Fake by David Louden

The first wrestling promoter worth a damn I worked for once told me victory happens when ten thousand hours of practice meets a moment of opportunity. Mine came at a Halloween event in 1979 when Ray Race put me over for my first singles title. Everyone pays their dues, and then everyone pays its forward. I stood behind twenty five feet of velvet curtain with the top strap Global Championship Wrestling had to offer and ran through the major moments of my forthcoming Triple Threat match we’d mapped out.

The rustic howl of Jim Cantwell, a one-time horse thief turned Ring Announcer rattled out the names of my challengers. I’d been building heat with Marvellous Marty Monroe for three months both in live shows and the weekly Friday night cable TV slot GCW had all but owned for the last three years. He’d started out heel but as the weeks went on something changed. The fans took to him, they liked him more, the more he overcame the odds and loved to hate me whether I won clean or not. The longer I kept that goddamn belt, the hotter we got. One Friday night a half baked trucker came at me with a flick knife and I had to snap the hobo-on-wheels’ wrist to walk out of there with all my guts where they were meant to be.

After some showstoppers that left the front rows of Pie Town Arizona catching flies it was decided it was time. Marty was to get the big push, I was given the privilege of putting him over and more importantly our rivalry got fresh legs to run for another six months and keep everyone involved making money.

We were a week and one televised show out from the big night when Frank Maguire called us into his office. It was the only room in the building with functioning AC, and if that indignity wasn’t enough, he had the largest window with the best view over the city. Two of his top bookers sat in folding chairs beside him, his son-in-law lingered by a photo of Frank and Mohammed Ali. The lad was an up-and-coming tag team wrestler who had recently lost his partner to a HIV diagnosis.

‘Come in, come in,’ he gestured towards the one remaining comfy chair in the office, ‘we were just looking over the numbers for the last two months. Brother, I gotta tell you. You and Marty are hot.’

I knew there was some kind of fix en-route. He only ever called you Brother when he was about to fuck you. He was from the South, but it was never funny when it was directed at you.

‘You bet. The fans are gonna eat Marty up as champ. It’s gonna be good for everyone.’

‘Well, that’s just it, Jack. Me and the boys here have been throwing around some scenarios, and with Wyatt here without a partner, we thought it might be an interesting twist to throw him into the mix.’

My glare shot to Wyatt who worked at making himself look as big as possible. ‘Throw Wyatt into the mix?’

Phil Atherton was an old school brawler who blew his back out and had been Frank’s right hand for twenty years. He always threw himself on the live grenades. ‘We’re going to announce at the top of the show tonight. A triple threat bout for the title- -‘

‘But with a twist!’ added Hanson ‘Falls count anywhere, so if either of them pin you they win the belt but if Wyatt was to pin Marty- -‘

‘And why the fuck would Wyatt pin Marty?!’

‘IF he pinned Marty then you would vacate the title and we’d have a one-on-one at the next event.’

I waved away the attentions of the other three. I only wanted to speak to Frank, he’d been in the business long enough to know that without your word you’re a roster walkout from becoming a used car salesman. ‘OK, so Wyatt is in the match but I’m still putting Marty over, right?! Right?!’

The rest of the conversation went pretty much how you’d expect it to go. I’d shout and break a few things, Phil puffed up his chest making like he still had the dog in him and when all the insults had landed and the screaming stopped I was putting over the boss’ son-in-law whose opportunity had come long before the ten thousand hours had been clocked.

My music hit. It snapped me out of my rage cycle. Fuck fairness. Fuck right. Fuck wrong. It was time to go earn. I took three big steps backwards before storming through the curtain. I always liked to make it look like I’d been summoned to the ring from the middle of a bar brawl, or an arm-wrestling match with a bunch of sailors.

‘Making his way to the ring, from Venice California. He is the GCW Heavyweight Champion, the Lone Wolf Jack Gecko.’

