πππππ π πππππ πππππ β οΌοΌοΌ: ππππππππ πππππ
CW: slurs, violence
πππππ π πππππ πππππ β
ββββββββββββββοΌοΌοΌ:
ββββββππππππππ πππππ . . .
βββββββββββββββThe beginning.
TAUNT & TORMENT: A VILLAINβS ORIGIN
βYou ainβt gone be no wrestler.β
βYou too small.β
βAnd plus you got glasses.β
βAnd you pale as a ghost!β
βDonβt you ever go to no beach?β
βI can see right through you.β
βWe all can!β
βYou a four-eyes.β
βI never seen no wrestler with glasses.β
βGimme them.β
βFour-eyes.β
βLet me try them on.β
βCβmon.β
βLet me.β
βCβmon man.β
βYou a little bitch.β
βMan yβall shut the fuck up and leave his ass alone.β
βFuck you Kody you ainβt the boss of us.β
βWhat you gonna do about it I decide I am the boss of us?β
βFuck you Kody.β
βWhat if I did boss yβall?β
βFuck you.β
βWhat if I boxed yβall? Yβall box?β
βNaw man nobody watches boxing.β
βIβm not talkinβ βbout watching.β
βWell only one of us here thinks heβs gone be anything. We just giving BLIND shit on account of he got stupid-assed ideas about beinβ some type wrestler.β
βLeast he can take a hit. You all just talk.β
βFuck you Kody.β
βBoy keep singing that song and you βbout to find out about it.β
βHell I donβt even watch any of that gay-assed crap, I donβt know why yβall wanna watch a bunch of men in fancy panties pretendinβ to kick each othersβ asses.β
βThey got women too.β
βWell I donβt wanna watch no woman punchinβ on people, or gettinβ punched.β
βI like it.β
βYou a weirdo, you would.β
βSome of βem got real big titties.β
βHe a serial killer for real, daaaag, like for real for real.β
βFour-eyes the one acts like a serial killer.β
βDonβt know how to be normal.β
βI seen one them lady wrestlers do a frankenstein once.β
βFrankensteiner.β
βFour-eyes βbout to jump in trine correct us tell us about βitβs huda-con-ranaβ what a faggot.β
βWhy you keep picking?β
βCuz he thinks he knows everything, boy he thinks heβs the God of Wrestling and this-and-that.β
βThink you smart cuz you talk like a computer.β
βHuh!β
βLike to break you like a computer, smash them four eyes.β
βFuck that even means? Fuck you talkinβ like that for?β
βCuz I want to.β
βWell you makinβ me want to do some things my-self, and you βbout to force my hand. You already told me you donβt box, that you ainβt never boxed, so Iβm thinking we box.β
βFuck you Kody.β
And that was the day Donnieβs orbital socket fractured.
I donβt remember his last name, but when I think about him, I hear Limp Bizkitβs βRe-Arranged.β
He never looked the same again, and I think he ended up at a different school, or maybe out of school, or maybe at some special school.
Donnie wasnβt much of a learner, but Iβd like to think he learned something that day.
I like to think.
Kody got a football scholarship.
He wasnβt much of a learner either, but whose D2 O-Line is gonna say no to a 6β3β 240 pounder?
I think he went to jail before it started.
They probably donβt hold your place for you, huh?
ARDUOUS FIGURE TRAINING
Yamagata-sensei entered the dojo and loudly farted, his crisp seafoam short-shorts register-rippling a puffed rear exitβs whisper of cut-rate plenty piled high, echoing the Chinese buffet β creatively named Chinese Buffet, yellow-and-red sign, looks just like you think it looks, tastes just how you think it tastes β adjacent to Yamagata Burning Spirits Dojo.
He was a burp-and-fart man, open, given to blunt talk, sometimes disagreeable.
Big head.
Really Big Head.
And hard.
He was 60 but he simultaneously looked 40 and 80.
He knows all the nerve endings, and heβd be glad to spoil them for you.
Heβs a stretcher.
Heβs a hooker.
Legs like tree trunks.
Thumbs built for eyeholes.
You follow?
Good.
Because he doesnβt like questions.
Not a man with a lot of time.
