One Fall 05.28.11: Chapter 8

Links to previous chapters:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapters 6 & 7

Comments from last week:

The award for funniest comment from last week goes to KGNine, who said, “reads like a creative writing assignment from a teenage Vince Russo.”

Honorable mention goes to the dude who said, “ssh..Let him have his weird fanfiction.”

I see that my mom chimed in last week to put you all in your place, and the opening comment, from Greg, said, “I love how no negative comments are ever posted about this IWC whack off material.”

Me too, Greg. Me too…

As always, thanks to all who commented, especially those of you who had words of encouragement. Here’s a new chapter. Have at it!

CHAPTER 8

“…3…2…1,” from inside the press box atop Reunion Arena, GWA’s technical director spoke into his headset to signal that the live feed had begun. GWA Burn was on the air. 200 yards away, in a van in the parking garage, a 23-year-old woman pressed an unmarked white button on the console in front of her, cuing the opening video package, an 18-second montage of wrestling footage set to hard rock music. The package played on 3 million televisions across America.

The opening package also played on the 20-foot television screen inside the arena, where thousands of fans cheered the start of the show. From the press box, the technical director watched the giant screen, looking for the close-up of Crusader, his cue that there were five seconds of footage left. When he saw it, he spoke into his headset, “Cue pyro in 5…4…3…2…1..cue pyro.”

From backstage, in a makeshift booth nicknamed “The Hobbit Hole,” the visual effects coordinator pulled a lever on his switchboard display, initiating a series of rapid-fire explosions that began at the ceiling, advanced to the ring, went up the entrance ramp, and finished with a fiery burst at the stage. The technical director watched the final detonation and said, “Cue announcers.”

“You’re looking live at Reunion Arena in Dallas, Texas, where tonight, by decree of Duke Corelli, we will have a single-elimination tournament to determine the number one contender for the GWA World Title. I’m Clive Silver, I’m joined tonight by Johnny The Monster Dupree, and have we got a gutbuster of a show for you.”

“That’s right Clive. Tonight we start with eight men, the top eight in line for a title shot. By night’s end, we’ll be down to one.”

“Cue entrance,” said the technical director.

Back in the production van, the same woman who started the show pressed another button, triggering two hundred decibels of guitar riff in the arena. As the guitar bellowed, Joey Mayhem’s face appeared on the giant screen.

Joey had been standing behind the black curtain that separated the arena from backstage, thinking about what Shane had told him the night before. Just don’t screw up, and the politics will take care of themselves. Just don’t screw up.

When he heard his music, he pushed aside the polyester cloth, revealing fifteen thousand eager fans. They were already chanting his name.

The politics, the doubts, the nerves – they all evaporated when he stepped into the arena. Joey Hamilton, the rookie in over his head, was left on the other side of the curtain. In the arena, in front of these people, there was only Joey Mayhem, the cocky, charismatic, unpredictable superstar.

Fans reached for him as he walked down the entrance ramp. Those who touched his arm or his back would tell their friends, and would remember that moment for the rest of their lives.

Joey stepped into the ring and took his first look at the entire expanse of people. Fifteen thousand sets of eyes looked at him in adoration. He wondered how many people ever experienced something like this, and why he was so lucky.

The snooty trumpets of Rule Britannia played over the speakers, shaking Joey from his daze. Lord Mayberry stepped into the arena and waved to the crowd like he was the homecoming queen at the end of a parade. They responded with boos and middle fingers. He trotted to the ring and gently climbed the stairs. From the edge of the ring apron, he turned his back to Joey and waved again. This was Joey’s cue to attack. Joey ran and hit Mayberry with a forearm to the back of the head. Mayberry fell off the ring apron and Joey followed him out of the ring. The crowd approved, the announcers were stunned, and the show was on.

The script for this match required Joey to take the early advantage and never lose it. The television announcers had been instructed to promote Joey’s early attack as a smart strategy, while making sure the audience at home knew Joey was a long shot to win even one match in tonight’s tournament.

Joey threw Mayberry head-first into the steel ring stairs, then kicked him in the stomach while he was down.

The action outside the ring gave the front row ticketholders an opportunity to pan for the TV cameras and interact directly with the stars.

“Kill him Joey!” shouted an overweight woman in a yellow T-shirt.

