Post by Dallas Bonham on Nov 2, 2013 7:22:48 GMT -5
It was cold in the mornings again. This back and forth weather was a living metaphor for how I felt about wrestling. Initially it was just something my brother talked me into. I never really planned on getting into it or caring about the outcomes of the matches or wanting any titles or anything . But with each opponent it grew on me. I'd wake up in the middle of the night and do push ups or go for a run because I knew somewhere out there another guy was working hard. That old fire that had long been snuffed out and long forgotten was beginning to grow back into a raging inferno that was incinerating all the doubt and apathy I'd originally carried into the ring. My moves were becoming more graceful and I was recovering quicker.
I was getting better.
"One more," I called to Houston as One Eyed Bill rang the bell. I'd just laid him flat with the Hangman's Switch. It was the third time that day and we had already done cardio and some light weights to get limber.
Bill shook his head.
"Not today, killer. You got a big match coming up and I don't want you over doing it."
"C'mon Bill, I'm having too much fun here."
"Yeah, me too man," Houston sarcastically shot from the side of his mouth. He was bruised and battered and tired. But he kept showing up to spar with me and help me train day after day. Maybe he wasn't so soft after all.
"Ok fine. I gotta meat with Kimosabe to cut a promo anyways."
"Promo? What the fuck, man? You're Mr. Wrestling all of the sudden."
I shot a right hand to Houston's gut. Had to keep up appearances. Anything in life I'd cared about had been stripped from me like my freedom after that bar room fight.
"Shut up, Houston. I'm just trying to pay the bills."
I removed my sweat covered gear and climbed out of the ring, pulling off my shirt to hit the shower. Bill stopped me with a crinkly old hand laid across my chest.
"Look in that mirror, kid," he pointed to a full size, stand up mirror next to the speed bag hanging from the cracked plaster ceiling. "You look at the bastard standing next to me and ask yourself if he's ready to be a champion?"
It was a much harder question to answer than one would assume. I had spent so much time in the dark years before this being a loser. Self depreciation was a tough one to over come, but the will to survive had been scratching and clawing and climbing back in.
It was a tall order to do what Bill said. I made a habit of never looking myself in the mirror from all the guilt and shame of throwing my career down the drain all those years ago, but I looked at myself like Bill said. I was covered in sweat and my muscles were bulging from all the stress put on them. My posture was more straight than it had been in a long time, my back straight like a live oak. Above all it was my eyes.
My eyes were bright and full of life like a man that was actually living with a purpose. There was no more denying it: wrestling had taken its place in my life. It was giving me a reason to find my peak. The peak everyone thought had past.
"Thanks Bill," I said before walking to the shower.
"Mr. Dallas," Kimosabe called to me through the crowd. He wanted to meet at a fucking Starbucks again. It disgusted me to be honest. All the yuppies in their suits and ties drinking fucking caramel machifrappos or whatever the fuck they served here. Everyone had an apple computer and they were all SO busy on them. It was like being in a room full of magnets that kept missing each other: All alike but completely afraid to connect.
"Why the fuck do we always meet here, Kimosabe?"
"I like the tea, Mr. Dallas. Reminds me of home."
"Well I hope these fucking douchebags don't remind you of home. If so your home sucks."
"C'mon man, it's not that bad," Houston said as he sat down with our coffees. I didn't get why people couldn't just drink coffee. What the fuck is wrong with coffee that it needs to be put in a sundress with make up on?
"Mr. Dallas, this week you and Jason Kaine will face Mr. Cruel and Mr. Hardcore. Both men win their matches last week. How do you feel about this?"
"I don't care about either of them."
"Hey Dallas, Cruel is a Mexican. You hate Mexicans."
The yuppy next to us perked up.
"Shut the fuck up, Houston. I don't hate Mexicans."
"Well, you used to, man."
"Yeah well you go live with a couple thousand of them and you'll probably find peace with your issues pretty fucking quick too."
I took a sip of the coffee. It was bitter.
"You know what I think of them, Kimosabe? I really don't care. They're just two more bums I get the chance to beat on. They may as well go ahead and throw in the towel before they wind up like that Valence weirdo."