βBrusque,β theyβd say, if they knew the word.
But they donβt.
Theyβre pro wrestling trainees.
Good Homes donβt permit them, donβt produce them.
Being paid nothing to be publicly beaten in a spandex passion play is not β probabilistically speaking! β a wise decision.
They donβt know a lot of words.
Might know the ins-and-outs of the tanning bed or have particular theories about recovering from a heavy anabolic cycle, and they know damn-well where to get the best value on a burger at 1 AM at any given point on the Pennsylvania turnpike, but they arenβt big Word Guys.
Some of βem are talkers though, and theyβre the ones who stand a chance.
βWorkrateβ β BLIND had learned that word on the Internet β workrate didnβt put asses in the seats, or so the heads of the big promotions thought.
There were three β three heads, and three promotions.
Used to be more, but hey β used to be more of everything.
Even when there was less.
Consolidation, huh?
Yamagataβd come up older-than-βold school,β which is to say heβd trained in an environment of broad unchecked physical and verbal abuse.
Relative to his origin, he was gentle β Iβm pretty sure he pulled the slap everso-slightly when he called me βprettyboy,β and commanded:
βHaircut.β
Advice I did not mind.
To which I did not pay heed.
Probably have a meniscus tear to show for it.
If youβd care to see the X-Rays.
Stout bastard dead-assed me on a suplex lift.
Tried to bring him up and he just Did Not Comply.
Trying to teach me something, I think.
Haircut.
Evil.
CREATIVE DOESNβT HAVE ANYTHING FOR YOU
βI think you should call yourself Edipo.β
βTell me more.β
βWell . . . you wanted a Spanish name, cuz of the mask, and you wanted to play off of blindness.β
βRight.β
βEdipo. Oedipus.β
βYou want me to run an incest gimmick?β
βEdipo RX.β
βSounds like over-the-counter boner pills.β
βNo, itβs good. Sounds like one of those young exciting puroresu guys, like the Murasaki Dojo crew and all them.β
βMan, I donβt know about it . . .β
βJust think on it . . . Edipo. Edipo, Edipo, Edipo. Roll it around in your head.β
βHell, muchβs Yamagata-sensei had me rolling around on my head this afternoon I donβt know if I need to do much moreβa that, and besides, you gotta figure thereβs an easier way to feed the marks an βI Fuck My Momβ gimmick if I gotta resort to cheap stunts.β
βHow you feel about carrying a sword around?β
βWhat type of sword?β
βKatana probably. You could be Zatoichi. Zatoichi the Blade . . .β
βI donβt wanna do a ninja gimmick.β
βNot a ninja.β
βPeopleβll think Iβm Japanese.β
βYou want a Spanish name now.β
βItβs different.β
βIs it?β
βYou know it is.β
βWhat about Samson?β
βLike, the Bible?β
βYes, that one.β
βWhy Samson?β
βPhilistines blinded him. Figured it might resonate with you.β
βIsnβt Samson, like β big? Or, wasnβt? Or was he?β
βHeβs mythological.β
βOf course. We all aspire to that.β
βWhat about MAGOO, but all capital letters, or maybe you spell it like M-A-G-Uββ
βMagu.β
βMagu.β
βI donβt know about Magu.β
βPeople would call you Fagu.β
βItβs cheap heat. Iβd take it. But do I need it?β
βFagu.β
βThey would absolutely call me Fagu, and they would throw garbage at me.β
COMPANION pulls out a pocket-sized Japanese-to-English dictionary.
βYou know I donβt really know how this language works, so you might want to check with Yamagata-sensei before you roll with this one, but looks to me like βMaguβ means βmugβ in Japanese, and maybe some other stuff.β
βWell if I get over in Japan are they gonna think Iβm working some kinda beverage gimmick? I mean I guess I could, could be kinda cool. I could get Calpico to sponsor me, or U.C.C. β hey, you donβt think I could pass as Hawaiian, right? No β . . . or maybe I could wrestle as Coca-Cola Boy. Could be a one-off. Gotta get the costume made, then, though . . .β
βI donβt think thatβs a good route for you. Letβs stay with Magu for now.β
βFagu. Fagyu beef. Faygo Boy.β
βYouβre just saying stuff.β
βI mean, yeah β you too. Thatβs what we do.β
βIβd like to think Iβm saying stuff, not just saying stuff.β
βYouβd like to think a lot of things, cuz you like to think. As for me, Iβd like a drink.β
GUISE
Mask-maker, mask-maker, make me a mask.
