a grind, rather than a passion, now, and he saw that.
You could see he wanted to sympathize but I didn't want that. Nearly eight billion people in the world, and probably seven billion of them weren't passionate about a job. I wasn't going to complain. Still beat waiting tables or selling stockings to Ladies Who Lunch for a living. He reiterated his offer, I said I'd think about it, (true enough, though I'd probably not take it,) and I moved on. Anywhere there was Red going into a locker room. I stepped quickly, moving into a "don't fucking get in my way" power walk as I did, before giving the door a shove and walking in.
Inside, Red, who was now talking to El Ligero (did the masked wrestlers have their own changing room or something?) dropped his own bag, flinching visibly as I entered. Ligero also looked up at me with a bit of surprise. That "shove" of the door might possibly have been more of a front kick, I suppose...
"Jesus, Calli," Red said, shaking his head.
"Pick one," I quipped, before setting my battered old duffel bag down, (it had wheels but I preferred to carry it. Free exercise is underrated,) and tossing a smaller tote to Red. "Here you go."
"What's this?" he asked warily.
"Your gear for tonight," I answered.
The parts of his face I could see through that Destroyer-style mask went white. "Calli..."
"Don't worry. I know you'll want to look professional in front of such a large crowd. I included matching pads and boots. No charge!" I said, grinning at the poor man.
"Calli..."
"Can't talk now, gotta go prep. Good luck tonight, Reddy! Break a leg, preferably Megan's. She's got a bad knee, you know? You can totally use that. Bye now!" I said cheerfully and rapidly to get it all out in a rush before ducking back out and heading for my assigned changing room.
There, that was done. Now, to plan a murder...
-
Ligero excused himself and left me alone to stew in my thoughts.
She didn't. She wouldn't have. I can't believe,,.
I open the bag and see the flash of teal (the greener shade, not the Carolina Panthers blue version) and I'm shocked at first of course. But I do end up grinning. I pull the teal mask out with bronze flame effects around the eyes and mouth outlined in a nice black piping. Sure it was a gag, but never say that Callista Quinn never did things with style.
You see, there was this bet. I can't remember how long ago it was, but basically Calli would get to pick out my outfit for the next public match I had with her on the card. Then things kinda went sideways and we both went our separate ways. So come to think of it, this is the first time those conditions exist. And she remembered. Of course she remembered. But you know what, it kinda really works with what I had planned for my entrance. So thank you Calli. Hope I make you proud.
I had plenty of time on our road trip in between trips to all the different dimensions we wandered about in to figure out my entrance. This was my first huge show in years. More eyes on me than since the FTW days. And a lot has happened since then. I first thought about going old school and using the Godzilla theme I later updated to the Pharoah Monche song that uses that riff. I also thought about doing an Irish themed entrance to celebrate my Grandmother's heritage and since I have her shillelagh, that eould be a nice tribute along with my favorite Imagine Dragons song sung in Gaelic. But then I started thinking about the larger picture.
Often wrestling fans get made fun of, especially Southern wrestling fans for their love of the sport. You know the "It's still real to me dammit" kinda conversations. Cultured, superior people like to look down their nose and say "You know that isn't real" with all the condescension of a private school headmaster giving a speech to public school kids. I usually love to say "You know Meredith Grey isn't a real doctor. Jon Snow isn't a real knight. Leroy Gibbs isn't a real retired Marine/NCIS agent. Tony Stark isn't a real superhero. Jesse Pinkman isn't a real drug dealer, bitch." But after thinking about it, I found that wasn't the best response. That was just scorn meeting scorn. And that's not the real way to make change. What we have to understand is that all of us, every one of us, have this thing that makes us a nerd or a dork or an otaku or a weeb. For me, it's professional wrestling. For some it's golf. For some it's their favorite tv show. For some it's that new video game that's got them riding around the old west every chance they get. We all have something we're passionate about. Some things sexual, some not. But still we all have our own things that make us different. Even fans of the same thing have their differences (Kirk is better than Picard. That's not my Luke Skywalker. Michael Keaton was the best movie Batman. Tom Baker is my Doctor although I'm really loving Jodie Whitaker.) And a large part of this journey Megan and I have taken in this crazy trip to get to this match has been celebrating all the fun things that she and I enjoy. Sharing them with you, the person reading this. (Yes, I'm getting meta right now, hang with me please.) There are all kinds of easter eggs and shout outs and references to things we love in the previous pages of this story and if you caught one and smiled, then we succeeded in what we've been trying to do. And I say all that to get to this point.
Like a wise woman once told me "We are all freaks here, stop backbiting each other." We're all freaks, dorks, nerds, weebs, whatever you want to label it. And you know what, that's just fine. As long as we understand each other, respect each other, and treat each other with common decency and humanity, we can enjoy the things we like and love each other and make this world happier for everyone. Just because I like Pepsi and you like Coke doesn't mean we should fight. Sometimes it's a simple or as hard as that. Understanding one another.
And right now, I wanna see if I can make that point using an analogy. It's the O2 Arena in London. The previous match is done and it was a hardcore battle for the ages with names like Jimmy Havoc, Onita, Sami Callahan, Abyss, New Jack, Tommy Dreamer, even fucking Raven himself tearing it up one last time for the fans who love the type of wrestling that makes old school guys like Jim Cornette have a coronary. Because you know, even wrestling fans like different things. They put me and Megan here in this spot as a breather and a reset because they knew the hardcore match would get people riled up and they needed something to let them recover and then get worked back up again.
The lights go dim. A single spotlight on the stage to the side where the wrestlers shines on a lovely woman who looks a bit nervous. You would be to if you went out after that. But once the music starts, she finds herself.
I am not a stranger to the dark
Hide away, they say
'Cause we don't want your broken parts
I shift about in Gorilla. Wearing my Callista Quinn provided outfit. I love her to death. She's another that gets looked at the wrong way. Brilliant woman, passionate about wrestling. Often that passion is seen as haughtiness. But I see past that. I see the woman behind the shield. She is so demanding and precise because she cares so much. Because she does, she tries to keep people at a distance which makes people think she's aloof. But they don't see what I see in her. What I love in her. It's that demand that the details be right that has me in this gear tonight. It could have been something silly looking, but it actually looked amazing.
I've learned to be ashamed of all my scars
Run away, they say
No one'll love you as you are
The song starts getting to me. Reminding me of growing up different. Red haired when it was an oddity. Freckles all over that caused all kinds of taunts. Not belonging.
But I won't let them break me down to dust
I know that there's a place for us
For we are glorious
My fists clench and my teeth set. Damn right we belong. All of us. With our fandoms and kinks and differences.
And the drums start and I can feel my heart starting to match pace.
When the sharpest words wanna cut me down
I'm gonna send a flood, gonna drown them out
I am brave, I am bruised
I am who I'm meant to be, this is me
Look out 'cause here I come
And I'm marching on to the beat I drum
I'm not scared to be seen
I make no apologies, this is me
The lights rise on the motley crew of people of all ages, races, shapes, sizes and what not on stage behind her. They join their voices to hers and it's mind blowing and powerful.
Oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh, oh
I come out from the back in the middle of the ooohs. The Red Enforcer an image of Teal and Bronze. I'm wearing the stylized bronze flame mask, teal boots, teal knee pads and elbow pads, and a teal singlet with a huge bronze beer stein in the very middle of my chest with a big CQ emblazoned on it in black. An outfit meant as a joke, a gag. something funny for two friends to laugh over when they made the bet. But now, I'm wearing it proudly in front of everyone. A symbol of everything I believe right now. We're different. Embrace it. Don't fear it. As long as what you do and enjoy doesn't harm yourself or anyone else in any lasting, terrible way, go for it.
Another round of bullets hits my skin
Well, fire away 'cause today, I won't let the shame sink in
We are bursting through the barricades and
Reaching for the sun (we are warriors)
Yeah, that's what we've become (yeah, that's what we've become)
I stand there, I can't hear the crowd. I'm lost in a reverie of all the people I've come across in my nearly 20 years of wrestling. All those names and faces that helped shape me and make me the man I am today. This is for them. I don't know if they're still out there, still watching, but I do kinda hope some of them see and remember our time together and see that I'm still a pretty goofy guy and see a bit of themselves in who I am today.
The rest is just a blur, but I do find myself in the ring...finally...in my corner...waiting for Megan. And I'm reminded of something Ric Flair told me once, "Just like the Crusher once told me. Follow that, brother! WOOOOOOOOO!"
(For the entrance I made, check out the below video. You'll love it.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c6GrbAJq7tM&t=0m36s
-
This is a big fuckin' show.
Like, real big.
You might've thought that the time you went to a Ring of Honor Road to the G1 show down at the Austin Highway Event Center was big, but that's just peanuts to the London Supershow.
There's serious money. Way more money being chucked around than any show I've been on in the past few years. Actually, no. I'm talking myself up This is pretty much the biggest and fanciest show I've ever been on. I've done a couple of big Tokyo shows, and I was at AAA Triplemania twice, and there was FTW, but nothing of this fuckin' SCALE. This is god-damn GRANDEUR. I've been to the O2 a few times - I saw Iron Maiden here last year, and Michael Bublé, and I've seen Depeche Mode every time they've played it (Modies 4 life, bitches), and while those shows were fuckin' sweet, I couldn't help but imagining how boss a wrestling show would be there.
Of course, I do that for every venue. I'm always laying out rings and guardrails, surveying a place with my eyes shamelessly, imagining how hot it'd look with a curtained entryway over by the bathrooms. Gemma can always tell when I'm eyeing up the support beams in a pizzeria that I'm imagining getting a lighting rig up there, and I'm just RAVISHING that joint with a cheap flyered indy show in my mind.
But this? This blows all my naughty imagined wrestling shows out of the fucking water.
EVERYONE is here. Regal even pulled enough favors to get some of New York to send a few famous faces. Triple H is here shaking as many hands in front of as many cameras as he can find. The Big Show is doing media out front. Becky Lynch is drawing so much of a crowd that the event staff eventually had to corral her back into the fuckin' social media lounge so she could just blow up the internet instead.
Every fuckin' league in the UK sent people. We've got big names from Japan, from Mexico, from Germany. The Great Khali is here! That's actually kinda exciting! I dunno why, he's still a massive lug, but he's got a charm all his own now that he's not on TV every week. And that's to say nothing of Sky Media and the jerks with all the pubs (Gemma HATES those guys) bringing over every wrestling name with a podcast to do a show. Jericho, Austin, good ol' JR himself, Jim Cornette despite his vow never to be on the same continent as me again if he could help it, Colt Cabana, Taz, Edge and Christian, Excalibur, fuckin' Vito Lograsso, Pete Rosenberg and Stat Guy Greg, Masked Man, my boy RD Reynolds and Blade - and of course the world's cutest podcast team, who you've already met. There's podcasts running all OVER the fucking place. It's like we're at E3 but I actually care about the people doing the shows (Okay, I love the guys from Day One Patch, but the rest of 'em can go jump off a microwave).
Anyway, this show is REALLY expensive. And they spared no filthy lucre on making it LOOK expensive. Especially for the grandeur of everyone's entrances. Lighting, pyro, live perfomers, costumes, anything and everything. We had to submit it all to the producers a couple of months ago and get it rehearsed, and some stuff had to be filmed in advance.
(If you're wondering how Reddy and I had time to do all that after driving all over the UK to go to Nando's and kill Sean Connery and then get to London the night before the show, I'll just remind you that the fucking Doctor AND John Taylor were here earlier, so just do like the boys from the Satellite of Love used to say when you wondered how they'd eat and breathe: sit back and relax.)
So Reddy makes his entrance and of COURSE it's fucking amazing and sweet because he's so god-damned cool even when he IS dressed like Calli Quinn's stuffed animal and his heart is as big as the fucking ocean and he gets me all teary-eyed and I have to cold-spray my face to stop my ring cosmetics from getting fucked up before I'm out of gorilla position. Fortunately, I'm gonna have a few minutes. Because I filmed a whole THING that plays before my entrance. Some people say that little movies associated with wrestling events have a history of being terrible. To those people, I say: CHEATUM RULES FUCK YOU.
The lights dim again after the roaring cheers for Red and the lovely singer who rang out his anthem fade down. They dim - and keep dimming, go all the way down to the legal minimums of exit and fire lights and the glitterswarm of cellphones and LEDs out in the crowd. The darkness that fills the O2 is substantial - until:
The big screens all around light up with something a bit like but legally distinct from the 21st Century Fox logo - spotlights illuminating huge silver words overlooking a cityscape that's suspiciously Londonesque. The camera is zoomed in on the top row of letters:
GEMMA ROX PRESENTS
Then the view pulls back to reveal another row underneath:
A PUNKY PRODUCTION
And one more row:
THAT COST TOO FUCKING MUCH
And another line of giant silver text and another and another, the words getting smaller as the view pulls back to reveal this is really like a rambling paragraph stacked up overlooking the CGI city:
SHUT UP YOU'RE RICH
STOP COMPLAINING
BITCH IT'S MY MONEY I'LL COMPLAIN ALL I LIKE
WAIT YOU AREN'T PUTTING ALL THIS IN ARE YOU
OH FUCK WE OBVIOUSLY ONLY MEANT
THE FIRST TWO BITS YOU MINDLESS TWAT
That fades mercifully to black, and we now get a nice high-definition shot of the lobby of the Armitage Hotel, just a few blocks from the O2. The camera focuses in on a staircase, and as a glossy brown Doc Marten hits the bottom step there's a riff that similar to but legally distinct from Jim Johnston's "Wreck", the immortal theme used by Mick Foley's Mankind during his most iconic WWE run. We pan sexily up from the sneaker to reveal tattooed legs decidedly better than Mick's in high white socks, black ragged cut-offs and a glossy black and gold Donjon kneebrace around my right knee, and then a rumpled short-sleeved white button up with a nice striped red tie.
Mick usually wore a black one, but one does want a TOUCH of color, even in a tribute cosplay. I've got one of my own merch buttons above my left breast - I decided to start doing buttons lately, kind of a retro thing and they look cool on jackets and backpacks - this one being a red circle that says PUNKY in big bold irregular font type with "Hellbound the Hardway" underneath. Sort of a Gemma tribute, y'know. I'm so fuckin' sentimental. My iconic purple hair is raked back into a single braid, just for a change of pace, and I'm wearing my usual ring cosmetics 'cuz I'm still me - Chiba City glossy black lip enamel and dark cat's eyes drawn in waterproof Tattoo Liner. In one tattooed hand I'm dangling a mask of brown leather straps.
"Look, Gems. I love the idea. I do. And you actually fuckin' went out and got the real fuckin' deal, and ..."
"This fucking thing cost me THREE THOUSAND FUCKING YANK DOLLARS, you ungrateful tart. You told me you NEEDED the mask. You said it was REQUIRED."
Gemma's snarling each word through her teeth, clutching one of her G-Force cricket bats, the ones made in partnership with a sponsor's deal from Gunn & Moore. I step forward, my free hand caressing my beloved's smooth cheek and basking in the softness of her beautiful, furious face, making sure the HD camera lingers romantically on the gleam of my wedding band. I lean forward, kissing her softly as violins swell, lingering warmly in the kiss until she gives a little purr and her hands find my hips and she presses into me and the violins start to fade to sexy saxophones that break off with a blat as I break the kiss and slip past her, dropping the mask in her open grasping hand and smoothly plucking the cricket bat away from her with the same deftness I used to shoplift my way through a tour of the Texas territories.
