Children of the Corn Cereal

September 28, 2015

Thunder Bay, Ontario, Canada

Armed & Dangerous

During the show...

    It’s your typical freezing day in Canada. Freezing by my standards, I mean. I’m not used to the frosty weather. On any other day, I’d care; but I’m far too nervous. Tonight is the first night I’ll be wrestling on national pay-per-view. Sure, I’d wrestled on iPPV back in Australia, I’d had a decent amount of exposure during my time as an FBW Superstar… But nothing compares to this. To say there are butterflies in my stomach would be an understatement -- it’s more like eagles; very large eagles. And they’re all throwing up. Simultaneously.

    I check the time -- only twenty minutes to go until I’m on. I’m down the back of the arena, in a secluded space away from everyone in the dressing room, where I’m most comfortable. Besides, I need to focus, and I can’t do that with the threading of laces and the snapping of wrist tape in the company of my Visionary peers.

    I often wonder, you know… How did I get this far? How did a chubby, average guy from the rural part of Chermside make it in the wrestling world? All you’ve got to do is look around, and you’ll see what I mean… Owen Gonsalves, Cameron Behringer, Stacy Jones, Calvin Harris -- what do they all have in common? They look like wrestlers; they look like they belong here.

    I wrap the tape around my wrists, biting it off as it seems sufficient. A quick fist-to-palm test assures me that it’s good to go. The thick smacking sound the tape makes when it collides with the palm of the adjacent hand is similar to that of an opponent’s spine smacking the canvas when I drive them down with Game Over. I’ll never tire of that sound.

This is my night, I can smell it. The moment I’ve worked long and hard for, it’s finally within my reach. I stand silent for a moment, trying to envision myself ending the night with the strap held high.

I’m no stranger to championship gold. In fact, I’ve held plenty of titles in my five year career, spanning from dozens of promotions of several different continents. Sure, every championship you win gives you an amazing sense of accomplishment -- you did it! You defeated the best, and in turn, you took their spot atop the throne. But there’s just something extra special about that first championship you win. When you’re standing victorious in that ring, with thousands of screaming fans exploding in a roar of admiration for your achievement, and the referee hands your newly-won prize to your sweaty hands… It’s a feeling that consumes you, in an almost overwhelming way. I can’t even begin to describe what it’s like to someone who hasn’t experienced it first-hand. There’s nothing better in this world.

“Hey, dude! What you doing all the way back here?”

I snap from my thoughts at the sound of someone obviously addressing me, as there’s no-one else willing to step into the spider-infested back corner of the arena where all the cases of stage equipment are stored. I turn to see a smiling familiar face; my best friend, my brother, Heath Williams… Complete with aviators and a can of Monster. I consider quizzing him on his decision to wear aviators in an area of the arena that resembles an underwater cavern in terms of general visibility, but I’m still trying to focus, so I let it slide. “You know you can get ready in the dressing rooms, right?” he continues, with a slight hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“Not really my scene,” I bluntly respond, proceeding to tape up the other wrist. Heath takes one final slurp from his can -- the kind that is done to ensure every remaining molecule of the liquid that once inhabited it has been removed -- before crushing it and tossing it into the nearby trash. He picks up the roll of wrist tape I set down on the crate in front of me before climbing onto it himself.

“You nervous or something?” he questions. I let out a deep sigh, believing that will be suffice as an answer. “Well..?” he follows up. Evidently, I didn’t get my initial point across.

“I’m about to go out there on national pay-per-view, and compete for my first championship in the biggest company I’ve ever worked for,” I remind him, and in the process, remind myself why my stomach has been doing somersaults all afternoon.

“What have you got to worry about? Look at you! You’re a tank, man!”

His words bring a slight smile to my face -- the first in I don’t know how long.

“It wasn’t always that way,” I respond in joking fashion, referencing my thinner days as I complete the pre-match ritual of taping up the fists. Heath chuckles -- maybe it’s genuine, maybe it’s just to humour me -- but either way, it puts me at ease, if only for a minute. It serves to lighten the mood, as their was a tense atmosphere when Heath approached minutes earlier.

A few moments of silence pass, before Heath finally removes his aviators and folds them to sit in his v-neck. “I’m taking you to the fanciest strip joint in town after you win that belt tonight,” he states with a nudge.

“As cool as that sounds, I don’t think I’ll be up for it,” I respond.

“Oh, Jos?”

