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".