“You suck Mayberry!” screamed a little girl of no more than ten.

Joey grabbed Mayberry by the tights and threw him back into the ring. Then Joey took a minute to pose for his fans, which, in the wrestling world, was always a grave mistake. His two-second delay before re-entering the ring was just enough time for Mayberry to recover and greet Joey with a fist to the face.

With both wrestlers in the ring, the bell sounded and the match officially began. For the next six minutes, the two men exchanged blows and offensive maneuvers, each gaining and losing the upper hand more than once.

“Let’s do the ref bump and take this home,” whispered Mayberry while squeezing Joey’s head in a chinlock. Following his instructions, Joey allowed Mayberry to swing him towards the corner, throwing him head-on into the referee, who (as referees often are) was right in the way.

The ref, being too weak to possibly withstand a collision with a wrestler, lay face-first on the mat, apparently unconscious. Following standard wrestling logic, with the referee out, the rampant cheating began. First, Mayberry unwrapped the athletic tape on his left hand and used it to choke Joey. Joey responded with a mulekick to Mayberry’s groin.

As the referee’s stupor stretched on for more than two minutes, the experienced members of the crowd turned toward the ring entrance, aware that this scenario required another wrestler to run in and join the action. Sure enough, Tyson Turner, Lord Mayberry’s best friend, came running down the entrance ramp with a steel chair. When he got to the ring, Tyson swung the chair at Joey’s head. Joey ducked just in time and the chair hit a perfectly placed Lord Mayberry in the face.

The fans went nuts. They loved the chaos.

Joey clotheslined Tyson Turner out of the ring, then covered the fallen Lord Mayberry. The referee, now out for a good three minutes, came to his senses just in time to see the cover, and counted 1…2…3.

“Oh my God, Johnny! Joey Mayhem has upset Lord Mayberry!” said Clive Silver to the television audience.

Joey’s music played over the speakers. The fans cheered like Teamsters at a strike rally, and Burn took its first commercial break of the night. Joey stepped out of the ring and walked up the ramp. When he reached the curtain, he turned back to the fans for one last pose. Flashbulbs popped from every corner of the arena. In that moment, Joey was a god.

He pushed through the curtain, hoping that his next match would go over as well as this one.

Martha Tanner, the stage manager for all televised events, greeted Joey as soon as he stepped backstage.

“Well done, Joey. Duke wants to meet with you and Crusader right away to discuss the booking for your next match. They’re in Salon A, down the hall and to your left.” She handed him a bottle of water then ran off.

“Good match, kid,” said Pit Bull Brody, slapping Joey on the back. Joey smiled and said thanks, registering the compliment as Pit Bull’s first ever for him.

His walk down the hall was a tour of similar ego-enhancers.

“Good job, you really got them fired up,” said a veteran agent named C. David Frye.

“You nailed it out there,” said Gordy Goodnow.

Joey opened the door to Salon A to find Crusader smiling with his hand extended.

“Good match, Joey,” said Crusader. “You set us up to put on a killer show when we get out there.”

“Joey, have a seat,” said Duke. There were three chairs in the otherwise empty room. The floor and walls were concrete, and Duke’s voice echoed in the small space.

“Well gentlemen, your match tonight is one of the most important ones we’ve ever had in this company. In a few months, when we’re back to our old highs in ratings and attendance, people will point to your match tonight as the turning point that shifted momentum away from Revolution and back in our favor,” said Duke.

Joey nodded his head in agreement. This little pep talk was a final check to ensure Crusader was buying into the match tonight. Joey appreciated that. And judging by Crusader’s warm greeting, and the nice things the other wrestlers were saying, it looked like everything was going to be fine.

“Crusader, tonight is your night to give our new star the rub he’ll need to take us to the top,” said Duke.

Joey didn’t like Crusader’s reaction. His face held a look of surprise, confusion, and anger. Crusader opened his mouth to say something but changed his mind. Then he looked at Joey, the way a man might look at someone who slept with his wife, and Joey understood. Duke hadn’t told Crusader that he was putting Joey over. And if Crusader didn’t know, then surely no one else knew either.

