The World's Stupidest Wrestler

SLAM

“Again? Who keeps calling noise complaints on us?” Tam asked with frustration dripping from each word like condensation on a steam pipe in a boiler room.

“Honestly, I don’t fuckin’ think anyone’s calling. It’s harassment.”

Tom shook his head and huffed. No one willingly fights wars on two fronts unless they have hubris the size of their bloodthirsty antisemitism. The Russians and the Philadelphia Police put their hooks in the Luchador and attempted their drawing and quartering against his will. Just as KING made an example of him against his will. Arthur Pleasant. Hoyt Williams. We leave Paxton out of the conversation because that shit is complicated, present tense. Tom still thinks about his temporary daughter and the eldritch horror keeping her hostage, daily.

“Harassment or otherwise, it’s fucking illegal. But what can we do about it?”

Tom grabbed his phone out of his pocket and sat with purpose on the sofa.

“Something.”

-

A perk of being the world’s stupidest man is that thinking before acting isn’t much of a problem, or at least it’s a problem for Future Thomas FX Battaglia and not the present one. Engulfment, careening off a cliff in search of a shiny macguffin, those were all problems borne from Present Luchador trying to do “something” instead of the right thing. Sure, this pincer attack, pinching him on his homefront and at work, wasn’t his fault. But the funny thing about that?

Just because it’s not his fault doesn’t mean it’s not his problem.

There are solutions, sure. It’s not as easy as Star Trek where you can divert power from elsewhere and beef up the shields. “Smart” solutions require sacrifice, and every time he thought of what to sacrifice, a raspy voice soaked in rancor and entitlement snapped back at him.

“Haven’t you sacrificed enough?”

He could have gone on leave in PRIME to handle his brother. He could have issued a flimsy statement, appeased his brother and the rest of his chosen family of slimy pigs, so he could have faced the Russians head on. Both would’ve required him to give up a core part of his personality. You’ve seen the PIXAR movie about that. You know, the mom with the dumptruck ass… oh, shit, I’m not narrowing it down for you at all. No, it’s the one with the girl moving across the country, her brain, her emotions. He’d have been cutting off the lifeline to essential parts of himself.

The Luchador can compromise on pizza toppings. On tactics in a tag team match. On what to watch when the Eagles are in prime time against whatever show Tam needs to watch live to keep up with the spoiler-happy dickheads at work.

He doesn’t compromise on things that make him him.

But the thing about being stupid is you can theoretically change it. Submit yourself. Learn. He’s ready to learn. He’s tired of being engulfed in grain, chased off cliffs, electrocuted, drugged, assaulted, dragged through hallways, subjected to bad horror movie setpieces.

Something wasn’t enough.

The Luchador learned. He had to do the right thing.

-

“Something?”

The look on Tam’s face went from “annoyed homeowner” to “exasperated coach” in a nanosecond.

“Whenever you just do something, it blows up in your face. Remember Mexico? Think, Tom. Think. Who were you just about to call, anyway?”

“I have favors I can call in.”

“Favors, c’mon, you’re thinking small, like a South Philly guido.”

“Hey, I mean, when in Rome…”

“You’re not in Rome. You’re in deep.”

Tam knew how to cut her husband in ways not even the most verbally adept opponents he’s had over the years could. Hearing Cecilworth Farthington carve him up presciently without looking up from his phone? Child’s play.

His wife was a different story.

“Okay, so, you’re the coach. You’re the smart one of the two of us…”

“Tom, I need you to stop this self-deprecating bullshit for once.”

Another dagger.

“You’re fighting a two-front war, and on ReVival, that was smart. And your idea.”

He leaned back on the sofa, in the awkward position many prone to depressive self-loathing find themselves in, receiving praise when they wanted to be roasted.

“Like, fighting Ivan is a tall task enough. He’s got a berserk pituitary gland, no morals, and enough steroids to kill a polar bear. You finally got past that thick skull of yours to figure out how to use what’s behind it. Do that here too.”

“It’s different though.”

She shot him a look, you know the one, the full “I’m seriously considering never fucking you again” one. If you’ve ever been in a relationship longer than a few months, you’ve seen it.

“How?”

“I have no attachment to Ivan. Fuck him. I’d take a switchblade and cut all his fuckin’ tendons if Turnbull wouldn’t disqualify me…”

He trailed off and slouched back on that sofa, slowly lurching, melting forward like the cheese on a pizza sitting off-kilter on the passenger’s seat of some acne-laden teen’s 1999 Mazda Miata.

“...but he’s my brother.”

Tam shook her head.

