Devoid to Gain Totality

Post-Match, Revival 91 – TBR The scrum of humanity backstage at a wrestling event is something to behold.

The smells, too.  Distinct.  Boot leather, sweat both old and fresh, baby oil, smoke, protein powder, and fast food.  Random giants and Adonises and mutants doing deep squats, wall sits, calisthenics, stretching, getting a pump for the cameras.  Producers and road agents zipping between these nodes of muscled bad intent, clipboards and headsets.  And, to one corner: The Lasagna Boys, being checked out by medical staff.  Miguel is getting his eyes checked with a pen light–Toddrick seems to have been fitted for a neck collar already.

“I'll tell you one thing,” Miguel says. “Hell, I'll tell ya two things. One: Lindsay Troy can kiss my ass for booking that one, okay? And number two? And number two? Fucking… you're gonna get that fucking… pen light out of my face.”

“YOU HEARD THE MAN!!” Toddrick screams, adjusting the brace around his neck. “GET THAT OUTTA HIS FACE!!!”  To this, one of the medics looks to the other, who shrugs.

“Fine.  Try not to go to sleep, I guess.”

“AY!”  The bleat of that western accent cracks across the scrum and the noise like a rifle blast, to the point where even some of the producers pipe down.  The crowd even spreads, and it’s easy to see why: Them Bastard Roughnecks are on the move, shirtless and sweaty–it’s hard to tell if they have bad intent, because frankly, neither of them have a gait beyond ‘stomp in direction.’  The Lasagna Boys stick their chests out proudly, defiantly, despite their shape being worse for wear.

The tension builds as these two teams meet, again, directly after their match.

Everyone in this backstage area has seen this go wrong a thousand times before.

And Goldie inhales, his nostrils flaring over his scowl…and sticks his hand out.  High Cotton does the same.  The smaller one is the first to speak.

“Lissen…we jus’ wanna say that we ‘preciate you.  I know shit got wilder’n hell out there, but this was a big-ass opportunity an’ we really just wanna say thanks.”

The Lasagna Boys’ posture remains unwavering despite their extremely confused expressions, standoff-ish in the way wienerdogs might be with a couple of polite mastiffs.  Hiram looks to Goldie, who looks back at him.  They both shrug.  The big man reaches down and nabs Todrick by the wrist–causing him to flinch–and gingerly places his hand in his own before shaking slowly.

“It’s a hell of an opportunity, y’all.  Thank you.”

Toddrick's eyes grow as wide as saucers, his knees momentarily quake. Miguel's body struggles between the fight response of protecting his friend from whatever heinous attack might follow, and the flight response of shriveling into a little ball and letting his friend get that vicious work solo.  Them Bastard Roughnecks look back to one another, clearly confused, and Hirman let’s the hand go.  They stereo pat the Lasagna Boys on the shoulder, nod, and start to walk off.  Goldie is the first to talk as they stomp off.

“Fellers are a couple’a bricks shy of a load, right?”

“Eh, they’re pro wrasslers.  Figure all of us got a screw or two loose.”

In the background, Toddrick faints–right into the arms of one of the EMTs.

—

Back in the Day – High Cotton Way I figure it, we was as courteous as we needed to be.  That’s how I came up, at least.  Y’might have t’scrap with someone, it might even get a lil outta hand.  Bound to happen, teenage shit.  But afterwards you crack a couple beers, have a few laughs.  ‘Understanding.’  We ain’t particularly complex, not when you think about it.  What, couple steps from bigfoot, really?  Human’s still got all that wildness in our blood even after alla these years.  Let the steam off.  Swing a little.  Drink about it.  Don’t gotta be more complex’n that.  Some folk don’t know no better.  Take it too personal.  That’s when you run into a problem.

—

Back in the Day – TBR

Few things signal “Party’s over” harder than blue and red, but handcuffs are one of them.

They had to put two sets of cuffs on a daisy chain to get Hiram’s arms behind him, and not because he was resisting–matter of fact, neither him or Goldie were in a cop fighting mood.  Outnumbered off rip is an easy way to jail, unemployment, and recidivism.  That’s the good outcome.

The bad one is where they let the hammer find some nails.

Blood splattered, Goldie has the worst of it, but that may just be the height differential.  The surly wildcat is sporting a shiner that you just know is going to blossom into an angry purple streak, and his lower lip has been split so good he can play with the valley in his flesh with his tongue, which he is presently doing.  The bigger one is coated in scratches from his elbows to his shoulder, his Wrangler shitkicker shirt–”This is my goin’ out shirt!”--has been pert near ripped from his body.  His nose is bloody, but little else.  Two squad cars and a field supe, one guy with the EMTs, the other three similarly cuffed.  At least the pigs had the good sense to keep them on the opposite side of the parking lot.  There’s ample rubberneckers poking their heads out the honky tonk, maybe hoping something else will pop off.  Maybe Goldie will launch into the others like he did fifteen minutes ago, all shoulders and headbutts and teeth.  The cops threatened him with mace that time, this time they’d likely be less understanding.  But the threat of state violence isn't what’s cooled things now, no.