“So here’s how the match is going to play out,” said Duke, ignoring Crusader’s obvious distress. Duke went into a short spiel about a standard singles match. Crusader would play the heel, he’d get the early advantage, he’d call the match from the ring for five or six minutes, dominating the whole time, then he’d perform his finisher on Joey. The crowd would assume the match was a squash right until the instant when Joey kicked out of Crusader’s cover at two. Then Joey would wake up, seemingly charged with adrenaline, and “Go Mayhem,” leading to a clean win a few minutes later.

“Are there any questions, gentlemen?” said Duke.

Were there any questions? Duke had let the air out of the room, replaced it with poison gas, and now was asking if there were any questions. Joey wanted to stand up and run. He wanted to run back to Tennessee and wrestle in the indies again. He wanted his old dream back, his dream of becoming the GWA champion, his pristine dream, where the title belt was his crowning achievement, not his burden to bear. He wanted someone to explain to Crusader that this was Duke’s plan, not his. Someone please just tell Crusader and Jumbo and Branson and all the other guys who deserve this belt more than little Joey Mayhem that it wasn’t his idea. He was still the wide-eyed rookie. He was just doing what he was told.

“Yeah, I’ve got a question,” said Crusader. “Why am I just hearing about this now? None of us have heard a word all week, and now, 10 minutes before we go on, you’re telling me this kid’s gonna kick out of my finisher and I’m gonna do the job to him? I guess I’m stupid, but, since I hadn’t heard anything, I assumed that I’d be winning this tournament tonight. We all assumed it, Duke. I’m next in line for the belt.”

“Scott, you’re still very much in the main event scene,” said Duke, referring to Crusader by his real name. “But tonight Joey’s going over. We need to get people talking, you understand that don’t you? Our competitors are riding our butts and we need a buzz to get people to tune in next week. Joey’s win will surprise our audience. Trust me on this one, friend. It’s best for business, and best for your wallet.”

“I disagree,” said Crusader.

“I don’t pay you to disagree,” said Duke, instantly changing from a happy peacemaker into a frightening kingpin. “Now, you can get out there and do the right thing, or you can leave.” Duke spoke with the authority of a man who once owned the entire wrestling world.

“Jesus Christ,” said Crusader under his breath. He rubbed his eyes and sighed heavily. “I’ll do it. I always do it, you know that Duke. I just wish…oh never mind.”

Without a heartbeat of transition, Duke returned to the compassionate father figure. “I’m sorry it panned out this way,” he said. “Trust me. This is going to help all of us, a lot. You have an important job to do tonight. In two months you’ll be thrilled that you were involved in this match. This job isn’t about you passing the torch, it’s about putting on a good show tonight, when we need it. Rest assured that your place in line is safe. But right now I need you to do business. We’ve got to put on an interesting, surprising show, and we’ve got a kid here who the fans like and will talk about all week.”

Crusader didn’t seem convinced. But he didn’t argue.

“Well Joey,” he said, “I guess this is your night to shine.” His voice was angry, but controlled. “Let’s go do this.”

Joey nodded silently and followed Crusader out the door. They would be on next.

* * * * *

“Knife-edge chops,” Crusader whispered.

Joey obeyed, and let himself get tossed into the corner and bitch-slapped across the chest ten times. Joey’s chest would be a blistered mess of welts and bruises tomorrow morning.

Per Duke’s booking instructions, Crusader was calling the match, and squashing Joey. He was also putting on a clinic of the most legitimately painful moves allowed in professional wrestling.

He had opened the match with a few smacks to the chest, followed by an irish whip into a hard clothesline. Then he picked up Joey and delivered a sidewalk slam with all his body weight behind it. After a few seconds of filler, Crusader locked his arms around Joey’s waist and dealt out three consecutive German suplexes, followed by the knife-edge chops in the corner.

To sell the move, and in hopes of getting a break, Joey fell face-first to the mat after the tenth chop. Normally, Joey’s flop to the mat would be a signal to his partner to put him in a rest hold. He hoped Crusader would oblige.

Crusader stepped across Joey’s back, and wrenched Joey’s left arm backwards, pulling it into a simple yet painful hold. Joey considered breaking the hold and punching Crusader in the face for this stiff match that was bordering on dangerous, but instead he gritted his teeth and let the real pain help him sell the move. Perhaps this beating would earn Joey some respect backstage.

“Other corner. Super-plex, then the Iron Sword,” Crusader whispered.