He hit the nail right on the head. My girlfriend, Jos; better known to the Australian indy fans as Rebecca and/or Becky Saint. We started wrestling around the same time as each other, but we’d met years prior in high school. After six years of friendship, things just jelled, and we started dating. She’s always on my mind, no matter the site or situation. She knew this was something I really wanted, to come out and compete for the North American fans, and I almost didn’t go for the sake of staying with her. But she pushed me to do it. That’s the kind of special girl she is, she’ll sacrifice her happiness in order to support me in anything I want to pursue. I’m really lucky.

“I just miss her, you know?” I confess to Heath, confiscating the tape from him, which he’s been fiddling with the entire conversation. He jumps down from the crate, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder as he does.

“You remember the shit we had to go through to get here?” he quizzes, clearly looking to change the subject.

Boy, do I ever.

Three days earlier…

Just south of Ontario, Canada

    There were four of us in this tiny little van, heading toward our destination. It was a typical freezing cold day, and the AC was busted, so no warming for us. The van was a second-hand vehicle we got dirt cheap from a panel beater who was a friend of my dad’s; it was used as a Mystery Machine at children’s parties, probably when the total Scooby-Doo episodes was yet to see double digits.

    I was seated in the back, as I was prone to travel sickness, and that’s where the famed “barf bucket” was situated. If the prospect of hypothermia and frostbite from sub zero temperatures wasn’t enough to make the drive uncomfortable, there was a burly Samoan gentleman seated right beside me, belting out songs playing on the radio -- the very same radio that was blasting static louder and louder as we traveled out of broadcast range.

    “I MUST CONFESS… THAT MY LONELINESS… IS KILLING ME NOOOOWWWWOWWWOWWWWWW!!”

    “Griss, that’s enough, man…” a weak, irritated voice groaned from the front passenger seat, the source being a very tired, very hungover Heath Williams.

    This has always been a common situation during our road trips. Our friend, whom we affectionately named Gristle, was a professional wrestler we had known for many years, stemming back from our days on the Australian independents. The catch is, he’s always had a secret attraction to the performing arts in a more vocal capacity. You’re probably wondering why we named him Gristle… In all my life, I’ve never seen a man devour a steak -- gristle and all -- the way he could.

    Gristle’s pipes of steel were generally poorly-received by Heath, who wasn’t very fond of pop music to begin with. Just imagine having a killer hangover, and having to endure a three-hour car ride with a bellowing brute of a man belting out chart-topping hits at the top of his lungs the whole time. Although Gristle’s singing never really bothered me, I can see why it would get under Heath’s skin the way it did on so many occasions.

    The three of us were carpooling together, due to the fact that Heath and I had to make the Armed & Dangerous pay-per-view, while Gristle was wrestling an indy show nearby. Gristle, who had been forbidden from singing, decided to strike up a conversation about wrestling.

    “Hey, Heath… Who’s your favourite wrestler?”

    “My what?” Heath asked, disoriented.

    “Who’s your favourite wrestler?”

    “I’m my fuckin’ favourite wrestler!” Heath hissed, disinterested in continuing the conversation.

    “What about you, Ty?” Gristle turned his attention to me. “Who’s your favourite wrestler?”

    I didn’t have to think long and hard about this one. “Ricky Fable,” I responded almost instantly, to which a wide-eyed Gristle repeated the name for clarity. The answer even got the half-head turn from Heath, which was rare in his hungover state.

    “Why’d you like Fable?”

    “Just the way he could command a crowd,” I explained. “He knew just what to say, when to say it, and how to use it to get the results he wanted. He was the master.”

    There was much more to it than the answer I gave. I’d watched wrestling from a very young age, and many wrestlers stood out to me, but none the way Ricky Fable did. He was a brilliant in-ring competitor, knew every move like the back of his own hand. I even adopted a variation of his finisher, the Brain Buster, and made it my own as a tribute of sorts to him.

    But, though all the fantastic matches, there was one moment that made me a lifelong Ricky Fable fan. One moment that lives on as the greatest backstage interview I have ever seen. It was right after he had won the World Championship -- which he had been chasing for over a year -- confetti still adhered to his sweat-drenched body as he staggered exhausted backstage, clutching his newly won prize.

    “Oh, it feels great to be at the top!” he exclaimed. “I’ve got all my fans in the stands, all my fans sitting at home, to thank for supporting me through thick and thin! When I was down and out, when I was up and in! You’re the reason for this dream becoming a reality! When that confetti fell from those rafters, I knew… I knew that this was the greatest night of my entire life! If I could, I’d like to take a moment to speak to my young fans at home.” He took on a serious demeanor, like his entire personality changed, as he stared deep into the camera and addressed his young fans -- one, of which, was me.

