Trust

“A walk down memory lane.”

It sounds very quaint. Like a Sunday stroll in the park during the early days of Spring. Flowers are blooming, birds are chirping, there is a cool breeze coming in from the West.

Bullshit.

The truth is, a walk down memory lane is not without its dangers. Traumas long since forgotten are drudged up. The wounds caused by the actions of other people (or, in some cases, one's actions towards other people) are reopened.

Zapp Scatino knew all too well what was about to happen. He hoped sporting a bright, magenta suit might instill some positivity, but deep down, he knew that was wishful thinking. He leaned against his 1991 Mercedes, staring at the Central Islip Big Lots in front him, an autographed photo in his hands.

Zapp had been waiting in the parking lot for about ten minutes before Tommy Battaglia showed up.  He felt uneasy seeing his tag team partner approaching him. Zapp was not sure how this interaction would go, he hoped for the best but a large part of him feared it would not end well. Zapp put on his biggest, phoniest he could and outstretched his arms.

“Tommy!”

“Alright, where’s Old Max, Zapp?”

“What? No small talk?”

“Nice weather we're having. Where’s the goat? You said the goat was having some problems.”

Zapp let out a sigh and looked down at the photo and the back up towards Tom and pointed towards the large retail outlet in front of them.

“This, this right here, one could surmise, is a landmark of the historical variety. Our history.”

“Jesus tittyfucking Christ, you lied to me about the goat.”

“I wouldn’t call it a lie. It's more facilitatin’ a narrative to ensure your attendance.”

The vein above Tom’s left eye bulged as his face turned ever so slightly redder at the deception.

“Before you drag me into whatever con you have next, at least let me know that the goat is okay.”

“You and this goat. As recollectin’ serves, you got him as a gift for me.”

“He’s a living being that I bonded with, Zapp. Just tell me he’s okay.”

“Sure. He's as good as he's gonna get. Can we ensconce on the reason you are here? The Big Lots?”

Zapp vehemently pointed towards the retailer. A couple of passersby gave him the stinkeye, probably trying to ascertain which narcotic he was abusing.

“You wanted fuckin’ answers? Here I am! Ready to squeal like a fuckin’ piggy on his way home. But if you just wanna talk about Old Max? Fine. Fuck it. I'm outta here and I ain't never sayin’ another word about the connection between our families. What's it gonna be?”

Tom let out a defeated sigh.

“Okay, what the fuck do you want then? To grouse about the fact that we have to face two teams at UltraViolence now? To litigate some perceived slight from a few weeks ago? I don’t know, to share your dad’s recipe for braciole?”

Dad.

The word stung Zapp.

Vinny. Fucking. Spandex.  Zapp’s upper lip twitched. Zapp clenched his fist, crumpled the photo of his and Tommy’s parents smiling and sharing some libations, and shoved it into Tommy’s chest.

“Fuck you, ‘partner’.”

The photo dropped down to the asphalt as Zapp turned around headed towards his car.  Zapp was ready to share their shared family connection and Tommy spat in his face.  Tommy T-Bags was lucky Zapp didn't grind his face into the asphalt, tearing his flesh, layer by layer until there was nothing left but cranium.

“Ya know what? Fuck it. I'm tellin’ you anyway. That photo was taken at an investors meetin’ in 1983. Lorenzo Battaglia invested twenty ‘G’s’ in Vinny Spandex’s business.  This fuckin’ Big Lots used to be the biggest ‘Vinny Spandex Aerobics’ studio in the state. That's what your old man did. He enabled Vinny Spandex's fuckin’ bullshit. Every fuckin’ year when the Italian Stallion was in town, for six years straight, they'd get dinner at Papa Lombardo’s. When they all closed down in the mid-nineties, Vinny was worth close to thirty million dollars. And there I was, dealin’ with my ma’s divorce and slowly declinin’ mental state.”

Zapp stared at the Big Lots with disgust as if he were in an elevator full of farts. If Tommy had anything to say, he was being so tight lipped about it, his Uncle Frank would have put him on his payroll.