You see I am blind.
Itβs a special task.
Iβll need a window.
Iβll need some glass.
Five-percent tint.
Yβall canβt see my ass.
Gonzalo and Almaβs home smelled of long-simmering cooking.
Warm and receiving.
Iβd come to Texas for their services.
Theyβd made masks forty years.
Some of the greats found their faces here.
The Veiled Pantheon.
Panthers and tigers and champions.
Hundreds of faces, millions of masks.
Low stucco slung flat modest in the desert borderland.
And when I look out my window β what do you think I see?
Black-cats pumpkins dragons and all manner of diablerie line the shelves of the tight workroom, equipped with heritage tools in the rear of the small house.
And how shall I obliterate my visage?
βYou donβt talk like a wrestler.β
Gonzalo is laughing.
I assure him I talk all type of ways.
βYou gonna scare the fuck out of them in this one.β
Alma gives him a disapproving look.
βItβs over here, over here β hold on, I put it somewhere over here . . .β
Heβs got a pile of β looks like Power Ranger heads?
The guillotineβs come to Angel Grove.
Heβs sifting.
Sorting the decapitants.
βHere we are.β
Emerges from his hunch.
Adjusts the tuck of his flannel and stands back proudly into his heels.
Raises his work.
It is Medusaβs head,
Slain victorious.
And it is mine now.
Envenomed all-black.
Chryselephantine galactic emperor.
Venetian kaiju carnival.
Max Ernst returned from Mars.
Obsidian sandscape.
Guilty tragicomedy.
Murdered out space-time.
Mythic riff.
Iβd told Gonzalo Iβd wanted to Be a void, and heβd delivered.
He hadnβt known the word.
I hadnβt expected him to.
That was fine.
Iβd spoken it to him in other words.
Put it another way.
And heβd put it together.
βMe llamo πππΓπ¨ ππ«π©π’π¬ππ.β
Iβd pulled all my bullshit from a Spanish-English dictionary Iβd forgotten to return to the library.
βThatβs your ring name? You wrestling in MΓ©jico?β
Heβs fucking with me, just a little bit.
This whimsical man.
Maker of marionettes.
βA veces.β
βTheyβre gonna love this shit.β
Almaβs prim frown.
Karma comedown.
Gonzaloβd found the void.
Full-force.
βTry it on!β
She insists.
And Gonzalo, lordly.
Gleam-white teeth under neat moustache.
Hands it over.
I know the word β orgulloso.
Feels like itβd be a cognate.
Isnβt.
Better in Spanish, I think β sounds swoll-up, ballooned.
I swish it around in my head as the elderly couple regards me.
Proud, proud.
Gonzalo and Alma take pride in their work.
Why work with anyone who doesnβt?
We make an incredible team.
Gonzalo proceeds over my coronation, slipping the mask on.
Takes a step back.
Alma adjusts.
βHow itβs feeling? Itβs sitting right?β
Just right.
Beaming secretly.
I nod.
Silent.
βAnd you can talk?β
βI can talk.β
Gonzalo again laughs, whinnying hyena, endearing.
I ask:
βYou can hear?β
βWe can hear.β
Confirmed.
All smiles, though mineβs hidden.
As all of me is, and will be.
βYou can see?β
βI can see.β
. . .
βCan you see me?β
βBetter than ever.β
My constructors surround me, circling 360.
Take me in.
On the outside, I am eyeless.
Clever Gonzaloβs fitted the mask with prescription glass.
Seamless.
Fits right in.
Approval reigns.
βDoes it look cool?β
βLooks cool as fuck.β
βAlma?β
βIntimidating.β
She speaks seldom.
But voluminously.
And with illumination.
I unmask, placing my new head carefully in a paper box.
Had been for cowboy boots.
Gonzaloβd had it laying around.
