𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐈𝐆𝐄𝐑 █００５: 𝐏𝐑𝐎 𝐖𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 ◎ 𝐄𝐘𝐄 . . .

𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐈𝐆𝐄𝐑 █

              ００５:

 𝐏𝐑𝐎 𝐖𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 ◎ 𝐄𝐘𝐄 . . .

---

---

  █prrrreviously on 𝕊PACE 𝔽LYING

        𝕋𝕀𝔾𝔼ℝ:

         (００１)’𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐀𝐍𝐙𝐀 𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐆𝐀’

         (００２)’𝐀 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐘’

         (００３)’𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆.’

         (００４)’𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐒𝐓’

---

SO WHAT HAPPENS

So what happens is

a motherfucker becomes nothing

and

nothing turns itself inside out.

❍

❍

❍

If you get it —

if you’ve got it?

then good.

➣ ➣ ➣ ➣ ➣ ➣

You will shit in the streets and die senselessly.

There will be seemings of meaning.

Comets screaming.

Seams tear.

Cease believing.

Long stares become avoidance.

No one looks you in the eye.

No one can or could.

Should or ought.

Hey.

Unsmiling strange.

Long shadow, overstayed.

Disfigure.

Your goods are bad.

Your money’s moot.

Your squat is shit, shat.

All-being trash.

Littered upon this Earth.

Devalued scrip, irrelevant.

A quickening wound-down.

The tune of a tinsel town.

Slow now.

Slow now.

Soon still.

You will.

---

---

                 Patek Flip

     WATCH THIS, WATCH THIS

       SAY WHAT YOU MEAN

   YOU’RE ON A WATCH LIST . . .

---

THE SNIFFER

“I’ll give you twenty-five bucks for your shirt.”

“What size?”

“Your shirt.”

. . .

“I’m afraid I’m only selling merchandise.”

“I’m asking for merchandise.”

“The merchandise on the table.”

“How much for you on the table?”

. . .

“A hundred.”

“Look, man, I’m —”

“A hundred for your shirt and I’m on my way.”

“And what — I’m gonna drive on down to the motel in no shirt, get pulled over by some peckerwood sheriff got too much time on his hands thinks I look like some type of fucking weirdo?”

“Put on one of your own shirts.”

“This is my own shirt.”

“You know what I mean — one of the ones you’re selling.”

“I don’t wear my own damn merchandise, what do I look like, fucking Danzig?”

“I don’t know what your face looks like at all.”

“I don’t have one.”

. . .

We settled at three-fifty and it made all the difference in gas to Memphis.

---

---

THE CAFE

Hard as hell to hear anything in here.

Harder to be heard.

Baffling muffle.

Muzzled words.

---

---

PRO WRESTLING EYE

All-fatted-up booze-caloric —

Beef Browski is pounding on me.

He’s a brawler.

I’m falling.

He’s knocked me from my turnbuckle perch.

I take an apron bump, stiffer than the middle of the ring.

What’s left of my spine absorbs the shock.

The front row grimaces.

I’ve done it.

It’s a Lumberjack Match.

We’re in Saskatchewan.

The ring is surrounded by “enforcers” ready to rough me or Beef up if we try to escape.

Good guys and bad guys.

Blackhats and white.

Spare hands.

We’re surrounded.

Rumbling.

Beef’s the face, so to reeeaaally sell it to the crowd it’s best for me to enact periodic displays of yellow-bellied cowardice.

Treachery.

It’s best to cheat.

AND SO:

The match has thus far featured eyepokes and gouges, closed-fists and shouted threats to the referee.

I’ve started shit and begged off.

Shaken the ropes in anger.

I grabbed my balls two-handed and thrust my crotch at the crowd.

Bad motherfucker shit.

A group of middle-schoolers returned the gesture.

I watched as — mother, grandmother?

(HARD TO TELL SOMETIMES)

I watched her scold the mimics.

To their glee.

I’m their favorite bad guy.

I have been very disrespectful.

Very,

They love me.

Very,

Not as much as the ones who hate me do, though.

Very.

The Walloon Brothers wouldn’t let me wrestle in Canada as Vacío Arpista so I was made to choose another name, “plain English.”

That’s why I worked Western Canada as FURIOUS.

In my head it was styled all-caps.

In the Walloon Brothers’ promotional materials I just hoped it was spelled correctly.

I wasn’t sure if they were twins, exactly.

The Walloon Brothers.

Jerry and Larry.

There are rumors that they are lovers.

Kayfabe runs deep if you do it right.

Some beds are best left covered.

They were thick-browed cavemen who’d wrestled into the early ‘80s.

I’d never seen them work.

Maybe one day I’ll get my hands on a tape.

They’d been champions in Montreal, even had a brief run in the U.S. tag scene.

Two fat old men with mid-century grandmother hair-dos and Gorgeous George robes gussied up in periwinkle unitards and red elbow pads.

I’d seen photos.

Just no tape.

RECALL:

Jerry Walloon and his big egg-butt leapfrogging Zabu the Cannibal in an Ontario gym.

Larry patiently waiting on the ring apron, holding the tag-rope.

Full-color photo.

Pro Wrestling Eye, “P.W. Eye” they’d called it, had run the image.

One of their Classics issues.

Bought it at the pharmacy when I was seven.

I remember everything.

Despite the blows to the head.

All my trying.

We don’t use the tag-rope these days.

Lotta the old rules went out the window.

Kayfabe’s an evolving situation.

A story in search of no end.

They didn’t grab nuts at the crowd back then, either.

In those Classical Times.

But it’s the ‘90s now, bitch.

We’ve got Attitude.

We do what we want.

---

𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 / a / k / a ＪＱＤ is a self-taught integrated media company founded and incorporated in 𝙻𝙾𝚂𝚃 𝙴𝚁𝙾𝚂, 𝙲𝙰.

“Thank you . . .

Thank you.”

💙

𝚖.𝚟.𝚍.