"There's already one ridiculous mask in the ring, dollface. An' I ain't coverin' this beautiful fuckin' mug with anythin' except blood. See ya there."
My free hand slaps back to give her curvy ass a squeeze as I bound down the steps and away from her enraged shout. She attempts to follow me only to be blockaded by convenient bellboys with a luggage cart, and I make my way cinematically out of the hotel and into the streets, the cricket bat jauntily over my shoulder.
Some people in the O2 got this bit right away. More of them get it now.
Armitage Road is crowded with wrestling personalities who were willing to cameo in my fucking entrance movie (Hi, Jack!) and uncredited extras who are mostly production staffers and people who didn't realize they were being filmed. A gangly fan in a slightly moth-eaten FTW AFTERSHOCK shirt (I didn't even know we MADE shirts for our recap program hosted by Aarón "El Estrello" Rodriguez and Debra Arun) bumps into me, stopping to gape at me as I shouldercheck him and shoot him a brief death glare.
"FUCKIN' WATCH IT, NUMBNUTS!"
I level a portentous pointed finger of doom at the yobbo as I keep walking.
"Next time I see ya ... yer DEAD."
The audience rumbles in the O2. Yet more people get it now.
The camera cuts as I keep swaggering through London in my sweet-ass Foley cosplay. There's a LOT of wrestling fans around. That makes sense, it's the biggest wrestling show in recent memory. Even still, the street is just FULL of them, shufflin' around. But it's like a mile and a half to the O2, and I'm fuckin' hungry. I explain this narratively for the movie by growling.
"Fuckin' HUNGRY."
Just like Orson Welles would have done it. I deliver a crisp superkick to a mini-mart door, shattering the glass, and give a knowing smirk to the camera, just so everyone knows I can STILL FUCKIN' SUPERKICK. I step through the panes, shouldering the crackled glass aside, and pad casually to the ice cream cooler, where I dig around and come up with a Cornetto Whippy.
The noise picks up in the darkness of the O2 to a faint rumble of conversation and laughter. WAY more people get it now, and are explaining it to those who don't.
My cunning direction makes this conversation even easier with my next seamless scene transition, as I'm joined in the shop by three figures. There's FTW legends Monstro and the Blue Fairy - Monstro's now-white hair is raked up into messy spikes, and he covers his enormous tattooed bulk with a vintage Dudley Boyz "BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WOOD" shirt. The Blue Fairy, petite little aerialist that she is, has her long electric blue hair covered with a snug black beanie, wearing a long sleeved white shirt with black stripes spray painted down it. And her gauzy rainbow wings. She wouldn't fucking budge on the wings, even for this bit. Also there's Will Ospreay, who's booked tomorrow in the King of the Air gauntlet, doing me a favor that he now very much regrets letting me call in. He's in a straight up Harry Potter costume, including the robe, and his dour expression suits his character perfectly. We all four trade a long look and then I dip back into the cooler, and come up with three more Cornettos - strawberry, original blue, and mint chocolate, ha HA, get it? - which I extend out. The three of them all simultaneously snatch one.
There are now very few people in the O2 who don't see where we're going with this one, as I indulge in a Tarantino-esque scene of everyone eating ice cream while standing quietly around an empty market in ridiculous outfits.
Back in the intro film of an increasingly-unlikely runtime, Monstro clears his throat with a rumble like rolling boulders.
"Gotta bit longer 'fore da show. Wanna gedda drink?"
Despite Monstro's gigantically thick Hoboken accent that probably hits British ears like a fucking chainsaw, I tilt my head thoughtfully, purple braid swaying, cricket bat on my shoulder, and glance into the camera just to make it PERFECTLY FUCKING CLEAR as I give a thumbs up with my free hand and a gremlin grin.
"... pub?"
THERE's the cheap pop I was looking for.
We step out of broken door, Ospreay mumbling something about he could have been doing a podcast interview with Angelina Love as he lifts the hem of his black robe to get through the shattered glass of the broken market door. Outside, the wrestling fans have gathered. Dozens of them. More. All in vintage FTW merch, or Gemma Rox gear, Rowan Chance gloves, Platinum Queen sparkly headbands, Lisa Starr Chi-Town armbands, Iron Michelle Blount metal maple leaf buttons. A SWARM of them.
A fucking HORDE.
The four of us spread out. Monstro's holding a giant vintage 80s cellphone in one huge hand, the kind Paul E. Dangerously used to rely on. Fairy has her unfinished strawberry Cornetto in one hand and a golf club in the other. Ospreay has a magic wand (11 inches, holly, with a phoenix feather core. Or possibly just from the World of Harry Potter shop over at King's Cross) and a strong desire to be elsewhere. One of the shambling fans comes at us, clutching an autograph book and an 8x10 of Callista Quinn getting pinned by La Santa.
"SIIIIIIIIGN."
With a snarl, I snatch him by the front of his FTW AFTERSHOCK tee and yank him forward, headbutting him between his beady glassy eyes so hard that his glasses break and his head flies off and bounces down the high street. His body falls to the pavement, autograph book flapping. Monstro points at my shoulder, where drops of blood patter down since I cut my forehead a bit on the gangly shambler's spectacles.
"'ey. Ya got red on ya.
There's ANOTHER cheap pop. This is easy. And it only cost a couple million!
I take my red tie off with a jerk, setting my cricket bat against my hip a moment, and wrap the tie around my bloodied forehead to a massive roar from the crowd, cinching it tight in a Rambo headband. The four of us look at the Horde between us and the northern road. Will clears his throat.
"Are all your shows like this, Punky?"
"Yeah, basic'ly. Anyway, let's get to the fuckin' arena. I get the feeling there's a lotta these fuckers ... so we're gonna have to take a shortcut.
And the movie fades, and as the lights start to come up in red and blue, it's revealed at the long aisle has quietly filled with the Horde, shambling wrestling fanatics in vintage FTW merch and zombie makeup. And our four heroes appear on the stage, still in costume. That's right, bitches, it's my PPV cosplay! And as we step out from the entryway and strike bad-ass poses, the extremely-expensive-to-license-right-now (fucking movie) strains of Freddy Mercury's sweetly plaintive but somehow still bombastic voice hit over the speakers.
Toniiiiiiight ...
The crowd roars just from that one word, and I grin on the stage, eyes flashing under my necktie bandana. About ten thousand voices in the crowd croon along like it's a pub sing.
I'm gonna have myself
A real GOOD time!
I feel aliiiii-iiii-iiiiive!
And the WORRRRLD!
Lights flare over the arena as the Horde swarms the stage, crowds of them on either side of the ramp. I give a casual nod to the Blue Fairy, who tosses her golf club aside and takes two steps back on the stage, snatching her beanie off and letting her pixie-cut blue hair flutter, rolling her shoulders to make her wings flap before she runs forward and DIVES off the stage into a fucking beautiful Shooting Star, wiping out about ten zombie-fans. Admittedly, with that many catching her, they have to allow themselves to fall over since she barely weighs over a hundo, but whatever, it looks sweet.
I'll turn it inside out, yeah!
And floating around
In ecstasy!
So DON't stop me now!
DON'T stop me now!
I tilt my head to the side and grin at Will, who has his little round glasses and lightning bolt head scar and black robes flapping. I give him a wink, and he gets a big bright Ospreay smile as he gestures grandly with his plastic wand.
"EXPELLIARMUS, YOU BASTARDS!"
I love that kid.
He runs forward and, not to be outdone, dives off the stage into a seamless 540 corkscrew senton bomb, and the dozen zombie-fans HE lands on don't need any further help in falling the fuck over.
'cuz I'm having a good time
HAVING A GOOD TIME!
Monstro and I are actually old friends. I met him on my first time in Jersey, when I stopped at the Monster Factory. He was already married to the Fairy, even way back then, and we all got along great. Everyone loves Blue, but Monstro and I had a special connection, forged mostly from cheesesteaks and late nights playing Smash Brothers.
So he qualifies to be the Frost to my Pegg. Reddy would play the part, but he's in the ring 'cuz I'm gonna kick his ass. Hi, Reddy. Get your ass ready.
I'm a shooting star, leaping through the sky
Like a tiger! Defying the laws of gravityyyy
I'm a racing car, passing byyyy like LADY GODIVA!
I'm gonna go - go - GO - GO
There's no stopping MEEEEE!
Monstro and I go through our secret handshake (It's a classic: shake, clasp, finger hook, finger lace, thumb tap, slide back, sideways five, backwards sideways five, finger waggle. That one's pretty simple by my standards. My secret handshakes with Reddy and Lindsay can take up to three minutes). Then he sets his head and CHARGES down the ramp, arms out, sweeping down two rows of zombie-fans before his behemoth charge.
I follow along in his wake, and every Hordeling who stands before me gets a cricket bat to the bonce, thwomping them down like Italians playing Native Americans in a Leone Western, swinging overhand and pulling my shots not to hurt these friendly extras, many of whom are journeyman wrestlers but making sure that I'm keeping the beat.
I'm burnin' through the sky, yeah
Two hundred degrees
That's why they call me Mister Fahrenheit
I'm traveling at the speed of light
Just outside the ring, I lay out three zombie-fans who are all, through astonishing coincidence, dressed in tall black boots, and corsets, and long black wigs. Sometimes those fans travel in packs. I put a little extra pop on those swings. Gotta make it sound good - like ash wood thwacking bone. Rich and pure.
Don't stop me now, I'm having such a good time
I'm having a ball
Don't stop me now
If you wanna have a good time, just give me a call!
Don't stop me now (yes, I'm havin' a good time)
I don't want to stop at all
I take a big step up onto the apron, in my slightly clinging short-sleeved white shirt, the tails flapping at my hips in my little cut-offs that give me plenty of flexibility. My knee brace glitters and toes curl with excitement in my Foree Electric sales advisor brown Doc Martens. I grin at Reddy, my eyes sparkling, and shift my hips in time to the music before I snatch the headband off and fling it into the crowd. Thanks to movie magic, I'm not bleeding any more. The cricket bat I toss behind me with a casual flip where it's caught by a nimble tech before some fan can grab it and belabor someone's skull, and I grip the top rope and lithely twist over it with a smooth sideways roll, landing on my boots, bouncing up and down a bit, feeling the tension in my knee brace, feeling the race of blood in my veins.
My grin could light a dark room as I resist the urge to hug Reddy so damn tight since it'll slow down our intro, but he can see the light shining in my eyes, and I shoot through a flurry of shadowboxing strikes, punches and jabs, knee lifts and forearms at nothing, and finish with a showy high roundhouse kick to pop the marks - a roundhouse kick planted on my right foot, taking my weight smoothly as I spin gracefully around and raise my hands up, throwing a double rock hand into the air as forcefully as I've ever thrown any punch and soaking in the roar of the crowd like a fucking drug.
Yeah, I'm a rocket ship on my way to Mars
On a collision course
I am a satellite, I'm out of control!
I am a sex machine, ready to reload!
Like an atom bomb about to -
Oh, oh, oh, OH, OH EXPLODE!
It's like the song says.
I'm fucking ALIVE.
-
There's me, mask off, dressed in my civies, eating a hot dog and drinking a Coke, watching the entrance from my private box. The hot dog and the Coke are tradition.
But my eyes are wide open and my mouth is agape. Watching all the fireworks and ballyhoo. Eyes and mouth wide open, hand barely holding the hot dog while the Coke sits beside me, slowly perspiring.
And all I could say, if I could say anything at all, is, "Wow." But I can't even manage that.
And in the back of my head, and the front of my head, and the center part of my head, and other parts of my anatomy are screaming a different message:
Goddamn...I'm in love.
-
I love Queen. I admit it. And I love Shaun of the Dead. (Yes, I'm going to be the person to flat out reveal the punchline for the joke for those still not getting it.) I usually don't do zombie movies, but what got me into watching Shaun of the Dead was Queen. I saw a clip of the scene where Shaun and his crew were staving off a zombie attack and striking them with the beat of Queen's Don't Stop Me Now and it intrigued me.
So I watched. And you should too.
I love me some good dissonance. Dissonance like the Simon and Garfunkel song "I Am A Rock" has. Listen to the catchy, bouncy, almost advertising jingle like tune of that song. Then actually just read the words. It's a happy sounding song with some of the loneliest lyrics around. It perfectly encapsulates the idea that people are hurting and hide themselves under a veneer of normalcy. That's one extreme example played for drama. Edgar Wright, the mad lad, crafted that scene in Shaun of the Dead for comedy. The actors are fighting for their lives while Queen's most hopeful and triumphant song plays. I believe in some polls Don't Stop Me Now is listed as the most upbeat song ever. In that sense, it spoke to me that these people still had hope if they could just keep going.
And I look over at Megan, that wild smile on her face.
The joy.
And I see it.
The woman who's made a career of being the toughest one around, the Living Dead girl, the Human Trigger Warning, "Oh Christ, it's her, run," that woman is standing in front of me with the biggest...my dad would call it the biggest shit eating grin ever.
She's Happy.
This is her passion. This is what made the long and winding road here worth travelling. This is where she belongs. In the middle of the ring, ready to do some work.
I catch her eye and I can tell she's wanting to rush me and tacklehug me, but that wouldn't do.
I just have to tease her. I know she already thinks I look ridiculous, so fuck it. As the last refrains of the anthem that propelled her to the ring play, I break into my best Paul Rudd impersonation (check it out http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4LvMeYEwWGQ&t=4m28s) and go all silly.
Yeah this is special for both of us. I know how much Paris took out of her. Took her to a dark place. And love her or hate her, Megan is emotional. She can rub people the wrong way with her...Meganness. She's intense, burning hot. But she's also got another side that the pendulum swings to. Much like the nameless singer of "I Am A Rock" (see kids, that was Chekov's Reference) Megan will mask her emotions by standing up as strong as a rock. But right now, right here in this moment, I've never seen her more....Alive.
That makes this wild, wacky trip all worth it.
So let's get on with it, shall we?
A grumbling Scottish brogue kicks in over the scene of rampant craziness, a voice familiar to fans of Insane Championship Wrestling.
"Somewhere, Joe Hendry is crying wishin' he had a budget fer an entrance like that. Hello and welcome to the next match here in the O2 where we're following up the bloodiest hardcore match ever with...something. Billy Kirkwood here with legend and wrestling matriarch Sweet Saraya Knight and British wrestling legend and trainer extraordinaire Robbie Brookside. But first, let's have a look at the many other commentating teams from around the world that have joined us for this show, starting off with our Spanish Announce team Willie Urbina and Hector Guerrero."
I watched the footage back later and had to laugh when Willie said in Spanish that my outfit had to be the most garish one he'd seen since LazerTron. Hector wasn't expecting it and tried hard to stifle a reaction which only served to make him look like he'd swallowed a lemon and got all bug eyed.
It was good seeing the different wrestling legends they'd gotten to help commentate this match, a real who's who of independent wrestling. How they got Das Wunderkind, Alex Wright to do the German broadcast, I'll never know, but I did love seeing him do his dance in a suit.
And then it got really funny....
"And for the people who for some reason cannot understand a perfectly enunciated Scottish accent, we have our American Announce Team of Larry Van Keel and Rick 'Precious' Perle...*mumbling* well we saved on the budget there.."
LVK: Rick it's great to be back calling action again.
RP: And getting paid, even if it is in pounds. I thought they used the Euro over here.
LVK: Most of Europe does except the United Kingdom which...