Convenient.
Some company heβd used to work for.
Heβd made shoes.
How he got into maskmaking, apparently.
Fucking around in the workshop.
An awl and ambition.
Told it to me over pozole.
As Alma observed us quietly.
Periodically interjecting to ensure that the fast-talking Gonzalo took his meal warm.
We discuss wrestlecraft and stagecraft and maskcraft and all manner of costumery.
My occasional busted gringo Spanish utterances serve as a continual source of amusement.
Gonzalo laughs and laughs, twinkles.
He reminds me of a misplaced leprechaun.
I remind him of everyone.
She tolerates me, and sweetly.
I remind her of the void.
Night falls on El Paso.
As we wind down, I decline a buΓ±uelo β βyou young guys all on some crazy diet now!β
Gonzaloβs from another time.
A time of big men and hard chops.
Concrete rings with no give.
Head full-up with Santo movies and memories of rowdy crowds.
Weβve all got the barely-suppressed desire to riot.
βVacΓo when youβre a big big star down in MΓ©jicoβ β grinning, grinning, he is still fucking with me β βyou give that motherfucker Salvador a slap in the face for me.β
Pounds his flannel chest with a small bunched fist.
He speaks of Salvador Quintanilla, infamous Mexican wrestling promoter.
The lucha libre world had long been stuck with this scourge.
They say he fucks kids.
Lot of young boys around.
All the time, all the time.
They talk about him on the Internet.
And in real life, too.
Say heβs a pimp.
Heard heβs killed.
Or had people killed.
Can have people killed.
They say a lot of things.
I hear a lot of things.
All the time.
Rumors of sodomy and mayhem follow him.
But heβs got money, somehow.
No oneβs sure.
Drugs?
No idea.
Youβd have to know the man.
Buena suerte.
The show goes on.
Though heβd asked for a slap, I promise Gonzalo a closed-fist.
He blesses the initiative.
Mask in box and box in trunk.
On the road we go.
12 hours time to Los Angeles.
Where my bodysuit awaits.
VacΓo Arpista is born.
A MINOR MANGLING
A trampoline is in many ways like a wrestling ring.
In certain critical ways it is not.
Derek-or-it-might-have-been-Derrick-or-fuck it and his cousin Will β likely spelt Will, smelt of sour milk β were at my house, my motherβs house.
The family home, or something like it.
Derek was someone I called the βdiagonal across the street kid,β and I think he thought of me as the βcattycorner kid,β though heβd say it like βkitty-cowrnerβ and it really burned my ears up, it did.
We werenβt friends but for convenience.
In the easy manner of children.
We werenβt friends.
We were alone.
Us and the powerlinesβ hum and sky grey.
Will and Derek both watched wrestling, but they liked all the guys I didnβt like and didnβt like all the guys I did.
Conversation spare.
Backyard bouncing.
I the youngest and lightest.
Highest if not mightiest.
Calls for a contest.
But what doesnβt?
And so itβs flips forward and flips backward and trips and spills too.
Twists and swerves and jukes and jolts.
A new contest:
Who could yell the worst word the loudest?
I didnβt win it.
Wasnβt willing to go far enough.
Derek won.
I think Will had some civility.
Too much.
Even when he got his hand caught in the metal tension of the trampolineβs springs as Derek gave me a botched powerbomb Will didnβt say anything that bad.
I bounced three or four times and he screamed along with each return.
I remember blood.
Concerns of lawyers.
I remember there was an ambulance.
I donβt know whoβd have called it.
Maybe a neighbor.
Man, I gotta tell you β
I donβt really remember my childhood anymore.
I donβt think.
Never did see Will again.
Didnβt see much of Derek either.
THE TOTAL LOOK
Iβd met her at the buffet.
She liked rock-and-roll from another time, and I looked like it.
An easy mark.
Sheβd been on tour with some band.
βMerch girl.β
Pouty tout.
Candy.
Ass.
Some graphic tee, black, all shredded up and resewn.
Jeans, same.
Wild eyes built for SSRIs.
But itβs a little early for that.
We donβt live in that world.
Not yet.
Perhaps weβll come to describe it later.
