Hey Jon Rhine, Congrats on your new baby or whatever but I need the secret location of Paxton Ray so I can win this bareknuckle boxing match

Quinn Fleetwood is daydreaming.

He’s standing at attention in Gray’s Wrestling Academy, listening to Foster Nackedy drone about  discipline and conviction and other needlessly boring things, but only his body is present. His mind is in a bedroom, and not just any bedroom, but his own. Savannah Scandal is there too – not just her mind, but her entire mature body, her glasses perched as she looks down on him in desire. She calls him Quack Flimflam, her pet name for him, as she takes him to worlds that he never knew existed.

“And now let’s focus on…” Foster continues, but he may as well be on the moon. He certainly isn’t in Quinn’s bedroom, where Quinn’s mind and Savannah’s old but still totally hot body are intertwined. Quinn closes his eyes and imagines the sounds of the bed moving, of Quinn’s Devin Shakur night light humming an emo tune converted to a lullaby. He smiles and moans, though he realizes with horror that the sound did not come from his mind in the bedroom, but from his actual body in the gym.

“I guess that’s one way to acknowledge praise,” Foster mutters, “though to give you credit, I know you aren’t used to it.” Quinn resurfaces from his dreams (and everyone else’s nightmares) to see the rest of the students awkwardly clapping as they face him.

“What?” he asks, shaking his limbs loosely as he tries to remember the sensations of his daydream, which are already fading into the high ceilings of Gray’s Wrestling Academy.

“We’re celebrating your win against Kenny Freeman and your subsequent Alias Title shot,” Kris Roswell says, clapping him on the back.

“Wait…I have a title shot?” Quinn shouts.

“Yeah…you didn’t get the email?”

“My dad checks my email.” Quinn looks in the corner, where Chet Fleetwood is holding a sign that reads QUINN FLEETWOOD’S ALIAS IS MY SWEET BABY BOY. “Dad, you forgot to tell me about the title shot.”

“No I didn’t. Check your phone.”

Quinn digs his phone from his pocket to see he has 293 text messages from his father. He scrolls through them, then reacts to the last one with a thumbs up emoji. “Oops. Sorry, dad. I’ve been…uh, distracted.”

“We know,” laughs Roosevelt Black before letting loose an exaggerated moan. A few students laugh, but Foster claps his hands twice.

“All right, Rosy, that’s enough. You just earned five minutes of rope runs for making us think about Quinn having sex.” Roosevelt grumbles “not my name” before walking towards one of the rings, and Foster claps again. “One last thing that my ex-wife is making me say: congrats to Shweta and Jon for the birth of their son. They said that anyone who wants to visit can let Magen know, and she’ll schedule a time that works for the…happy couple. May this new bundle of joy have a long, healthy life, and may forced paralysis not be a genetic trait.” Foster grins at Magen, who frowns nearby. “She didn’t make me say that last part.”

“I’ll go,” Quinn says quickly before he can stop himself.

“Really?” nearly everyone in the gym says in unison.

“Of course,” Quinn says. “I love kids.”

“Really?” they all say again.

“Shut up and just tell me when I can visit them,” Quinn says to Magen, then spends the rest of the day trying to piece together the fractured images of his daydream.

_______

The next day Quinn tentatively steps into Jonathan Rhine’s home holding a present. The door opens and Jonathan Rhine looks Quinn up and down, then wheels himself around and starts to roll away. “I can’t believe you wanted to come,” he says.

“Why does everyone find that so surprising?”

“Because you’re the most selfish person I’ve ever met and I’ve spent two decades around professional wrestlers,” The New Life mutters as they enter a wide room where Shweta lay with her newborn.

“That’s unfair,” Quinn says, figuring the jig is already up but not ready to admit it yet. “I really did just come to see the little raisin-textured milk vacuum.”

“Charming,” Shweta says from the bed.

“And that can’t be a real present,” Jonathan says, nodding his head towards the present in Quinn’s hand.

“No, it’s real.” He holds the present out, then quickly says, “There’s a gift receipt at the bottom if he already has one.”

Jon sets the present on his lap and fishes through it, then brings out the receipt first. “This is from Petsmart.”

“I’ve often found, through no parental expertise on my own, that babies and dogs are very similar,” Quinn says thoughtfully with a hand on his chin.

Jon pulls a package of dog housebreaking pads. “You got my kid pee pads?”