Thank God, Joey thought. The Iron Sword, a combination suplex-bodyslam, was Crusader’s finisher, and was the spot they had picked for the momentum shift and the end of this torture. Of course, before they got there, Crusader had called a super-plex, one of the more dangerous moves in wrestling.

Still holding Joey’s arm behind his back, Crusader allowed Joey to stand, then pushed him into the corner, where he threw four punches to Joey’s head before scooping him up and dropping his butt right on the top turnbuckle. Crusader climbed to the second turnbuckle until he and Joey were both crouched in position for the move.

“One..two..three,” Crusader whispered, and he swung Joey over his head. Both men soared through the air like a giant sledgehammer, then crashed down to the ring floor. The wind rushed out of Joey’s lungs. A sharp sting ran through his shoulders. He wished he could lie on the mat and go to sleep.

Crusader was immediately to his feet. As if the super-plex was no more than a simple take-down, Crusader scooped up Joey again, held him upside down for a minute, and slammed him in the Iron Sword. Then he went for the cover.

When Joey kicked out at two, the crowd’s reaction was so loud that his ears popped. Now it was his turn to call the moves. In the swirling haze of his thoughts, he briefly considered working Crusader as stiff as he’d just been worked. He considered beating the crap out of him and taking away all his heat. He envisioned a half-hour beatdown that would make Crusader’s character look so weak that he’d never main event again.

“Throw me to the ropes,” Joey whispered.

Crusader followed the instructions. He dragged Joey’s carcass from the mat and flung him to the opposite corner of the ring. Joey bounced off the ropes and leaped into a flying cross-body block that landed him in a cover of Crusader.

“Let’s trade some punches,” Joey whispered while the two men were down for the cover. Crusader kicked out at the referee’s two-count. Both men jumped up and started trading punches to the face. Joey hit the first one. Crusader hit the next. Four times they traded blows before Crusader followed the script and let Joey get the upper hand. The crowd went wild as the traded blows turned into a Joey Mayhem trademarked beatdown. The energy of the fans was the most Joey had ever felt. They were not expecting him to go over, and they loved it.

Joey went into his full “Going Mayhem” routine, pummeling Crusader into a corner and stomping and punching him like a lunatic. Then Joey picked him up, threw him over his shoulder, and ran to the center of the ring for an authoritative power slam. Joey covered Crusader, the referee counted to three, and the fans went ballistic. Young Joey Mayhem had just gone over one of the GWA’s most prominent stars.

His body screaming in pain from every joint, Joey was oblivious to the ovation he was getting. To the fans tonight, Joey was a bona fide superstar. But their cheers were just white noise in his head, drowned out by pain and disorientation. He focused himself enough to step through the ropes and walk toward the back. Halfway up the ramp he realized that in ten minutes he would be out here to wrestle again. And before he came back out, he’d have to face the thirty wrestlers behind the curtain who had expected Joey to lose this match. Fuck them, he thought. If they couldn’t appreciate the shit Joey had just taken from Crusader, then fuck them. As his head cleared, Joey became aware of the cheers he was getting. Unconsciously, he stopped walking, and turned around to face the fans. They cheered even louder to greet him. Joey wished he could stay out here in the arena, among friends – fifteen thousand people who adored him so much they chanted his name. But this was wrestling, and what happened in the arena was just for show. Reality was behind the black curtain. Joey turned around and finished his trek up the ramp.

Martha greeted him on the other side.

“Joey, back to Salon A for another meeting with Duke,” she said. “Jumbo and Deep Six,” she called out, “Curtain in two minutes!”

Joey walked down the same hallway where, twenty minutes before, the other wrestlers had showered him with compliments. On his way, he passed Pit Bull Brody, Bandit Thompson, Bigfoot, and Henry Dexter, four wrestlers sitting together who were not performing on tonight’s television broadcast. They all ignored Joey as he passed.

Joey opened the door to Salon A, where Duke was waiting for him. Duke congratulated him on a successful match. Then Duke ran over the booking for Joey’s match with Jumbo. The match would be a duplicate of the one he had just finished with Crusader, only this time Joey would get squashed for even longer before he found the super-human might to shift the momentum.

“Do you have any questions?” Duke asked after he had explained all the booking.

“Yeah,” said Joey. “Is it alright if I hang out in here to rest until match time?”