“No matter who you are, or where you come from; it doesn’t matter the language you speak, the colour of your skin. Whether you’re short, tall, big or small… You...are...you! When I started in this business, I was told I was too small to ever amount to anything… And now, look at me! On top of the world, as its champion! Dreams come true, friends, and I want you to remember one thing… If I can do it, you can do it, too.”

I memorised that interview, word for word. It was single-handedly responsible for me deciding I wanted to be a professional wrestler in the first place. Ricky’s words rang true; it didn’t matter if I was too skinny -- which I was, at that time -- or too chubby -- like I became later on in life. If I wanted something, anything in life, I just had to set my mind to it and work harder than everyone around me to achieve it.

    “We’re almost there,” piped up the driver. Henry Leroy Robertson -- or simply “Leroy”, as many called him -- was… I guess you’d call him our manager? He was, back in the day, the one who organised our training, and got us from point A to B due to none of us being legally able to drive at this stage. We decided to retain him as our designated driver, due to Heath’s drinking habits, my travel sickness and Gristle’s tendency to get carried away with his singing and almost sending us careening off a cliff. Having someone to drive us around was the best option.

    Leroy was a guy who had a way with words. He could take chicken crap, and make you believe it’s chicken salad. It’s not like he did that to purposefully mislead people, it was more of a way to convince those around him to do what he needed them to do; Heath, Gristle and I topping that list. Leroy had many friends in the business, with one of them situated about an hour out from Thunder Bay.

    This pal of Leroy’s had contacted him regarding his boys, informing him that he his state-of-the-art gym was free this weekend, and that we could stay at and use for our training, leading up to the biggest shows of our lives.

No, no... Not that kind of Gym...

This kind of gym...

By the way, I just want to stress that this is not a photo from the gym in question... It's from the gym provided to us by VoW. Still, it gets my point across.

      It sounded perfect, almost like it was too good to be true; a resort right next door, plenty of great fishing spots, a bar where we could unwind.

     Within the next half hour, we were travelling along nicely. Heath had either passed out or died from alcohol poisoning, I couldn’t really tell at the time, and Gristle had lulled himself to sleep by singing to himself a much-slower tempo rendition of I Wanna Be Sedated by The Ramones, of all songs. Leroy soon became agitated by the static from the stereo, and rather than find a functional station, he switched it off entirely to add silence to a list of uncomfortable things about this car ride.

    After what seemed like what had to be an eternity, we had finally arrived. Leroy leaned over the back of his seat, and made sure to whisper as quietly as he could to not wake the others, “Hey, Ty… You mind getting out and checking about the rooms?”

    I was eager to exit the vehicle, as Gristle turned out to be a cuddler while sleeping. First impression of the so-called resort was less-than-impressive, to say the least -- really old fuel pumps stood out front, all rusted and and flaking, like they hadn’t been used in decades. The building itself was falling to bits, with windows boarded, paint peeling and a single beam -- which looked important to the building’s support structure at one time -- was hanging down in the doorway.

    I cautiously stepped inside the building, half-wondering if I had actually fallen asleep on the van and this was some horrible dream where Freddy Krueger was watching, biding his time until he could make his move. As the natural light crept into the lobby, for what seemed like the first time in years, the smell of rotted wood and mould patches wafted the air. With air so polluted you’d swear you’re in Los Angeles, I used my t-shirt as a makeshift cloth to mask the smell, edging my way ever so prudently towards where I believed I could speak to someone and receive an explanation for what ever was going on around here.

    Nothing. There was no-one there, and rightfully so.

    As I turned to leave, I heard something -- very faintly, but it was still there -- “Be vewwy, vewwy quiet… I’m hunting wabbits!”

    Elmer Fudd..? Had I finally lost it? Maybe the mould spores had entered my cerebrum and were affecting my senses in some strange, hallucinogenic way. The faint sound was followed by that ever-so-lovable “Eh… What’s up, doc?”

    It couldn’t be a coincidence. Ignoring every basic human instinct to get the hell out of there, I decided to find the source of the Looney Tunes cartoon. Maybe I was nuts, simply hearing things that weren’t there, or maybe there was someone around afterall.

    As I neared the end of the hall, the shenanigans of Bugs Bunny were almost as clear as day; muffled only by the paint-stripped, rotting wooden door standing between myself and the room it seemed to be emitting from. But, that’s not the only sound I could hear -- another sound, almost like someone scrunching up bubble wrap or old newspapers.