“Guy might be blood, but I think he stopped being your brother when said Mike wasn’t a human because he did drugs.”

He sighed and nodded his head. When you’re right, you’re right.

“I mean, he’s not your brother like Mike is. Or Timo for that matter. Or Youngblood. Caes. Miranda, gender aside. Suleimon.”

He straightened his back and turned to face his wife. He knew where she was going.

“Or Nate. Especially Nate.”

He looked at his phone once more and grinned.

-

Knowing you have to do the right thing is easier than figuring out what the entire fuck the right thing is. Figuring out what to do with Ivan, fuck, daunting task, right? The guy literally has twice the mass of the Luchador in his meatsuit. There goes the Ocean Cyclone. And every other suplex. And the Karelin Driver too. How fuckin’ sweet would it have been to have beaten that fatheaded lummox with his own countryman’s maneuver?

There’s only one way to fell a bear when you’re just a lil’ guy, even if you’re a lil’ guy with encyclopedic knowledge of wrestling and Cuauhtemoc himself grafting his irascible ill-temper onto your DNA through time and space.

Stick. And. Move.

You’re the video game boxer well out of his weight class. He’s the giant. You have to reach up to hit him in the face, but if you catch him just right, he’ll bleed. They always bleed. Or bruise. Or break. It’s not just in video games where Little Mac can fell a Russian twice his size, even if Ivan Stanislav wishes he had the hypnotic grace of Vodka Drunkenski. Just don’t get caught, right?

Stick. And. Move.

But how do you beat a police force? Cops know no shame, face no repercussions. Ivan Stanislav punches you, and if you survive it, you can hit him back with impunity. Punch a pig, and he pumps three slugs at least into your beating heart. The right thing rarely makes itself known when the game is rigged. Paul Atreides’ son saw a trillion ways the human race would die when he was cooped up in the worm carapace and one Golden Path.

There’s always a Golden Path.

And quite ironically, it’s the same as fighting a 400-lb. ideologically mad Russian death dealer.

Stick. And. Move.

-

Tom grabbed the bags and slung them into the back of his Shitty Green Ford Explorer, all but one.

Nate Colton never let the bag with Oinkers McGoo’s head peeking from the slightly opened zipper out of his sight.

“Thanks for coming out on such short notice.”

“Can’t say no to a good shenanigan. Besides, you’re covering my flight to Wales–you didn’t have to, by the way.”

“Hey, it’s a small price to pay for team building and revenge, huh?”

Nate placed his carry-on on the floor in front of him and made himself comfy in the passenger’s seat, but his face–even without the stitches–said that comfort was the last thing on his mind. “A shame we couldn’t do that in Boston. Would’ve felt so good to clock at least one of those assholes.”

“Well,” Tom replied as he turned the key, switched off the blinkers, and shifted into gear, “it’s not like we’ll be laying any fingers on anyone at the precinct.”

‘He slammed the brakes as someone cut him as he tried segueing into the travel lane. Jersey plates. Always Jersey plates.

“Besides, you kinda have to play it cool. They can’t suspect you’re there to cause trouble. Two PRIME wrestlers afoul of the law, two TECNICOS even, it’s…”

“Nah, I know. Different rules.”

The rain started to fall slightly on his windshield. He hit the lever to turn the wipers on as he veered towards his exit from the airport roads onto I-95 North. The silence grew fat, partially because trying to rope-a-dope some cops was a cockamamie idea even for wrestlers, but part because, well, the ten ton elephant in the car.

Or at least the 400-lb. Bear.

“So, uh…maybe it’s not my place to say, but…”

Nate trailed off.

“There’s always a but, Nate,” Tom replied with a sigh.

“War Games is gonna be a bloodbath. Are you sure you wanna go into it after facing off against him?”

Tom sighed again.

“It’s not that simple. Everyone’s gotta fight battles they don’t want to.”

“You asked for this match though, Tom.”

“Something tells me you think I wanted it even before all the plotting and scheming went down.”

Nate slowly started to nod.

“It’s alright, kid. I get it. But let me ask you. All the static they give you and your family, and to see them just cut through the roster like a hot knife through butter, picking off Youngblood when he was hurt, picking off Jared after terrorizing him and Justine, seeing him take our sport and pervert it by being a fucking bully…”

SCREEEEEEEECH

Goddamn traffic on 95. Even on weekday off-hours, there’s always something.

“Yeah.”

Nate’s reply was short.

“I’m tired of it. Tired of him. Tired of the Halls and Williams and Jiles. Tired of the bullshit. Why do you think I yelled at Lindsay in Boston?”