"Mr. Dallas, Mr. Hardcore has been insiting riots with his "army" lately. What do you make of this?"
"I make that he's a pussy that is insecure and needs a bunch of people around him to make him feel tough enough to fight. Hardcore Army? A bunch of flabby middle aged dudes and geeky tweens aren't an army. And they sure as hell aren't hardcore. Honestly, nothing I've seen of the guy is hardcore. Oooh, he went to jail," I raised my hands, "Watch out everyone, we have a bad ass over here. This guy is a joke. Another sumo sized ego that lathers up with Crisco to look sweaty for all the pimple faced girls out there watching. Well I'm going to put an end to all that shit. Not only will I humble the spitfuck, but I'll work his face over so well even the bulls in San Quentin wouldn't touch his ass."
The people around us on their gaudy little computers were beginning to get a little uncomfortable by my passionate responses and foul mouth. Fuck them. No one was going to say anything to me. I was a big redneck hulk.
"What about Mr. Cruel, Mr. Dallas? He is coming off a number of wins."
"So? I wouldn't want to be the booker for EOV. It must be hard finding even bigger bums for guys like Cruel to fight so he doesn't get rolled like a white couple in Techwood after dark. Watching his interviews is like watching a hate crime take place: it makes you feel sad and angry at the same time. Sad that the poor fat fuck actually believes he's got something going for him and angry that you can't reach out and mushroom print his forehead. Jesus I went to the dentist last week to have a tooth pulled and it was a less painful experience than watching that jelly roll talk."
"Don't you get it, Kimosabe? I fear no man. Put me up against any of these guys from the top down and I will walk into that ring without an ounce of fear. The only man I have to fear looks at me in the mirror when I shave and not on some pussy trip about I have to overcome my self like that tool Hale spouted off about, but of what I may do if I get pushed to the limit. I have killed a man with my bare hands, Kimosabe. He said a lot less about me than any of these people have yet and he's fucking dead now."
People began to get up and move away from us.
"I'm not sure the EOV understands this. I'm a dangerous man! That ain't no bullshit, Kimosabe. Once the gloves come off and I step in that ring and it's a real fight I can't control myself. Bull i a china shop doesn't begin to describe how I feel. I'm fucking King Kong!"
An employee came over in their stupid little apron. He looked like he was about to shit his pants as he stuttered out a plea for me to calm down. I stood up and moved toward him.
"You want me to be quiet, bud?"
"Sir, it-it-it's just that some of the oth-th-ther patrons have complained."
"Why, am I scaring them? They can't drink their fuckachino's and jerk off under the table to their spreadsheets or whatever these pansies do?"
"Please, please sir just just calm down."
I took a sip of the hot coffee. It was entirely too hot and it really pissed me off.
"This. is. calm."
Houston stood up and got in between me and the scrawny employee before I had a chance to snap his puny little spine like a wishbone at Thanksgiving. I was pretty sure the poor little fuck had pissed his pants. I could feel the veins in my neck swelling and hear my heart beating in my ear. This was how shit got real.
My brother ushered us outside to his Tahoe to finish the interview. There was shit everywhere and it stank like children.
"You need to clean this fucking thing up, Houston."
"And you need some serious medications, Dallas. And many, many years of therapy."
We all laughed. Kimosabe's laugh was a little more uncomfortable, like Maury Povich when the paternity test came back and the guy wasn't the father. More of the "Yeah, see I'm cool. Please don't kill me" style than the genuine belly laugh Houston and I enjoyed.
"Ok, Kimosabe, where were we."
I sifted through my leather jacket for my pack of cigarettes. It was Pops' old leather bomber jacket. He'd been a tough motherfucker, my Pops. Rock of Gibraltar. Once I found the stogies I pulled one from the pack with my teeth and sparked the lighter. The smoke was harsh, burning my throat as it snaked its way into my lungs. I looked across to the sunset, a perfect landscape of purples and reds and oranges that shed the last life of the day on us as we sat inside the Tahoe sipping our coffees.
"Mr. Kaine. What are your thoughts on him?"