“They work better than diapers and encourage freedom of expression. My dad didn’t put clothes on me until I was close to six,” Quinn says. “Except for the swaddle of course. By the way, are you making sure you put them in the dryer right before you swaddle him?”

Shweta looks from her fiancé to Quinn. “Are we supposed to?”

“Definitely. My dad would keep the dryer running all day long to make sure I never had a room-temperature blanket on me.”

“So your dad just ran the dryer non-stop so you could feel warm when you were a baby?”

Quinn frowns. “Why are you using past tense? He’s got a comforter going in the dryer for me right now.”

“Right.” Jon sighs and puts the pee pads on the ground. “So, I have to say, Quinn, I was surprised when you said you wanted to visit JJ. I never expected you to care about us or our child.”

“Oh, I don’t,” Quinn says, grinning. “I have an ulterior motive.”

“I’m shocked,” deadpans Shweta.

“I know, I’m really duplicitous,” Quinn replies earnestly. “Now, I know that despite what you all said, Paxton Ray isn’t dead, and he isn’t paralyzed. Not like you,” Quinn adds unnecessarily. “So I need you to tell me where he is so I can go see him.”

Once again Jonathan and Shweta exchange a look. “Why do you want to see him?” he asks.

“Because in a little over a week I’m going to be facing Christie Danny for the Alias Title!”

Another look is shared, as this clearly isn’t enough information for Jon. “And?”

“And the Alias stipulation is bareknuckle boxing on a farm!”

Jon snorts and is about to reply when he stops and thinks. “Actually, yeah, that makes sense. Well, the boxing part does. Not really the farm.”

“Lafayette, Louisiana is pretty much one huge farm,” Quinn replies.

Shweta adjusts baby JJ in her arms, then sighs. “Quinn, could you please give us a minute of privacy? Jon and I need to talk, and I need to feed my son.”

“And you definitely can’t stay in here for that,” Jon says.

“Oh, that’s fine. I don’t need to see that because Savannah and I do that roleplay sometimes anyway.” Quinn starts to sink into another daydream before Jon clears his throat. “Oh. Right. Sorry.”

Quinn leaves the room and googles “At what age does a baby start using pee pads on the floor” and is scrolling through the results when Jon calls him back in. “Okay, Quinn. If you promise to not tell anyone that you know where he lives, we can give you his location.”

“Hell yeah. So where is he? Puerto Rico? Greenland? Côte d'Ivoire?”

Instead of answering, Jon reaches over and hands him a piece of paper. He reads it, then opens his eyes wide.

“RURAL WISCONSIN?!”

_______

The next day Quinn arrives on a mid-sized farm. He leaves the Uber and trudges towards the house, the piece of paper Jon handed him still in his hand. “Is this it?”

He looks around the property. There is a chicken coop on the side of the house, and a small field where a cow munches on grass. “Paxton, are you here? It’s me, your favorite classmate at Gray’s.” He thinks about it, then shrugs. “Third favorite, probably.”

The front door opens and Quinn grins, ready to see the Bayou Butcher. Instead, he sees a tall, wiry man wearing a pair of gloves. “Who the fuck are you?” he asks.

“Weird thing to ask someone at his own home. You must be Quinn.” The man continues to walk forward, and Quinn holds his fists up.

“Don’t come any closer. I’m dangerous! Everyone knows that if you have a title shot soon you win every fight you get in! It’s science! ”

“I know about your little title shot. My brother-in-law told me you’d be coming.” Despite Quinn’s threats, the man continues to approach until he is nearly on top of the Adult Toddler.

“Who’s your brother-in-law?”

Just then the door of the house opens again and an older man, almost as tall as the first, but considerably bulkier…and more well known. It helps that he’s got his name on the front of his jacket.

“Hey there, Fleetwood,” Jake Colton says, looking the young man up and down. “Glad you could make it.”

“Wait, you’re Nate Colton’s dad. Aw, man, Jon and Shweta didn’t trust me enough to give me Paxton Ray’s secret location. Who could have seen that coming?” Quinn kicks the dirt sadly. “I should’ve known Paxton wasn’t in Wisconsin. Too much cheese here and he’s lactose intolerant. I always thought that was a weird trait for a wrestler.”

“Secret location? What the hell are you–” Jake starts, but waves it off. “Jon told me about your little problem. We would have sent you to the Academy, but we don’t do that kind of fighting…and anyway, me and my daughter are up here for the weekend helping out on my wife’s family farm.” He turns to glare back into the house. “Well, she would be helping, if she’d ever get off the phone with this new guy she’s talking to.”