    Preferring not to take my chances in the van again, I slowly opened the door, its hinges giving a lusty creak as I did so. The room was dim. In fact, the only source of light was the television blaring in the back corner. Seating on the floor, directly in front of it where two dozen children, eating cereal. A little creeped out, I opened the door a little wider to scan the room, finding only two big, queen-sized beds pushed together with corroded mattresses sitting atop them. No adults, nothing. Just children, eating their cereal. It became even stranger when one girl got up from her place on the floor, and began jumping on one of the beds with an almost sadistic-sounding giggle -- her blank eyes staring right at me. None of the other children acknowledged or even noticed that I was there; just her.

    I inhaled hard as I gathered up the courage to make the journey back to the van; it was a heck of a lot more appealing than sticking around, waiting to be stabbed with dessert spoons. As I got back to the van, Leroy looked at me with a perplexed expression.

    “What’s gotten under your skin?” he inquired, removing the cigarette from his mouth. I didn’t respond at first, I was still too shaken up by what I’d just witnessed. Did that actually just happen? Leroy shook Heath and Gristle awake, ordering them to get out and help with a “Hey, you lot! Go help Princess here check us in!”

    Once Heath and Gristle had woken up enough to be responsive, I decided maybe we should try the gym next door. While the guys would ask questions, I wouldn’t answer, as I was still trying to wrap my mind around what was just witnessed in there. Walking into the “gym” was more of the same as the “resort” -- a run-down, falling to bits death trap. Except for one notable difference… There was a large, tattooed, mulleted man in a trucker cap, standing behind what looked to be a reception counter, reading a magazine.

    “This is the famous gym we’ve been hearing about?” a dumbfounded Gristle commented, taking a look at his surroundings.

    “Someone oughta tell that guy he’s rockin’ a mullet a couple of decades too late,” Heath chimed in. I approached the man, resisting the urge to lean on the counter for fear of falling through to the basement.

    “Umm…” I cleared my throat, then continued. “Excuse me?”

    The man looked up from his magazine, itching his handlebar as if we’ve disturbed him. Gristle recoiled in disgust as I continued to try to gather information. “Is this where we check in to the hotel?”

    “Hotel?” he scoffed, before responding in a redneck accent. “There ain’t no hotel ‘round these parts. Unless ya’ll the wrasslers?”

    “The whaa?” asked a perplexed Heath, not familiar with the thick accent.

    “Yes, we’re the wrestlers,” I jumped in.

    “We ain’t had any of yer kind ‘round these parts in many a’ years!”

    I fake-laughed -- as you do in these situations -- and we had a few minutes of small talk about something, I don’t know, I wasn’t really listening. He stood up from his seat with a loud creaking sound that could have been the floor, or his old bones, hard to pinpoint. He ever-so-slowly led us next door, to the same building where I’d seen the children earlier. After what seemed like an eternity of fumbling with his keys, he finally found the correct one, and opened the door to what was described as the luxury suite. “Ya’ll enjoy your stay now, ya hear?”

    As he trudged off, returning to his post, Gristle began to sing once again. “Come listen to my story ‘bout a man named Jed, a poor mountaineer barely kept his family fed. Then one day, he was--”

“Gristle, not now!” Heath snapped at him, silencing Gristle’s impromptu Beverly Hillbillies tribute to the innkeeper. It only took two steps inside for the foul stench of the room hit us -- almost like an old sweaty gym sock had been eaten and pooped out by a dog, who then proceeded to eat and poop out the poop. Bad analogy, I know, but it doesn’t even begin to describe what this place smelled like.

“Aww, sick!” Heath recoiled in disgust. I took a look around the room, and couldn’t believe what I was seeing -- an old, decaying mattress on the floor that somehow looked worse than the ones in the kids’ room. There was no bathroom, not even running water; just a ceramic basin in the corner with a bucket filled with murky water.

The expressions of the faces of Heath and Gristle told the story better than real words ever could; this place wasn’t going to cut it. Leroy’s buddy had swindled him, we weren’t getting a five-star anything at this dump.

“I’m gonna go talk to Leroy, we can’t stay here,” I declared, as I turned back and headed to where the van was parked, except… It was gone. I checked both directions, trying to find even a trace of where the van had gone -- burned-out tyre tracks, a busted hub cap, anything -- but there was nothing. Leroy was gone, and our only ride out of this place was gone with him.

“Where’s the van?” Heath quizzed, as he and Gristle walked up behind me.

