I Try To Fix A Pro Wrestling Match

I had a bright idea that the Organization should get involved in the professional wrestling game, specifically, to fix the biggest match in this area in some time, coming up tomorrow, Polish champ Stanislaus Zbyszko vs. dried up Jack Taylor.

I told Tony -- Mr. Big -- my idea, and he was dubious we could pull it off. One, he's never heard of pro wrestling being fixed before; it's always on the up and up. Still, I had his blessing, if I could successfully arrange it. He said he'd put 50 Gs on the match with a Zbyszko fall. Because of course Zby's the overwhelming favorite.

We got ahold of Al Reynolds, the promoter. I heard him yawn on the phone, "Surrrre, come over, bring your boys, whatever..." Tony told me to take the only former pro wrestler in the Organization, Big Brute, to help out, who was also skeptical. In short, we made threats, we used the old strong arm technique, both usually effective as an opening gambit ... but not in the field of pro wrestling! Those guys would not bend!

So Tony and Brute were right. And I'm thinking, You mean to tell me pro wrestling's on the up and up? Why aren't there reports of matches in the daily news, sports journals, and almanacs? You're telling me those big garish belts are actually awarded to legitimate winners? I couldn't believe it!

I said I wanted Zbyszko and Jack Taylor to trade falls, then for Zby to take a powder in the 3rd and final fall. Geez, what money there'd be! Stanislaus is a future hall of famer, no one expects him to lose! Taylor's best days are far behind him. Why they even picked that half dead layabout, I'll never know. Not when guys like Earl Caddock and Ed "Strangler" Lewis of headlock fame were available! You tell me!

Anyway, I didn't want to take no for an answer. I pulled out my gun. Brute tried to calm me down. I went up on the ring, shot 40 shells in the mat, and said, "That could've been your head!" They weren't impressed.

I asked the wrestling boss if he had any pictures of his kids. He tossed me his wallet. I took out a big string of pictures, stuck them on a nail on the wall, and shot the shit out of them. These photographic memories of his children, once so recognizable you could pick out each one as a distinctive individual, were like New Year confetti. You couldn't tell which were girls and which boys. All traces of gender were gone, as were all traces of anything, except you could still see the original photos were in color, since the pile of resulting confetti was colorful, as confetti generally is. It didn't matter, he said, the integrity of the sport was too important.

You mean to tell me?.....

I still had one huge ace up my sleeve. Before arriving, some of the guys had abducted some of these guys' mothers. We led them in in chains. They were crying, etc. But everyone remained very calm. The mothers were assisted into the ring, and some of the other boys brought in a full arsenal of machine guns. We were going to get a deal or the mothers would die!

But now it was the mothers' turn to plead, which turned out badly. Instead of pleading for their lives, they pleaded for their sons to keep intact their honesty. "We will gladly die, please allow us to die! Just do not stain your honor or that of professional wrestling for any reason as selfish as keeping us alive. The sport must be Number 1, it must go on! We've lived a good life. We are ready to die." They laid it on thick, as you can tell.

Meaning, we eventually let the mothers go, and gave up. I couldn't believe the sport of pro wrestling was indeed a sport, so entirely above board and incorruptible. I thought it was a sham. But every word is true. It happened just like I said...

In the end, I was philosophical about it: Into every life a little rain must fall. At least I thought that was the end. Al Reynolds and some of his bruisers grabbed us and tossed us around the ring like rag dolls, supplying us a full and vicious pummeling for good measure, their feeling on the subject, not mine.

Criminals Drink Freely On My Dime

There's a lot to learn when you enter the world of the criminal, as I have. You think normal society is tough, paying your bills, taking care of yourself, telling phone salespeople you're not interested and don't call back, letting the dog out all the time, and staying happy. The life of the criminal isn't that much better, except of course it's much more thrilling being on the run with the constant threat of being killed.

Already, in just a few days, I've had to learn how to cope with being severely beaten without calling an ambulance, and to have the confidence to hold a switchblade up to the throat of a professional wrestler who's served both as my lover and abuser. And it wasn't just the switchblade [chuckling], I guess I also ground his face in the gravel in the alley. :) One other thing, I'm getting down the pecking order, and I'm seeing how I might be able to rise in the organization. Some of these guys aren't that smart, which is what you get when you're hopped up and crazed on drugs and booze.