I rolled into the ring and made a beeline for the corner where the press photographers sat. One good snap from them could make you hundreds from poster sales. I looked to Marty. He was selling the cocky character. There wasn’t a hint of the resentment he was feeling towards Frank, Wyatt, this goddamn company. As I unhooked the strap from around my waist Wyatt dove into the ring and came at me; fists swinging. The first half dozen landed as they should but then he caught me twice square in the puss and rang my bell just enough for me to break character a moment.

‘You watch how you swing those dickbeaters I spat.’ pushing him off me before landing a closed fist up his ear. Marty came off the rope and hit us with a double clothesline to get us both back on track.

***

Wyatt came off the ropes with speed. He was worth a middleweight at best but he had speed and, sure, some good technique. As I dropped to my knees, grabbing the top rope and shepherding the boy out of the squared circle to the cold concrete I thought he’d make a good North American Champion in a year or so. This push was going to kill our heat, and worse- cut me out of the money. I got to my feet, crossed the ring and lifted Marty up by the hair. I gave him a rack to the eyes to draw the ref into the mix. Bill Tucker had been reffing my matches since the days of Ray Race.

‘Cut that out, Jack!’ he roared as he palmed me a straight-blade.

I hit Marty with a few thunderous chops across the chest, calling the next few moves as I went. The crowd would have ate cat shit from my unwashed hands such was the heat in that arena. I lifted Marty up onto the top turnbuckle before climbing to the second myself. I made like I was fixing to snap suplex him to hell, then at the last minute he broke my hold with some shots to the ribs before he stood up, and climbed so he was standing on the top of the turnbuckle and the ring post. As he dragged me up with him our world went crazy. I caught a glimpse of her making her way to the ring; Nina Valentine, Marty’s occasional valet and my good friend. The fix was in, good.

I stuck my thumb in his eye to regain control, then wrapped both arms around him as tight as I could before saying ‘Here goes nothing’. We both threw our weight backwards. I forced Marty over my head before releasing and we both braced for impact. Few people had seen a belly-to-belly suplex from the top rope in those days. The sprung floor of the ring returned us into the air momentarily before we both landed again. To watch it, you’d have thought we put a hole in the world.

Bill started the count.

1, 2, 3, 4 – I rolled onto my front, managing to place an arm across Marty’s body. Bill dropped to his knees 1, 2, –

Nina grabbed two fistfuls of Marty’s boots and tore him from the ring and the brink of a three count. Had that night gone to plan, she was to screw him over and help Wyatt get the pin on me.

Outside the ring, Wyatt had made his way round to Marty and has slammed him into the ring steps a few times before taking him out with a side Russian leg sweep. Wyatt rolled into the ring as I got to my feet. The noise stilled for a moment and then we went at one another. Punches flew back and forth between the pair of us before Wyatt landed a low blow. Bill was about to scold him for it when Nina climbed onto the apron dragging the ref’s focus towards her blonde hair and push-up diamanté catsuit. From down the back of his shorts Wyatt produced the little hammer Jim used to ring the bell; or at least a suitable facsimile. He landed it on me, right between the eyes. I went to ground, then used the blade I’d palmed to add some colour to proceedings.

The day before the fight I’d taken a few blood thinners. Wrestling was my art, and if I was putting this child over instead of my good friend I was gonna paint my canvas. As Wyatt hit me in the gut then dropped me with a DDT an interesting thing began to occur. I heard cheers for me. Against Marty I was a heel, but squaring off against Wyatt I’d gone full face again.

