The Baby Shower

In the nine months since Gray’s Academy was reclaimed by the duo of Jonathan Rhine and Foster Nackedy, there have been a lot of changes. Changes in color scheme, which went from green to red. Changes in enrollment, which skyrocketed in the first few months and has since leveled out to a high but manageable number of students. And changes in room construction. Namely, the introduction of the Fleetwood Forest.

The Fleetwood Forest, named because Chet cares more for alliteration than accuracy, was a room that had previously been storage under the first Gray’s leadership, and then changed to some sort of weird cult dungeon under MESSIAH’s rule. Now, however, it is a small room that Chet Fleetwood hangs out in tucked away from the rest of the gym so that students and trainers don’t have to interact with him.

Yes, it’s an office, but office doesn’t begin with F.

Chet Fleetwood sat in his forest, the walls still MESSIAH green with a crude attempt at drawing trees on the wall in sharpie. He typed away at his laptop, occasionally looking over at a comically large book sitting open on the table. He typed, and he read, and he was eventually interrupted by his son walking in.

“Dad, I’ve got a–” Quinn started, but stopped as Chet raised a hand.

“Hold on, I’m finishing something quick.” As Chet continued to type, the tip of his tongue protruded out of the corner of his mouth. He was aware that his son was waiting impatiently, tapping his toe, clearing his throat, whining about being ignored, but the work was important and must be finished. Finally, with a flourish and a shift-plus-1 on the keyboard, Chet sat back and admired his handiwork. “Come read this, son.”

Quinn trudged forward, annoyed that he was still being ignored by his father, but curious to see what caused Chet to be so focused. Perhaps a legal briefing, or a particularly scintillating response for evidence? But no, Quinn stared at a blue and white page with a message written in Comic Sans:

You are cordially invited to the baby shower for Shweta Kallemullah and Chet Fleetwood at Gray’s Academy in the Fleetwood Forest. Please bring any presents you think will help a 47 year old man enjoy a fulfilling life with a new child. We can’t wait to celebrate the Fleetwood Fetus with you!

“Dad, I’m surprised you didn’t call it a Fleetus.”

“This is only one variation of the invites. Believe me, that’s going in there. So, what did you want to talk to me about?”

“I got booked again!” Quinn shouted with glee.

Chet did not match his son’s enthusiasm. “You got what?”

“Booked!”

“For what?”

“To wrestle?”

Chet shook his head. “Where?”

Quinn’s jaw dropped. “In PRIME, dad, duh!”

“Didn’t you get fired from PRIME?”

“Fired?!” Quinn balled up his fists. “Why would I have gotten fired?”

Instead of answering, Chet resumed typing on his computer. After a moment, he turned the screen to show Quinn. “You’re not on the roster page anymore. I just assumed you got canned because of some anti-Fleetwood chicanery.”

“No, Ms. Troy actually loves me, she just pretends she doesn’t so Wade doesn’t get jealous.”

Chet grinned. “There’s that Fleetwood Delusion I love so much. Anyway, who did you get booked against?”

“Some guy called Lawnmower Man III.”

“Oh, okay,” answered Chet.

Quinn furrowed his brow. “‘Oh, okay’?”

“Yeah. Seems normal enough.” Chet began typing again, then looked at his son. “What?”

“I just thought you and I could riff on his name a little bit, you know? You’d say ‘The third? There were already two of them?’ And I’d be like ‘Yeah, what a dumb name, right?’ And you’d say ‘Right you are, Quinn, apple of my eye, only star in my universe.’ And I’d blush and say ‘Aw, pops,’ and then we’d go get fajitas.”

Chet shrugged. “Maybe later. I’m a little busy. And sorry to say, Quinn, but you’re no longer the only star in my universe.”

Quinn’s eyes go wide. “You mean?”

“Yes, the Fleetus. Now go bother one of the trainers if you want to prepare for your match. I have a baby shower to plan.”

“Okay, dad,” Quinn said sadly as he left.

“I wonder if Shweta will come,” Chet asked himself.

***

Quinn walked into the main area of the gym where Ian Nackedy, head trainer, worked on technique with new student Kris Roswell, former college kicker, soon to be star professional wrestler.

“Okay Kris, that was a great kick, but we’ve got to work on your tie-ups.”

“Why?” the new student asked.

“So you can use grappling moves to weaken your opponent.”

“Why can’t I just kick them until they give up?”

Ian sighed. “It doesn’t really work that way.” He looked up and sees Quinn approaching. “What’s up?”

“Stop helping him. Help me now.”

“And why should I do that?”

“I have a match booked. He doesn’t. Those are the rules.”

Ian stood up and shook his head. “I don’t think there are any rules about that.”

“Of course there are. If someone doesn’t have a match, do they even have to train? Do they even have a story to tell? Do their family members even die?”

Ian rolled his eyes. “How is Gree-maw, by the way.”

“I’m pretty sure she died again. Anyway, help me prepare for the Lawnmower man.”

Kris clapped Ian on the back with his foot (so he kicked him, I guess?). “It’s fine, Ian. You work with the muscular loud child. I’ll go over here and work out on that kicking bag.”

