Pay Your Dues

Unquieted World: Strapp vs Strummer.

[Photo courtesy of scientificwrestling.com]

His given name was Jeremy Ormsby, but now, some people in the Lynn area know him as Milo Strummer. He was of average height with a lean swimmer’s build. They listed his weight at 165 pounds, but that was a lie.

In this business, they always lie about weight; in fact, they always lie about everything.

They don’t call it a lie; they call it working.

Milo was covered in tattoos, most of which were bad. They were all different styles, colors, and shapes. He has multiple facial piercings and a three-inch red mohawk. His ring attire was shredded black skinny jeans, a bullet belt, and combat boots. This whole look played into his punk-rock persona. He had been working the local wrestling scene for about ten years.

He felt himself to be a veteran.

In his mind, he paid his dues. He was deserving of the top billing in this local promotion. He was so popular that he never even competed for a belt—he didn’t need one. He thought it quite humble of himself to allow the greener “boys” to get their chance.

This was a very local promotion, and the only real advantage from working matches was some mild social cachet. Milo had a day job and lived in his mother’s basement. Wrestling was for the weekends. He did it for the opportunities it gave him to interact with the fans. Especially the female fans.

It had been about a month since the great spiritual revival, when some people returned. Milo was concerned at first that this unprecedented event would halt the matches, but wrestling promoters are notorious for taking money from anyone or anything.

Stevie Silver, the local promoter, was no different.

Silver had matches going on the very next weekend. Tickets were half off for the “revived,” as he termed them on his flyers. Milo called them ghosts. He wasn’t going to split hairs about classification.

In his mind, a mark was a mark.

Gates were up for weeks one and two, and by week three, Milo wrestled a ghost. This ghost wasn’t ring-trained. He just needed to make a bit of cash for a bus ticket home. Milo was professional but careless. So much had happened, and the information being dolled out by the media was dubious at best. Milo wasn’t quite sure what this ghost felt or if it could be hurt. They worked the match, and it seemed to get over. The gate was up, and Milo made an extra couple of bucks. The ghost took his cash and was on the next bus out of town.

Tonight, Milo arrived at the VFW early and checked the lineup. He was scheduled to face another ghost. This one went by the name “Sailor” Hank Strapp. Milo didn’t really know much about wrestling history, and if he had, he might have left the building immediately.

During his first life, Hank Strapp worked the Amarillo territory after he returned from the war. He was notorious for being tough, even in the era of legitimate outlaw tough guys. He was known as “a hooker”—inside the business. Hank worked shoots for the carnivals in the 30’s and learned a lot of ways to hurt people. He was a professional, understood the business, understood how crooked the business was/is, and no one…fucked with him in his day.

Now he was back—like the others. He only ever knew one way to make money, so he “managed” to find an old Cutlass. He poked around a bit. Saw what was left of the territories and started making the circuit again.

Milo was preparing for his match, rubbing himself down with Icy Hot and baby oil. He was supposed to be in the ring 20 minutes from now, but Strapp had not made an appearance yet. Milo figured it was a no-show. He would work with someone else that night. He was talking with one of the younger “boys” about the spots and the finish.

The door to the locker room/storage room opened, and all 6’3 of Strapp swaggered in; a slight ethereal static surrounded him. He wore a dusty black suitcoat over a white t-shirt and blue jeans. A huge Texas belt buckle poked into his guts. His brown cowboy boots were outside his pants. A thick gold chain, a gold pinky ring, and a giant gold watch gave him a tacky air of wealth. His hair was black, and he swept it over his bald pate, plastering it to his head. He was barrel-chested and paunchy, which served his massive, intimidating carriage. In his left hand, behind gnarled oaken knuckles, was a bottle of brown liquid. In his knuckle-less right hand, he swung an old army duffel bag. These qualities made him stand out from the other wrestlers milling about, but what really separated him—other than his ghostly aura—was his facial features. His eyes were bright jade, but he controlled their brightness and direction like headlights. His gin blossom nose was smeared from one pockmarked cheek to the other like roadkill, and his ears were two blushing pink lug nuts smashed into both sides of his face.