He let out a frustrated snort.

“No argument here. It’s just…you’re gonna run headfirst into a combine harvester that actually targeted you, and then the next night…”

“Yeah, I know. But I tend to look at it this way. I’m gonna take a pound of flesh from his fat head. Jared? He’s gonna beat the cuck fetish right out of JC in the main event. Don and Williams, they’re gonna beat the shit out of each other. Coral’s going up against a madman. Youngblood is taking that prick Hanlon to the woodshed.”

Nate furrowed his brow.

“What I’m saying is, Nate? Ain’t none of these teams gonna be whole on night two. I gotta do what I gotta do on night one, and then I come back and give it to everyone else tenfold. And you know why?”

Nate grinned and nodded.

“Because I’m a wrestler. And that’s what I do. What needs to be done. In that fuckin’ ring.”

Traffic screeched to a halt once more.

“And if traffic ever lets up, we’re gonna do what needs to be done at my shithead brother’s precinct.”

-

Stick and move, stick and move. Nate is the one who sticks, you’re the one who moves. Maybe you’re not the world’s stupidest man after all, Luch. It’s a shame both you and the Next Diamond get rock hard from honor. You think the Kings of Tenochtitlan always fought fair? You think Ivan isn’t going to have Alexei with a coat full of arms swept off the Kremlin’s clearance rack at ringside?

“Now you see why evil will always triumph; because good is dumb.”

Then again, Dark Helmet started taking L after L after uttering that line. Maybe the good guys are onto something. Besides, taking the easy way out, buck bombing the WON news set or making Alexei choke on a mushroom, that’s easy. Intimidation, putting the fear of Huitzilopochtli in the back of their minds, sowing them psychological seeds to reap an opening at a critical moment. That’s the right thing.

The parallels with Ivan and Guido, man, it’s starting to get real fuckin’ eerie. Like I said before, starting all out war with entities that outnumber you and in some cases overpower you, that’s easy. Attacking the police in media, maybe getting some of that sweet elbow-rubbin’ time with Susan Sarandon, yeah, you make a lot of noise that way, but all it does is galvanize the worst people in the world against you. Max Kael smelling like deer piss feels like a guy who might put you in the hospital.

And that still would be a preferable outcome to some hotheaded MAGA freak with a badge and a gun putting you in a grave.

It’s the psychological game. Clean-cut Nate Colton, cornfed Midwestern boy from the heartland. No one will suspect he’s just there as a distraction.

Thinking and plotting. Not diving into silos or chasing coins off cliffs. Maybe you’re not the world’s stupidest man after all.

-

“Hey guys!”

“Oh look it’s uh… hey Jaden, what’s this kid’s name?”

“Nate. Nate Colton.”

“Oh yeah.”

The three cops in the office area of the Northeast Philly precinct were decidedly not wrestling fans, but when they received a phone call from the 702 area code with a special request from PRIME Wrestling itself to make good on the evil, dirty comments that ingrate Luchador made, well, who were they to pass up the good PR?

“I know you probably wanna talk to Guido, but he’s in the shitter right now.”

“Yeah, I know,” Nate muttered under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Oh, nothing, just marveling at how cool a big city police building is. We don’t have this at home. Just a desk and a single holding cell for the town drunk.” Nate was clearly fucking with them; he’s from Evansville, not Mayberry. But none of the cops picked up on it.

His gaze fell to one of the desks, “BATTAGLIA” on the nameplate. And the device that sat on top of it next to the belt with a gun in the holster.

“I’d love a tour, if it’s not too much trouble…oh, what’s that thing?”

“The gun? Kid, ain’t you from Indiana?”

“Not the gun, that.”

“Oh, the bodycam. You think…”

“Yeah, it’ll be okay. Not like Guy’s gonna come running out of the shitter looking for it in the next couple of minutes.

Yeah, about that.

The bathroom only had one stall occupied. Every day at around 2 PM, if he wasn’t out on a call for a domestic disturbance or some other boug crime that occurred in the sprawling melange of lawns and ranchers that was the Far Northeast of Philadelphia, Guido would be in the shitter, maybe dropping a load but mainly watching Newsmax on his phone.

The door was closed and the volume was up on his phone, so he didn’t notice the door opening, just as Nate’s distraction kept his coworkers from noticing the man in the hoodie slipping by them, making a beeline for the lavatory.

CLANG CLANG CLANG

“HOLY SHIT, THERE ARE LIKE THREE OTHER STALLS IN HERE, MADONE.”

“And none of them have my dickhead brother sitting in them.”