“Don’t you mean punching bag?” Quinn asked.

“No.” Kris walked off, leaving Quinn with Ian, who sighed heavily.

“Fine. Let’s work on endurance.”

***

Quinn collapsed in a pile of sweat in the ring. “Okay, I’m done. Enough ring runs.”

“You went back and forth once,” Ian said. “How are you employed by PRIME anyway?”

“Lindsay…sees…something…in me,” Quinn panted.

“Is it a warm body to get demolished by literally anyone who steps in the ring with you?”

“It wasn’t always this way,” Quinn said, regaining his stamina for dictation’s sake. “I won a lot of matches here. I’ve beaten Connor…Tani…Connor again. That’s like everybody I know.”

“Know more people,” Ian groaned. “Anyway, I don’t know anything about this Lawnmower Man, so I can’t do that thing where I use what I know about him to boil his entire strategy down to a few bullet points that somehow seem to perfectly coincide with whatever trauma you’ve got going on in your life. Just know that he’s bigger than you so you need to make sure you can beat him in other ways.”

“I’ll make sure dad brings an even heavier law book to the ring.”

Ian stared at Quinn’s sweaty forehead, thought for a long moment, and nodded. “Okay, so we’re doing this now.”

“What?”

“The ‘why discussion.’” Ian sat down in the middle of the ring and Quinn collapsed next to him. “Why do you want to do this?”

“Why not?” Quinn answered.

Ian pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay, let’s try a different angle. How long have you been at Gray’s?”

“Five years. I started when I was sixteen.”

Ian whistled. “You’ve spent almost a quarter of your life here. And what…progress would you say you’ve made?”

“That’s easy,” Quinn answered, snorting. “I joined PRIME.”

“So just getting there is enough for you?”

“What?”

“Being signed to a top wrestling company is great. Pay is good. There’s prestige. But is that all you want? To be good enough to make it and not good enough to move up? To open every show against some person Lindsay Troy has more faith in than you?”

Quinn didn’t answer, because he has spent the last 21 years avoiding critical thinking, and the sensation overwhelmed him. In fact, whether it be from the workout or the mental exertion, a bit of drool formed at the corner of his lips. Finally recovering, he shook his head. “I just wanted to do enough to make my dad proud of me.”

“Wow,” Ian says, standing up. “I am not going to respond to that because I don’t have a can opener strong enough for that particular worm container. But I will say that if you don’t actually want to get better, and just being a stepping stone for random Lawnmower men is enough for you, you should ask yourself if you want to continue to take up space that another person would love to have.” Ian exited the ring and left Quinn in the middle of it and an existential crisis.

“Quinny baby, good news!” Chet yelled as he entered the main gym. “Your roster page has been restored on PRIME. You’re not fired after all!” Chet cheered and high-fived a passing Satan Jones. “My son is 31st best on the roster!” Chet shouts as he leaves.

“Yeah,” Quinn mutters. “Good news.”

***

A few days later, Quinn and several academy members were stuffed into Fleetwood Forest, watching his dad open presents for a baby that literally everyone knew was not his.

Which is why none of the presents were for a baby.

“A decanter!” Chet shouted as he opened it. “And it’s engraved! Daddy’s Decanter. Thank you, Satan.”

“Happy to be here,” Satan said.

“Okay, let’s see who’s next. Here’s a present from our newest recruit, Kris Roswell.” Chet opened the package and looked down at a cleat mounted on a trophy. “What is this?”

“My game-worn cleat when I kicked the scrimmage-winning field goal in our college’s blue vs. white scrimmage my junior year. It’s practically priceless.”

“Thank you so much,” Chet said, moving the cleat to the side where it was very quickly snatched by Satan Jones.

“You and I are going to be besties,” Satan said to Kris.

“Okay, looks like there’s one more present, so it must be from my son.” Chet unwrapped the present, then looked down in confusion at a small notebook. “A notebook? Is this for my legal briefings? Because I usually type those.”

Quinn walked forward and grabbed the notebook. “No, the notebook is for me.”

“You gave me a present for yourself?”

“It’s also for you. You see, dad, I’ve always wanted you to be proud of me. And I used to think that just making it to PRIME was enough. Because PRIME is where all the money, the power, and the hottie hottie ring rats are. But now I realize that there’s more to it than just getting there. In order to make you proud, I have to have pride in myself too. So I am going to take this notebook and write the names of every wrestler I beat from now on. Here, I’ll start.”

Quinn writes LONMOWER MAN THRE in the notebook because Quinn never really learned how to spell.

“Soon that notebook will be filled with names. And I’ll be champion. And then I’ll give you this notebook again as proof of the man you inspired me to be. Starting with Lawnmower Man, I will never lose in PRIME again, for you, dad.”

Chet stared blankly at his son. “You cut a promo for my baby shower present?”

“I did.”

Chet lunged forward and hugged Quinn. “What a Fine Fleetwood you are!”

“Not as fine as my Father Fleetwood!” Quinn sobbed into his dad’s shoulder.

Satan Jones and Kris Roswell looked at each other and shrugged. “Hey, want to go shoe shopping with me?” Satan asked.

“Sure, sounds harmless,” Kris said as they left.