We Are The Motherfuckers

The non-title loss never bothered Tom Battaglia. You could afford to be off your game for a moment when your prize wasn’t on the line. Anna Daniels in the summer of 2022 turned into Paxton Ray and Sage Pontiff in the dark, cold end of 2024. The cognitive dissonance never formed more shape than a formless phantasm, lurking just out of the corner of his eye, when he said “leave the past in the past” referring to ReV 60 and still turned every conversation towards the photograph.

That photograph.

“I just don’t get it, Pedro,” Tom lamented to his teacher, the most successful Boricua in Mexican lucha libre history, a man known as El Mofongo in his heyday. “Why would Zapp have that picture of my parents? What could he want?”

“Mijo, wrestling makes people do stupid things just to get ahead, get an edge. He saw you from the sidelines chop that puto bear down to size for a moment, saw you step to the baddest, most brutal force in the ReVolution era, he had to jump on and get a piece.”

The electric lights in the window of the North Philly diner glowed ominously. The overcast skies and swirling winds gave 4:30 PM on a nondescript weekday the feel of a time and place more sinister. One can live in the Northeast United States for their whole lives and never get used to December’s robbery of sunlight even before the evening rush has swelled to its crescendo.

“But what did he really want? Like, if it was glory without work, there are at least a half-dozen guys he could’ve latched onto. Hell, they’re letting anyone into the Whoresmen these days…”

“I know, Anna Daniels, she’s tough, but she doesn’t exactly fit…”

“I was talking more about Reed Young, but yeah. STILL.”

Tom looked down into his black coffee hoping to see if it would turn into one of those divining pools from mythology, to see a vision. All he saw was a cup half-filled with murky black liquid whose flavor and strength belied its appearance.

“And the thing that bothers me the most is the dude’s name they were with. Conman head-ass name. Vinny Spandex? Who calls…”

Pedro dropped his cup dead onto his saucer, spilling his coffee onto the table.

“What? Did you just see a ghost, maestro?”

Pedro’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Vinny Spandex, you said? So you know.”

Now it was Tom’s turn to act shocked.

“Know what?”

“Vinny Spandex is…” Pedro trailed off. Tom’s steel gaze felt like the spotlights at the arena in Bayamon. After a few beats, he changed his tone. “What exactly do you know about Vinny Spandex and the woman who was with him?”

“Not a whole lot. I think the woman is Zapp’s mom. Either that, or he’s Vinny’s kid. Either way, no other reason why Zapp would have that photo. Other than that, all I know is Zapp said that my dad was his favorite wrestler. Mom is tight-lipped about it.”

“That’s not a surprise. But, uh, I think, mijo, you shouldn’t find out from me. I’d say go talk to your dad, but he can’t talk back right now.”

Tom laughed, breaking the tension.

“Well, that leaves two people, and I already talked to one of them.”

He reached into his wallet and slapped a fifty on the table.

“It’s a long drive to New York, and I don’t want to wait until morning.”

“That’s too much money, you know that. We only had coffee.”

“I know. You can tell the waitress the tip is all from you.”

Pedro laughed as he shook his head.

-

“You're a fuckin’ loser! You stupid fuckin’ chump! You don't deserve shit!  Fuckin’ idiot piece of shit idiot!”

Zapp Scatino spat at his reflection.  The gloopy phlegm oozed down the mirror as Zapp stared at himself in disgust. He sniffled a bit and rubbed his reddish eyes.

It had been a week since he and The Anglo Luchador lost….actually, check that.  It had been a week since Zapp lost the match against Paxton Ray and Sage Pontiff.  It wasn't supposed to go down like that. The Wise Guys were supposed to win that match and carry the momentum into Colossus.

The loss hit Zapp hard. He couldn't sleep, he couldn't eat, not even watching Clueless for the two hundredth time could cheer him up. Instead, he found himself watching Mannequin 2: On the Move repeatedly. He sucked. He was awful. He was a pile of useless shit (yes, there is such a thing as useful shit, it's called fertilizer). He didn't deserve to watch a good movie.

He could still smell the foul stench of Sage Pontiff on him.  It clung onto him like malodorous spandex. Fucking Spandex. Zapp felt violated. Sage Pontiff pinned him. Not Paxton Ray. Sage Fucking Pontiff.  

Zapp actually believed he was better than Tony Gamble.  That was a big lie he was telling himself.  Losing proved one thing, he was no better than Gamble.  The difference was, Gamble was betterinsulated, protected by a bunch of Eggy Fucks. Zapp, on the other hand, was hiding behind Tommy, someone much more talented and, by all accounts, a better person than Zapp. If it wasn't for Tommy, Zapp would be just as big a zero as Gamble.