So booze has its advantages and its disadvantages. If it helps me gain greater power as a criminal, that's good. I'm myself not much of a drinker, having the discipline to severely limit myself. But these other birds, crazy and stupid like I said, I could easily get them drunk, kill a few, and establish myself as Mr. Big in, I don't know, a few days. Give or take. But right now I'm still the new guy.

One thing about being the new guy is "they say" the new guy has to buy for everyone. And wouldn't you know I'd have to be the new guy on Super Bowl Sunday! So we were over at the bar -- Youngsie's -- and I learned that Johnny, the boss of this particular gang, a subset of a larger organization, had already opened a tab in my name. Whether Youngsie liked that, who knows? He probably didn't have a choice. Just like he didn't have a choice when I stopped in for a pickle and Beer Nuts today and couldn't pay.

So yesterday, all the Guys and Dolls came out of the woodwork and were at Youngsie's. My tab was open and they were helping themselves freely. It was literally a free-for-all, with Youngsie looking at me and giving me a thumbs-up every once in a while, really a kind of question. I kept flashing him a thumbs-up. They started in about noon, then the game was about 5, and it went a few hours, then the post-game BS was on, etc. All around, guys were paying up on bets, blah blah blah, but no one offered a cent of moolah for the drinky-poos.

Today, then, I went in -- me, Big Brute, and a couple other guys. Youngsie looked pained. Everyone had drunk so much and ate so much yesterday he was about out of everything. I thought, WTF do I care about your business? Then I realized the connection. He wasn't going to give me the damned pickle (and he was out of Beer Nuts) till I settled up! He needed the cash to pay his supplier, which about drove me crazy. I felt my face go flush. I reached up and clicked my fingers. I'm no boss but all this happened on instinct.

A couple of the other boys took my signal and charged over to beat the crap out of Youngsie and a couple of his boys. Then I took up a bottle and smashed it randomly against some of the bottles he had behind the bar. What a mess! The guys held Youngsie and I delivered a solid fist to his gut. "That's a down payment on what I owe you," I spat, feeling quite impertinent, lacking a pickle but very full of piss and vinegar.

We went triumphantly to the pickle jar and I proclaimed, "Pickles for everyone, my treat!" My last word to Youngsie as we left was, "Put it on my tab!" I laughed. Big Brute slammed the door and broke the plate glass window. I looked in at the still hunched over Youngsie and said, "That goes on his tab!," referring of course to Brute.

Big Brute -- Criminals Get Tough Love

You remember, Big Brute beat the crap out of me and left me locked in a dark room, no light and nothing but a ratty couch. I figured I was in there for the whole night so I decided to make the best of it. But one of the gang, maybe meaning to rough me up, unlocked the door and came in. He put a flashlight on my face and saw I was looking bad, with the dried blood and all. So he stood aside and I left.

I roamed the streets most of the night, thinking it over, Do I really want to be a criminal? For a while I felt sorry for myself. I passed a window and saw my bruises and cuts. But then I came to a new resolve. The bastard jumped me, I took his worst, and I was still able to walk. There was no more doubt: The life of crime is the life for me. And really, getting beat up like that isn't so bad. It's all in the dues a newbie pays.

As for Big Brute, honestly I felt like I actually like him. After all, he did choose me to sit next to, so there must have been something about me that turned him on. Sure, the beating hurt like hell, but, you know, maybe he did pull his punches. As a former professional wrestler, surely he could've done so much worse. Maybe he beat me just enough to let the other guys know I was tough and could take it. Which could've had something to do with the guy who opened the door letting me go. Maybe Brute himself even sent the guy down there!

With my new resolve for the criminal life, then, I did more than brood over my situation. I did a few things wrong. Nothing terrible. Just enough to keep my interest level up. I cut a big hole in someone's screen door. And I saw some rabbit cages in someone's backyard and opened them. That was funny, because the rabbits were in more of a hurry to get away than me!