"The guy seems pretty cool. I dig the whole biker gang gig and he actually sounds like someone I'd have a beer and stomp the shit out of one spiky haired cross dresser and a mask wearing freak with. I'm glad the EOV bookers finally realized what type of person to pair me up with in these tag matches. Valence was weak. I know Kaine has lost a few lately, but it looks like the guy is gonna pull through. I see the beast in him. Sometimes you need to leave a pint on the floor to release that beast. As long as he brings his A game this week, we'll get along fine."
"Mr. Dallas what do you see for your future in the EOV?"
I thought deeply before answering this one. The truth was I hadn't really thought about it. My inner conversation was usually pretty simple and short sighted. I'd lived long enough to know that all I could do anything about was today. Pops used to say if you got one foot in tomorrow and one foot in yesterday, you're pissing all over the present. And it's called the present because it's a gift. He was a stoic motherfucker.
"Honestly, Kimosabe, I haven't thought that far ahead. I focus on the next punk they put in front of me. I say punk in the prison sense, not some skater shit. These guys they've given me so far would make a nice Sally. You get what I'm saying, Kimosabe?"
"No Mr. Dallas. I don't follow."
"I mean that if they were in prison they would be someone's bitch. Look at High Flying Hardcore. The guy's smile alone would probably get you a carton of cigarettes on a trade. His cute little tattoos look like something Houston's kids would put on at Halloween. Is that shit henna? I know that fucker didn't get under the needle."
"And the chubby guy? They love chunkers inside. He'd be cleaning my cell his first week in. Washing my drawers in the sink and shit. My only concern with him is if I'm going to throw my back out when I lift him up. We'll have to keep him to the foot game, I guess."
"Mr. Dallas you may wind up facing Mr. Kaine in the Hybrid Title tournament. What then?"
"What do you mean what then?"
"Well, you partners this week. Maybe you fight next?"
I took a deep drag, the cigarette sparking little flowers of burning embers as I did. The smoke lingered in my lungs briefly before I let the excess smoke roll out my nose in a cloud of white in front of me.
"We'll cross that bridge when we get there, Kimosabe. For now we focus on the task at hand."
"What do you think of Mr. Rowan, the first man to hold Hybrid Title?"
"Rowan has some cool ink and a gnarly beard, man," Houston piped up. He'd been sitting there in silence. Probably thinking about how long he had to massage his wife that night before she'd let him have a crack at that ass. Now he's talking about some dude's beard.
"What the fuck, Houston?"
"What, man?"
"You got a boy crush or some shit? Oh, he's got such a nice beard and those tattoos!"
"Fuck you," he said over the lid of his coffee as he turned to the windshield again to muse over whatever the fuck he thought about when he wasn't saying man over and over.
"What do I think of him, Kimosabe? I think he's gone soft. The guy got spanked by a woman last week. Don't get me wrong- she's a tough bitch. She's fucking hot, too. BUT c'mon. If he couldn't seal the deal with her then what the fuck is he doing touching gold? That's just a sad little commentary on where we're at in this world when a guy can hold a title and lose to a woman. I'll be glad to take that title and return some honor to it."
"You mean Ms. Armstrong, Mr. Dallas?'
"Yeah, I mean Ms. Armstrong."
"She is tough. Win many matches. What if you go against her?"
"Ah, fuck her, too. Fuck all of them, Kimosabe. No one is going to stand in my way. I been fighting my whole life. All you do in prison is fight. You fight for food, you fight for a good cell, you fight for respect, and you fight not to get fucked. Unless that's your thing like High Flying Hardcore. And if it is, whatever, this is 2013. I don't judge. Anyways all I've ever done is fight. Before I was a boxer I fought this asshole," I pointed to Houston, "and after that I fought my Pops. Believe me, Kimosabe, I've gone up against much tougher men than Chelsea Armstrong and come out on the other side."
I took one last drag from the cigarette and then tossed it out of the window. It exploded into a shower of a thousand tiny little fires as it hit a crack in the pavement. A weed was growing out of the crack. It was crooked and twisted, but it refused to give up.