Unwrap the present.
If we should survive.
Work a safe style.
Work smart, kid.
Could have a long career ahead of you.
Legend, legacy.
No idea whatβs ahead of me.
But I see whatβs in front.
Sheβs alone, this girl.
In a restaurant.
βYou want to join us?β
Iβd blurted it out unknown and possessed.
There are no accidents.
Our party grew.
I was with two other trainees.
The mood was a groan.
Iβd pissed Yamagata-sensei off something strong about an hour ago.
Didnβt care for my push-up form.
He had other ideas about things.
Heβd had a lot of shoulder surgeries, too.
Think those might go together.
βWhatβs the band called? That youβre out here with?β
She told us.
It sounded dumb.
Garrett, who aspired to wrestle as a Mortal Kombat knockoff character he called βKabalβ (it wasnβt going to work out) pretended to know the band.
Heβd been staring at her tits since sheβd sat down.
Iβd noticed because Iβd been sneaking glances myself.
I resented his overtness.
Envied his shamelessness.
If not its unbecoming outcomes.
βI mean . . . theyβre shitty to be honest with you, I just . . . I ββ
She disavowed them.
Garrett β Kabal, really β Kabal had overplayed his hand.
βWell . . . my ex is in the band, and . . .β
She shrank a bit.
Shoulders-in.
Trailed off.
I prompt her:
βWell, what about you? What do you want to do? I mean, like β for yourself?β
Back to life.
βWell, Iβm a seamstress . . .
My mother . . .β
Trailing again.
She spoke in gestures.
We all do.
Her moreso.
It would irritate me in most people, but sheβs cute.
So cute.
All day itβs been me and Kabal and this other sweaty fellow, wants to do some creepy male stripper gimmick, calls himself Mr. Entertainment β no way in hell thatβs not taken, right? Like get your own ideas β anyway Iβve been spending all day with Kabals and Mr. Entertainments all manner of wannabes imposters and frauds β and I but one! β and the easy sweetness of Jenna β her name is Jenna β invigorates the weary spirit.
βSo youβre all wrestlers?β
I wonder where sheβs from.
(itβs L.A.)
βYes.β
Mr. Entertainment has entered the chat.
Taps a heavy forefinger on the Yamagata Dojo logo β a suggestion of a mountain at the breast of his cut-out muscle-tank.
Not a talker.
Despite his name, he canβt work the stick at all.
Any of them, probably.
Canβt cut a promo worth a damn.
Heβs a void in his own way.
Charismatically.
Shitty worker, too.
Loose where youβd want tightness, stiff when grace calls.
Crazy body on him, though.
Betting it came from a needle.
Bet his dick doesnβt even work.
Not at all.
Bet he killed it dead with that juice.
Heβs trying anyway.
Heβll droop-dead one day soon with an exploded heart for sure.
Iβve seen that pimpled back.
We all have.
We all know what it means, Mr. Entertainment.
Unless you roll around in shit all day.
Which in a sense I suppose you do.
We didnβt fuck that night.
Me and Jenna.
The ex thing made me wary.
But we did a couple weeks later.
When she came out on a bus, alone.
Ex begone.
I had a match that night, at an autoworkersβ union hall.
One of my first.
I hadnβt totally figured it out yet, the Final Gimmick.
Pennsylvanian audiences can be very discerning.
I knew I didnβt want to wrestle under my βownβ name, my βrealβ name.
But I didnβt want to be some ripoff artist like Kabal and all the others.
She didnβt care at all.
She didnβt care about wrestling.
That was ideal.
I did care about tailoring.
βYou know . . . I might be able to use your skills, if you want to put your skills to use.β
Quantum entendre.
As ever.
It worked.
Itβs a work.
The gimmick fits.
And I need outfits.
Looks.
A UAW Hall one night.
Korakuen the next.
Or thatβs the hope.
Then on to the Tokyo Dome.
Arena Mexico.
Madison Square.
Circle the globe.
Piss territorial.
Collecting hardware.
And hype.
Amassing victories and heat.
Disqualification defeats.
Seven-league boots.
Heeled.
Heavenly layers of belts.
Robes, ornate.
Sleeves regal.