“Ugh, so this was for nothing?” Quinn whines.

“It ain’t a wasted trip, though,” said the tall man in an accent heavier than the state’s famous cheese. “Name’s Roy. Nate’s uncle. Jake said you needed some help preparing for a fight on a farm. Well, that there is my specialty.”

Quinn’s disappointment evaporates. “Really? You can help me beat the Welsh guy and win a title so everyone will stop laughing at me?”

“Not so sure about that last part, but why don’tcha put your backpack down and follow me to the field. We got some training to do.”

_______

Quinn sits, legs splayed, on a tiny stool about six inches off the ground. He stares reluctantly at a cow’s udders, his eyebrows raising in confusion. “Why do its nipples look like Alexei Ruslan’s fingers?”

“She’s not an it, she’s a she. And her name is Lurleen. Show some respect.” Roy stands above him, arms crossed.

“Fine. Why do Lurleen’s nipples look like Alexei Ruslan’s fingers?”

Roy sighs. “Milkin’ a cow requires grip strength and precision. You can’t just squeeze ‘em and expect to get milk. So focus on grabbing them firmly like you would before you…I dunno, suplex your opponent. Then, use your wrists to gently twist the udder and aim it in that bucket.”

“Grab them firmly,” Quinn says, then yelps as the cow moos and shifts. “What did she do that for?”

“I said firmly, not give her a purple nurple. Try again. There we go, now gently…ah jeez,” Roy says, shielding his eyes as milk begins to spray in Quinn’s face.

“OH GOD IT DOESN’T TASTE PASTEURIZED!” Quinn screams, flailing backwards.

“How did you even get the milk to shoot up at that angle?” Roy asks as he lifts Quinn away from Lurleen.

“I gripped firmly like when I’m about to suplex somebody, just like you said. And then…I suplexed.”

“You suplexed a cow’s udder.”

“I tried to, but she’s too big!”

“Sorry, Lurleen,” Roy mutters, dragging Quinn away. “All right, let’s train somewhere else.”

_______

“Okay, cleaning donkey poop is definitely not going to help me win the Alias Title.” Quinn glowers at a donkey, its ears twitching, as he holds a shovel across his chest like a shield.

“Of course it will,” Roy answers, hiding a smirk. “Donkeys kick. You need to be agile in a boxing match. This kid probably packs a punch, and you’re going to need to duck and dive to avoid getting hit.”

“Okay, but how does the donkey poop part factor in?”

“Precision again. You hafta be careful to not get shit on your clothes.”

“I’m going to be the precisest PRIME wrestler by the time this is done,” mutters Quinn as he slinks forward, holding the shovel out. “Be cool, donkey.” He moves forward, then leaps backward as the donkey gives a stiff kick. “Be cool, donkey!”

“He has a name,” says Roy.

“Oh no, I’m not walking into that one. I’m gonna ask ‘what’s his name’ and you’re gonna say ‘Quinn, because he’s an ass like you’ and old man Colton is going to point and laugh and then I’m going to cry because my arrogance is just a thin veneer for my obvious sensitivity, and–”

Roy will never know what would follow up that startling bit of self-realization because at that moment the as-of-now nameless donkey plants Quinn with a kick so severe he flies into the air and lands flat on his back in a pile of donkey droppings.

Breathing heavily, Quinn lies there, trying to catch his breath so he can remove himself from his shitty situation. Roy walks over, gently guides the donkey out of the way, and stands over Quinn. “His name is Donkey. I’m a big Shrek fan.” Roy holds his nose. “I hope you packed another shirt.”

_______

Ten minutes later Quinn stands in the same shirt, looking out at a handful of sheep grazing in the field. He stands at the edge of the pen, frowning.

“So I just need to get all of them into this pen and lock it?”

“Yep,” Roy says around the cigarette in his mouth..

“And I bet you’re going to say something like it’ll teach me how to outwit my opponent.” Quinn pouts. “But it’s bullshit. None of this has had any relevance to my match against Christie Danny.”

“Teachin’ you how to get into his mindset. He’s Welsh, ain’t he?” asks Roy.

“Probably,” Quinn answers. “Why?”

“So this is what you gotta do. Or I guess, you could always hump one of them sheep.”

Quinn looks out at the sheep and considers it before shaking his head. “No, I know how I’m going to get them into the pen.” He slowly walks up to a sheep and gets close to its face. “I’m gonna pretend you’re my opponent and intimidate you so bad that you have no choice but to run for safety.”