And that's what Zapp was right now, a zero. An insignificant dud. A washout.

Zapp didn't deserve a butler, so he fired Sunday (ironically on a Sunday).

Zapp didn't deserve to stay in his Hampton Estate. Instead, he was staying at the burnt, mildewy hotel that his mother torched over twenty years ago, the act that solidified that she was more than a little pazzo. 

Zapp exited the bathroom and headed to the living room.  The television was paused on Kristy Swanson’s face.  He was about to play it when he heard a knock-knock on his door-door.

There was a part of him that wanted to curl up in a corner somewhere and act like he wasn't home and maybe they would go away and leave him to suffocate in this dark, grim cloud that surrounded him.  Another part of him wanted to yell “Fuck off!” and hope they scampered off like the intruding pest they were.

Zapp rubbed his stache as he opened the door.  He almost wished he wasn't wearing a “Making Clams Moister than an Oyster” T-shirt.

And pants.

It was probably too cold to rock a neon pink banana hammock.

He opened the door to find his tag team partner, standing in the cold, December night.

“Jesus Christ, Zapp, get some pants.”

Zapp huffed as he ambled over to the couch where he snatched his gray sweatpants. Obviously, he put the sweatpants over his shoulder.

“Fuckin’ happy? Anything else you wanna dispenigrate about me? ‘Not wearin’ pants, you lost our match, your house smells like a homeless person pissed on rotten gabagool.’ Go on. Shit on the pile of shit.”

Tommy opened his mouth but Zapp put up his hand to stop him.

“I'm sorry, bro. I don't mean to take it out on you. I'm just…I got pinned by Sage Pontiff. Gettin’ beat by some fuckin’ douchebag fuckface with a dancin’ bear, gettin’ thrown through a wall…all less humiliatin’ than gettin’ beat by that patchouli hippie motherfucker. And I let you down, I let the team down.”

Tom shakes his head.

“Zapp, it’s okay, you didn’t let anyone down. Seriously. Sage is a motherfucker. A sociopath. The last person who was here who didn’t belong here is, well, Terry Woods? Sage isn’t Terry Woods.”

Tom sniffed around the house.

“I thought you hired a butler.”

“Yeah, I had to let'em go. Irrevocable differences.”

Tom nodded slowly.

“Yeah, I get that. Feels like that could be at the heart of my reason for showing up at midnight.”

Zapp started getting an indignant look on his face, and Tom realized that the man whose bread and butter was ‘taking things the wrong way’ was about to take things the wrong fuckin’ way.

“Not between us, I swear to every god in the Aztec pantheon. But it’s something you might know about, and I think that since, y’know, we’re working better as a team now, that you could…”

Tom’s gaze was once again drawn to the laser pink on Zapp’s crotch.

“...first put some pants on. Please.”

Zapp rolled his eyes like a disrespectful teen and put the sweatpants on.

“How the fuck are we gonna beat Tony Gamble and the Chevronian? I suck shit. I'm the King of Suck Shit Mountain. I can't…I repeat, can't lose to a fuckin’ nobody like Tony Gamble. Not with our championships on the line.  Not with your shot at the Universal Championship….I fuckin’ failed you.”

Zapp looked as though he zoned out, as if he were staring through Tommy than at him.  And yes, Zapp’s mind has become cluttered with negative thoughts. He could almost see his future.  A cheap shot takes out Tommy and Tony Gamble pins Zapp for a third time.  He sees Tony Gamble standing over his body raising the Tag Team Championship belt over his head, running it in. And Tommy—-

Tommy spoke, jerking Zapp from his thoughts.

“Zapp. Stop. Remember the last time we lost as a team?”

“Yeah, and I…”

“No, shut up. Please. We lost to the fuckin’ Whoresmen in tag league. Ruined our perfect slate. Put a damper on things. It sucked, yeah, but you know what we did after?”

Zapp focused his gaze a little harder.

“We beat the fuckin’ Whoresmen. Hell, we beat FOUR of them, Fred Dickless and STRONK, getting our win back, AND two future Whoresmen. We bounced the fuck back. We’re rubber. They’re glue. Right?”

Zapp looked puzzled, and even more so when Tom shoved him.

“I SAID RIGHT, MOTHERFUCKER?”

Zapp’s neighbor’s bedroom light dotted on to Tom’s right at the volume. Zapp’s confusion slowly metamorphosed into a wry (perhaps forced?) smile.

“Right.”

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU! ONLY ONE OF YOUR FUCKBAG NEIGHBORS TURNED THEIR LIGHTS ON, LET’S WAKE THE ENTIRE FUCKIN’ ISLAND!”