“And imagine my surprise when, lo and beholden, I found out you were related to that prick, Lorenzo Battaglia. I wanted to burn your fuckin' life to the ground.  I even had a whole thing where I'd employ some ethically challenged business associates of my cousin’s to break in your house, tie up your kids, smack around your wife, tie her up to, and when you got home, you woulda gotten a Louisville Slugger to the back of the head, and your family woulda been forced to watch as lighter fluid was sprayed onto your balls, and lit on fire. In case you were wonderin’, I woulda been the one lightin’ the match.  But I didn't, because I learned that you hated your prick of a father almost as much as I hated my prick of a father. I could relate. We were two birds in a pod. Fuckin’ twins. Spiritualistical twins. But I guess, like Kohime, that shit ain't in the cards.”

The look of subtle shock etched on Tom’s face hearing his partner’s story. But for once, his eyes were soft. Understanding.

“Look, Zapp. I’m sorry. Sorry that my dad hurt you. Or at least enabled your dad to hurt you. This whole thing. All this.”

Tom waved his arms around in the style of his people, the Italians and their expressive hands attached to arms as pliable as their cooked noodles.

“I can understand on a certain level why you’d think this could work, why we’d be kindred spirits. Fuck, I used to hit on girls from the other high schools because they had a wrestling patch on their backpacks, thinking that one thing would be enough. But you’re wrong.”

Zapp threw his arms up, but Tom cut him off.

“You’re wrong in thinking this wasn’t meant to be. Like, we were the first ones to punch a ticket for this match at Ultraviolence. Clearly, you were onto something.”

Zapp squinted, leaning in. Was Tom onto something?

“I know you’re a conman, find the easy mark. Yadda yadda. But those marks, they dry up. Did you ever think you could have something more than a rube’s life savings or a happy ending at a rub and tug?”

“You have this miscontraception about me and this whole conman thing. I was the muscle. Not that you would know, Silver Spoon, Ricky Schroeder motherfucker.”

Tom let out a sigh that the aged patrons of Katz’s Delicatessen could hear with their hearing aids turned off.

“Will you stop being a dickhead for one fuckin second?”

Tom shook his head and rolled his eyes before continuing.

“You can get the cheap thrills, the handjobs and the quick paydays, but wouldn’t you want something that lasts? You and Kohime, man, she would’ve been great for you. But it took work. That train, boom, it’s gone from Ronkonkoma Station and it ain’t coming back. But this one, this train. We can get off at Lumen Field. We can do the fucking work, win the Tag Team Championships, and light this place on fire. So what do you say?”

“I would be serendipitous to say yes, but there is this unwieldily underlyin’ issue betwix us. You. Don't. Fuckin’. Trust. Me. You haven't trusted me since day fuckin’ one. And if you don't trust me when I have given you no reason not to trust me, it makes it harder for me to trust you when I have shown that I'm willin’ to trust you but how can I trust that when push comes to shove, you won't shiv me in the back?”

Zapp looked at his partner with earnest, honest eyes. He wanted this to work, he did. But doubt was a powerful demotivator. If he doubted this relationship, he would doubt their odds of coming away with the Tag Team Championships at “Ultraviolence.”

“Wait, you still think I’m the untrustworthy one? After you sprung this bullshit on me in the first place? Broke into my house? Kept using dirty tactics until I finally threw my hands up and just fucking rolled with it?”

Tom yanked his phone out of his pocket and furiously scrolled through it, mashing his fingers on the touchscreen until it vibrated to indicate he’d done what he’d set out to do. The text tone on Zapp’s phone went off, a snippet of Dean Martin’s “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head?”

“The fuck is this…”

He pulled out his phone, seeing that Tom had sent him a text, simply contact information for a Jacob Eisenstadt, LCSW.

“It’s contact information for my therapist. You could use him. You could use someone. I went through a bunch of them, starting after Paxton crippled Rhine. He stopped working, so I went through another one, and then this guy. You might not find him helpful, but it’ll be a start.”

“I ain’t goin’ to no shrink.”

“A therapist isn’t a shrink, Zapp. They can’t prescribe medication. You’re there to talk to them, work through your issues verbally. And you have issues, major ones.”

“Yeah, ya think so?”

Tom deeply sighed.

“Let’s see. You nearly fucked up my attempts at getting an exhibition match against Jason Snow, although in the end I got it because you had to be such a lowlife about it. You served me with this photo and pretended to be an abortion survivor twin of mine. You broke into my house, and yet, I didn’t beat your ass. I didn’t get a restraining order. I didn’t call the cops.”

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled.