“I don’t know,” I confessed, as Gristle scratched his head, almost to the point of it being raw and bloody. “I came out here, and the van was gone. Leroy, too.”

“That fucker!” Heath kicked at the snow, jumping to the conclusion that Leroy had ditched us.

I, however, was a little more understanding. I was willing to give Leroy the benefit of the doubt. He had been our mentor since we started this wrestling gig, what did he possibly have to gain from us not making our bookings? Gristle was getting a major opportunity wrestling for Canada’s Greatest Athletes, Heath would be kicking the door down by competing in the Fatal 4 Way pre-show, and I was booked to wrestle for the Zero Gravity Championship; it would all look fantastic in any manager’s portfolio.

Gristle had called Leroy in the meantime, and sure enough, Heath was correct. To make a long conversation short, Leroy had taken a large sum of money from an undisclosed client -- the kind of money you could quit your job and retire on -- to leave us stranded so that we’d miss our matches, thus tarnishing our reputations in the eyes of our employers. It wasn’t long before accusations took flight -- kind of like the proverbial albatross weighing us all down -- but it soon became apparent that if we didn’t find a way out of this frozen hell-on-earth, we were in real trouble.

“I could call us a cab?” Heath suggested, whipping out his phone as his frostbitten thumb began dialing.

“We can’t, dude!” Gristle interrupted, searching through his wallet. “Unless we’re going to pay the fare in cobwebs.”

My heart sank. I’d traveled across the world, I’d worked as hard as I could, and I was finally getting the chance I always knew I deserved -- to be the Zero Gravity Champion would be the highest honour I could imagine -- and now it had slipped through my fingers on account of a technicality.

“This can’t be happening,” I said to myself, standing in silent defeat as a blizzard kicked up. We had to make a choice -- stay outside and become snowmen, or take our chances in Ontario’s very own Alcatraz. As we went to turn back and head indoors, a lone bus with tyre chains came driving down the street. I wasn’t about to spend the night in a death trap, so on a whim I jumped in front of the bus to flag them down… It was a good thing the driver saw me, as the bus screeched to a halt and opened its doors.

“You looking to get yourself killed there?!” he shouted, as we entered the bus.

The door shut behind us as the bus slowly began to pull away, the chains catching tread in the frosty snow.

“Where you headed?”

“Uhh, we need to get to Thunder Bay,” I responded, a little distracted, wondering what had Heath and Gristle so flustered. As I turned my head ever so slightly, I saw what had them pale as ghosts, their faces flushed of all traces of colour -- the whole bus was filled with children, bearing a strong resemblance to the ones I saw in the hotel, identically dressed with cold, glassy eyes; eyes that were pointed squarely at us.

We were urged to sit down for our own safety, as the blizzard was rocking the bus violently. The creepy children sat with perfect posture, eyes forward, like we didn’t exist. Heath leaned over, softly whispering, “This will be the day that we die.”

Even though I hushed him -- partially to avoid a Gristle "American Pie" cover -- I kind of agreed with him, in some perverse way. We were on a strange bus, with dozens of strange kids, in the middle of some strange area none of us had ever visited.

“I think I could take ‘em,” Gristle announced, glancing over his shoulder at the soulless children seated behind us.

“They’re kids, Gristle!” I reminded him. Almost as soon as the words passed my lips, I noticed a little girl -- just one little girl -- staring at me from a few rows up ahead. I froze. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t respond; then, she started that spine-chilling giggle -- the very same one that came out of the little girl jumping on beds back at the hotel. It was then that I realised, it was the same little girl. The very...same...one.

“We need to get off this bus,” I stated, starting to suffer a panic attack.

“What? We can’t! We’re in the middle of nowhere!” Heath detested.

He was right, but I was desperate. This little girl was creeping me out. I ordered the bus driver to pull over and let us off. Needless to say, I wasn’t popular amongst my peers, but sometimes you’ve got to make the tough decisions. How was this girl continuously able to find me?

There we were -- out on the side of the road, standing knee-deep in snow as a blizzard raged. All our bags were in the van; all we had were the clothes on our backs.

“This is all your fault!” Heath exclaimed, shoving me back.

“My fault? I’m not the one who took off in the van and left us for dead!” I defended myself, shoving Heath back with enough force to knock him down butt-first into the snow. Heath sat for a moment, his face slowly turned a crimson red as he sprung to his feet, grabbing me in a collar-and-elbow tie-up. Gristle watched on as I shifted the momentum to latch a side headlock on my best friend, but he retaliated with a well-placed elbow to the spine before driving me into the frozen field with a reverse DDT -- we were practically having a match on the side of this road.