A ring jacket.
Custom kickpads.
The whole bit.
Give me everything.
Storied gold.
But for now I am squalorous.
So I ask you β
One Thing.
Can a beheaded jester play the role of a king?
Can fairness bear to shine in Luciferβs bringing?
Am I born witness?
Blessed in being?
In my nonsense she acquiesced.
And in that fling,
Pegasus wings.
Now dear-girl Jenna does my tailoring.
TEN BELLS FOR FARGO
Fargo Riggins is a fat fuck who owes me two hundred-fifty dollars.
We are in the back of the autoworkersβ hall now, a place it seems likely that some genuine and vicious beatings have gone down over the years.
I am in his face.
Jennaβs in the car.
Itβs running.
Jenna has been advised to stay in the car.
And to keep it running.
Fargo Riggins is a fat fuck who owes a lot of people a lot of things, money being merely the most vulgar and outwardly accountable avatar of his owings.
He will bear accountability now, grisly.
Thusly:
A fist or three.
Heβs pissed off Kabal too, and for All the Bullshit of the World, for all its fizz and kayfabe:
Kabal is a man named Garrett Barlow who served in the Special Forces, and Garrett Barlow In Real Life is properly a Judo Joe Psycho Mother Fucker.
Thatβs a shoot.
I mean Iβm not saying I couldnβt kick Fargo Rigginsβ ass β he might have four inches and a hundred-fifty or so pounds on me, but let me tell ya somethinβ kid itβs four inches a hundred-fifty pounds of SHIT is what it is, and Iβm gonna punch this fat fuck in the FACE if he doesnβt give me my FUCKING MONEY.
βFuck you Garrett.β
ββFuck you say to me.β
βββFuck you Garrett.β
βFuck you say to me.β
ββFuck you Garrett.β
ββββFuck you say to me.β
β²
Theyβre both in loo
ps.
Theyβre stupid.
Genuinely.
I weigh in.
Cruise missile.
Dropkick.
βFargo you bitch ass mother fucker you told me and Kabal weβs goinβ home with two-fifty each you crooked son of a bitch and itβll be three-fifty each if you donβt find the cash in the next fifteen minutes!β
βYou think I take orders from you, pipsqueak?β
βI donβt think you could take orders at a drive-through you saggy-tittied fuck, now crawl up your own ass and find the goddamn money or we start breaking shit, starting with you!β
Goblin nostrils.
Fargo steamed.
βThat mouth of yours! I oughta pull every tooth out of it! You deserve every horrible thing in this world!β
βWell bring us five-hundred the most horrible things you can find, you got ten minutes.β
Kabal spat:
βAsswipe.β
Suggestion of a shove but Not Quite.
Itβs not time to fuck yet.
Kabal and I retreat to the corner of the (alleged) βdressing room.β
You can imagine Fargoβs cheap ideas.
Kabalβs in a smoke-grey futuristic ninja costume.
Looks cheap, too.
Theyβre all just so cheap.
So, so cheap.
Cheap, cheap, cheap.
Me Iβm turned out in Jenna.
And her mother was for real.
Sheβd passed down significant wisdom and handicraft.
I looked pro.
Better than.
Plusβqueβparfait.
Iβm the be-all end-all.
The destroyer of worlds.
I am the most stylish professional wrestler to ever lace boots.
Ever.
βKali fuckinβ Yuga, man,β
Kabal makes no sense, but does it in his own way.
βCowabunga, dude,β I offer back.
Fargo Riggins is out at the payphone, desperate.
Doesnβt look like heβs having much luck.
Doesnβt look like.
βWhat you figure the security deposit is on this place? We can tear up camp and really hit Fargo in his pocketbook if he tries to fuck us.β
βFuck the deposit, think about how mobbed up the people running this place probably are β we fuck shit up in here and Fargoβs in deep shit with Vic Cardamone and probably the Colangelos, too.β
βThe fucking Colangelos . . .β
βThe shit weβd do to the big fat fuck would pale in comparison to what Carlo Colangelo will do to that man, if you could even call it a man what would be left when Carlo got done doing . . .β
βYou blow one venue and word gets around, too. Fargo Riggins wonβt be booking anything in the Northeast ever again if we get to havoc.β
βI say we just start bustinβ fuckinβ pipes.β
βYou donβt think heβs got a gun or nothing?β
βDoubt it. Maybe some lousy-assed cousins.β
βFuck his fucking cousins.β
βFuck him.β
Fargo is sweating cold in his plain red collegiate singlet.