:And that's enough of that baws. Who wants a history lesson in wrestling. No wonder those guys have disappeared. Wait, we have one more group? Seriously. I'm being told that for those who can't understand me nor the regular 'Yankee' American announcers we have out Southern Announce Team, Johnny Caudle and Bob Weaver....*mumbling* they're still alive..how old are they now? 124?"
BW: Thanks for that great introduction Willie. Fans, we're gearing up for a dream bout that should be nothing short of amazing, the always dangerous Megan 'Punky' Dow vs the wily veteran, the Red Enforcer. Johnny, you're familiar with these two, what can you tell us.
JC: *eyes wide, jaw slightly dropped, staring into the ring* "What in the flying fuck is he wearing?"
"Thas what I'm sayin' eerrr. Thank you gentlemen. Now onto the introductions."
The ring announce grabs the microphone and stands in the spotlight in the center of the ring gearing up for his booming announcement. He's dressed in black, deep black with a maroon tie that pops off his chest. He's a pro and he waits patiently for the crowd to settle before he begins.
"THE FOLLOWING CONTEST IS SCHEDULED FOR ONE FALL..." ONE FALL!!!!
"WHEN THE BELL RINGS THE MAN IN CHARGE OF THE ACTION, REFEREE JIM MOLINEAUX!1!" ECW! ECW!
"INTRODUCING FIRST, STANDING IN THE CORNER TO MY RIGHT, FROM PARTS UNKNOWN..."
I step up and cover the mic with my hand and whisper into his ear.
"EXCUSE ME, FROM CHARLOTTE, NORTH CAROLINA" WOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
"THE CRIMSON MENACE, THE SCARLET.."
I come up again and cover the mic with my hand and whisper into his ear.
"THE EMERALD ASSASSIN, THE VERDANT DESTROYER, THIS IS THE TEEEEEEEAAAAALLLLL EEEENNNNNNFFFFOOOOORRRRCEERRRRRR!!!!!"
I stride out from my corner and stand in the center. All kinds of thoughts running through my head. We're finally here after what seems like months of buildup. I'm in the ring, in a major spotlight, which at my age is coming fewer and fewer. And I'm here with my best friend about to put on a show for the thousands in attendance and the millions watching at home.
Could anything be better than this?
I close my eyes and soak in the cheers. My right arm raises in a fist in my traditional salute. And the roar is nearly deafening. We've got this crowd already, just from our entrances. Now we just gotta work 'em a little more and make 'em go nuclear. Other matches will come after us, but we're gonna make sure none of them can follow us. I'm ready.
I look over at Megan and give her a matching grin.
Let's do this
"World class ring announcing by Simon Cassidy here tonight. I cannot wait for the next one."
-
God damn it, Reddy, if you keep tryin' to make me laugh they're gonna have to send for the Man.
(Someone cue the synthesizer cover of "Beat It".)
Reddy's dancin' and singing along to Queen, and of course I'm already grinning so damn wide my head's gonna split and the top half is gonna fall off, so I get my giggles out as the music volume drops a bit while Billy Kirkwood runs through the formalities at ringside. I warm myself up some more, swinging my inked arms across my chest to loosen them up. I went through my whole yoga routine in the back before the PA ever knocked on the door, virabhadrasana to parivrtta parsvakonasana to ardha chandrasana and all that fun shit, getting myself centered and focused and get my fuckin' chakras aligned. But now I'm focusing on shadowboxing, bouncing on my toes, on bouncing my back and hips against the ropes to get me used to moving in this ring attire. It's not a huge stretch from my usual punked-up half-tee and joshi skirt to cut-offs and a button down, but I haven't worked in front of an audience in a long friggin' time. And this audience is god-damn HUGE.
And they are HUNGRY. They've paid big fucking bucks to be here in the O2 tonight, and the best of the best of the creme of the crop that rises to the god-damn top are here to put on shows. Reddy and I are one of only a handful of singles matches on the card - a lot of the show is team matches, gauntlets, over-the-tops, things that get a lot of bodies in the ring. Gemma had to pull some strings to get Red and I this spot. I mean, don't get me wrong, me coming back for my first public show after Paris is a big draw -
(which wasn't THAT long ago, if you're wondering. Time is funny here what with the Doctor swooping around over the shattered remnants of the fourth wall, remember? That's why Lady DDT is in the crowd)
- and Reddy's a legend in his own right, so we'd be a marketable match. But we also could have ended up booked into a royale or as part of a 6-person tag. Gemma made sure to get us this spot; a singles match following the Hardcore Legend brawl. I even got to steal an initially unwilling but ultimately warm hug from a very bloody Scotty in the back before I came out, which only added to the verisimilitude of my Shaun costume (I had even MORE red on me). This is as about as good as it gets. I waggle my fingers to Rick and Larry up on the announcers' tier and turn my attention to Reddy as he gets announced.
And of COURSE that hammy fucker has to play it up.
So I have a choice here, about how to play this. See, how you react to comedy in the ring helps set the tone for the whole match. It clues the audience in on how this is going to play out; are they gonna be let in on the joke like when they're watching Colt Cabana, or are they part of the punchline, like when they're bamboozled by the Miz?
So I'm gonna need to do this juuuuuuust right.
But first lemme tell you about one of my all-time favorite wrestling memories. One of the few that doesn't involve me getting drunk or hitting someone with something heavy.
I was a young'un, watching WCW on the big plaid couch in my old living room on the family farm out near Deschutes, snarfing Dunkaroos and drinking Crystal Pepsi (I've always had terrible habits). This was during that wonderful time when the Great Muta was wrestling in both WCW and New Japan, and he was at the absolute peak of his fucking game. I LOVED him. He had a match with that gorgeous surfer Sting and Muta was playing for the ringside crowd before the match, and he stopped in front of a mom and her kid to do some fuckin' legendary Muta mean-mugging - and the little kid with the big spooked eyes and the cute pudgy cheeks just hauls off and leans forward on mom's lap over the railing and SLAPS THE SHIT OUT OF MUTA.
Now, okay. Keiji Mutoh could've done a buncha things here. He could've no-sold. He could've really scared the mother and kid shitless with some roaring in Japanese and sent them running. He could've even rightfully had security escort the Dixie broad and her rugrat out. But he didn't, obviously, because he's not a dick and because this was a fuckin' cool moment I still remember (oh god so many) years later.
Muta sold the HELL outta that slap.
He did a full spin and flat-backed on the old WCW blue ringside mats, then clutched his face and did a full rubber-legs stagger to his feet, then pointed at the kid all wide-eyed, clutching his jaw, and demanded that the referee protect him from this powerful brute. The ref plays along and herds Muta into the ring, warning the kid back playfully (kid had a fucking BILLION DOLLAR grin at this point) and through the whole match with Sting, Muta keeps looking out at the kid and rubbing his jaw, and at one point when Sting backs him up with those old Sting bicep flexes (I dunno exactly why those always scared Flair and the gang so much. I guess they were assuming he was on a classic Venice Beach coke rampage) and Muta realizes he's backing towards where the kid is sitting and does a hilarious spin and collapse with a full crawl backwards away from that dangerous toddler and his fists of stone.
He turned what could have been an uncomfortable or at least unremarkable moment of unconventional fan response into a bit of comedy that lasted through the whole match and made it stick into my fucking mind like a dart buried in the gray matter. When I'm on my deathbed I'm sure I'll forget Gemma's middle name and where I went to high school and the names of all 172 of my signature moves and how to make Out of This World Moon Waffles, but I know for a fucking fact I'll remember at least two things - that fucking Muta match and the Super Golden Crisp theme song.
(It's got the crunch with PUNCH!)
So that's all basically just to say that I sell the SHIT out of Red correcting Simon Cassidy.
"WHAAAT?!" I roar, aghast, staggering backwards and snatching at the ropes to hold me up, pointing out at Billy Kirkwood and screaming -
"I WAS TOLD HE WAS FROM FUCKING PARTS UNKNOWN! I'M NOT PREPARED TO FIGHT SOMEONE FROM GOD-DAMN NORTH CAROLINA! THEY HAVE *BLUE DEVILS* THERE!"
Billy shrugs helplessly.
"I'm sorry, lass! He's gone bloody rogue!"
I pound the turnbuckle with my fist in a rage. There's a balance to strike here. I want to make it look GOOD, because the more realistic my playful outrage seems, the sillier it is by contrast to how goofy Reddy is being. And it's working.
I turn back towards the ring and Red is whispering into Simon's ear again.
"THE EMERALD ASSASSIN, THE VERDANT DESTROYER, THIS IS THE TEEEEEEEAAAAALLLLL EEEENNNNNNFFFFOOOOORRRRCEERRRRRR!!!!!"
"WHAAAAAAAT THE FUUUUUCK?!"
I don't just stagger back, I fucking REEL backwards, dropping down as I hit the ropes to catch the middle rope with my extended arms draping over it, my ass bouncing on the bottom rope with my legs sprawled in front of me, staring aghast at the newly enshrined Teal Enforcer.
I make a big show of getting it together, shaking my head, my long purple braid dancing on my back as I get my legs under me and scrabble forward on my knees, the brace making an odd metallic rasp that makes my toes curl in my shiny new brown Docs. I clutch at Jim Molineaux's hips - I still can't fucking believe we got the Extreme Referee, SO FUCKING AWESOME. I'm gonna fucking rock Gemma's world tonight - and pull him close so I can stare up at him pleadingly.
It takes him a second to get the bit, but he plays along.
"Teal? TEAL?! I WAS TOLD I'D BE FIGHTING THE *RED* ENFORCER! I NEED *TIME* TO PREPARE FOR THE TEAL!"
Jim represses a grin as he sternly presses a hand to my forehead to push me back, and shakes a scolding finger.
"NOT MY PROBLEM, PUNKY! YOU KNEW THE RISKS! TO YOUR CORNER!"
I curse dramatically, thrashing my fists in the air, and get to my feet with barely a hitch, stomping to my corner, letting my playful display of over-the-top shock melt away for a moment as Simon Cassidy turns to me and smiles.
"AAAAAND IN THE CORNER TO MY LEFT - "
Bless those mad fuckers in the crowd, they're already roaring. These mad bastards are EXCITED. They're responsive to EVERYTHING and ready to get rowdy. And boy fucking howdy are we gonna give it to 'em.
I make a show of steadying myself, doing a little tai chi centering exercise, and then I bounce out to mid-ring with my grin lit back up, unable to keep it back.
"HAILING FROM THE CITY OF ROSES -"
God, they even cheer for Portland. This crowd is ready to RUMBLE.
"STANDING TALLER THAN JESUS -"
Factual. Dude was a 1st century Semite. He was probably shorter than Gems.
"- AND WEIGHING MORE THAN ENOUGH TO KICK YOUR ARSE -"
I've made multiple scientific experiments proving this hypothesis. Anyway, here comes the good bit. Fortunately for Simon, he's had practice doing this bit during my little tour in ICW a couple of years back. That's good. I've been known to choke out announcers who get this bit wrong.
"THIS! IS! PUNKY!"
And a big fuckin' chunk of the O2 Arena chants along with that old song, and tears glitter in my eyes before I squeeze them back by biting my pierced tongue hard enough to make the bead click against my teeth. I twist and jump up to the second rope in one bound, despite promising myself I wouldn't do exactly this, and don't even feel a twinge in my rebuilt knee as I throw both my inked arms up high and thrust out double rock hands, basking in the fucking cheers that hit me like a speedball hitting my veins.
God damn, I fucking love wrestling.
I turn and bounce off the buckles, and level a finger at Reddy, getting some solid glowering in.
"YOU AIN'T GONNA FOOL ME, TEAL ENFORCER! I KNOW YOUR FUCKIN' TEAL TRICKERIES! YOU GET VERDANT AND I'LL GET VIOLENT!"
I'm 90% sure Red is biting his lip to stop from laughing.
The bell rings and the crowd roars with it as we move towards each other. Red moves with a fluidity you wouldn't expect from his size and his age, a natural grace and confidence born from just fucking AGES in the ring. I move like I always do, limber and almost lazy at first. My speed is EXPLOSIVE. I'm like fuckin' Al Pacino - when I move, I slice like a hammer. And I'm also a fuckin' method actor.
I shake my hands out with loose snaps of my wrists, my heart beating a steady thrum and my blood singing in my veins, and since Reddy is waiting for me to make the first move he tenses up as soon as he sees me shake my hands out. I lunge in and he catches me, and the crowd pops for a fucking collar-and-elbow tie-up. Oh, this is gonna be GOOD. This is a crowd that would happily buy tickets on the coal barge bound for Newcastle or invest in the Nunavik Ice Company.
My hands slap smoothly into place, and so do Red's, and I meet his eyes up close, giving him a little pressure. Reddy's a good deal bigger than me, but not that much taller, so the tie-up actually looks good. We give it a little circle, boots shuffling on the mat, and then Reddy muscles up and works me back, pushing me back into the corner until my ass is pressed against the buckles. Jim Molineux is right there to separate us, but Red puts his hands up indicating a clean break - and then pats my head before he backs off, drawing an "OOOOOOOOH!" from the crowd as I give him a fucking death glare.
I nod and loosen up, bouncing on my toes and extending my hands to the sides, curling my fingers to my palm with quick little flicks, beckoning a little nose from the crowd to feed me as I move back out - and I come in faster this time. Reddy has to move quick to catch me at the shoulder and bicep, and I drill right into the movement, my long lithe legs flexing as I twist my hips and spin THROUGH the lock-up. Reddy had set for another lock, so I pull him off balance, and do-si-do us around the ring for a quick round before I push forward and drive him back into the corner, rattling the ropes a little as I plant him in the buckles pretty hard with my tricky rush, giving him his receipt.
Jim is there again - but I put my hands up and grin as I show off a clean break - and then pat Reddy's cheek sweetly before I back away, drawing another delighted shocked "OOOOOOOOOH!" from the crowd.
Two collar-elbows and two clean breaks and these marks are ready to buy everything we've got to sell.
Oh, this'll be good.
I lean forward, hands on my thighs, my braid hanging over my shoulder, not unaware of how this posture frames my ass nicely in these cut-offs as I wait for Reddy to come get some more with a big wicked grin and eyes that won't stop fucking sparkling.
-
I'm used to being the straight man to Megan. Hmmm, come to think of it, in both figurative senses. And we have a very similar sense of humor. I don't know exactly what she's gonna do when I do my bit with Simon Cassidy. but I do know that she's gonna sell it as well as Xavier Woods sold being put on the List of Jericho. And she doesn't disappoint. It takes all I can do to not corpse in this ring. Seeing her be so wonderful and excited and energetic about being in this ring warms my heart. It's odd looking across the ring from her though.
We've known each other for years and traveled up so many roads and eaten so many waffles. But to be perfectly honest, we've only been in the ring against each other maybe a handful of times.
When she was in the Carolinas doing some learning, there wasn't much intergender interaction. Not in a wrestling sense. But we made up for it in training sessions in the middle of the week. I remember after about the 400th collar and elbow tie up, both of us sweating buckets, she'd wonder why in the hell were we spending so much time with such a simple move.
Right now, I'm pretty sure she's no longer wondering. It's a simple enough spot, one that fans expect and these days gets rushed, but when you know how to work it, when it comes as natural as breathing, it becomes a storytelling device you can use to draw people in.
Right now, I'm hoping the crowd uses this time to ease down so they don't exhaust themselves before we're done. But this is a really smart crowd. They know what we're trying to do and they're getting into it with us. Hell it feels like I'm back in the early 80s with some of those Greensboro or Spartanburg crowds. It takes me back. And I can't imagine doing this kinda thing with anyone else but Megan.