The blood was running pretty smoothly from my hairline painting me crimson from forehead-to-foreskin. I lay in the corner of the ring as these two young bucks pulled out trick after trick. Marty gripped the boss’ choice in a Half Nelson. Wyatt dropped to his knees, twisted out of it before grabbing Marty’s left leg and taking him down for an ankle lock. The Marvellous One tumbled through it, taking Wyatt with him before trapping him in an armbar which looked to all around him was going to hyper-extend the elbow. With a backwards roll, Wyatt had countered and he now had a Boston Crab locked in with nowhere for Marty to go. That was my cue. Shaking off the remains of my portrayed concussion I got to my feet and ran at the pair of them, leveling a padded sole of my boot into the back of the “Master of the Boston Crab”. Grabbing him by the hair I ran towards the ropes, and tossed him from my blooded workspace. He hit them, spun between the top and middle and hit the outside of the apron just as we’d practiced. Marty was on his feet. He tucked his head under my arm, gripped on to both sides of my tights before bringing me up into the air and then down!

Spinebuster.

I rolled out of the way, his next port of call was Wyatt; who was back to his feet and playing dazed. As Marty lined him up for a punch straight to the chops Wyatt grabbed him by the face and dropped off the apron bringing Marty swiftly down; both the top and middle ropes across the neck before whiplashing backwards. They both sold it perfectly. Wyatt dropped down drained. Marty flew backwards before landing smack dab in the middle of the ring.

My cue again. If I wasn’t going to win and walk out of their Champion I was hitting my finishing move. It had been Ray’s first. When he could no longer wrestle I went to him and asked if he minded me adopting it. He looked up at me from his wheelchair and coughed out a ‘Use away, I’ve no goddamn use for it’.

I rolled out onto the apron. The booing started. They knew what was coming and I smiled at how much they loathed me. I climbed to the top rope. With my character being the Lone Wolf we’d rebranded Ray Race’s top rope flying headbutt The Full Moon.

I let out a howl!

They responded with boos.

Then I flew.

I came down right on target. Arms outstretched to disperse the impact. Suddenly there was a steering heat rippled out from the base of my skull. The heat turned to pain as I bounced on to my side, before flopping onto my back. The pain remained but was suddenly superseded by panic. Nothing below my jaw was accepting the signals from my brain to get up.

‘I can’t move! Fuck, I can’t fuckin’ move!’

‘You OK, Jack?’ whispered Marty from under his hair.

‘Take it home, Marty. I can’t move my legs.’

‘I’ll get Wyatt.’

‘Fuck fuckin’ Wyatt. Take it home and get me out of this fuckin’ ring.’

He threw a glance at Bill. Bill looked scared, which put the stale piss in me. Marty gently lay over the top of me. Bill dropped to his knees and delivered a brisk three count before calling for the bell to ring. Jim appeared with the belt, he wanted any part of this about as much as he wanted Frank shitting in his mouth; which was inevitably en route the moment we were free of an audience.

‘The winner of this bout, and NEW GCW Heavyweight Champion- Marvellous Marty Monroe!’

‘Medic!’ Bill roared towards the back-of-house ‘We need a medic out here right fucking now!’

People normally cleared out once the strap was raised. When they hated the result they launched half warm plastic beer cups into the ring. They did neither of these things. They all just stood, and watched. Both Bill and Jim were looking scared. The medics had arrived, I hadn’t noticed but they had already placed me on to the stretcher and were in the process of strapping in my lifeless limbs.

‘I’m gonna be a goddamn cripple, aren’t I?’

‘Elevated heart rate.’ One uniform said to the other.

As they slid me from the ring I saw Nina. She was pigeon-shit white.

‘I’ve got your hand, Jack. It’s gonna be OK.’

‘I’ll have to take your word on both, Neen.’

‘I’m coming with you.’

‘Miss, you should let–’

‘I know twenty guys here who will knock the piss outta you if I ask them right now.’ I was in the ambulance ‘Don’t test me. I’m coming with him.’

They put me on oxygen to try and stop me from having a heart attack or a stroke or both.  Between the sound of my own breathing rattling around in my chest, and the scream of the siren nothing Nina said hit my ears.

All I could do was look to her as she fought back the wave of tears, and I did the same.

As we reached the Emergency Room I thought of Ray:

‘Use away. I’ve no goddamn use for it.’

David Louden

Image by David Mark from Pixabay – Wrestling Arena with a large audience and floodlit ring