Keg of a man.
Dialing for dollars.
All sloppy balls.
Heβs got a little notebook out, heβs dropping it.
Heβs dropped it.
No Rolodex I guess.
Makes sense.
Piece a shit.
Fargo fuckinβ Riggins.
Guy in a referee shirtβs pacing around us.
Last guy left.
Iβd call him The Referee, but the showβs over.
Heβs Clint, now.
Little wisp of a fellow.
Clint.
Little wisp of hair.
Hands on hips.
Everyone elseβs split.
Nervous circles.
Clint works at the mall, when he is not The Referee.
He got paid tonight, twenty-five, from Fargo.
Heβs made good.
βLook, look ββ he gulps for air.
βI think I can solve this.β
Whips it out.
NOKIA
.
βWhatβs with the fuckinβ communicator, Spock?β
Kabalβs mockery.
βYou guys know damn well Fargoβs burnt everyone. Tonightβs just your night.β
ββββββββββββββββHell no.
βThe fuck it is. Tonightβll be our night alright, but in our way. Not his.β
A jabbed finger.
Clintβs not built for this.
Kabal interrogates.
βHow you affordinβ that thing on your refereeing and RadioShack money?β
βMan I quit RadioShack two years ago, they got me on at the Verizonβs now.β
βShit man I donβt ever go to the mall, I thought youβs still at RadioShack.β
βNaw man like I said I quit there, then Iβs at Payless for a minute, then I cut lawns with my dad for the summer, then they got me on at Verizonβs.β
βYou working that kiosk?β
βYeah man they got me out in the open with them Israeli perfume boys but listen β before yβall kick Fargoβs ass or rip this place apart or whatever youβre set on doing let me try to call in a favor. One perk of the job,β Clint pauses with an uncharacteristic slyness, performs an altogether unpleasant and uncanny gesture with his eyebrows. βOther than looking at chicks all day long, I mean . . .β
More eyebrows.
βI get this phone. So I can just collect digits all day long, baby.β
βThe fuck you talking about, Clint?β
βYβall might not know it but when Iβm not reffing Iβm honestly kind of a freaking pimp.β
βYeah, you? . . . I could see it, sure . . . Go on.β
βWell the other day this real rich bitch come in the mall, wagging ass in one them liβl bodycondom dresses I think they call βem, you know the ones, and sheβs passing me up one time two times three times and after a while Iβm like God Damn, enough, woman, I get the message. And I was about to make my move when Yigal and Joel from the damn perfume kiosk totally freaking cockblocked me.β
βSounds like you took a tag team finisher, Clint.β
βBoy Iβll say.β
βSo what happened β they dragged her back to the apartment complex and partied her?β
βNaw Garrett.β
βCall me Kabal.β
βEven now, after?β
βKabal.β
βAlright Kabal. Naw, they just warmed her up for me, know what Iβm sayinβ?β
βI donβt know what youβre saying Clint. Anyway, how the hellβs this get us our money?β
I took to the doorway:
βFIVE FUCKINβ MINUTES FARGO. FIVE FUCKINβ MINUTES AND THIS PLACE GOES UP IN FLAMES, WITH YOU IN IT. DO YOU HEAR ME?β
Heβs βon the phoneβ but I think heβs pretending.
He acts hard, like heβs gonna do something about it.
Holds up one finger.
βTHREE FUCKINβ MINUTES RIGGINS. FIGURE. IT. OUT.β
I tear a promotional flyer for the show from the front door.
Itβs a dramatic business.
And all the worldβs a trap door.
I get back and Iβve missed the resolution of Clintβs story.
A pity.
Heβs on the phone with Doris Duke or Catherine the Great or whoever the fuck.
Sheβs at least given him the courtesy of picking up.
Fargoβs received no such courtesy.