"You see that weed over there, Kimosabe," I nodded toward where my cigarette had landed. Kimosabe peered over his bifocals and then nodded his head yes. "That weed right there is me. It refuses to be told not to grow. Put concrete over and all around it and it still says fuck you, I'm coming out on top. That's me. The best the EOV has to offer can't fucking hold me back. I will overcome. I will be victorious."
"You'll see, Kimosabe. You'll see."
I was getting better.
"One more," I called to Houston as One Eyed Bill rang the bell. I'd just laid him flat with the Hangman's Switch. It was the third time that day and we had already done cardio and some light weights to get limber.
Bill shook his head.
"Not today, killer. You got a big match coming up and I don't want you over doing it."
"C'mon Bill, I'm having too much fun here."
"Yeah, me too man," Houston sarcastically shot from the side of his mouth. He was bruised and battered and tired. But he kept showing up to spar with me and help me train day after day. Maybe he wasn't so soft after all.
"Ok fine. I gotta meat with Kimosabe to cut a promo anyways."
"Promo? What the fuck, man? You're Mr. Wrestling all of the sudden."
I shot a right hand to Houston's gut. Had to keep up appearances. Anything in life I'd cared about had been stripped from me like my freedom after that bar room fight.
"Shut up, Houston. I'm just trying to pay the bills."
I removed my sweat covered gear and climbed out of the ring, pulling off my shirt to hit the shower. Bill stopped me with a crinkly old hand laid across my chest.
"Look in that mirror, kid," he pointed to a full size, stand up mirror next to the speed bag hanging from the cracked plaster ceiling. "You look at the bastard standing next to me and ask yourself if he's ready to be a champion?"
It was a much harder question to answer than one would assume. I had spent so much time in the dark years before this being a loser. Self depreciation was a tough one to over come, but the will to survive had been scratching and clawing and climbing back in.
It was a tall order to do what Bill said. I made a habit of never looking myself in the mirror from all the guilt and shame of throwing my career down the drain all those years ago, but I looked at myself like Bill said. I was covered in sweat and my muscles were bulging from all the stress put on them. My posture was more straight than it had been in a long time, my back straight like a live oak. Above all it was my eyes.
My eyes were bright and full of life like a man that was actually living with a purpose. There was no more denying it: wrestling had taken its place in my life. It was giving me a reason to find my peak. The peak everyone thought had past.
"Thanks Bill," I said before walking to the shower.
A few hours later
"Mr. Dallas," Kimosabe called to me through the crowd. He wanted to meet at a fucking Starbucks again. It disgusted me to be honest. All the yuppies in their suits and ties drinking fucking caramel machifrappos or whatever the fuck they served here. Everyone had an apple computer and they were all SO busy on them. It was like being in a room full of magnets that kept missing each other: All alike but completely afraid to connect.
"Why the fuck do we always meet here, Kimosabe?"
"I like the tea, Mr. Dallas. Reminds me of home."
"Well I hope these fucking douchebags don't remind you of home. If so your home sucks."
"C'mon man, it's not that bad," Houston said as he sat down with our coffees. I didn't get why people couldn't just drink coffee. What the fuck is wrong with coffee that it needs to be put in a sundress with make up on?
"Mr. Dallas, this week you and Jason Kaine will face Mr. Cruel and Mr. Hardcore. Both men win their matches last week. How do you feel about this?"
"I don't care about either of them."
"Hey Dallas, Cruel is a Mexican. You hate Mexicans."
The yuppy next to us perked up.
"Shut the fuck up, Houston. I don't hate Mexicans."
"Well, you used to, man."
"Yeah well you go live with a couple thousand of them and you'll probably find peace with your issues pretty fucking quick too."
I took a sip of the coffee. It was bitter.
"You know what I think of them, Kimosabe? I really don't care. They're just two more bums I get the chance to beat on. They may as well go ahead and throw in the towel before they wind up like that Valence weirdo."
"Mr. Dallas, Mr. Hardcore has been insiting riots with his "army" lately. What do you make of this?"