“You stood for everything opposite of what I’m trying to make for myself, and still do, and I’m rolling with it. I took you out to the country to get a pet. Every single fucking thing I’ve done to show how I’m not just doing this to get you in that room like the mobsters did to Joe Pesci in Goodfellas, and you’re still paranoid about it. And in front of all this, after you lied to me to get me to drive through the traffic nightmare that is Long Island…”

Tom pointed at Zapp’s phone.

“...I’m trying to help you.”

Tom again pinched the bridge of his nose.

“The truth is, there’s one belt in this company that matters to me anymore. Maybe two depending on how much of a zealot I wanna get about the art of wrestling. The Tag Belts? They’re not one of them. I don’t know how much longer I have as an active wrestler in the best promotion in the world. I want my Coral Avalon Moment, not the future where he doesn’t beat that simp in the middle of the ring and retires forever crownless. So I really have no incentive to stick around here, in a team I didn’t even want, to find out information that, frankly, I don’t even give a rat’s ass about anymore.”

Tom stared a hole through Zapp’s soul.

“But I’m fucking here, Zapp. I’m committed to finishing the job. Lemme put it in terms you understand. I wanna finish the job. Get the big score. Hit that getaway car and speed off to some remote island in the Pacific with no extradition treaty back to the States. I want to see this through.”

Tom turned around and looked back at the driveway back out to the road he took to enter the parking lot.

“You can believe me. You can choose not to. I’m your tag partner, not your capo. But there’s not much more I can do to prove to you that you can trust me outside of getting in the ring and using the lifeless bodies of Rob Williams, Anna Daniels, and Fred Dick to beat the life out of STRONK Godson my damn self while you sip mai tais on the outside with your feet up and one of those girlies from the parlor giving you a happy ending in the fucking process.”

Tom turned back around to face Zapp.

“And one more thing… IS THE GOAT OKAY? GODDAMMIT.”

“What'd I tell you? Old Max is the key to winnin’ the whole sha-bang. I ain't the superstitious type, but there is a certain belief system that is traversed throughout generations which, to some, or most, has wielded some positive results.  Such as it is, this match is too important to not take every measure, worldly or otherworldly, available to ensure that we are victorious. As I said, Old Max, don't worry ‘bout him. He can’t get much better than he is right now.”

“What does that mean???”

“There is a woman, she's gotta be over a hundred. Flick, two hundred. Madame Esmerelda. Shit, my grandmother knew her. She's got certain methods. Right now, she is sacrificin’ Old Max. By now, I mean tonight. And by sacrificin’, well that's self-explanatory. And, once it's done, the heart will be prepared for consumptionary purposes.”

“You. Did. WHAT?”

“What? It's a fuckin’ goat. What's the problem here?”

Tom’s cheeks turned red. The vein over his left eye twitched with the urgency and terror faulty pressure valve about to blow up a city block. He remembered what Jacob told him. He’s a therapist, you can’t call him Dr. Eisenstein, the psychiatrists and psychologists, who rarely agree on ANYTHING, will come together to give you the sternest of disappointed looks.

WAYNE’S WORLD DOO-DOO-DOO DOO-DOO-DOO FLASHBACK

“Tom, do you really think it’s constructive to lash out at your coworkers like this?”

“To be fair, that’s what my entire industry is built upon.”

“You told two weeks ago you’re trying to change that though. Do you really think you can change that if you perpetuate it on your own tag team partner.”

With the sullen tone of voice of a teenager who’d just been caught red-handed getting to third base with the Collins’ daughter, Tom replied.

“No.”

“Okay, so the next time this Scatino enrages you, think of the things that you’d put in jeopardy by destroying this relationship.”

WAYNE’S WORLD DOO-DOO-DOO DOO-DOO-DOO END OF FLASHBACK

Tom closed his eyes and thought of his children, who’d have to face unending mockery from their friends that their dad blew a 3-0 lead in the PRIME Tag League. He remembered his wife’s fetish for having sex on top of various championship belts, and how they refrained from indulging in that with the Intense Championship because of, well, all the blood. You would too.

And he thought about an unlikely inspiration.

Jared Sykes.

The hotel hallway in Cardiff. How a conversation with him led to Tom discovering a path that he felt would lead him to ultimate fulfillment. How would he honor the catalyst to his rebirth, no matter how far off the path Zapp had pulled him thus far?