Whilst we scrapped, Gristle decided enough was enough, letting out a bellowing “STOP IT!!”, loud enough to potentially cause an avalanche. “Fighting isn’t going to solve anything! We need to find shelter, or they’ll never find us.”

It wasn’t too often that Gristle was the voice of reason. He was more of a… I guess you’d describe him as a “meat head”, hence the nickname. As much as we all loved Gristle, he tended to be a bit of an oaf at times. But on that day, he knew what he was talking about.

We braved the harsh weather, something that none of us were actually used to doing. In fact, it was the first time I’d ever seen snow; and also faced the grim reality that it could also be my last. But, I’m happy to say we made it. We somehow navigated our way to a small inn, where the locals were more than happy to fix us up with warm clothes and hot cocoa. They had no idea who we were, and yet they still offered to help us. It really restored our faith in humanity; or, at least, it restored mine.

The decision soon came to spend the night, as we were now left with no destination, and even if we had one, there was no way of getting there. Heath had since calmed down and made pals with some of the locals, who offered to buy him drinks in exchange for crazy road stories. And while Gristle wasn’t the most social out of our trio, he had a great time showing off his impressive dart skills to gobsmacked onlookers. I sat by the bar with Heath and the roaring gathering of drunken humanity, listening silently and soberly to his fascinating take on our experiences. Some of it was fact, and a lot of it was fiction for dramatic effect, but I didn’t care -- after a crazy, creepy journey to get to where we were, it was finally time to kick back and take it easy.

“Oi, you lot!”

Heath, the drunk guys and I all spun around in our seats to find the source of the shouting voice. Three pale, barely-clothed teenage girls approached Heath and I. Clearly they were far too young to be in a bar, but the crowd around us dispersed, as if it was a normal occurrence. One of the girls, who appeared to be from Britain with a very thick accent, spoke for the group of them.

“Are you’s those wrestlers on that VoW show?” she asked.

Heath took a swig from his whiskey before responding, “Yeah, we are. You want an autograph or something?”

“Oh, we ain’t interested in nothin’ like that.” Awkward pause, before she continued. “Want us to take you to the bathroom for a blowjob, then?”

At this point, I was getting real uncomfortable. I slapped an open hand on the bar, as a signal to Heath that I was headed out of here. I stepped outside, on an enclosed patio kind of area, away from the designated smoker area. I needed to be alone with my thoughts, if only for ten minutes. I was still coming to grips with the upcoming Zero Gravity Championship match I was booked in, against an opponent I had been spending the better part of two weeks studying tapes on. I knew he was good, from just watching what he could do in the ring. I’d adjusted my strategy and crafted a new plan of attack, tailored specifically to expose Zakk Morris’s weaknesses and counter his strong points.

Now, I had to accept the fact that there may not be a chance to put this new game plan into practice.

I was snapped from my thoughts by a giggling little girl… Oh, god, not again! I thought to myself. Sure enough, there she was -- that same little girl from the hotel and the bus; she had found me again. By this point, my heart was racing a mile a minute. I was by a steel grate, and the only way out was being blocked by this little girl. I couldn’t shout for help, my pleas may have startled the girl and set her off. Besides, they would’ve been drowned out by the pumping music from inside; it would’ve been a waste of my time.

I was convinced I was going to die. This was it. I was living an alternate-reality version of Children of the Corn, and this little girl was going to stab me to death with the same spoon she used to slurp up her Corn Pops. “What do you want?” I asked her, pretty much trembling like a leaf. Gee, if Leroy could have seen me at that point, imagine what he’d say: “Look at ya! Cowering to a little girl, Princess?”

The girl didn’t respond. She just giggled again. As she approached, I found myself backing into the corner of this patio. You can’t blame me, I had no idea what she was capable of. If she could somehow find me after all this, what else was she able to do? Was she some kind of psychic, mistreated experiment akin to Alma from the F.E.A.R series?

All of a sudden, the giggling stopped. I shuddered. This was it. She outstretched her arm -- however, instead of a spoon, she had a clenched fist -- it was as if she was wanting to hand something to me. I hesitantly held my hand out, and she placed something cold into my open palm. She pulled her hand away, and I glanced down at the object she’d given me; it was a locket. A very nice, sterling silver locket with a beautiful chain.