The Toolpusher is here.

He’s stooped with the years slightly, but still solid.  Truth is, old timers like him tend to get pushed out by the company unless they happen to show a certain acumen, and this slab of pemmican has shown it.  He’s no manager, no lead, but he is the guy who keeps the disparate horde of roustabouts and chainhands in line.  Or at least as close to a line as he can.  Sometimes that looks like talking the boy down from fights with one another, more often it looks like talking them down from fights with townies at dives just like this, but for the most part it's this right here.  “You know how these boys get, officer.”  “Of course I’ll make sure to get 'em back to the field.”  “No sir, they’ll have their pay docked.”  It doesn't matter if it’s true or not–what matters is if it works.

This time it does.  Just like it did last time.  Goldie spits some red saliva on the pavement as they walk up, keys already jingling.

And the wildcat thinks.

—

Back in the Day – Goldie How many times, s’all I wonder.  Don't matter that we got out it.  Don’t matter that we got the’ best of them townies neither.  Alla this shit–the shiners, the brews, tryin’ t’take that one big fucker’s ear off.  If y’boiled it down t’gravy, wouldn’t even cover a fry bread. I ain’t a man who asks none of them big questions.  Leave that to some miserable fuck got th’ time to look up his own ass.  But we did this one last time we was off shift.  Did it the time before that, too.  An’ it ain’t like I don’t like hangin’ with Hiram, ole Cotton is a real solid hellraiser.  That’s my main knucklehead.  An’ I don’t fuck with math at all, but lie…how many more close-ass scrapes I got ‘fore I’m doing time again? 

—

Current Day – TBR At least they’re closer to their own country.

Bleary-eyed and lagged, these two plug-uglies are learning that while the hours may be shorter, the hours are still long enough.  That travel sounds awfully cosmopolitan to two men who neither came from beginnings that could be described as anything but humble, but the reality of it is a different sort of grind.

So when they emerge from their rental into the blistering sun of KCMO, they resemble nothing short of sloppy drunks gripping with the harsh jerk of sobriety.  Shouldering his bad, Hiram puts on a beaten pair of gas-station imitation Pit Vipers, which have likely seen more than one day of combo alcohol and sun poisoning.  Goldie never took off his aviators, and if he wasn't ambulatory, the frozen state of his face would make everyone assume he was asleep or worse.  But he pops his mouth off, and clearly he’s been thinking about something for a while, if the growl in his throat has anything to say about it.

“Two fuckin’ teams at once.”  Hiram looks to his buddy as they stride towards the Kansas City Sports Complex Best Western, where they’ve decided to accommodate for the evening.

“Ain’t like we never squared off against a whole gang of folks.  ‘Member uh…fuckin’ what was th’name…Mickey’s One More Time!”  He snaps his massive fingers, chuckling.  Goldie even has a terse laugh at the memory of one in a series of juke joints they’ve been thrown out of.  “Mickey’s fuckin’ One More Time.  What a dump, an’ I say that a fella who’s gotten blackout in plenty of dumps.”

“Musta been what…six a’them?  Fast an’ furious motherfuckers, ever’ one’a them had them tuned up bullshit cars.  You chucked one of ‘em plum through th’ windshield of his fuckin’ Maxima!”  The smaller man shakes his head, and the smile is genuine.  But it fades.  “This’ll be diff’rent though.  Ain’t no old timer’s gonna bail us out like back at Mickey’s, y’know?  An’ these folks ain’t gonna be like them Lasangas.  Fuck, you read up on this shit?  Champions in th’ mix.  I ain’t tryin’ t’be anxious, but like…you ain’t bein’ anxious is makin’ me anxious.” To this, Hiram nods grimly.

“Oh, I’m anxious as fuck, brother.  Ain’t a goddamn belt Flambeau an’ Hayes ain’t held.  An’ PCP are like when you go to tune up on some goofy fuck who’s secretly toguher’n old cock.  I’m sweatin’.”

“You always sweatin’, hosscat.”

“Yeah, but this time it ain’t this goddamn swamp-nuttin’-assed heat.”  Goldie claps him on the shoulder, even if he has to reach to do it.

“C’mon man.  Let’s get this shit tossed in th’ room an’ go t’work.  Gonna have’ta talk on this shit.  Don’t wanna keep all three of our fans waitin’.”