He’d win those fucking Tag Titles with a partner less cooperative than the now-departed mannequin and far more belligerent than a boxer from New England.

He opened his eyes.

“You know what, Zapp, it’s fine. I mean, who knows, I saw Aztec ghosts and dead luchadores for about a year straight. Any edge to win, right?”

Zapp’s jaw dropped at the total and complete acceptance to his unilateral decision to make a blood sacrifice of the three-legged goat that Tom had paid for with cash out of his own pocket as a gesture of good faith.

“You’re fuckin’ wit’ me, right?”

“No, no. Blood magic is powerful. And hey, Old Max,” he said, holding back tears with all the force and futility of size 36 jean shorts trying to keep the thigh fat of Bobby Dean from bursting out into the great wide open.

“He was a special guy. Powerful.”

sniffle

“Magical, even.”

“He’s a fuckin’ goat. He ate all my underwears. I had to go commando today. Goats as pets ain't very, whaddyacallit, practical.”

Zapp could have played along, acted like Old Max was some beloved three legged member of the family, but doing so would be counterproductive to what he was trying to accomplish with Tommy. Zapp wanted to be honest with him.

“Did you wanna watch it? We could split the heart.”

“I’d love to, but hey, look at the time, I don’t think I can stick around to watch a ritualistic sacrifice of a goat that I was fond of, I’ll just take your word for it and, well, uh.”

Tom tugged his collar.

“But seriously, Zapp. Call that number. Set up an appointment. Do something. Because we are on the precipice of history here. I’m not going to let the Whoresmen or whatever the hell those two wastrels call themselves snatch it from us. We’ve gotten this far. I don’t wanna sit with my dick in my hand while the cops have us surrounded.”

Tom turned to walk towards his Shitty Green Explorer, but he had one last thing to say, popping in his head. He turned his head back around.

“And if there’s one thing this year has taught me? I fuckin’ hate cops. Pigs.”

And so Tommy left Zapp staring, reflecting on the Big Lots that used to be a K-Mart which used to be a Vinny Spandex Aerobics. Zapp thought of the therapist’s number Tommy gave him and he promptly deleted it from his phone. He didn't need a therapist. He needed a Tag Team Championship. He thought of Old Max and how fond Tommy was of him. The thought of the old crone plunging a ritualistic dagger into Old Max’s chest, opening it up, and ripping out his still beating heart. He could almost hear Old Max’s agonizing bleating. It did not seem right.

He called Esmerelda.

“Do I gotta eat the heart raw?”

Nope.  It did not seem right that he had to eat a raw heart. But Zapp would.

-

South Philadelphia. A hellish commute on the LIE, the Holland Tunnel, the Jersey Turnpike, and then the Walt Whitman Bridge home. Rush hour traffic. He became the asshole he cursed out every time he’d visit and find people parked on the curbs with their bumpers sticking out into the cross street. He stormed into his childhood home to find his mother sitting on her vinyl-encased sofa, sipping tea, bathing in the smug self-satisfaction she’d allowed to effuse from her soul after years of damming it up. She looked up at her oldest son barging in the front door.

“Come to apologize finally?”

“You’ll be seeing Jesus Christ walking through that door shooting lasers out his stigmata before I apologize for what you and that rat bastard brother of mine did to me, Mom.”

“Stubborn as usual.”

She put the teacup down on the saucer on the coffee table, but as soon as it rested, the table shook. Tom slammed the picture down next to her beverage.

“What’s this?”

“You. Dad. My tag partner’s mother. And a man named Vinny Spandex.”

She furrowed her brow as she looked down at the picture and then looked back at her son defiantly.

“What do you children call these things these days? Deepfakes?”

“Try again, Mom. I’ve seen Zapp’s computer. Windows 95 would both be an upgrade and would brick that thing so hard that he couldn’t even use it as a paperweight.”

His gaze turned fiery. Almost hateful.

“Tell me every single fucking thing you know about Vinny Spandex, Dad, and why my tag partner would not trust me no matter how much I have shown him that I’m obviously the trustworthiest person he’s ever met in his life.”

She gulped. Her eyes said it all, even if her lips only moved when the cup of tea she leaned down to grab finally met her mouth.

RIP OLD MAX ????-2024 YOU WILL BE MISSED, EVEN IF YOUR SHITS WON'T