“What’s this--” I started, and paused when I noticed the girl was gone. I looked around for a moment, but it was just like she had vanished. I tossed up my options; should I look at what’s inside, or should I leave it be? I decided to take a quick peak, as curiousity got the best of me.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

Present…

    “Yo, Ty! You awake there?”

    The sound of snapping fingers awakens me from my daydream. “Huh?” I say, a little confused.

    “I asked you if you remembered all the shit we went through to get here,” Heath repeats his question, as we walk down the backstage hallway. When I don’t respond verbally, due to still being a little flustered by the reminiscing, he just continues his train of thought anyway. “My point is, if we can make it through all of this, you can make it through tonight. Just remember what you’ve learned, and do it for her.”

    I give an assuring nod to let Heath know that his words aren’t falling upon deaf ears. He accompanies me all the way to behind the entrance curtain, then disappears to make his way to a meet-and-greet by the merch table. The last few moments before the match are the most nerve wracking. Playing on a television monitor beside me is a video package that’s being simulcast to both the live audience and the fans at home, highlighting the events that have led up to this match between Morris and I -- from the attack on former champion Cameron Behringer, to the injury announcement of my original opponent Brett Carson, to Sky Sangue putting Morris and I together to determine a new champion.

    It’s not long before highlights from Zakk Morris’s cooking show, Recipe For Disaster, start showing on the screen.

    “...in order to make what I like to call Chunk CHOKEolate Cookies. I thought it would be fitting considering in a few days I’ll be facing a Chunky Chokeartist named Tyrone Bickerton. Not only do my cookies kind of fit him to a tee. But I figured…”

    “Ignorant fool…” I mutter to myself, completing my last-minute stretches as Morris prattles on. Through my mind, in addition to going over my strategy, I’m trying to decide what’s more moronic -- the fact that Morris is so ill-prepared for this match that he can’t even pronounce my name correctly, or the irony that he’s using a cooking show and food analogies to outline my supposed snack obsession.

    I endure several more minutes of this idiot ramble on about how his show needs to remain kid-friendly, then flirt with his co-host and talk about his “easy” ex-girlfriend -- generic hypocritical garbage. He finally finishes with something about letting gravity to all the hard work for him before the canned laughter dubbed over the video slowly dies as the screen fades to black -- and not in the cool Metallica sort of way.

    Soon, the video is replaced by snippets of a sit-down formal interview I did with Darius Yates just yesterday.

September 27, 2015

Backstage lounge

The camera shows a backstage lounge area, where a sharply-dressed Darius Yates is seated with a what appear to be palm cards in his hands. He flashes his toothy grin as the camera pans over to where he is seated.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this special interview. I’m your host for this evening, Darius Yates, and we’re going to be talking a bit about this upcoming pay-per-view event, Armed & Dangerous. More specifically, the match for the Zero Gravity Championship between Zakk Morris and my guest at this time, Tyron Bickerton.”

Darius motions toward the seat opposite him, where I, dressed just as sharply as Darius, am seated with a modest smile. “Thanks for having me,” I graciously respond.

“Now, Tyron, you come to us from all the way over in Australia. Can you tell us a little bit about what wrestling over there is like compared to here? Is it different at all?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s a very different place,” I respond, shifting in my chair to adjust to my ideal level of comfort. “Australian fans are very straight-forward with you, and I guess that comes with the Australian lifestyle. We’re very laid-back people. Coming over here, it’s just been a rollercoaster, it really has.”

“A rollercoaster? How so?”

“It’s just been non-stop ups and downs. I came here with high hopes; hopes to improve my craft, hopes to face tough challenges, and, I guess for the most part, I’ve done that. But, now we come to Armed & Dangerous, and I--”

“I’m going to go ahead and assume that you’ve seen your opponent’s recent pilot for his cooking show, Recipe For Disaster?” Darius interrupts.

My answer is not a verbal one. Rather, it’s a sarcastic snicker with a shake of the head. Puzzled, Darius awaits for a response, to which I finally nod whilst chuckling under my breath.

“Here’s the thing. Zakk Morris is a moron, plain and simple. He’s got no passion for this business, and no respect for anyone in this business. He says I don’t fit the mold of a wrestler, and I try to hide that fact? Darius, if Zakk Morris spent less time trying to be the next Jerry Seinfeld and Iain Hewitson, and more time studying tapes like I have, he’d see that I’ve owned the fact that I’m not your typical, straight out of the box wrestler. I even went on record in a recent video stating that fact. No-one here is trying to deny the fact that I’m out of shape.”