Now that we've got the crowd going with two collar and elbow tie ups and two corner bits, it's time to speed things up a bit. I take a moment to look over from the corner and see Megan bent over a bit with that million megawatt smile she's never stopped having since she got to this ring. I notice a lot of cellphone flashes behind her so I know exactly what kind of stance she's taking. (You're welcome r/WrestleWithThePlot.) I can hear the voices of my old mentors telling me to slow it down a bit and build it back up. So I go in for another collar and elbow and when I do, I whisper just loud enough for Megan to hear, "headlock" and she gives me a tap of her index finger to let me know she understands.
See in our crazy world, there's two types of matches, booked matches and shoot fights. Shoot fights are just real fights between people. Booked matches are choreographed. Now, how you lay out a match differs among the people. In the old territory days, we'd just use house shows as practice to get a match together. You'd fight the same person for the length of the program and the tour dates and by the end you had it down. As things shifted, some people would still do spot calls in a match and others would lay out the match beforehand. Nowadays, people will even practice matches in their down time to get things right.
I've always been a spot caller. I learned from some of the best and I trust my instincts in a match. You have to know the crowd and go with how they're reacting. You can't control the matches that happen before you so you have to watch them and see what kind of audience you have. Then when you're in the ring, you play to that crowd. Megan has great instincts too. She loves the flow of a match and she really gets the psychology of it. But like I said, we've only been in the ring against each other a handful of times so we don't have experience against each other to fall back on. What we do have though is countless hours of training and complete and total trust in each other. So we're calling this on the fly and here's my chance to get things going.
Megan struggles against me in the tight collar and elbow. I struggle against her. This time, she has her stance wider, letting her dig her boots in deeper, fire up her calves and really flex out those thighs of hers. All of which not only shows the crowd, the struggle she's going through, but it also really makes her ass pop in the ring. We're here entertaining everyone. For my part, I shift my boots and tense up my own strong legs to really show that we're straining. It also helps show that hey now that we messed with each other, it's time to get serious. We sit in the middle of the ring in deadlock for about 10 seconds, enough to get the crowd to wonder which way this is going to go.
Then Meagan eases up on her left hand and takes a slight step back with her left foot, making me lunge forward just a bit as I'm really trying to move her back. This causes me head to lurch forward and for Megan to wrap that strong right bicep around it and clasp that wrist with her left hand and yannnk me into a really solid side headlock.
And this damn crowd pops. They're gonna pop for every damn thing I think.
Megan works that headlock, making a big show of moving her arm and flexing her bicep and grinding her forearm into my forehead. And I wriggle with each torque of my head. Jim's in there like a champ, helping sell the power of this hold by getting close and using his hands to show he's asking me if I want to give. To a headlock. It's all pantomime and exaggerated motion, but a quality referee really helps make the drama build.
I'm slapping at Megan's side a little. You know, trying to flop about and figure out how to get free. If I were playing the heel, I'd snatch her braid and use it to help me do what's next. I'm not because it's not that kind of match and not that kind of story, so instead, I use my arms to push against her waist and her near thigh so I can push her back into the ropes.
See now, the crowd may be expecting another clean break or some shenaxxxxns in the ropes or something. I prefer the third option. And this is tricky because if we don't do this right, Gemma's gonna kill me. "Steamboat" I whisper. And there's the tap to let me know she understands. It's so much easier working with someone who understands the shorthand. I press her hard against the ropes and then use the momentum from the release of energy from the taut ropes to help me propel her towards the opposite side which lets me pop my head free. And I launch her and she runs to the opposite ropes. She's moving very fast so I need to get this timed just right.
She turns and hits the far ropes on her back as she was taught and she springs back to me. I make a big leap and a show of diving my body down towards her legs. Most people don't get this, but the idea behind the drop down is that you are trying to trip up your opponent. Nowadays though, everyone counters with a leap up so people don't get the spot. Bless Kay Lee Ray though. I've seen her does this and actually trip her opponent.
Anyways, I'm worried that if I mistime it, Megan is gonna trip and hurt her knee. But I shouldn't have, she leaps over me like a pro and goes to the far side. I hop up and wait and duck my head, going for a back body drop. Instead the blur of motion that is Punky rushes to me and leap frogs up over me and hits the other side. I turn in a hurry and already am getting my body leaned in at an almost 45 degree angle and I catch her left arm in deep and whip her up and over my body with a very deep arm drag takedown.
The crowd goes OOOOOOOOHHHHHH again as I've nearly tossed her all the way across the ring. I get up smiling and she looks over at me, shaking out her left arm and glaring just a bit. She positions herself for another collar and elbow and I look like I'm going to go for it again, but instead I trick her and dive in so I get my right arm around her head and pull her against my side for my version of a headlock.
I work my hold. Tight. My bicep is crammed and flexing against her right ear and cheek. My forearm digs into her forehead and I'm crushing the left side of her face hard against my side and abs. Jim comes back in to ask her if she gives and she extends her arms and shakes her hands as if to say no. She gets her hand around my wiast and the other on my thigh and this time she backs me up. I can feel the tight ropes (which by the way usually aren't rope, but tight cables of material designed to bruise the fuck out of you if you hit them incorrectly) biting into my back and when I'm ready I give her the tap.
BK:" Ooooh and now it's her turn to push the brute into the ropes and now she's tossin' him off into the far ropes."
RP: "Punky doesn't swing that way Billy."
BK:"The fuck you doin' on my broadcast Perle, get off!"
RP:"If she strains those cutoffs anymore, I will."
And now it's my turn to run the ropes, and I admit, I hammed it up here. I usually have to be the monster, the muscle, the indestructible machine that breaks things and people. So when I get the rare opportunity to let some comedy in (Like my appearances in Chikara's King of Trios tournaments) I really go for it.
I make big, outsized motions of going to the far ropes and I leap over Megan as she drops down, resisting the temptation to give her booty a little tap with my boot as I go over her. Then I hit the far ropes and by now the crowd expects the leap frog, except Megan isn't bending over, she's looking at me straight on. I make like I'm going for a shoulder block. And the crowd expects this too and braces for it.
But they forget my Japanese loving friend. As I get to her, she gets her left arm up under my left arm. Her feet set on the mat and she bends low. Then in perfect timing to me getting to her, she raises up and explodes her hips, her arm catching my arm and using her momentum, she yanks me up and over onto my back in a textbook Japanese arm drag.
The crowd OOOOOOOOHHHHHHSSSSS louder now and I take a moment to reach behind me and hold my back before pushing up on one hand and looking over at Megan. Nodding my head as if to say you got me. Stifling a grin as I know we really have this crowd worked and damn if it doesn't feel good doing this again.
BK: "And it looks like these two are just trying to one up the other. What are we gonna see next???"
-
You think you're gonna go this long in Punky story without more flashbacks? It's been like ... several posts without one. We're way behind quota. I mean, on the plus side, there hasn't been a bunch of super sad stuff. There's been no betrayals, no heartbreak. No sheer brutality that bruises the very soul. No one's even really gotten hurt, unless you count when we killed Sean Connery and maybe those window cleaners we knocked out in Liverpool. I bet you guys forgot about that. We TOTALLY had a whole Benny Hill/Beatlemania thing going. Total fuckin' classic. But still, let's get some flashbacking going. We haven't had a full-on one since Reddy was thinking about that strip club again. He fucking LOVES thinking about that strip club.
Battle Boxing Gym, Columbia, South Carolina
I was coated in sweat, fucking glazed in it. I'm proud of my stamina, always have been. I've got the resting heart rate of god damn land tortoise, and I keep going long after a normal person would just fall over decently and die. But right now, right this fuckin' second, I'm fuckin' FEELIN' the limits of what I can convince my body to do as I sag back into the ropes for a moment, my arms draped back over the top. I've got less tattoos back in the day we're in, and less scars - but I was also more hyper and kind of a fuckin' madhouse a lot of the times. I realize it's hard to convince you that I'm a lot more chill these days when I spend so much time piledriving my wife into the breakfast table and bashing robots with baseball bats, but rest assured, I'm a fuckin' fountain of calm these days compared to what we're lookin' at now.
Of course, at this exact moment in the flashback, it's unlikely I'd be bashing ANYTHING with a baseball bat, even if it really, really deserved it, since I can barely lift my arms. My battered Dixie Chicks "Fly" shirt (I got it at a thrift shop when we went through Macon because it looked sweet as hell and it was only 75 cents, and then I actually started listenin' to 'em after that, and fuck yeah, they're awesome. You should hear the roadtrip duet Reddy and I can pull on "Cowboy Take Me Away") is god-damn painted onto me, and my cotton shorts look like I just went fuckin' swimming. I'm sheened in flourishes of greasy sweat, my purple hair looking almost black. I crane my head back and look up at the Battle Gym's ceiling. It's not much to look at. It's just hanging acoustic tiles, pitted and stained with age and yellow from smoke. This gym's been around since the days when you did your boxing with a cigar in your teeth.
Reddy's across the ring, with his mask on and a shirt with a fancy rooster on it, and sweats. He's just as greasy as me - it's impossible not to sweat in this fucking antiquated gym. This place is "cooled" with paddle fans that do nothing but stir the sweaty air around like they're mixing gumbo. But he's on his feet, beckoning me in.
"Reddy," I growl. "I love trainin' until we fall over an' die as much as the next corpse, but that's seventy-eight fuckin' tie-ups."
Reddy nods, adjusting his mask a little so he can breathe better, his head craned down a bit. It's the only real sign of exhaustion he's showin' right now, aside from a wobble in those beefy legs that you'd have know him really well to spot. He's so damn good at shifting his weight to hide it. Never let 'em see ya bleed.
"Another twenty two and we'll break. Good job keeping count."
My groan echoes over the gym, causing grizzled heads of old carnies and palookas to turn in case the masked guy is doing something unspeakable to the titsy broad with the weird hair in the ring. He's not, so they go back to lifting kettlebells and hitting leather bags and hoisting medicine balls and doing other old-timey exercise things that RED ALSO MAKES ME DO.
"Reddy, on my last card I opened with a fuckin' shotei and delivered like 60 chops an' a dragon suplex, an' I didn't tie up once."
Red nods again, and beckons me in once more, more insistently.
"And that's why you were jerking the curtain, darlin'."
That hits me like a slap, and it shows on my face.
He holds one hand up, soothingly.
"You're good, Megan. Obviously. But you're still trying to wrestle like you're going for a spot on Hardcore TV. This is the Southern circuit, the REAL stuff. And I KNOW you know the fundamentals because I've heard how O'Dwyer trains and I know Scotty knows his stuff. You just need to USE them. The collar and elbow isn't just something we train you in to get your biceps toned up. It's a key part of wrestling - it's not just to set the pace of the match and get your opponent under control; it's more than that. It's something the fans have learned to expect. It's a FUNDAMENTAL."
I let my head hang back over the top rope, and growl in my imitation of Squire O'Dwyer. "'An' they're called that for a bleedin' reason, lass', he used t'say ..." I drag myself off the ropes and swing my arms across my chest. My shoulders burn like god-damn Pompeii as I bounce on the toes of my ragged mismatched Chucks, and roll my neck like Rocky, loosening myself up and getting going again.
"So you're sayin' that if I get good enough at this fuckin' Irish folk-wrestling grip, then I'll be a better wrestler an' the fans are gonna dig it?"
Solemnly, draws two fingers up and down and across his chest.
"Cross my heart, darlin'."
I crook a half-grin, and shake my hands out. "Better be fuckin' worth it," I wrinkle my nose at him and curl my fingers as I lunge in for #79.
Back in the O2 Arena, London.
"TOTALLY fuckin' worth it," I giggle to myself as the sellout giant fuckin' crowd of 15,000 or so lucky souls all cheering after our second collar-and-elbow. My heart is god-damn dancin'. There's NOTHING like this. Wrestling is fucking amazing even when it's a bloody stiff brawl in front of 50 people at a VFW. When you're working with someone who can dance each step with you, who you know and love and trust, with so many people cheering that it becomes one huge noise as big as the fucking stars, there's nothing like it on heaven or earth.
Reddy comes back in, and we lock up smooth as butter, and Reddy whispers "Headlock" without his lips even moving. Reddy's a better ring general than pretty much anyone I've been in the ring with - well, maybe Christopher Daniels that time he and I got put against each other due to a weather shutdown that caused a bunch of wrestlers to miss a show in Osaka. He was under the Curry Man hood then, but man, considering what we got that going in the ring and we had never even so much as been in the same locker room before ...
But Reddy is great. Reddy's been steering rookies through great matches for-fucking-ever, and I'm no fuckin' duckling. Reddy's sotto voce is so low that Jim probably can't even hear us, and he's barely a meter away, but it's clear as a bell for me. I tap my fingertip on his shoulder, just once.
Okay, just to be clear -
- it might seem WEIRD to some people who are taking in this story who also saw the living hell Rowan and I put each other through in Paris might find it confusing that Reddy and I are choreographing. If we were living in a world where all of professional wrestling fake (can you even IMAGINE? There'd be no one left but that carnie fuck McMahon instead of the vast array of independents we have now), that might seem confusing.
But wrestling is a SHOW. Sometimes it's a fucking great show, sometimes it's fucking horrifying, but it's a show. When Rowan and I were trying to mangle each other, we were still doing it in a wrestling ring, with a referee, following what rules there were. I didn't bring a gun and fucking shoot her, she didn't dose my pre-match smoothie with cyanide. We were fighting, but we were fighting within the context of wrestling.
It's up to the people in the ring how you want the show to go. Are you gonna lay some stuff out, talk through it on the fly, plan a big glorious finish? Or are you gonna suddenly try to bite through someone's eyebrow like Daffney tried to do to me once in Austin, forcing me to abandon a perfectly good top wristlock to instead punt her cxnt up around her ears? For most of us, it's somewhere in between. Even in a fight that feels like life and death, the show still goes on; we hit the turnbuckles with our backs, we let the ropes rebound us, we don't deadweight a bodyslam, we let the audience see the pain instead of keeping it a secret, and sometimes we just fucking take a hit instead of dodging because it suits the moment. It's a fight - but it's also a show. And what Reddy and I are doing tonight is a LOT more show than fight.
And fuck yeah, it's gonna be a GOOD show.
I mean, I don't have to explain all this. You kids know how wrestling works. It's not like this is all taking place in the context of some big work of fiction that tacitly assumes a pro wrestling match is a real fight of some kind in the stories that are told. That'd be MADNESS, to think like that! Absolute barking box of frogs MADNESS.
So let's focus on how this match is going instead.
We struggle real pretty with the tie-up, my legs out wide and planted to show off some muscle (and REALLY make my ass pop) as Reddy tenses up and rounds off those broad shoulders, and we get a gorgeous visual struggle going that has the Londoners all riled up before I pull back into a classic side headlock, and really GRIND my arms in as soon as I get it on and take the stance. Reddy sells it beautifully, as I'd expect, and I do a real vintage wrist grip, using my forearm to pour pressure on the hold like Fit Finlay. Molineaux is right in there, checking for a submission and hamming it up (probably glad for once that he gets to officiate a match with REALLY limited opportunities for staple gunning).
Reddy backs me up, and as soon as he does I can already see where we're going. It's funny - he and I have only taken each other on formally a couple of times, but we've worked together so long training and fighting on the same teams that I can just SEE where we're going, a map being drawn with each step we take. It's fuckin' beautiful. He pushes off the ropes and gets free, a classic slip the crowd loves, and shoots me across to the far ropes.