"I make that he's a pussy that is insecure and needs a bunch of people around him to make him feel tough enough to fight. Hardcore Army? A bunch of flabby middle aged dudes and geeky tweens aren't an army. And they sure as hell aren't hardcore. Honestly, nothing I've seen of the guy is hardcore. Oooh, he went to jail," I raised my hands, "Watch out everyone, we have a bad ass over here. This guy is a joke. Another sumo sized ego that lathers up with Crisco to look sweaty for all the pimple faced girls out there watching. Well I'm going to put an end to all that shit. Not only will I humble the spitfuck, but I'll work his face over so well even the bulls in San Quentin wouldn't touch his ass."
The people around us on their gaudy little computers were beginning to get a little uncomfortable by my passionate responses and foul mouth. Fuck them. No one was going to say anything to me. I was a big redneck hulk.
"What about Mr. Cruel, Mr. Dallas? He is coming off a number of wins."
"So? I wouldn't want to be the booker for EOV. It must be hard finding even bigger bums for guys like Cruel to fight so he doesn't get rolled like a white couple in Techwood after dark. Watching his interviews is like watching a hate crime take place: it makes you feel sad and angry at the same time. Sad that the poor fat fuck actually believes he's got something going for him and angry that you can't reach out and mushroom print his forehead. Jesus I went to the dentist last week to have a tooth pulled and it was a less painful experience than watching that jelly roll talk."
"Don't you get it, Kimosabe? I fear no man. Put me up against any of these guys from the top down and I will walk into that ring without an ounce of fear. The only man I have to fear looks at me in the mirror when I shave and not on some pussy trip about I have to overcome my self like that tool Hale spouted off about, but of what I may do if I get pushed to the limit. I have killed a man with my bare hands, Kimosabe. He said a lot less about me than any of these people have yet and he's fucking dead now."
People began to get up and move away from us.
"I'm not sure the EOV understands this. I'm a dangerous man! That ain't no bullshit, Kimosabe. Once the gloves come off and I step in that ring and it's a real fight I can't control myself. Bull i a china shop doesn't begin to describe how I feel. I'm fucking King Kong!"
An employee came over in their stupid little apron. He looked like he was about to shit his pants as he stuttered out a plea for me to calm down. I stood up and moved toward him.
"You want me to be quiet, bud?"
"Sir, it-it-it's just that some of the oth-th-ther patrons have complained."
"Why, am I scaring them? They can't drink their fuckachino's and jerk off under the table to their spreadsheets or whatever these pansies do?"
"Please, please sir just just calm down."
I took a sip of the hot coffee. It was entirely too hot and it really pissed me off.
"This. is. calm."
Houston stood up and got in between me and the scrawny employee before I had a chance to snap his puny little spine like a wishbone at Thanksgiving. I was pretty sure the poor little fuck had pissed his pants. I could feel the veins in my neck swelling and hear my heart beating in my ear. This was how shit got real.
My brother ushered us outside to his Tahoe to finish the interview. There was shit everywhere and it stank like children.
"You need to clean this fucking thing up, Houston."
"And you need some serious medications, Dallas. And many, many years of therapy."
We all laughed. Kimosabe's laugh was a little more uncomfortable, like Maury Povich when the paternity test came back and the guy wasn't the father. More of the "Yeah, see I'm cool. Please don't kill me" style than the genuine belly laugh Houston and I enjoyed.
"Ok, Kimosabe, where were we."
I sifted through my leather jacket for my pack of cigarettes. It was Pops' old leather bomber jacket. He'd been a tough motherfucker, my Pops. Rock of Gibraltar. Once I found the stogies I pulled one from the pack with my teeth and sparked the lighter. The smoke was harsh, burning my throat as it snaked its way into my lungs. I looked across to the sunset, a perfect landscape of purples and reds and oranges that shed the last life of the day on us as we sat inside the Tahoe sipping our coffees.
"Mr. Kaine. What are your thoughts on him?"
"The guy seems pretty cool. I dig the whole biker gang gig and he actually sounds like someone I'd have a beer and stomp the shit out of one spiky haired cross dresser and a mask wearing freak with. I'm glad the EOV bookers finally realized what type of person to pair me up with in these tag matches. Valence was weak. I know Kaine has lost a few lately, but it looks like the guy is gonna pull through. I see the beast in him. Sometimes you need to leave a pint on the floor to release that beast. As long as he brings his A game this week, we'll get along fine."