Darius clears his throat, visually appearing as though he’s feeling a little uncomfortable by the tone in my voice. He doesn’t seem like one for controversy, and this is a controversial topic. I feel a little bad for how I just tried to express myself -- a common instance when it comes to me -- but it’s something I feel strongly about.

“You say he has no passion for this business. That’s a pretty harsh accusation to make.”

I can tell Darius didn’t want to say that, but as an impartial mediator, it’s his job.

“I’m just stating fact,” I justify my words. “See, while he’s been out telling his knock knock jokes and baking choc chip cookies, I’ve been in the ring. I’ve been training for this match. I know that being a champion in this business is not a right, it’s a privilege. It’s a symbol that you’ve worked harder than everyone else, that you’re the best of the best. Zakk Morris has gone on record, stating that the company should just hand him the championship, like it’s some kind of prop in a movie. I put the question to you, Mr. Yates… Does that sound like the words of a man who has any integrity or respect for this business?”

Darius simply shrugs his shoulders. I can see he has nothing else to say, so I continue my rant.

“The funniest part about it is, if I was -- for the lack of a better term -- a “smaller man”, Zakk Morris would have nothing. But I’m not. I’ve accepted that fact. I learned a long time ago, from a very wise wrestler I looked up to growing up, that size doesn’t matter. All Morris ever talks about is my weight. And that’s fine, it’s fine for him to live in the delusion that anyone really cares. I don’t care.”

By this point, I can feel my fists clenching onto my nice new slacks, but it’s almost as if I have no control over what I’m doing.

“What he’s doing right now, parading around going “Hey, look! Tyron’s fat! Look at him! He’s fat!”... That’s the equivalent of someone going “The grass is green! Look, green grass, everyone, green grass!” Everyone already knows it. Everyone already knows, and nobody <BLEEP> cares!”

Darius opens his mouth, half-shocked, as he attempts to make me fall into an ethical line. “Tyron, watch your mouth, there’s children watch--”

I stand up out of my seat, advancing towards Darius. My voice produces a throaty growl that I haven’t heard for many years; and part of me hoped I’d never hear again. “I’m not done talking!” I snap at Darius, getting uncomfortably close to his face as he reclines back in his chair, avoiding eye contact. “What I care about is people like Zakk Morris, who clearly don’t give a <BLEEP> about the sport of professional wrestling! People who accuse others, such as myself, for making a mockery of this business, yet they can’t be <BLEEP>’ed researching their opponent, demand to have a championship gift-wrapped and handed to them, and put on a phony cooking show, which turns out to be in and of itself a mockery of everything this organisation stands for!”

There are a few moments of awkward silence, as I heavily breathe and grunt, letting weeks of pent-up frustration flow out of my body. Darius hasn’t moved, like a rabbit cornered by a jackal, believing that any motion on his part will send me into a frenzy. Darius isn’t a small dude, but I doubt he wants to get into a scrap with a wrestler.

“Am I intimidating you, Mr. Yates?” I snarl, almost to the point of seething. Darius raises his hands, as a sign of submission. The anger in my voice subsides, as I calmly verbalise my final thoughts for the interview. “That’s why Zakk Morris feels the need to take personal shots at me. That’s why he makes the fat jokes. He’s intimidated.”

I back off from Darius, as he slowly moves from his submitted state. “Zakk Morris has never faced anyone like me, and he’s frightened. Insecure. And he’s got every right to be. Because I’ve chased this dream for five-and-a-half years, from the other side of the world. I’ve got nothing to lose, and that stains Zakk’s white trunks.”

I walk off set, turning back only temporarily to make my intentions very clear -- “At Armed & Dangerous, I show everyone -- all of my doubters -- that this is exactly where I belong.”

I’m not particularly proud of what was said in that interview. I’m more the type of guy who tries to conduct himself professionally -- at least in that kind of setting. Sure, I mess around and have a good time, but it’s all in good fun. But when someone makes a mockery of the sport I love, and has the audacity to question my validity as a professional wrestler, I see red.

I used the last of my cash to send a fruit basket to Mr. Yates, as an apology for my actions. From behind the curtain, I can hear the crowd cheering and chanting my name… Almost as if they liked that outburst from me. It’s an ugly place deep inside myself -- a place I’m often too afraid to go -- but perhaps it’s healthy to vent every once in awhile?

I can hear the opening riff of my theme song rip through the arena’s sound system; this is it. I pull the locket out of my pocket, and glance at the picture inside one last time.

Becky Saint.

Jos.

Do it for her.