These are the parts I was worried about. Running with my new fucking knee brace on with tens of thousands of eyes on me. But what the fuck - either it's gonna work at the speed I go or it's not and I'm gonna need a new brace or a new knee. So I don't hold back. I fuckin' PUNCH it, hitting the ropes HARD and hearing the buckles creak, and it feels GOOD, getting past that initial bite of pain from the new tendon and the pressure of the brace feels FUCKING GOOD. So Reddy dives down at my feet, and I have a brief vision of getting thrown ass over teakettle and my knee popping and Gems beating Reddy to death in the ring with the cricket bat and then having to go to a funeral and a murder trial with one of those huge exo-skeleton braces on my leg - but then I fuckin' JUMP and I'm up and over and shooting past to the far ropes, and it feels SO FUCKING AMAZING to run again, not even hesitating as I shoot back at Reddy, not even sure when he's gonna bust it out. Not yet - he ducks and I plant my hands on his shoulders and vault over him, the movement so fluid and familiar that I forget to be scared, my brown boots hitting the canvas as I keep going, the beating of my Airwalk soles on the crisp canvas like music, creaking the ropes once more, hearing the way the crowd has that little "Ohhhhhhhhhhhh-" of rising anticipation going. It's hanging like a choir note in the air as Reddy and I make 'em wait but this time when I shoot back he's turning and he leans back deep and -
"WHOOOOOA-NNNNNNFFF!" I groan, WHIPPED over with that deep armdrag. I even kick off the mat to add more height, my legs swinging over high and wide and pretty, and the momentum launches me across the dang ring. I take the bump smooth as I can, the shock of it running up me, but it's a GOOD shock, and I can hear the crowd eatin' it up. I shake my arm out and knuckle my hip, shooting Reddy a little Death Glare to keep the marks hot, rolling up to my feet and coming back in.
This time Reddy takes me into a headlock, and I get a solid reminder that he's strong as fuck as even with just a playful amount of force he manages to squeeze a juicy pomegranate's worth of blood into my cheeks. This time I get to do the flailing and struggling to get everyone all fired up before I back him up and shoot him at the ropes. I put some pep into my drop-down, doing a little sideways spider-crawl just after he jumps over me, and then I push myself up with a growl as I bite back another complaint from my knee and square up - and he comes at me full speed, leading with his left like he's gonna check me outta my Docs before I snag his arm and neatly take him up and over, a crisp (if-I-say-so-myself) Japanese armdrag, based on the judo throw called a yoko wakare. Reddy sells it like it's BOGO and he gives me a nod, and we square up again.
They're all fire and popcorn out there! It's tempting to feed them some of the stuff the Brits REALLY love, but we're saving that; I don't even have to ask Reddy to know that. We're doling the match out a bit at a time like a parent cutting a birthday cake into painfully small slices - each one delicious, but you want so much MORE.
So I square up and bring my hands up - and this time I throw some vigor at Reddy, a little flaunt and trash talk. "COME AN' GET SOME IF YA THINK YER HARD ENOUGH!" draws a delighted and scandalized roar from the crowd, and Red gives me a comical reel back as if in Red Foxx shock before growling and charging in, bullrushing me just the way I want. So I dip neatly around him, hooking my right arm around his waist and swinging right behind to reach quick as a closing door to snatch my right wrist in my left hand, catching him in that underrated wrestling classic, the Rear Waistlock!
LVK: I just have to say, it's a delight to see so many of the core fundamentals of wrestling on display with these two greats.
RB: I have to agree with that, Mr. Van Keel. It's a joy. I hope above hope we get some proper catch-as-catch-can.
BW: This is absolutely tremendous!
WU: Si, claro!
RP: ... for the LOVE OF GAWD, SOMEONE JAB A *BEEP*IN' EYE!
Reddy seems properly flummoxed, first trying to lunge away from me only to get dragged back, and then lunging left and then right, each time getting swung back into my control. I even arch my back and tighten my arms up, getting the big guy up off his teal boots for a moment, letting him kick at the air. The crowd seems delighted, especially when Reddy does the full on Curly Howard panic and tries to run in a little circle with me dragging behind him, my arms still locked tight. He starts to reach for the ropes and I tighten up my grip, dragged along step by step as he extends his arm with me growling and tossing my head, fighting each heavy slow pace until he's juuuuust about to touch the rope, with Jim Molineaux drawing right up next to Reddy's wrist, one hand raised, ready to call for the rope break - only for me to SWING the Teal Enforcer around and drag him back to mid-ring, sinking him down in my grip for a moment. I make a show of putting some pressure on him, my left knee flexing forward, leaning into his back, rounding my shoulders off, working it almost like a bearhug -
- except the rear waistlock is really even more effective than a bearhug as far as breath control and movement control go, it's just way less popular because it's real easy for your opponent to jack your jaw with a back elbow in this position.
But Reddy ain't gonna do that. Not this early, anyway. He sinks a little, fighting the hold, letting the crowd see some wear and tear from the grip as he reaches for my hands - and he slowly tugs at my wrists to get just a LITTLE visual separation on my hands before he clutches my left wrist in both hands and pulls that arm open like a gate, pivoting around and swinging neatly behind me, locking his arms around MY waist instead in a BEAUTIFUL standing switch!
"NNHH DANG IT!" I growl, immediately pushing down at his forearms, going to my toes and flexing my shoulders, sliding both feet forward so I can brace my legs and push back against him, making it look real intense. He pours on the pressure, and I'm fighting it every step, rolling left and right, my cut-offs grinding against that teal singlet, when -
Okay, we cover it real well. REAL well, given the circumstances and how prone we both are to giggles.
Even Maffew - somewhere out there in the internet celebrities seating in the mezzanine - can't REALLY say for certain what happens. We don't make it onto "Talk Too Much" segment or anything, but he DOES show a slow-motion cap of this clip and intercut it with the Tex Avery wolf howling at a nightclub dancer.
Both my eyebrows climb up into my hairline and I stop struggling, for just a moment.
"Oh shit, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry ..." Red breathes out like a litany of prayer, his head ducked to hide behind mine. One of those contrition prayers, the kinds that'd earn him a fuckton of Hail Marys.
I grit my teeth and get back into selling - carefully - focusing mostly on pushing on his wrists as I straighten up a little, making sure my ass ... juts less against him.
"We gonna have a Cena here?"
People famously can't see John Cena, but we could all sure as fuck see his stiffy that Raw where he tagged with Trish back in 2008. There were erections in wrestling rings (for the kinds of matches where they WEREN'T supposed to be there) both before and after, but Cena's the lucky one to become a watchword for it. And he still worked the match. Reddy has a hot cheek pressed to my back and I can feel the blush through his mask.
"No no no, it's fine, just ..."
I could feel him shift against me, and I grinned a little. Which is an odd thing to do when selling a rear waistlock. We needed to do SOMETHIN' else soon. I lunged forward, as if going for the ropes on the far side, dragging Reddy a few steps and letting us get a little separation while I was still covering him. I stopped struggling as I was cut short and growled again, nice and loud, working at his wrists locked around my hips.
"You're so lucky I'm nice. Gemma'd back ya into the corner and grind ya," I tease through my growling teeth, only to feel THAT mental image stir him even more, and this time I had to bite my wrist to stop from giggling out loud. My eyes are CLEARLY glittering with wicked mischief, though, on camera.
"meganplease ..." Red groans, and I can feel the shiver. He's a nice boy. The NICEST. The sweetest and gentlest and kindest man I know, and I trust him implicitly. He's always ALWAYS respected my sexuality and my desires and my boundaries - but I've also got a (if-I-do-say-so-myself) exceptionally nice round creamy ass pressed RIGHT against his junk, and he's only human.
"I gotcha. Sell for me, big boy ..." I growl again - and I lean to the side and drill my right elbow back sharply, catching him in the breadbasket. It's the first direct shot of the match, and it catches everyone off guard except Molineaux - including Reddy, who lets out a WHULF that means he's probably forgetting some of that helpless excitement - and I snatch him in a side headlock again and IMMEDIATELY twist my hips, smacking my curvy hip into his belly and bringing him up and over with a rope-shaking headlock takedown!
I drop down, leaning across his chest, working him and letting him lie on his side and recover a bit, and he pats my lower back just once. I curl my fingers on his mask just a moment, scritching him. My Reddy. I'll keep him safe.
"I'LL POP YER HEAD LIKE A GRAPE!" I growl, planting my boots and rocking my hips up, pouring some pressure on the grounded side headlock, arching my back to really put on a show while I bring blood to Reddy's cheeks and away from anywhere troublesome.
... we're REALLY lucky we didn't end up on "You Talk Too Much".
-
I like sexfights. I know that's a hard left turn from where we were in this pro wrestling bout, but I wanted to get that out. I've done my fair share (and if you believe some people, more than my fair share) of sexfights of all kinds. You do the standard it's straight sex to dominance all the way to it's pro wrestling with groping. One thing that is constant about my sexfights and my wrestling matches is that I dress appropriately.
Hang on, I'm getting there. I mean if you're this far in, can you really say that this is the strangest tangent we've taken?
Good, ok. So usually when I get into any kind of match, I like to know what the rules and limits are so I can dress in such a way that it not only allows me freedom to move, but also helps my partner's enjoyment of the match. And I say partner, because again, I don't usually do shoot fights. At the most I usually do worked shoots. (Shoot meaning real, work meaning it's booked or choreographed.) And I figure if they are willing to be in the ring with me, I'll make sure they have fun as well as the audience we're performing for. Don't get me wrong, I love being physical, but ultimately to me, this is Broadway with better stage fighting. So if my opponent has a thing for feet, I'll go barefoot. If my opponent wants me in speedos, I'll do that. I fight naked, whatever. I do have to say though, wrestling in a g-string is a lot more complicated than just wrestling naked. But that's a story for another day.
If I'm wrestling a match and it involves an opponent of any kind who wants to keep it straight to wrestling, I wear gear that helps me..well for lack of better term, contain things so that there's no issue in the ring. It's all about respecting the other person in the ring. When you square up against someone, even if it's apure competition, you should afford them a basic amount of respect. Sure, in this crazy world of pro wrestling tropes, weird and wacky stuff happens. But when you are going to perform with another person, you really should communicate intentions before hand. That prevents injuries both physical and emotional. It's why I run any ideas of heel moves by my opponents before hand, or give them enough cues to let them know what's coming next. That's respect on a large scale. On a smaller scale comes the issue of gear.
I admit, I was so stunned by Calli remembering our bet that I just went with it without thinking through all the possible ramifications. See, my wrestling gear for taking on someone like Megan or any other person that wants to keep it completely on a progessional leverl is designed differently than my sexfighting gear. Even tjen, I do have other...equipment that I can use in case I have to borrow gear due to lost luggage or other things. I didn't think about this when I put the gear on. That's on me.
And thinking about it, I can't really blame Callista as much as I want to. She came up with this amazing surprise and I bet she got my measurements from some gear that...uhh...Gemma may have..ummm...won from me...in..uhh...the match where...I...kinda..became hers... Yeah. That's a long story for another day though. I 'm not sure even Megan knows about that. Of course knowing her and her love for me and Gemma, I know she won't mind. Love works the way it will and honestly in my opinion , in this crazy world, you enjoy the love others have for you instead of questioning it.
So here we are on and I'm clocking in a standard waistlock on Megan. I've done this in training literally hundreds of times. Maybe even thousands. But of course here, on the biggest stage I've ever been on, I'm doing it to her and there's only a super thin layer of lycra and denim between me and her. Somehow she and I just kinda....connect in ummm...hot dog-like fashion. Now all of you who have ever fought Megan will know what an amazing ass that woman has. And during her selling, there was shifting back and forth and rubbing and...fuck..yeah.
I was lucky she only teased me the one time about Gemma because that mental image...whoa....
But Megan loves me. This is about having fun and entertaining. So even when this embarassing thing happens, she's there to protect me.
She's like that. Fiercely loyal. She claims you and you are hers. And right now, she fights against her wicked nature to make sure that I don't become the new Cenarection meme.
I'm on my side and she's working the headlock. I love how these fans are eating this up. And now I get to do a spot I first saw done by some jobber and Jack Brisco. IF you're a WWE fan who saw the Attitude Era, you'll recognize the Brisco name but mostly because of Gerry Brisco who was one of the stooges. Thing is, back in the day Gerry was a capablle hand at wrestling and he and his brother worked the Crockett area. His brother Jack Brisco. Jack was a two time NWA World's Heavyweight champion and multi-time NWA World Tag Team champion with his brother Gerry. Their feud with Ricky Steamboat and Mark Youngblood was one of my favorites of my childhood. Jack was a legit wrestler too, NCAA Champion. First Native American ever to win an NCAA wrestling Championship. And the man knew how to work a headlock. So now, with Megan playing the part of Jack and me the jobber.
One thing this so called "rest hold" has done is get the crowd to settle. Some smart "fans" criticize the rest hold as a way for wrestlers to just stretch out a match. But they serve their purpose when done right. See this match is a story that we're telling with our bodies and you can't go 50 miles an hour the whole time. You need to also let the audience rest or they'll burn out. In movies, even in Michael Bay blockbusters you have these quiet moments that lets your audience take a breath and get ready for the adrenaline of the next big action spot. So we're doing that. As well as letting me recover.
I have to smile as I feel Megan curl her fingers into my mask. There's so much love in such a simple gesture. And it helps get me settled so I can pick things back up in this match. I don't think I've ever done this spot with her, but I know she's watched enough wrestling and knows the setting that all I have to do is initiate and she'll follow suit. I just need the ref to be ready. So I do a hand motion which induces Jim to come close and do the whole "DO YOU SUBMIT?" bit that is an excuse to get him close enough to talk to.
Before I can speak though, he comes in after the submit question and me shaking my hands no and says "Damn and I thought Taz wrestled stiff."
Fucking Molineaux and his sense of humor. I had to slap Megan in the side quick to cover what I knew was was gonna be a big reaction from her. Everyone's a comedian.
"Be ready to count......asshole"
And I could feel Megan stifling giggles. I'll be hearing about this for a while.
I start to go for Megan's hair..but no..I'm not working heel now. So I go for her at the waistlband and grab it hard. I make a show of kicking my left leg up a bit as if to give me added momentum, but mostly to cue the crowd that some action is about to happen, and I twist to the side. Megan gets pulled with me and her shoulders are on the mat.
Jim hasn't moved far from his earlier position close and so he dives in there and proceeds to count. "One...Two...."
And Megan does a pretty as you please roll so that she's back in control and yanking that headlock.
Sure it's not going to get me a win, but it engages the crowd and breaks up the visual of her just headlocking me. Also I wanna say that as much as the wrestlers perform, the referees do an amazing job of helping craft the story.
But we can get into that more later because after a few really nasty looking head cranks, I yank Megan back over onto her shoulders. See, if I was working heel, I'd be pulling her by her hair which she could use to complain to the ref about how dirty I am and could get the crowd to boo me. Subtle things like that help suck the crowd in. Jim is right there and really gets into the count now. "ONE....TWO...." And Megan's legs bicycle in the air for the first two counts before she's able to just barely roll me back over to my side. Damn she sells these moves really well.
Ok, I'm back into the match.
I give Megan a tap on her hip to let her know this is the big transition moment and I'm all recovered from my earlier...issues. So I then grab her waistband again and yank her over to her shoulders.