“RIGHT!

“THAT’S WHAT I THOUGHT. WE’RE THE PRIME TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS! WE’RE GONNA TAKE TONY GAMBLE…”

“Will you keep it down out there? I’m trying to watch my stories!” shouted the neighbor from Tom’s right.

He sighed, lowered his voice, and continued.

“We’re gonna turn Tony Gamble from Tony Two Books to Anthony the Pamphlet. We’re gonna beat Hessian like we were the American rebels and he was an actual Hessian mercenary from the Revolution.”

“What side was he on? Ours or the English?”

“The English.”

“Blimey fuckin’ bastard. Teach him to kill Paul Revere.”

“So we’re gonna send him back to Germany like the sauerkraut-smellin’ motherfucker he is.”

Zapp pumped his fist.

“And we’re gonna keep these Tag Titles. Whether or not we force the head Bandit to give me a shot at the Uni, that doesn’t matter. What matters is our reign. We’re the motherfuckers, Zapp. We. Are. The. Mother. Fuckers.”

“Are-are you inclinatin’ a three-way with the wife? I appreciate the offer and such but I'm not sure that'd be somethin’ I'm, you know, into for a variocity of reasons. Not to fetish shame you or nothin’, you do you, consentin’ adults and the like. But I think our focus should be on the match?”

“No, we don’t do that, at least not anymore. BUT THAT’S NOT THE POINT. The point is, we’re going into the biggest show of the year and making them about as relevant as Vinny Spandex.”

Zapp’s mood immediately turned. His face scowled, his eye twitched, and spittle started forming at the corners of his mouth as a sneer formed. Almost instinctively, his sweatpants fell to his ankles. Was it a mystic force of anger, or was it the fact that the band at the waist was worn loose from decades of ownership.

“Why the fuck did you bring up that vile cockfuck? Throwin’ salt in the wounds? I'm not fucked up enough in the head? What?”

“I just thought it was a, I mean, it was um. I… I…”

Tom knew the reason he brought Vinny Spandex up. It was intentional, furious purpose, even if his detective skills were more suited for Ned Stark than Bruce Wayne. He wanted answers. Needed them. Ached for them, especially after Pedro let it slip earlier. It couldn’t wait, not before Colossus, not before the anniversary of his father’s death, not after the fucking year he had.

But it hit him in this moment, that he still didn’t get it.

It’s not about him.

It’s never just been about him.

Zapp Rowan Scatino stood before him and showed vulnerability that no one ever thought they’d see in him. Mortimer Kjedelig, Knightingale, whatever he called himself, a bastion of bravado, and he was stabbing himself with the figurative knife of self-doubt. He was pouring himself out to his partner, and Tom was still hell-bent on tearing down the union, the same attitude he had when Zapp was only known as the Spanglo Luchador.

Who was the one who didn’t grow? Who was the real asshole in this situation?

Tom realized that Zapp finally trusted him. He couldn’t throw that away. Not now. Not on the precipice of a title match against two Hall of Famers. Tony Gamble, the slipperiest shitbag in PRIME history. Hessian, the Murdershow. It was time to change course.

“I brought him up because I knew it would light a fire under your ass, Zapp. Think about it. Who’s the person you hate most in your life? Whose face would you want to stick all your success, all the money you’re making, all the history you’re creating, whose nose would you want to rub in that the most? It’s not the neighbor who WON’T STOP STARING AT US THROUGH HER DIRTY WINDOW…”

As if on cue, she turned her lamp out, the glow of her “stories” on TV the only light emanating from the window.

Zapp glared daggers at The Anglo Luchador. If only Tommy knew the truth about where his money actually came from, he would Zapp differently. But Tommy wasn't wrong in what he was saying. His neighbor's window was dirty. But also, as much disdain as he had for the Nate Coltons and the Tony Gambles and the Cousin Mikeys of the world, he hated them slightly less than he hated his biological father.

“It’s not Coral Avalon. Hell, it’s not even Gamble, and I know you two have had a shittier history than I’ve had with him. It’s Vinny Spandex. If he were still alive, wouldn’t you want to shove it back in his face and yell ‘Scoreboard?’”

Zapp furrowed his brow.

“The truth is we wouldn’t have gotten this far without you. You didn’t lose in Long Beach. The Bandits played psychological warfare with us, and I took the bait. Hook. Line. Sinker. I fucked up, but that’s why it’s a non-title match. We know what the mistakes were, and now we know how to fix them. And it’s not me carrying you or you letting anyone down.”