Quinn begins to circle the sheep, who grazes without paying him any attention. “Listen, Christie Danny,” Quinn snarls, pointing in its face. “You think you’re really special. You do. I can see it in your eyes.” Quinn blinks, realizing he inadvertently became Fred Durst, so he shakes his head and tries another tactic. “You beat Tony Gamble to win that Alias Title, and now you change the rules to suit you. Bareknuckle boxing on a farm, huh? I bet you think that means nobody can beat you because we’ll be in your backyard.”

Quinn shakes his head. “Well you must not know about me, Christie Danny. I’m Quinn Fleetwood. The single best left-handed amateur wrestler in the 185 weight class in the greater New Orleans region excluding public schools and most private schools. I beat a guy with a Lawnmower mask. I beat a guy who is probably named Kevin Friedman. One time Jared Sykes had to try more than a little to pin me. And more importantly than any of that, I am so dedicated to winning that I got on a plane to fly to Wisconsin to find a former bareknuckle brawler because I thought it’d give me an edge in our wrestling match.”

“How’s that working out for you?” Roy calls out.

“Shut up!” Quinn yells back, then turns back to the sheep. “That sort of dedication means I’ll do anything to win. So when you step into the ring – or the farm – with me, you’re facing someone who gets underestimated at every turn, and who ends up making everyone who underestimates him look silly.” Quinn stops to catch his breath, then nods his head towards the pen. “Now please go into the pen? Pretty please?”

The sheep looks up at him, then slowly ambles towards the pen. “I did it!” Quinn screams, dropping to his knees. “I promo’d him into the pen!”

Roy lets Quinn celebrate for ten more seconds before gesturing out to the field. “There are six more.”

Quinn stands and screams, then runs towards Roy. “THAT’S IT!” he yells, poking the tall man in the chest. “None of this has been helpful! You just lured me out here to do chores on your farm!”

“You came by yourself,” Roy says, but he has lost his smile.

“I was tricked! Even worse, tricked by sleep deprived parents! This has been the worst day ever. I’ve been drenched in milk, kicked into donkey poop, had to debase myself with a sheep…”

“You said you weren’t going to hump it.”

“And for what? What is this going to do for me?”

“What if I offered you somethin’ out of my secret stash of old porn and fireworks?”

Quinn doesn’t even listen to Roy’s offer. Just as well; Roy forgot where he buried it and hasn’t seen the map in years. “I came here to learn how to win a bareknuckle boxing match on a farm, and you’re going to teach me now or I’m going to make you regret it. I’m a wrestler, I’m my dad’s favorite person in the world, and I’m dating an old yet hot woman named Savannah Scandal who has unlocked my aggression and feral nature. Now what do you say to that?”

Roy says nothing, but someone else does.

“You’re dating WHO?!”

All eyes turn toward the speaker. It seems Jennifer Colton finally stopped talking to her new man, and picked the worst–or best–time to do so.

Quinn, of course, is too dumb to not answer the question. “Savannah Scandal? Surely you know her. She writes for a magazine, she always tells the truth, she…” and it suddenly clicks. “Oh that was rhetorical.”

“Y’know, ya might wanna think about cardio…” Roy mutters. “Like, runnin’. Real fast. Now.”

She closes the distance before her father or uncle can even think about talking her down. Not that it would do any good; Baby Dynamite’s got a really short fuse.

“I’ve got a message for that bitch. Write this down.”

CRACK!

She drives an elbow into his jaw, sending the Adult Toddler down to the grass. Before he can get up or even cover his head, Jennifer goes into ground and pound…and pound she does.

WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

“Holy shit,” Roy says. “I ain’t seen anyone that pissed since I tried to jump over Mal’s Barbie Dream House on my dirt bike.”

WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

At last, Jake hobbles up to the group and surveys the carnage. “Figure we’d come out and see how the training’s going. Beer?”

He holds up a six-pack; Roy happily accepts one of the cans and cracks it open. “He’ll do fine if Jenny doesn’t kill him.”

WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

“Should we stop it, or no?”

“I would,” Jake answers, “but you just opened that beer. And I can’t let you drink alone.” He punctuates the sentiment with the crack of another can.

WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

“You’re a good man, Jake.”

As the two men drink and Jenny continues her assault on Quinn, he can only mutter, “…but I have a title shot. I’m supposed to win every fight…it’s sci…” before passing out.