—

Promotional Video – TBR Hiram: I ain’t know much of my daddy.  He wasn't big as you might think, I get alla this from my Momma’s side.  But folks always told me he was a mean fucker.  Not in a bad way.  ‘Member my grandaddy told me that if anyone ever told him he couldn’t?  He’d fuckin’ kill hisself to show he could. Goldie: Ain’t know m’dad or mom.  They was gone by the time I remember shit.  Grandparent’s raised me.  My grandaddy was one of ‘em types like…we ain’t like that, y’know?  Just never complained.  Never said nothin’.  Why you thinkin’ ‘bout this, man? Hiram: Adversity.  Goldie: Two fuckin’ teams at once. Hiram: See, I think that’s the way ya gotta look at it.  You prolly could look at this’n think “Y’know what?  I’m gonna play this mad yellow.  Let ‘em other two duke it out.”  Some folks call that thinkin’ tactical, but that also kinda looks at a damn fight like a puzzle.  Which it ain’t.  Fight’s a fight, and especially against yall four?  I get it.  We the new guys.  We’re walkin’ in all fulla swagger and salt, ready to take on the world, young bucks with our chests puffed out.  Beating some humility into us is damn near y’alls jobs.  So it ain’t us, FLAMBERGE and Hanlon, and the Phenoms all fighting against each other.  Least not how we’re looking at it.  It’s– Goldie: Two fuckin’ teams at once. Hiram: Exactly.  Goldie: An’ I know none of y’alls dumb enough to count us out, right?  Ain’t a one of you so fuckin’ dim-bulbed and short-changed that you’d even think t’fuckin’ hand wave us as some greenhorn-assed rookies, right?  I ain’t much smarter than a dog, an’ I wouldn’t do somethin’ so fuckin’ bone-headed as that.  Walkin’ with too high a’notion about yerself, yer gonna get a fuckin' knot snatched in yer ass.  An’ honest?  You better pray Hiram’s the one gets a hold of you.  Cause if it’s me, I ain't got no goddamn problem losin’ a tooth or two t’make you lose seven.  High Cotton? Hiram: Yeah buddy. Goldie: Tell ‘em that shit we was talkin’ about the other day.  Hiram: The kung fu thing?  Goldie: You brought up adversity.  Hiram: Nah, that’s right.  Alright check this out.  “As you think, so you become.”  Ain’t that some heavy shit?  But when y’noodle on it for a little, it really sinks in.  How many times you met someone who just don't examine shit, never ask a question, feelin’ good about punchin’ a timecard til they die?  They don’t win that battle.  Fuck, they don’t even know there’s a battle to win.  But it don;t bother them.  Cause all they' re bein’ is what they think.  They think when’s the next shift, what am I doin’ for dinner, need to pick up a case, maybe sign up to work a long hitch like a big bear or somethin’.  They become what they think, they turn into a big fuckin’ nothing that eats an’ breathes an’ shits.  What if they thought higher of themselves, y’know?  What if they woke up and they had a thought an’ then that thought turned into action an’ then that action became their life?  That’s all it takes sometimes.  Thinkin’.  An’ that’s what we’re doing, an’ I dunno if any of the rest of you are doin’ it, but ya should.  Cause, like, a solid eighty percent of all this shit is fought and one up here, in the dome.  The other 20 percent?  Goldie: We a hunnerd percent good at that twenty percent.  Bet. 

—

Current Day – TBR

“Y’all get what y’needed?”

The boys are still clad in what they decided to wear to record their video, which will get a quick post-production shine and then sent across the networks and socials.  Hiram in overalls and a sleeveless t-shirt, Goldie in jeans and white tee, both of them stomping in shitkicker boots.  As soon as the cut was given, the big man noticeably sagged, shaking his arms and taking a deep breath.  Whatever nerves hit him don’t seem to have the same effect on Goldie, who scratches his nose and starts walking to either find craft services or a playback.  Either way, the giant known as High cotton is left to clear his head for a moment.  But he asked a question that he isn't getting an answer to.  His eyes search until he finds the production head, and when he notices, the older man lowers his clipboard and speaks up.

“You good, McLellan?”

“Yeah man, just…was that good?  Was that what y’wanted?”  The producer chuckles softly, then strides up and speaks with calm, measured wisdom.

“They hired you two because of who you two are.  So just…keep doing that, when the cameras are on, when they aren’t.  Fans can smell insincerity from a mile away.”  Hiram nods at him, and he turns to deal with something–but turns back, briefly.  “Loved that quote, by the way.  Descartes?”

“Dunno who that is, brother, that shit was Bruce Lee.  Good, right?”  This causes the older man to laugh and shake his head as he walks away.

Older than most around him, this business would normally cycle a guy like him out to the unemployment line.  But sometimes, wrestlers can show a little acumen above others, and they can be a great asset.  No manager, not the booker, but an experienced hand that can guide this wild rabble of bastards, brawlers, bruisers and blowhards toward the promised land past survival: thriving.  Or at least as close to thriving as he can.  Hiram is struck with a sense of deja vu.

His eyes meet his partner in crimes own, and he knows he got the same echo.