FOR GREEMAW!

“Quinny baby. My sweet, adorable, precious baby boy from heaven. It’s time to wake up, my sweet prince.”

Quinn Fleetwood opened his eyes to his daily greeting from his father, wiping sleep from his eyes and slowly propping himself up on his elbows. He looked up at his smiling father and scowled. “What time is it?”

“Four A.M.”

“What? Why the hell did you wake me up? I was dreaming about Savannah Scandal. Her legs…her glasses…the mean things she says about me while I try to please her.”

“You have an unhealthy fixation on people who are mean to you and I don’t know where it comes from,” Chet said, then looked down at the floor. “Were you eating Cheetos in here again, you piece of shit?”

Ignoring his father, Quinn rolled out of bed and landed on the floor, then immediately began doing push-ups. Never too early to get those yoked arms.

“Anyway,” Chet continued, “I know you have a big match against that guy who eats communist pineapples, and I figured you’d want an early start on the day.”

“Forty-seven!” Quinn shouted on his third push-up.

“But that’s not the only reason. I have some…bad news.”

“Sixty-two!” (Five.) Quinn stopped to look over. “What bad news?”

“Son,” Chet said with immense gravity, “your grandmother passed away.”

Quinn’s bottom lip quivered.

“Greemaw?!”

_______

My Greemaw died today. She was a very special lady. She used to bathe me, change my diapers, and hug me close and tell me I was her special boy. She smelled like Diet Coke and Juicy Fruit. 

Fruit…like pineapples. Bryan Dawkins, it’s your fault my Greemaw died. And I’m going to kill you in the ring because of it.

_______

Gray’s Wrestling Academy was quiet, and Foster Nackedy was enjoying a moment’s peace when the door burst open and Quinn Fleetwood entered, his father behind him.

Quinn was crying.

“GREEMAW!”

“What the hell is a Greemaw?” Foster asked.

“Are you that insensitive?” Chet snapped.

“Yes.”

“Greemaw was my grandma! And she’s…DEAD!”

Magen looked sympathetic for a moment before wrinkling her nose. “You called her Greemaw?”

Chet nodded. “When he was younger he couldn’t choose between Granny or Meemaw, so we mixed them together.”

“Greemaw,” Quinn moaned.

“How did she pass?” Magen asked.

“Natural causes.”

“Well that’s less sad,” Foster said.

“Less sad?!” Quinn shouted, walking up to Foster and poking him in the chest. “My Greemaw is dead! And the only silver lining is that I have a big match in PRIME.”

“Uh…why is that a silver lining?” Foster looked at both Fleetwoods, who stared at him like he was the biggest idiot in the world. “What?”

“Are you the biggest idiot in the world? You wrestled for years! Don’t you know that any time a family member dies, you have a 200% better chance of winning your next match?”

Magen shook her head. “That can’t possibly be true.”

“Looks like somebody didn’t take their wrestling statistics class in college,” mocked Chet.

“You’re right, because that’s a made up class.”

“Bottom line is now that Greemaw is dead, so is Bryan Dawkins. That dumb dichrome sunglass wearing jackass from Montunui is going to get a rude awakening. Thinks I’ll be an easy win because Sean O’Neil beat me, or because I got pinned sixty-two times in Manhunt…”

“...or because you’ve never won a match, even an exhibition, in your life,” Foster offered helpfully.

“WELL I’M FUCKING DUE!” Quinn roared, then threw his gym bag to the ground. “I don’t have to take this. Come on, dad, we’re going.”

Chet scratched the back of his head. “Where, son? Didn’t you say you wanted to work out?”

“We’re going to the one place guaranteed to give me the inspiration to beat Bryan Dawkins.”

_______

Oh, look at this big bad Hawaiian boy who sold his soul to the Red Devil. Trying to prove he’s annoying, trying to make the fans boo.

Get this straight, Starshy and Suck. You’ll never be as annoying as me. I wake up and annoy people without even trying. I can make everyone in the room wish death upon me with a simple sneer. You think aligning yourself with Ivan is going to make people hate you?

You’ll never be as hated as Quinn Fleetwood. I hope that hurts.

_______

“Son. Apple of my eye. Apple tree of my fruit orchard. Shining constellation in an open night sky. This is a dumb idea.”

“What? This is an excellent idea!”

“How is this supposed to help you win a wrestling match?”

Quinn got out of the car. “Everyone knows that when you lose a loved one, you have to go to a graveyard to talk about it.”

“There’s a problem there, sweet baby. We haven’t even had a funeral yet.”

“Sure, but there are tons of graves here. Are you coming or not?”

Chet sighed. “I’ll keep the engine running for you.”

“COWARD!” Quinn shouted, then walked into the cemetery. After walking around for a few minutes, he stood in front of a grave for a man named Brian Morris.

“Greemaw!” Quinn cried, pounding the gravestone. “You were taken from me too soon!” He slumped to his knees. “You were one of the only people besides dad who didn’t roll your eyes when I entered a room. The only woman who didn’t threaten me with a restraining order. You lit up my life, and now everything is dark.

Behind him a man with a shovel walked by, then stared at Quinn. “You a wrestler?”

“Uh…yeah. How did you know?”

“Every fuckin’ week I got stupid fuckin’ wrestlers shoutin’ at the air! You’re scarin’ away the real people tryin’ to grieve. Now get out of here before I call security.”

“Hey, buddy, I’m standing in a cemetery using my recent loss as a way to center myself in anticipation of a life changing wrestling match. This isn’t something that happens every day!”

“That’s it. Security!” the gravekeeper shouted. Not into a walkie talkie. He just shouted.

Quinn laughed. “You’re not even using a phone! You expect someone to hear you in this open space?”

“Security is the name of my shovel,” the gravekeeper said before swinging the shovel into Quinn’s temple.

_______

You’re fake. Your motivation is fake. Your communism is fake. Hell, you spell your name with a y, which is as fake as it gets. 

You gave everything up for your title, and you didn’t even hold it long enough to put hammer and sickle plates on it. You beat up that dead guy to get in, not even realizing that you’re the next dead guy who’s going to get beat up.

You know what the best part is about being Quinn Fleetwood? Besides the muscles, besides the unending love from my father, besides the letterman jacket that I take everywhere? It’s that I have nothing to lose. I can get pinned by you and people – dumb, stupid people – will say “see? Of course he lost!” And no one will be impressed by you.

But when I win? You’ll be a laughing stock. Even more than you are now. So you better hope you can get past me, Pineapple Express. Because you can’t spell Quinn without win. 

_______

“My special one. My darling grown baby. My reason for drawing breath. Open your eyes.”

Quinn opened his eyes and saw his dad hovering over him. Then, behind him, he saw an old woman standing. “Greemaw? Am I…am I dead? Dad, did the angry shovel man kill you too?”

“No, Quinn. You’re alive, just in the hospital. And you see who else is alive?”

“Greemaw! What happened?”

“Chet called me and my boyfriend picked up. He decided to play a prank on Chet.”

“What a great prank!” Chet laughed to the point of tears.

“Aw man!” Quinn groaned. “Now that you’re alive, Dawkins is going to win for sure!”

“It’s okay, honey. I believe in you.” Greemaw leaned over and kissed him on the head.

“Mmm, Juicy Fruit,” Quinn muttered before falling unconscious again.