-
"Damn, and I thought Taz wrestled stiff."
I was doing so well right up until then. I'd secured Reddy halfway facedown in a grounded side headlock to help him cover up and feed the crowd some new visuals, and I was really cranking it, but Molineaux just almost fucking busted me up. I was barely holding back a guffaw, helped slightly by Red irritably slapping me in the ribs so I could turn a snorting cackle into a growl of pain and a little wrench of my arms around Reddy's masked head.
I'm actually fairly experienced with trying to resist the urge to laugh in the fucking ring - I traveled a whole circuit out West working and driving with Callista Quinn, who you remember from earlier at the hotel and from giving Red a silly outfit, not long after our first meeting (fuckin' Chico). Calli is probably the single most gifted mat worker I've ever been in the ring with - her technique, her control, her insight and ability to just dissect an opponent - but as we ran a bunch of shows in VFWs and convention halls, she tried to make it her business to make me break character.
Admittedly, this was early on, when the Punky brand was nothing more than my purple pigtails, mismatched Converse, and lilac business cards that I printed and cut with one of those big slicers at a Kinko's in Medford with my fuckin' AIM account and a yahoo email address. So my character wasn't actually worth a ton, but I was TRYIN' to look like a growling gothy punk bad-ass, so Calli would keep trying to find ways to make me laugh while we were working in the ring. She'd mutter wickedly cruel but fucking hilarious comments about someone in the front row when she had me in a hammerlock, or I'd be getting ready to take her over with a suplex and she'd just - hit me with a callback to some goofy shit we'd said in the car, and my showy snarl of effort would dissolve in a whale-plume PFFFFT of a laughter trying to escape. And then she'd usually twist me up into some painful fucking pretzel of a hold while I was still furiously trying not to laugh.
Callista Quinn is a genuinely terrifying woman, with a callous cruelty unmatched outside of fuckin' genus Panthera and a razor mind that would cut William of Ockham to fuckin' ribbons - but she's also so god damn funny that I've laughed myself to gasping snorting tears with her more than anyone I can think of, the kind of laughter that's so fucking raucous that the act of laughing itself becomes unbearably funny and it tosses you into a feedback loop that leaves you squeezing your eyes shut and cackling.
So anyway, like I was sayin', I've had some practice in holding back the giggles like they were Persians at Thermopylae.
It's still kinda close before Reddy smacks me in the ribs though.
So he calls the spot and I shift my weight a little, so more of it is on my bootheels because I figure he's gonna do some NWA shit - and sure enough, he gets a hold of my belt and rolls me over to smoothly get my shoulders on the mat, and I make sure to show some surprise with body language before I roll us back.
See, if Reddy wanted, he could really put some weight on that pull, or get my hair, and make it really hard for me to kick out. There's a practical reason wrestlers are always going for roll-ups and shit - in addition to being part of the sacred canon, sometimes they just WORK. Sometimes you get someone who's not expecting it and you just fuckin' pin 'em. Also, even when they DO kick out, it burns stamina.
Of course, Reddy's makin' it buttery easy for me, but I'm just saying - it COULD be a reasonable tactic. Because this can be a fight AND a show. Remember that. I'm gonna get tired of explaining it at some point.
Anyway, he does it AGAIN, and this time I give a nice audible "OH C'MON!" and do a cute lil' kicking in the air routine, like I'm solo synchronized swimming (a sport I woulda medaled in back in the London Games if it existed), before dropping us back to just barely beat the count. I crank the headlock again, giving Reddy a beat and letting the fans build up some more heat - and when he taps my back all sly I give him a purring whisper.
"Pick it up."
We're gonna move a little faster now for a few moves. I feel the slight tap of his thumb at my lower back before he rolls me over again, a little harder this time, and I release the headlock and roll all the way through, over my shoulders, kicking my legs up high with only a little zombie bite in my knee from my new tendon, and come back to my feet with a flourish, staying bent low and with my arms out, fingers waggling to indicate that shit's about to go down.
Reddy expresses some surprise at getting out of the headlock and checks with Jim as he gets to all fours, instinctively giving me the time for a setup without me telling him expressly what I was gonna do - and I shove off my toes and dart forward.
Explosive speed was my watchword in the ring since day fuckin' one, and god damn if I don't still have some dynamite in my boots.
I lunge at Reddy from his right side, my right leg doing a nifty little kick-and-curl out and over his right arm and back around inside it (a trick I learned from Chavito Guerrero back in the day) to hook his arm with my calf as I bend down over his back, my right arm hooking behind his head and my left reaching out, barely getting a grip behind his left leg as I roll over him, kicking hard with my left leg to get us over.
This is a pure leverage move, not meant to be done at this speed against an opponent bigger than you who doesn't WANT to be moved, but Reddy knows what's coming as soon as I start moving towards him, and makes it easy as I do a pretty god-damn sweet old school pinning combination to roll him over all cradled up and get his shoulders down and his teal boots kicking in the air, as Jim does that bad-ass drop and slide that the best refs can do, getting into position.
LVK: A beautiful Oklahoma Roll! And the shoulders are down! Beautifully done!
RP: For someone who loves bashin' people with hammers as much as that little psycho does, Punky has some *BEEP*in' moves.
BW: I beg your pardon, sir, but where I'm from we don't refer to ladies as 'psychos'.
RP: Yeah? So whattaya call the 'ladies' who might snap and murder you at any second?
JC: Wives.
We get a two that actually draws a little gasp from the crowd. Despite just bein' a few minutes in and busting out nothing from outside chapter 2 of the Mr. Wrestling Handbook so far, these beautiful people were willing to buy that I almost beat Reddy at a supershow with a god-damn Oklahoma Roll.
I just barely manage not to grin as Red kicks out. I roll away, my cradle broken with Red's power, shaking my hands out, and I come right at him as he gets up faster than before - and he dodges around smoothly, hooking arms around my waist and slinging me with a little bit of ragdoll force into a pretty aggressive schoolboy roll-up.
I let out a furious yowl and kick my feet hard as Jim slides into position and counts a crisp 2, the fans counting along as I make a show of being absolutely furiously held down before I KICK free hard, flailing my arms a bit to show that it was work. Reddy comes up to his feet and goes right for me as I roll over and start to get up with a lil' flaunt of my hips (look, I wedged myself into these damn cut-offs, I'm damn sure gonna get my money's worth of making my ass look good). He gets a grip on my shoulders - I can TELL he instinctively wants to go for my braid, but we're playing nice still - and he's carefully framed in front of me.
Because we're playing nice, the idea of uppercutting him in the goolies BARELY even crosses my mind.
Instead, I reach down low and hook my hands behind his knees, yanking those big legs out from under him and dropping him down with a beautiful flail, flat on his back, and I shift my grip under his legs and kick up and over, doing a beautiful (if-I-say-so-myself) lil' flip over to plant my boots wide on either side of his head, hauling his legs up in the air with a flex of my inked arms and giving him what'd be a GREAT upskirt shot if I wasn't wearing shorts as I plant him under me in a jack-knife pin for another 2 count, tensing my legs up with a little growl. A pained growl. Running is one thing, but THIS particular position is a fuckin' strain on my rebuilt knee - but makin' it look good is key to these old school pins.
These pinning combinations aren't just an effort to hold someone down - there's way less artistic ways of doing that. They're living sculpture, art that portrays the image of gladiators in full struggle. Positions that cause muscles to define, that show off unusual positions. It really ain't that different from ballet. Except in this case I'm a prima ballerina whose ass is almost on her ballerino's face.
LVK: And another close two-count from the jack-knife pin!
BK: I'd be bleedin' surprised if the lass hadn't used actual jack-knives more'n she's used that pin.
-
Back up a second. I feel the need to explain the joke that nearly killed Megan worse than the HIGGI BABY incident od 2018. What's that? I'll explain later.
Wrestling has its own vernacular and working loose or working stiff indicates different takes on the same theme. Wrestling when it's a work is performance art. And how you work tells a lot about how real you want it to look or if you're an insane person. Japan has a reputation for strong style because they work stiff, meaning those chops will turn your chest into ground beef. If you work loose, you are as gentle as can be. For this match, I'm definitely working loose because this isn't about the competition or a title or anything. This is about my best friend having her moment in the spotlight at one of the biggest wrestling shows ever. Her knee isn't 100% and she's going to be pushing the limit. I'm here to do two things, make her look good and make sure she comes out uninjured.
The aforementioned Taz was well known in ECW for working a stiff style. Chops land, punches make contact, lifts and throws hurt.
So when the Hardcore Ref Jim made his comment about Taz....it hit Megan funny because she is such an ECW mutant.
That being said, Megan also loves technical wrestling and the classics. It explains part of why she loves me so much. No, I'm not saying I'm old enough to be a classic. Sheesh. I'm saying she appreciates the history of wrestling.
I have to tell you, when she got me in that Oklahoma roll...it brought back memories. I could feel Hector smiling all the way from the Spanish Announce Table. It felt like he or one of his brothers had leaped over me and swooped me up in an Oklahoma roll with how smooth it was. Little nods like that to show respect for what's come before. Sure we'll be goofy in the lead up to this, but it's nice to show that traditional grappling can be fun too.
So where were we. Oh yeah, I'm on my back and Megan is lying on top of me, her tiny hands struggling to hold onto my beefy thighs as she stretches out very beautifully across my chest and has me in a pinning predicament.
I know what you're thinking. There's more chances for me to have an embarrassing moment. I'm looking up at one of the top 5 asses around mere centimeters from my face. In any other setting you might be right. But see right here, right now, Megan and I are in the middle of one of the classic tropes in wrestling, the near fall rush. This is one of those spots where near falls are traded like insults at a rap battle. It's a sudden flurry of activity that's built on the foundation of what you've done before. It really helps wrestling fans get sucked in because they have to process what their seeing, the sudden count, the kickout and then to the next pinning predicament. Most times all they can do is count along with the ref and ooo and ahhh. If you're doing it right.
Now for someone in the middle of this, having to figure out what your opponent is going to do, what position you're in and what move to go to next all while a guy is slapping a count that cannot reach 3, 4 being right out. It's all very rapid and you don't have time to really appreciate moments. I do appreciate the reddit user from r/WrestleWithThePlot who posted that really high res image of Megan mounted on me with her legs spread wide and that denim looking like it's hitting its limit around her curves. You get fans of all kinds in these parts.
But anyways, the counter for this is as fluid as the set up. As soon as Jim hits 2, with the crowd changting, I slap Megan's ribs rather loudly on both sides to get her grip loosened enough to allow me to power my legs forward as I slide them up to her armpits and pull her back.
She slides down my body and I pop up with a quick sit up and force Megan's shoulders to the mat with that nice ass in my face.
She struggles with that sexy way she does. But oh no, Jim is out of position to see her shoulders dawn. And now he has to leap and dive to the other end and start his count. I can hear the announces now saying...
LVK, BW: "The referee is out of position!"
BK: "Grrrreat, American communtary in stereo..."
But see, that's what helps make the matches work. It's not just the wrestlers in the ring that tell the story. The ref is a big part of it, which is why I'm glad we got Jim. He knows how to do those dramatic moves and such. Use the fact you're wearing stripes and moving to get the crowd to watch you and get drawn into what you're doing, then slip back once your job is done. There's probably a handful of refs I'd want in a spot like this with all I have to do to make sure nothing goes wrong and Megan is protected.
Here's another thing you should know about me. I have the sense of humor of an immature adolescent. So while I have Megan so nicely rolled up, I lean my head down, arms shaking, doing my best to keep the Gothic Punk Princess down. And while people are watching Jim and Megan and my head is down...my moth goes over one of Megan's cheeks and I give her a little bite.
BK: An EXPLOSIVE kick out by Punky! She seemed extra inspired on that one!"
I'm not sure what she was thinking about doing next, but she kicked out hard and I went flat on my back and she dove back on top of me, a little sauce on the elbow to my sternum, and wrapped my head up tightly in a headlock with maybe an extra crank and we ended up back at square one.
The crowd, bless their hearts, hung on every count and when Megan popped that headlock on me and we reset, they started applauding.
"That was for the Gemma comment" I subvocalize.
A quick crank makes my eyes shut and I feel her shift her weight and tug me up a bit. She wants me to get to my feet. There's nothing like working with someone who can communicate without speaking. It's that trust we have. And like I said, even though we haven't squared off against each other that many times, we just know each other on a deep level.
That's why as I get back to my feet and get us set in the middle of the ring, I'm getting ready to run.
Y'all are gonna love this next bit. And me, I'm smiling in my mask, hiding it by gritting my teeth.
-
There's longer variations on the Nearfall Rush sequence, but I think we pulled off a real nice one. Repeated headlock reversals into a tumble-out to an Oklahoma Roll, into a schoolboy off the charge, into a jack-knife, into a sit-up foldover (that would've been a sunset flip if he'd jumped over me and flipped me over to get to that position - without the jump and flip, it's a foldover. Like the sandwiches). Pretty damn crisp, something that'd please any veteran of the squared circle, smooth enough that we could use it as an example for wrestling classes right up until the point where Reddy bit my ass.
At that point it'd only be a lesson for the ADVANCED classes.
I manage to just kick out with a sharp snap instead of scissor-crunching Reddy's head flat between my thighs, but it's damn close. He almost got Xenia Onatopp'd there. I jab him real good with my elbow to whoof some air from him and crank him back into the grounded side headlock, resetting us back to square one which is REALLY the key to a good Nearfall Rush. If you don't get back to right where you started, you could just be doing slapstick. Bringing it full circle lets the audience be part of the show - and that, perhaps more than anything else, is the big draw of wrestling. We bring you into the show. Sure, sometimes it goes too far and you get jackasses chanting about themselves or about wrestlers who aren't in the fucking building, but at its best wrestling is as collaborative a performance as any on the god-damn planet.
I give Reddy a few cranks while he gets his grins in. Admittedly, I was owed a BIT of payback for filling Reddy's head with naughty images while he was in dire straits (straight in 'em, too). But I'd better not have any god-damn bite marks on the moneymaker!
All right. I'm workin' the side headlock, putting some pepper on it, and thinking about where to go next. We've had some fun with the intros, and got the crowd into it with a little back and forth, and got them fired up for a nice rush, but now we need to get 'em giggling. That'll tamp the adrenaline back down but keep everyone involved. And also ... we gotta let 'em in on the joke a little bit. They need to know who they're workin' with here.
I give Reddy a little head-squeezy and haul him up to his boots, and he comes along readily, guided by little touches.
We've gone over this spot. On the drive in from the coast, we batted funny bits back and forth, and this was an idea that made us both giggle. So I tap him between those broad shoulders and shoot him HARD to the ropes. He turns and hits crisply, and we go through a repeat of the same sequence from earlier - the drop-down, the leapfrog (it still amazes me how he can swing over me so gracefully, like a big ol' gorilla in a teal singlet, while just pushing down on my shoulders a wee bit) - but then when he comes back a second time, I plant my boots and shoulder check him.
THUD!
Instead of me going rocketing back from slamming into him, I stop him cold, and he gapes at me. I give him a big grin, and demand another, smacking my shoulder.
This is the key bit - we've been running east-west, but he breaks off north to hit the ropes for this. He comes back and shoulder checks me, and I barely have to add anything to my sell as I'm bowled over backwards, rolling over my shoulders and ending up on my knees giving him a wide-eyed what-the-fuck. The crowd laughs and pops, and I ostentatiously dust myself off as I get back to my feet, and point off to the east ropes, indicating I'm gonna hit them and come back to knock him fuckin' senseless. I bound off the east ropes, Reddy sets his boots ... and I grit my teeth and just ROCKET right the fuck past him, hitting the far side and bouncing back - and racing past him again as he whirls to face me.