Guido’s throat gulped so loudly it was a wonder Nate and the rest of the gang didn’t hear him. He leaned over to undo the latch, but he didn’t move fast enough for Tom.

THWACK! CLANG!

“Ain’t you got any manners? Or at least sense of smell?”

“Guido, I was thrown into a stall where Bobby Dean was taking a thermonuclear shit. Nothing you can push out of your ass can harm me, but if I shove my foot up there, you’ll feel it for the next 20 years.”

“You wouldn’t, uh, yeah you wouldn’t, not here!”

Tom rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“You’re not so tough when you’re not catching me off-guard with your bodycam filming every awkward answer I had to your loaded questions.”

“Speaking of which, can you excuse me, I need to…”

Tom moved forward.

“You don’t seem to realize that I’m fuckin’ pissed off, Guy. You unmasked me, which is UNFATHOMABLE for someone to do to a luchador. You had me stressing at work, all while psychotic Russians tried to end my career. And now you won’t stop harassing my family with noise complaints.”

“Noise complaints?” he said with a whimper in his voice. “I ain’t know nothin’ about no noise complaints.”

“BULLSHIT, GUIDO,” Tom yelled as he slammed his fist against the stall wall. “One-hundred noise complaints in three weeks. Sometimes at odd hours of the night. You can’t even hear a mouse taking a shit in my house from the outside.”

With all the commotion, one might think it would cause attention. And yet…

“You think we should go back there?” one of the cops from the outside asked to another as Nate pretended to be interested looking at a collection of contraband on a table confiscated “from the streets” this week. This cache? A bunch of Colt .45s that looked like they were older than his father.

“Nah, he’s just gettin’ real animated at the news like always does. Probably some liberal bullshit.”

Was it Nate’s distraction or the fact that these three were just that dim? The world may never know…

“You know I can kick your ass from here to Yardley and back, Guy. But that’s not what I’m going to do if you don’t call off these noise complaints.”

“Oh yeah? What are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna tell Mom.”

Guido smirked for the first time.

“What, you think it’s funny? She’s been harassing me to make peace, so what do you think she’ll do when I tell her you’ve been…”

Guy didn’t let Tom finish before his smirk turned into full-throated belly-laughter.

“OH MADONE! THAT’S RICH.”

Tom looked on confused.

“I was gonna cover for her, man, but you really don’t get it do you? The noise complaints, they were all her idea.”

His eyes grew wide, pupils dilating to the size of marbles.

“What, you think I have time to call in all those complaints? She’s a retiree! Nothing but time on her hands.”

“Why?” he whispered.

“What? Speak up you…”

“WHY?!”

He laughed one last time.

“Maybe you should find out for yourself.”

-

Ha.

Symmetry rarely exists in life the way it gets written in movies or shows. Too neat. There had to have been a catch with either Ivan or with the cops, and honestly, that fathead is far too much a zealot to let anyone close enough to affect change in PRIME pull his strings. Although The Anglo Luchador vs. Vladimir Putin, you think Ol’ Dead Eyes remembers enough of his KGB training to keep up with a man 30 years his junior? It had to be Guido.

It had to be.

And it just proves how far away you are from enlightenment. You’re not the world’s stupidest man because you don’t have the capacity for critical thought or strategy. Blind squirrels find nuts all the fucking time. It’s called using other sense.

No, you’re the world’s stupidest man for looking at the most ineffectual pawn and thinking him a king, all while the queen, the one who values what MLK, Jr. called negative peace over justice, over everything. She never harangued Guy because deep down, she agreed with him. But why? You don’t have the heart to find out now. You’ve got a flight to catch and two matches, two wars to fight.

But at least that makes this fight all the simpler. Now you have tools in your shed, vicarious anger, all of it stuffed into live rounds you can fire at will at a fatheaded bear who wronged you. You’ll never raise a hand to your mother, so slug Ivan once for her, after you tag him for his sins and Alexei’s and Kael’s and Pleasant’s and Williams’ and the Masters’. Then, once you’ve won that war, you can get the recon to fight the other one.

You don’t have to be smart to win on two fronts. You just have to be smart enough to avoid the hubris of thinking you can do it by lowering your head and charging forward. That path only leads to hubris, and hubris? That’s for tragic heroes.

Sure, Thomas Battaglia, the son and brother, right now? He may be a tragic figure, but The Anglo Luchador? No, he’s sacrificed enough. It’s time for him to get his pound of flesh. His pound of fat ursine flesh from a bully who has destroyed his lives and the lives of his War Games teammates for far too motherfucking long.