Tom put his hand on Zapp’s chest.

“It’s going to be us sending those dirty fucks back to their carton without any gold. And do you know why?”

“Because we’re the fuckin’ motherfuckers?”

“THAT’S FUCKIN’ RIGHT!”

“I’M CALLING THE COPS IF I HEAR YOU AGAIN.”

“Jesus lady, we’re having a moment out here! I’m leaving in a few minutes anyway, fuck.”

“Don't pay any attention to her. The second you leave she'll start crankin’ her death metal. Fuckin’ bitch.”

Zapp flipped his neighbor a little birdie and turned back towards Tommy.

“I know what you're doin’, I appreciate it.  Here….”

Zapp was feeling a little better, he almost bought into Tommy’s words, he almost felt confident in himself as he successfully pulled his pants back up like a big boy. But there was that doubt….that pesky doubt that crept in like a spider in a crevice…doubt in his abilities…doubt that he could even be victorious that snivelling fuckface nobody shitwad, Tony Gamble….doubt in the longevity of his burgeoning partnership (friendship, even?) with the Anglo Luchador (how long would it be before he realized Zapp was a fraud as a wrestler and cut him loose like so many other people in his life?). These doubts, he could not reveal to Tommy. Instead, he allowed it to fester inside his brain and gut.  From inside his sweatpants, however, the Zappster retrieved some folded up cash (a couple hundred). He placed it in his tag team partner’s hand.

“Get yourself somethin’ nice. A new mask or somethin’.”

As Zapp turned to go inside, not before flipping his neighbor off again, Tom looked at the money in his palm and smiled.

-

“So you actually told him you were more interested in keeping the Tag Belts?”

“Yeah. I was in a zone.”

Tom’s wife spoke through the bluetooth in his car as he drove on the interchange between the Jersey Turnpike and NJ-168, the last leg in his trek home beginning.

“You weren’t just telling him what he wanted to hear, were you?”

“It’s weird. There’s absolutely nothing else in my life, professionally at least, than to be the best wrestler in the best promotion. PRIME is the best promotion I’ve ever been in.”

“Even more than CS?”

Tom did not hesitate.

“Even if my paychecks from Chad were regular like they are from PRIME, it’s a wholehearted yes. It’s just a different world. And I’m so close.”

A beat

“But I really wasn’t lying to him when I told him that. I swear it on the grave of, of, Jesus, I don’t know anyone dead that I actually was close enough to AND liked enough to swear something on.”

Somewhere in the Fields of Elysium, Lorenzo Battaglia heard his son’s attestation and said to himself, “Fair.”

“I know how pissed you were when this all started. It can’t just be the belts.”

“No. It isn’t. If it were just the belts, I’d be nothing more than one of those dickhead Best assholes who thinks having any title means you can lord something over someone else. But tonight, I think I finally saw the person behind that horror mask Zapp wears. And it’s a human I want to continue this journey on with.”

“So what about Vinny Spandex? I know that’s still eating at you. Are you even gonna ask Zapp about it?”

Tom paused.

“No. I’m not. I think for now Zapp has earned my trust. There’s someone else who knows the answer who’s lost it over the last year though.”

“Okay, number one, you’re coming home first, right? Because it’s like five in the morning now and you’ve been up since, like, the asscrack of dawn yesterday.”

“You don’t understand. Puerto Rican coffee is strong.”

Tam’s groan through the speaker was even stronger.

“Either way, you already tried getting answers from your mom.”

“Yeah, but I think it’s time to stop letting her play on her own terms.”

He pulled up to the tollbooth on the bridge, handed the attendant a hundred out of the, well, several hundred Zapp had given him, and nodded, starting to pull up.

“Wait, your change! It’s only five bucks!”

“Use it to comp the next 19 drivers,” he said as he pulled away.

As he stopped at the light on the exit onto Front Street, his text tone buzzed. He looked down. It was a message from Zapp. He opened it and read it. As the glow of his phone illuminated his face in the dark early morning mire of December in Philadelphia, Tom smiled.

Then the epiphany hit him. He had all he needed right now. Vinny Spandex. His parents. This cloud… it was time to put it all behind him. He wasn’t going to visit his mother. It was time to go home. It was time to rest. It was time to…

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP

Aaaand the light turned green as he was having a moment of self-realization. He made the left turn onto Front Street and started on the last leg of his trip home. Only one goal remained in his mind.

Beat the piss out of Tony Gamble for the second Colossus of the three he’s taken part in. Chop down bearded fucker Murdershow and put an exclamation point on his year.

And keep the PRIME Tag Team Championships with the only other person in the fed who mattered to him right now.