After the second time I do that, he finally growls an audible "OH YEAH?!" and runs off himself to the north ropes, running perpendicular to me as I race by, and with those big strides he manages to time it so we cross past each other after I bounce off the far ropes, missing each other by inches. He keeps going, shooting off the south ropes now, and I hit the east side, and we get the timing right:
LVK: Is that ...
BW: Could that be ...
WU: ENTRECRUZADOOOOOOOO!
BK: Lord save us, it's a bleedin' crisscross. Not since Hogan and the flippin' Warrior.
We get the pace up, crossing back and forth, letting the audience soak it in for a while. It's not a spot you see commonly, and with the only sound being the huffing of breath and the creaking buckles and the pounding of boots on the canvas, and with Jim standing alertly in one corner looking back and forth with a solemnity that just makes everything look even MORE ridiculous, we run past the initial laughing cheers, past the slightly confused silence as it KEEPS going - some of the best jokes are those that (bizarre fucking comedian and) Memphis wrestling legend Andy Kaufman used to specialize in, the ones that go on just too long for anyone to be really sure what the fuck is happening.
We just book it, running back and forth, crisscrossing the everloving hell out of each other. Sweat starts to sheen on Reddy's broad shoulders and gloss on the back of my neck as my braid whips around, and we hit clockwise ropes again and blaze past each other once more.
Then we get to the turn.
I stop in mid-ring, and hold up one finger.
Taking a few artfully deep breaths that really do wonders for my white button-up, I rest my left hand on my hip, holding my right hand out towards the Hardcore Ref as he approaches to check on me. I make sure to speak just loud enough to get picked up on the ring mics. Speaking from the fucking diaphragm after running two dozen forty foot laps is just one of the many amazing tricks you learn as a pro wrestler.
"One sec. Just need a second. WOO! Been a fuckin' while!"
And now I'm putting on a show of being out of breath, starting to go through a series of flagrantly over-the-top stretches to genuinely ease my aching knee while also doing a Bugs Bunny impression of someone warming up. I go through yoga stretches, breathing exercises, deep knee bends that make my knee brace creak and seams in my cut-offs strain - and as I'm going through my routine, Reddy pulls a Forrest Gump and just ... keeps ... running. Back and fuckin' forth, going full speed, bouncing off the ropes and runnin' runnin' runnin' like a constipated weiner dog while I go through virabahdrasana and trikonasana and vriksasana and an ass-swaying variant on utkatasana that draws a few wolf-whistles (look, I'm gonna lean into the cheesecake thing. It makes the comedy funnier. Ask Session Moth.) as Reddy keeps running until he finally notices that I'm not.
He skids to a stop, hands on his hips, taking a few deep breaths with his chest genuinely heaving. Poor bastard is slicked in sweat and looking proper angry as he approaches me with big grand gesticulations.
"HEY! WHAT THE HELLFIRE IS THAT? YOU CAN'T JUST STOP RUNNING!"
Reddy plays deep Southern when he's going full pantomime. I go wide-eyed, glancing innocently back and forth, and point a thumb at Jim, next to me.
"Him?"
Jim waves off, loudly protesting his innocence. Red stomps his boot furiously and throws a big grand fit. I stop myself from giggling by biting my lip god-damn hard.
"NOT HIM! YOU! START RUNNING!"
He points expressively at the ropes. I crane my head, following his finger, and look back at him, eyebrows up.
He stomps his foot again, angrily, and points with that big arm jutting out straight, rigid as a scarecrow telling me which way people prefer to go along a brick road. I do my best to look astonished at the very idea.
"What, NOW?"
"GAAAH!"
Reddy clutches at the sides of his head, rumpling his mask in a way that REALLY plays wonderfully to the delighted crowd (Brits love this sort of ingenue humor as a rule. You wanna make a limey laugh, show 'em a man in drag, a cheeky poor person, or someone pretending not to understand the situation they're in) as he finally snaps and lunges at me, grabbing my arm and yanking me into a smoothly launched Irish whip with a smack on my hip, just plain SHOOTING me into the far ropes, putting enough pepper on it that my heels leave the ring apron as I slam the ropes hard enough to bow 'em out! THAT gets the old pulse racing like fuckin' Racer X as I shoot back at him -
- he has his arms out and shoots me a nod to lemme know he's ready while I come roaring in at 88 miles a god-damn hour, which is fuckin' great. He's ready. Now we'll just find out if I'M ready for this. This is a perfectly reasonable spot when I'm driving along in Jeremy Clarkson's fuckin' cocaine-white sports car gesturing and describing the cool-ass move I'm gonna pull off, but it's a god damn different thing when the dead person's tendon that's been stitched into my fucking knee is learning what it means to be part of my performance and there's just fucking thousands of eyes on me.
But on the other hand, y'know - fuck it. That's my mantra.
I just fuckin' JUMP. It's been a few god-damn months since I pulled this shit off, and it's never really been super heavy in my repertoire, but I know exactly what I wanna do here. And the best thing is, it's still old school, keeping with the theme of the match so far. Plus Reddy dips his head, just a little, almost like he's gonna go for a back body drop. We hadn't discussed that, but he's trying to make it easier for me, the big fuckin' softie lug.
I'm not gonna go for a straight up Rey-Rey jumpin' no-hands huracanrana here. I can't get up THAT fuckin' easy, and plus that's too flash for this stage in the match. But we've set a pace here that will make what I AM doin' seem god-damn huge. So I fuckin' JUMP, turning my hips and kicking my left leg up high, over Reddy's head, so he straightens up and ends up with me kinda straddling his left shoulder, facing out at the audience, my back arched and head lifted to flare a big grin for the crowd as I hook my ankles together over his right shoulder behind me - and I twist my hips back the way I came, Reddy pulled with me as I clap my hands together up above my head, leaning and just ROLLING with my legs locked.
Rey Misterio made Huracan Ramirez' graceful huracanrana pin into a household name in the US. Before that, Scotty Steiner (in his pre-freak days) did a more power-based, deliberate and slower back-flipping straddling headscissors meant to drive an opponent's head into the mat, a move so scary that his mentally challenged brother called it the Frankensteiner.
But before either of THOSE, fans in the States popped for one flying headscissors above all others, and it was done by Robert fuckin' Gibson and Ricky fuckin' Morton, often in fuckin' stereo.
A Rock and Roller flying headscissors. It's a move so old school that it just had an awkward 35th reunion in the gym with cheap sparkling wine and a cheesy DJ. We roll clean through, just like the boys in the Tennessee top hats would've wanted, and Reddy's smack-dab at center ring on his back, while I end up at his left side, seated with my hands planted behind me, my long inked legs (somewhat) gracefully wrapped around Reddy's neck in a lovely seated side-ridin' neckscissors. I even throw in an ol' Rock and Roll Express fist pump to capitalize on the big god-damn hero pop that Deep South move gets.
I cross my ankles, my shiny brown Docs gleaming as I press up on my hands, arching my back and looking like I'm pourin' just a steely bear trap of pressure onto poor Reddy's neck with my deadly-deadly legs, but leaving him wiggle room. There's a lot of fun counters to this position, and Brits love fuckin' ALL of 'em. I'll let him decide which way we're going.
And maybe at some point I'll be able to turn off this million watt grin.
FUCK that felt good!
-
Now this really brings me back. I've been doing this a long time. My love for wrestling started as a young kid, watching Mid-Atlantic Championship wrestling on Saturday mornings with my dad. After my parents divorced, mom moved to Charlotte and I'd spend summers with her and one summer, I was lucky enough as a teen to get a job helping Jim Crockett Promotions. That's when I learned to set up a ring. Which led to me rolling around the ring with some of the vets so they could warm up or test out moves or what not. And then, the one night they were short a guy and tossed me a red mask and some ill fitting trunks (people were sure I was a Mulkey under a mask) so I could do some spots in a squash with the Rock and Roll Express. I fell in love with being in that ring which led to Gary Hart recommending me to an old friend of his. And well, here I am.
I have to admit, Megan isn't usually one you think of as being all flippy, but she can really get her motor running when she's inspired. And I have to stifle a grin when she adds that Robert Gibson hand clap when she flips me over. It's not so much that it's a devastating move, it's the optics of it. We've been working a methodical World of Sport type match with some comedy added in and this is our first really big move. A sexy, smaller woman leaping up high and snagging a larger, muscular guy and flipping him onto his back just looks damn impressive. And in the context of what we're doing, it's big.
The crowd pops like mad.
They're into the story we're telling and letting us set the pace and following along with glee. Now in this slower, quiet moment, it's time for a bit of silliness.
There's many ways to get out of a headscissor hold. Some are more devastating than others. I'm not looking to tear up her knee so I have to be careful. So we're gonna do it a silly way.
She's on her side, I'm on my back. She's to my left facing the audience and my feet.
So first comes the strongman bit. I plant my feet hard on the mat with a big dramatic THUMP. My arms go in flex mode and my hands go to her lower thigh and upper calf. And I puuuuuuuussssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhh. And I'm not getting anywhere.
So I try again and puuuuuuuussssssshhhhhhhh,
Nothing.
And then with a mighty sweet looking bridge I puuuuussssssshhhhhhh and get nowhere. In anger I bridge up and down and push and push over and over and look like a silly man and it gets a nice reaction.
Jim comes over and says sotto voce "Nice bridge, but your trunks man..."
I blush again as I realize I'm hip thrusting in a tight suit that isn't hiding anything. I'm pretty much Finning my Balor all in front of the people. Fucking Molineaux. I'm gonna call a ref bump. No, I'm gonna have Megan do the ref bump. She's always so...enthusiastic on those.
Ok, so step two, since these things always come in threes. I shift and turn so now my head is facing towards her feet and I move to get her on her back. My knees are at her feet and I'm kinda bent over a bit. And I try to pull my head free. This is where I'm hoping she trusts me. She can't squeeze too hard or I'll end up hurting her knee. She just has to look like she is.
I pull...and nothing.
I put my hands on her knees (gently) and nothing.
I push really hard with my hands (not really, but I find out later that Gemma saw me and almost stormed the ring to kick my ass) so I almost did too good a job) and yank my head and shift like I'm really straining....And nothing. I hold my hands up palms up like I'm shrugging. And that gets a laugh.
I move my hands up and down Megan's legs, looking for the right placement. And, well, they're really hot legs. I mean, smooth skin, toned just right and...well...yeah. Don't judge me, you'd do it too.
Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah, I pick a spot on her upper thighs to do this and I tap her thighs with my thumbs to signal I'm about to go. In this position, there's really only the one way left to get out. The headstand. Normally, it's a really fluid way of getting out. Not today. Because threes you know.
I take a deep breath and get the toes of my boots on the canvas and push. Just enough to get me up enough for my legs to be at a 90 degree angle from my trunk. Yeah. Big failure. Megan sees what I'm doing and sits up a bit to ostensibly use her hands to push my head between her legs still. It's also helpful for me to keep balance.
I kick up a second time and get my feet almost right. I'm almost completely striaght up and down and....nope, I fall back to the mat. I raise my hands up from her thighs and clench my fists and shake them in anger and frustration. Then I hold up one finger. Trying to signal I'm going to do this one more time. And sure enough, the crazy Brits start a "One more time! One more time!" chant. I give them two thumbs up and then put my hands on her thighs again and I kick myself up and get completely straight up and down. And I hold it. And hold it. And hold it.
And hold it.
And hold it.
And hold it.
And now the crowd is wondering what is going on
And hold it.
And hold it.
And now some of them are laughing and clapping.
When I hear the applause get loud enough, I scissor my legs apart, getting a laugh. And then I bend one leg at the knee and slide that foot along my other leg, you know, pure MGM musical Esther Williams synchronized swimming moves.
And the howls keep coming.
Until finally, I push forward and my head pops free and I roll over Megan's bumpy chest and end up on my side on top of her, left arm snaked around her head, grinding away at a headlock to a big round of applause from the crowd. I lean in like I'm going to shit talk Megan and I give her a quick kiss on the tip of her nose and growl loud enough for nearby people and mics to hear me say "Don't underestimate the Luchaness of the Teal Enforcer. Ole!"
And I'm sure Hector just buries his face in his hands when he hears me say that. And Johnny is about to go full Cornette old man mode.
But whatever. The biggest memory I have of watching wrestling back in the days when I was sure it was real was one overriding thought.
Wrestling is fun.
-
(This match is a love letter to professional wrestling. Bravo.)
-
As I mentioned, I've had a lot of practice with forcing myself not to giggle in the ring. It definitely plays against my rambunctious psychopathic character; I mean, if it's a sort of creepy malicious giggle after I drive someone's head into a chair, sure, that's fine. Obviously. But I'm talking non-theatrical giggles, the real shit, like a high-pitched flurry of bubbling laughs that that usually end in a snort because I'm a massive dork at heart. Fortunately, between Calli constantly trying to needle me when we were working out west and Bren Rua's wry comments while I was young and working with that Irish warhorse -
- did I ever tell you guys that Bren is the one who named me Punky? I might've told this story already. I've had a lot of concussions, bear with me. So I was fresh out of Raven's school in Portland and one of my very first gigs was a house show for Fabulous Warriors, the promotion that Bren founded. Scotty sent me a couple of other girls to fill out the card, and I ended up catching the redhead's eye backstage, and when her scheduled opponent had travel issues she told me I'd be taking her on. After my heart skipped a dozen beats and I briefly flatlined, I remembered to thank her for the opportunity. Although I obviously ended up eating a Celtic Wheel and taking a rather tinglingly sensuous pin under her ample curves that night, I impressed her a lil' bit, and even got a couple of 2 counts on her. Back then I couldn't afford wrestling boots, and although Scotty offered to loan me money to get some, I made it part of my gimmick. I just wore ratty Converse. The night of my biggest show to date (other than a few tiny shows in Portland and my first road gig in Chico, California, this was my big debut), I was so eager to get down to the Rose Ballroom that I brought mismatched shoes, one red and one green.
Bren saw that and called me Punky Brewster while we were talking backstage - and when she saw that made me grin despite how nervous I was, she kept it up. That hokey old sitcom had been one of the shows in syndication on the cheap-ass UHF networks my family got out in the Badlands before cable, so I got that reference. I didn't grin when she ended up having the house announcer introduce me as Punky, though - instead I was late coming out since I fell over behind the curtain snort-laughing with embarrassed delight.
My wrestling name's a fuckin' rib.
But all the best things in wrestling are.
... anyway, where was I.
Oh, right.
So I'm good at not laughing, but when Reddy starts fucking synchronized swimming his big long legs with his masked head wedged between my thighs, I drop my head as deep as I can and make it look like I'm pushing his head down hard, but my shoulders are shaking so much and my cheeks are so pink and my snorts are so loud that there's really no choice but to send for the revered ghost of Randy Savage to come out and slap me in the mouth (That's a Botchamania joke, and if you didn't get it then you haven't gotten MOST of what we've written here and I'm very sorry if you've come this far just looking for someone to grind their junk in someone else's face. That might come later, though. You never know when a sexy Bronco Buster will break out, so don't give up hope yet. Another 150 obscure wrestling references, tops, and you might well get titillated. There might even be tits. Red likes tits).