The next day I went back to Skidrow. The whole gang was sitting there and seemed surprised to see me, especially Big Brute, who looked up and appeared a little sheepish. I told him hi, trying to keep a meek, almost fearful look, which was a ploy. I wasn't making eye contact. One of the other guys asked me where I'd been. I told them about the screen door and rabbits, earning me about five thumbs-up. Conspicuous by its absence was a thumbs-up from Brute.

I went over and asked if I could talk to him, very meek and nice as pie. We went down the alley a bit, within plain sight of the others but far enough that we could speak privately, had that been my real motive. I hung my head, as though submitting to him in fear. Then he told me, "I did all that to toughen you up, so you'd make it..." He looked a little proud of that, but his pride was suddenly removed with a swift kick to the nuts and me behind him in a close approximation of a bear hug with my blade up to his throat.

I screamed out he was going to die! He knew I didn't have anything to live for and of my need for revenge. So he was totally convinced I was going to slit his throat and gut his sorry ass right then and there. "Down on your knees, you worthless scumbag!" I yelled, going down with him with the blade still in place. After he'd dropped, I kicked him full force in the center of his back and he crumpled head first. "Is that tough enough for you?" I screamed, my foot grinding his face in the gravel.

With a new understanding between us, we returned to the group. Of course they had a new respect for me. But for all my anger, things seemed very even with me and Brute. We were cordial, and now the best of buds.

Big Brute -- A Meeting Of Criminals

Well, I've been a professional criminal now for a few days. In case you missed the "extreme makeover," and maybe can't quite believe it, let me assure you, it's true! I've been reading the biography of Jean Genet and he was my inspiration...

I've pretty well fit in with the guys in the alleys in the Skidrow district of town. Socially, that is. I haven't carved out my own criminal niche as of yet, but they assure me I can look forward to various forms of mischief, each with its own distinctive thrills. I can hardly wait!

As it turns out, and this is surprising, they've got a kind of pecking order, just like we're in prison even though we're completely free. They trade cigarettes like currency, that sort of thing. Which might ultimately make me a millionaire since I don't smoke. And I'm not about to start, with the health risks and the fact that my current life insurance policies are all predicated on the fact that I'm a non-smoker.

I don't know the complete pecking order, but clearly the knives are out for anyone who screws with it. Around the fire last night, we were just shooting the breeze, and I said, "What happens if someone crosses the line vis-a-vis the pecking order, whether intentionally or unintentionally, if you indeed allow that distinction?" From each hand, as if synchronized, flashed an opening switchblade. From which I was given to infer that there would be some danger to the person who foolishly made that error. But they were nice about it, even to the point of issuing me my own "blade," as they called it, seeing I had none.

There was another interesting little piece of synchronization that occurred. (They seem to move in sync like birds, although it's more likely they're simply creatures of habit.) They moved and shuffled and were in a circle around the fire. I just kept my place, and noticed that one particular guy made a special move to be on my right. I learned he goes by the name "Brute," having been a pro wrestler at one time known as "Big Brute." We exchanged pleasantries.

Then I saw the nature of the gathering, which probably should be more innocently described in terms of a Society for Mutual Relief. Our dates for the evening were already present and ready to hand, so to speak. A scrawny guy was on my left, with Brute on my right, who moved with some authority to dominate my attention. Clearly, he wanted to get better acquainted, which was very nice. I'm sure Scrawny was happy with his activities, but if truth be known, my eyes were strictly on Brute.

Later, and this is where the story turns a little more unpleasant, we paired off, with me and Brute going down to some little room he knew of, mostly bare except for a ratty couch and an unshaded light bulb strung from the ceiling. Honestly, I figured we'd sit on the couch and talk of our interests, hobbies, and such. But when I looked up, he was all fists and kicks. He beat the crap out of me. So there I was, sprawled on the couch, bleeding everywhere. The guy had power. He reached up and squashed the bulb with his hand. Then he left the room and I heard the door lock.

I lay there in the dark, feeling kind of blah -- is that the right word? Crappy? Cold? Afraid? Dejected? But I still had my thoughts, and so my hopes looked ahead to a brighter future, to even bigger thrills in my new life of crime...