Still out there fishing but nobody appears to be biting.
Couple minutesβ time and weβre in demolition mode.
90 seconds to sabotage.
One fuckinβ minute, Fargo, and then me and Kabal are gonna break your fuckinβ kneesβ knees.
Clintβs at ease.
βAlright, alright, cool . . .
Yeah, weβll be right by.β
What the fuck?
What type of shit did Clint pull off here?
βYou told her weβre to get six hundred, right?β
βI did.β
Good boy Kabal.
βFARGO YOU PIECE OF SHIT GET OVER HERE AND MEET YOUR SAVIOR.β
Riggins drops the telephone receiver.
βI just about had it! Iβs on the phone with Wade Albemarle promotes shows with me sometimes out in Delaware, and he said he could wire out some money tomorrow, andββ
Drops the act.
βFuck your tomorrow, Fargo. Get over here, get down on your hands and knees and kiss this manβs boots.β
βClint ainβt even wearinβ boots.β
βYou know what, youβre right.β
βHe is right.β
Fargo is right.
βYou know Kabal I think Mountain Man Jack left his damn gym bag behind, why donβt you go and get Mountain Man Jackβs gym bag, and we can get his boots on out of there and put βem on Clintβs feet, and Clint can take them ugly fuckinβ sneakers off and play with the big boys for a minute, and you Fargo, you can take six slow licks on them boots, on Mountain Man Jackβs boots, cuz what you are is a forktongue devil and you know it, so itβs three sets of six licks on them boots for you.β
βYouβre outta your fuckinβ mind!β
Looked him dead in the eye.
βIβm compost mantis.β
Pointed at my head.
The Genius Gesture.
βKabal, get the boots.β
Garrett tossed his head back and roared.
Kabal came right on out, emerged.
Live the gimmick.
He performed a throat-slitting taunt, staring down Fargo, then set about the task of retrieving Mountain Man Jackβs deserted duffel and its promised pungence.
βYou fuck with us weβre gonna fuck you. This man just saved your ass. You better up his pay. Next time heβs reffing itβs fifty bucks for Mr. Supermodel Pussy. You get me? Matter of fact, with that phone of his, thatβs a hell of a gimmick β next time we come through your territory, which is never, by the way, weβre gonna run you off the circuit altogether β but next time we come around here and are working for a promoter worth a damn and not some shameful snake in the grass piece of trash, Clintβs gonna be our damn manager, and heβs gonna bop people with that phone when the ref ainβt looking.β
I was on one.
βFargo you got no fuckinβ vision. People like you got no place in this business, and it is a business. Thatβs what it is. Thatβs where you fuck up. Youβre playing games . . .
This is war, baby.β
Kabalβs back with the boots.
βDamn, Jackβs got some big-ass feet, man.β
Clintβs in awe of the 15EEE custom stompers.
Theyβd had quite a night
Mountain Man Jack had bled furiously in a mid-card deathmatch with some new guy β called himself The Arsonist, a recent parolee who may or may not have been lying about having ever trained.
Now Mountain Mad Jack tolerated bleeding, but The Arsonist seemed to love it.
Theyβd bled buckets for all the hundred-fifty or so people whoβd shown.
Theyβd horrified children.
That was the first time Jennaβd gone out to the car.
She liked horror movies, too.
Not that kind.
βGood thing youβre fully compliant with all the state regulations on blading and medical testing, Fargo.β
Clint slipped on the first of MMJβs boots.
βCaring for your talent ensures a safe workplace environment.β
And the second.
On this night, Fargo Riggins gave thanks, paid tribute.
An unknown benefactorβd saved his ass, if not his dignity.
The UAW Hall escaped destruction.
Carlo Colangeloβs telephone does not ring.
A caravan of vehicles formed, off to secure the collection of payment β Jenna and I in the rental Lexus (weβd been upgraded), Kabal in his dayjobbersβ Ford Ranger, Fargo in the Econoline (I think he does HVAC sometimes), and the newly minted King Clint the Pimp leading the way in his Pontiac coupe.
As it turns out, heβs the kind of guy with an underglow kit.
Makes sense.
βββββββββββββββββNot the end.
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