"Mr. Dallas what do you see for your future in the EOV?"
I thought deeply before answering this one. The truth was I hadn't really thought about it. My inner conversation was usually pretty simple and short sighted. I'd lived long enough to know that all I could do anything about was today. Pops used to say if you got one foot in tomorrow and one foot in yesterday, you're pissing all over the present. And it's called the present because it's a gift. He was a stoic motherfucker.
"Honestly, Kimosabe, I haven't thought that far ahead. I focus on the next punk they put in front of me. I say punk in the prison sense, not some skater shit. These guys they've given me so far would make a nice Sally. You get what I'm saying, Kimosabe?"
"No Mr. Dallas. I don't follow."
"I mean that if they were in prison they would be someone's bitch. Look at High Flying Hardcore. The guy's smile alone would probably get you a carton of cigarettes on a trade. His cute little tattoos look like something Houston's kids would put on at Halloween. Is that shit henna? I know that fucker didn't get under the needle."
"And the chubby guy? They love chunkers inside. He'd be cleaning my cell his first week in. Washing my drawers in the sink and shit. My only concern with him is if I'm going to throw my back out when I lift him up. We'll have to keep him to the foot game, I guess."
"Mr. Dallas you may wind up facing Mr. Kaine in the Hybrid Title tournament. What then?"
"What do you mean what then?"
"Well, you partners this week. Maybe you fight next?"
I took a deep drag, the cigarette sparking little flowers of burning embers as I did. The smoke lingered in my lungs briefly before I let the excess smoke roll out my nose in a cloud of white in front of me.
"We'll cross that bridge when we get there, Kimosabe. For now we focus on the task at hand."
"What do you think of Mr. Rowan, the first man to hold Hybrid Title?"
"Rowan has some cool ink and a gnarly beard, man," Houston piped up. He'd been sitting there in silence. Probably thinking about how long he had to massage his wife that night before she'd let him have a crack at that ass. Now he's talking about some dude's beard.
"What the fuck, Houston?"
"What, man?"
"You got a boy crush or some shit? Oh, he's got such a nice beard and those tattoos!"
"Fuck you," he said over the lid of his coffee as he turned to the windshield again to muse over whatever the fuck he thought about when he wasn't saying man over and over.
"What do I think of him, Kimosabe? I think he's gone soft. The guy got spanked by a woman last week. Don't get me wrong- she's a tough bitch. She's fucking hot, too. BUT c'mon. If he couldn't seal the deal with her then what the fuck is he doing touching gold? That's just a sad little commentary on where we're at in this world when a guy can hold a title and lose to a woman. I'll be glad to take that title and return some honor to it."
"You mean Ms. Armstrong, Mr. Dallas?'
"Yeah, I mean Ms. Armstrong."
"She is tough. Win many matches. What if you go against her?"
"Ah, fuck her, too. Fuck all of them, Kimosabe. No one is going to stand in my way. I been fighting my whole life. All you do in prison is fight. You fight for food, you fight for a good cell, you fight for respect, and you fight not to get fucked. Unless that's your thing like High Flying Hardcore. And if it is, whatever, this is 2013. I don't judge. Anyways all I've ever done is fight. Before I was a boxer I fought this asshole," I pointed to Houston, "and after that I fought my Pops. Believe me, Kimosabe, I've gone up against much tougher men than Chelsea Armstrong and come out on the other side."
I took one last drag from the cigarette and then tossed it out of the window. It exploded into a shower of a thousand tiny little fires as it hit a crack in the pavement. A weed was growing out of the crack. It was crooked and twisted, but it refused to give up.
"You see that weed over there, Kimosabe," I nodded toward where my cigarette had landed. Kimosabe peered over his bifocals and then nodded his head yes. "That weed right there is me. It refuses to be told not to grow. Put concrete over and all around it and it still says fuck you, I'm coming out on top. That's me. The best the EOV has to offer can't fucking hold me back. I will overcome. I will be victorious."
"You'll see, Kimosabe. You'll see."
FIN