Fortunately, by the time Reddy lucha-rolls over me and cranks me into a side headlock and smooches my nose, my face is so mooshed up against his ribs that I can hide the laughter a little better and get myself under control. The Teal Enforcer just fucking busted the crowd up into pieces, so now we need to get them back in hand. Nothing too aggressive, still - but we need to show them a little smoothness to go with the ha ha. Hit 'em from all angles, that's the thing.
Wrestling is a carnie business, and always will be - and the most important thing about a carnival is that it's entertaining in LOTS of different ways. Games of chance, candy, thrill rides, fried food, barkers, dancers, beer and sideshows - a good match has gotta be fun for children of all ages (or at least children 18 and older if it's one of those nightclub matches we've all done for extra money here and there or part of my Punky By Night series, such as my famous Motel 6 Thong Showdown with Sadie).
So now we're gonna get a lil' technical. Not quite as crazy as our flurry of near-falls ... but British crowds do love them some reversals, so we'll feed 'em some to keep 'em invested while they're settling down from laughing at Reddy. I shift around in a way that gets my knees under me (despite the zombie groan protests of my braced right knee), while writhing around in Reddy's headlock convincingly. He plays it up, cranking on the pressure enough to keep my cheeks photogenically scrunched and planting his teal boots to arch up a bit. There's a bunch of ways to effectively reverse a side headlock - in fact, I learned a lot of 'em when I was a lil' punklet taking judo classes at Obukan. But most of them aren't PRETTY. They'll turn me and Reddy into a writhing tangle of limbs. That certainly has its own appeal, but this ain't MMA. So instead I do what we've been doing this whole show, and take a World of Sport approach.
First I give Reddy the slightest tug on the back of his attire, an almost invisible gesture that just means "gimme room". Red immediately shifts his weight and adjusts the hold in a way that looks like he's putting pressure on the headlock while leaving me much more open. That's the beauty of working with a veteran of the craft - Reddy and I have a connection all our own, but he'd be able to make this look good if I was fuckin' Eva Marie in here. Well, pretty good. Okay. It wouldn't be terrible.
Anyway, he's great.
So with a bit of space, and my head still firmly visibly locked under Red's big right arm, I bring my right arm slowly and deliberately up behind him, waggling my fingers in a little lookahere gesture to get the fans' eyes on my tattooed hand. I slowly reach over Red's broad shoulder and rest my wrist there as he gives a theatrical glance at my arm, and adds more rocking pressure to the hold. I sell it a little, and then waggle my right index finger as if to say No-No-No when Jim asks me if I intend to submit - and I slide my left hand down, Red following the movement of it like he's watching a snake. My left hand slides up, slowly and insinuatingly, UNDER his left arm as he's secured the headlock properly in two hands - and I slowly and carefully lock my left and right hands together, just in front of Reddy's right shoulder, almost at a 90 degree angle, each movement as deliberate as a fuckin' ornamental bricklayer. I'd have thought of a more bad-ass simile, but Gemma and I had the garden brick redone at Rox Manor last month, and I was impressed with how carefully they laid the brick wall that shelters the peonies.
Well, that doesn't sound very fuckin' punk. Shit. Uh, I meant AS DELIBERATE AS JOEY RAMONE DOING AN 8-BALL.
Anyway, the crowd actually builds up anticipation, a rumbling sound of excitement just from my hands slowly linking - and Reddy does a marvelous job of looking furiously frustrated that I've dared to put my hands together while he intensifies his headlock, letting me show some resilience as I keep my hands locked - and I sloooowly push my braced arms towards him, just under his jaw, working his head back, creating an angle. He plays along, waiting for just the right moment for his arm to loosen. It's important that we play this part slow, because the turn - is QUICK.
As SOON as his arm loosens when his head is artfully angled back enough, I push with both locked hands and SNAKE my head out from under his arm and pop up on my knees behind him like a buxom fuckin' tattooed jack-in-the-box, both my hands snapping back and capturing his wrist as I slither past, so that I end up twisting his arm behind him and cranking his right arm in a crisp hammerlock. The move is sudden and fluid, and all the more striking after how anaconda-slow I was moving before, and draws a cheerful round of applause.
Reddy gets his boots under him, struggling beautifully in the hammerlock - there's an art to really selling such a simple hold without hamming it up too much, and the Teal Enforcer is a god damn master of it. He's been making women half his size look like absolute bad-asses for most of his career, which is only one of many excellent reasons to love him. We get a little momentum going with me kinda steering him by the arm, ducking back when he reaches for me with his free hand. He reaches past each hip, over his shoulder, and between his legs, and each time I add a brashly loud "OH NO YA DON'T!" as he gets increasingly visibly frustrated, finally running around in a little Curly Howard circle flailing at the ropes before I crank him back to the middle of the ring and push his hand up near his shoulderblades. "You ain't goin' NOWHERE!" I grin all smugly as I walk him to his tippy-toes, which he obligingly and comically does.
"Still feelin' limber??" I purr through a teasing grin, lips barely moving. Wrestlers either end up as ventriloquists without dummies, or we end up in a "You Talk Too Much" segment. Reddy chuckles while grimacing in pain and slapping his right shoulder. "Isn't that my line?" I tap my fingertip on his wrist, giving him the go-ahead, and he steadies himself in front of me -
- and does a deep knee bend. And then another one. I put on my best baffled face as the fans - particularly the older blokes - pick up a cheer. Reddy dips low one more time as I follow him with my eyes narrowed in suspicion and my eyebrow up - and then he brings his left boot up behind him, kicking up his heel. In a crueler match, he'd be setting up a mule kick. Gods fuckin' know I get my cxnt punted in the ring often enough to expect it, but I don't even tense up, just looking down with bright curiosity at his boot, subtly sliding my own feet back to give the audience a better view while keeping his right arm hammerlocked - and then he reaches back with his free left hand and grips the toe of his boot, giving a little grunt as he lifts his leg and lets it drop, hooking inside my left elbow and letting gravity take it down, unlocking my arms in an instant as I back away wide-eyed with my unbreakable hammerlock broken!
The crowd is fucking ECSTATIC at that. It was basically just an artistic bit of calisthenics in Spandex, and they're cheering like the barman just said there was time for one more round before last call. Reddy waves one hand politely with his other tucked behind his back before I let out a furious growl and just BLATANTLY charge at him (in the biz we call this "giving him the run-up") - and he neatly turns his back to me, letting me smack into his broad shoulders with a "WHULF!" as he reaches up to crisply cradle the back of my head, dropping to one knee and flipping me over his shoulder in a snapmare that gets a much louder cheer than a snapmare frankly deserves. This crowd loves being fanserviced, I'll give 'em that. They love being serviced almost as much as I do I make Gems wear her French maid outfit.
Reddy smoothly gets his left arm around my neck - and I hiss "Right" through gritted teeth, since we're gonna have to reverse this spot on account of my stupid knee. He gives a soft grunt of acknowledgement and cranks back with his left arm before switching elaborately to the other and cranking back even HARDER, as if showing off that his chinlock is strong from either side. He works me back as I'm sat on my ass in my cut-offs, my long legs sprawled out in front of me and my shiny brown Doc Martens with the custom Foree Electronics logo stitched onto the tongue wilted outwards. My inked arms rest on the mat as I sell the chinlock for a few long moments, letting the fans see the first real sign of weardown in the match - letting 'em see a little flash of how energy can get drained - before suddenly coming back to life! I go to one of the oldest tricks in the literal book (The National Wrestling Alliance Handbook, 1956 - "While yelling is discouraged and heckling or engaging the audience in conversation during a competition is disallowed, rhythmic clapping or stomping to garner the support of the fans in attendance is allowable within the referee's discretion") and begin to stamp my left boot on the mat.
THUMP!
THUMP!
THUMP!
It's a little silly - I've been in the hold for no more than a minute, so I shouldn't need a rally, but we're feeding the fans, letting them get engaged, so they buy into it readily. Even though we've also established that neither of us is the heel, so the fans are entitled to cheer for both of us as cheesily as they want. And oh, they want to. They start a rhythmic clap that fills the O2 like it's the singalong of "Hey, Jude", and I take rhythmic breaths as Reddy plays along, shaking his head and shouting "No! NO NO NO! SHE'S TAPPING OUT TO THIS CHINLOCK!" which almost makes me snort-laugh again, but a stone face is important for this part. I take in the fans' energy with a double pulling-chains gesture, like I'm just hauling all those good vibes right into me, and then I center myself as Reddy pours himself into working the chinlock, fixing my eyes at a distant point somewhere in section 5C. My legs are straight out in front of me, my arms serenely at my sides as Reddy works the hold.
Then I slowly bring my left leg up - and tuck my boot into my belly as my left hand leaves the mat and snakes up through the loop made by my calf and thigh - my hand snaps open, fingers waggling. The nails alternately red and black. No fight tape or gloves tonight, showing off the mandala tattoo on the back of my hand.
That one simple gesture gets an even louder pop than Queen.
Reddy plays it PERFECTLY, keeping his arm loosely around my neck but staring suspiciously at my offered hand.
He glances at Jim, who looks at me and shrugs, as if to say he has no idea what I'm up to.
Reddy looks at my offered open hand again - and starts to reach his left hand for it, slowly.
The crowd fucking ROARS.
He draws back.
They BOOOOOOOO the god-damn rafters down.
He reaches again - and CLASPS my hand with a curious look.
And I reach up with my RIGHT hand to peel his right arm easily off my neck as he gasps in surprise, pushing up and to the side and ending up on my knees at Red's left, twisting him down in a neat wristlock that plants him facedown on the mat with a THUD to a delighted cheer.
Remind me to buy Johnny Saint as many beers as are required for this much gimmick infringement at a big show. I think it's a a galleon. A three-masted galleon of beer.
Jim circles us briefly, crouching down and letting Red know that he has a visible moose knuckle in his wry Philly accent before checking to see if Red's gonna submit to the devastating wristlock I have him in, which I think would only be likely if he had that Mister Glass disease.
Facedown, Red sells the devastating eighteen inch drop he took to the mat, but he turns his mask to me and growls. "Ref bump."
I glance up at Jim, and raise my eyebrows while putting some elaborate pressure on Red's wrist, torquing his wrist with my right hand while spreading his fingers out with my left, which is a great way of working a rest hold and giving some light shiatsu massage while looking you're torturing someone.
"Ref bump - or ref BUMP?" I purr teasingly behind a wicked grin.
He gives me a side-eye through his mask with a smirk. "Like you don't know."
I giggle and push up on the wristlock with Reddy facedown, getting to my feet - and deciding what the best way to incapacitate him to set the bump up would be takes only a moment. Stomping the back of his head or kicking him would be on brand, but this isn't that kinda match. Instead I bring my right hand up - WAY up - with the palm towards me and the fingers rigidly together and ...
"KI-YAAAAA!"
LVK: A KARATE CHOP TO THE BASE OF SKULL! GOOD LORD, WHAT IMPACT!
RP: Yeah, I hear Punky c'n cut through like 15 boards at once since she sent in 50 cents and a coupon from an issue of Weird Tales to learn the secrets of the Kung Fu Masters.
LVK: ... I feel like you're not taking this seriously.
RP: She said 'ki-yah'.
Reddy sells my DEVASTATING Kung Fu chop like pure death, as is appropriate for the territory once dominated by martial arts masters like Kendo Nagasaki and Judo Al Hayes, and as I straighten up I hit a kata pose, gracefully moving my hands and feet into position - and then I smoothly shift into another one, thrusting my palm at the turnbuckles slowly, building my chi.
Jim paces by to check on Red and side-mutters "The hell're you guys doin'?"
"Ref bump. Reddy called it." I purr through the cover of some Bruce Lee mean muggin' as I go into a Crane stance. "Get behind."
Jim blanches slightly. "Any chance I can bribe you out of this with a signed Taz poster?" he murmurs quietly while he's checking on the downed Reddy.
THAT gives me pause.
"Welllll ..."
"NO."
THAT was loud. Molineaux sighs and shuffles behind Red to ostensibly help him up as I bring my right leg up, fiercely ignoring the creak in my knee as I get that boot nice and fuckin' high - and STOMP it down, fists out low to my sides, locked tight, head towards Reddy as I begin to fuckin' Dragonball Z charge up.
The helpful O2 light jockeys even make the ring lights flicker for me as if I'm drawing energy from them. Good to know the techs are watching, because we didn't book this spot.
The crowd has a constant rising "Oooooooohhhhhhhhhhhh ..." ascending as I give get my leg up again, higher this time, and deliver another stomp, loading my boot like HBK used to, and focusing all my kicking power, making my foot like a THING OF IRON.
READY TO SUPERKICK SOMEONE'S HEAD OFF!
... oh, poor Jim.
-
Rick Knox.
That's who I should have asked for. Not Jim. Rick Knox.
JC: "Punky has the superkick lined up and..."
BW: "The Red Enforcer just nopes right out of there!"
I do my best Samoa Joe, DGAF walk away from the path of Megan's foot and leave Jim to his own fate.
Wrestling is about trust. And timing. As much as you train to look like you're killing each other, unless you're in a shoot fight, you don't really want to hurt anyone. Falling hurts. Landing on concrete hurts, but that's just part of the deal. The biggest ting we have to do in the ring is know our bodies. Know what spots we can do and can't. For example, if I'm going to do a powerbomb, then no matter what, I better save the strength to lift my opponent up so they can do a flat back bump and not land on their neck.
But here, I set Jim up.
See Megan hasn't been wrestling for some time. And I'm sure she hasn't done a superkick on that leg in even longer. Muscle memory is there, sure, but also there is the fact that Megan is just amped for this. She's ready to show off that she hasn't lost a step. That kind of adrenaline can have consequences. And I know, seeing her load up for that kick that she is focused on making it the sharpest looking kick she can. Someone like me could eat that in such a way that it looks nasty, but does no real damage. Jim doesn't have that skill level. And I think he actually leaned into it.
So Megan smacks him WAAAYYYY harder than she intended. Just like I intended. That'll shut Jokey McJokerson up.
I hear the loud SMACK of flesh that is more than just a leg slap and I turn to see the ref just crumple in the corner. Ok, so I feel bad now. I go over to take a look. Megan comes up beside me.
"Did I kill him?"
"Pretty damn close"
And right here the pacing of the match comes to a screeching halt for a bit.
Worked matches are laid out in different ways. Some people like to talk through spots before hand and lay it out precisely. Ricky Steamboat vs Randy Savage at Wrestlemania 3 is a classic because they did just that. Other people like to call spots in the ring especially if they are wrestling someone they've worked with a lot before. All those close tie ups and lean ins you see in older matches are guys calling spots on the fly.
Megan and I just decided to rough sketch this match, focus on specific spots and then work towards those as we felt the crowd react. And it has been working beautifully. But this right here killed the crowd.
Maybe.
Thinking quickly, I decide to go loud.
"HERE. THIS ALWAYS WAKES PEOPLE UP!"
I exaggeratedly move to the side and grab Jim's right arm at the wrist, give a little shake and raise it up. At its apex, I let it go and yell out.
"1!"
Some folks in the crowd chuckle and echo me. I look at Megan and shake my head and look out at the crowd as if I'm Peter fucking Pan asking kids to believe so Tinkerbell would be ok.
I lift his hand up high again and bellow out
"2!"
Nothing. Well except a snot bubble coming out of Jim's left nostril. Nasty stuff, but more of the crowd get back into it and join me in yelling out 2. Yeah we're getting them back.
Once more, and maybe Megan can help get this thing back on track. I look solemn and lift the arm up high once more.
And I let go.....