Hank, head down and eyes dim, threw his bag on the ground, and he proceeded to get undressed down to his black wrestling trunks. He sat on a folding chair. He unzipped his duffel bag, removed two black boots, a roll of medical tape, a large wad of cash, and a Colt model 1911. He placed all these items on the ground beside him. He began taping his wrist, tearing the tape with his teeth. When his wrists were complete, he pulled a soft pack and matches from his crumbled jeans, flicked the match with his thumb, sparked his cigarette, and began the long process of lacing up his boots. The entire storage room was mute.

Milo, assuming he was the locker room leader, went over to introduce himself with the obligatory handshake.

Milo thought it was obligatory.

Milo also wanted to inform Hank that this is a non-smoking building.

“Hey man, I am Milo. I don’t think you can smoke in here.” Hand outstretched.

Hank’s eyes lit up like floodlights. They dim quickly. He completely ignores the hand in front of him.

“Who’s going to stop me from smoking? you?”

Milo chuckled nervously, “No, it’s cool with me, but the promoter might get fined.”

“Fined? Fined? Ha, fine by me. What do you want?”

“Well,” Milo sputtered, “we are working together tonight, and I wanted to go over a few spots, maybe talk about the finish.”

“Listen, kid, I gotta lace my boots. We’ll figure it out in the ring. Who’s going over?”

“Umm…me.”

Hank sucks his teeth, “You give me the iggy when you want to go home, let’s do seven minutes. I gotta get to Buffalo. Kid, wipe that menthol shit off. I am not driving around smelling like a fucking hospital.”

“Well, Hank…Don’t you wanna know my finish?”

“Nope, if you potato me, I’ll break your fucking neck,” Hank said with a gap-tooth grin. “I gotta lace up. See ya out there.” Hank turned his chair around and pulled his laces tight.

Milo had worked with some stiff guys and had done his fair share of hardcore matches, but those were more about paying your dues. This guy was a ghost, or a revival—whatever people were calling it. Could he hurt me, he thought.

Milo was rightfully intimidated as he waited for his entrance music. Hank entered first, no music or fanfare. He stalked down the short aisle leading to the low ring, gripped his wrist tape, rolled his neck, and sneered at the audience. Milo entered to “Suburban Home” by the Descendants. He headbanged, pogoed, and thrashed his way toward the ring. A mild, high-pitched din bleated quietly through the small crowd of the living. Milo was blown up by the time he made it to the ring. Genetics can help shape the body, but breathing is something to be mindful of for the living.

Muffled introductions shrieked through a broken P.A. This rumbling pantomime was met with polite applause from the few spirits and non-spirits alike. The bell rang, and the collar and elbow tie-up initiated. The larger Strapp forced Milo toward the turnbuckle. Strapp called the first spot with a directed whisper. This instruction seemed to come from all around but was only audible to Milo,

“Headlock, dropdown, tackle.”

Phew, thought Milo, He knew this one; nowadays they call it “the international.”

No problem.

Only there was...a problem. Milo had been trained incorrectly or had forgotten his fundamentals. Spurning the tradition, Milo went for a headlock with his right arm. Hank was a pro. He adjusted in time, still feeding his head, but that slight misstep caused Milo to cinch up high on Hank’s face. Milo’s studded wrist bracelet caught the old “hooker” at the base of his cauliflower ear. Hank winced.

He might have been selling; it is hard to tell with these old-timers.

Hank decided that this mistake constituted a receipt.

The push off complete, Milo hit the ropes and went in for the shoulder tackle. He was met instead with a gnarled concrete fist to the bridge of his nose. Milo did not anticipate this response, and when the fist—which, had it been corporeal, might have broken his nose or given him color the hard way—connected, an entirely different outcome occurred. Something much worse. The war, the broken home, physical and mental violations, all the misunderstood punishments, and swallowed sadness passed through that punch. All of the years on the road, all the stabbings, the double crosses, the lonely hours of driving on desolate roads, and all the relationships long since abandoned poured through Hank’s fist into Milo.

There was no need for the blade. These psychic gig marks cut deep into Milo’s cowed soul.

Milo’s legs buckled. He went to the canvas. There was no crimson mask spreading south. There was trembling and wailing—condensed spiritual agony. A small ripple of cheers trickled out from the spirit marks.

The match had just begun, but it did not look like Milo would be able to finish.

Hank knew the rules. He was supposed to do the job; Milo was going over.

The old “hooker” reached into his trunks and pulled out a roll of lead slugs. Hank made sure the ref could see the whole thing. He wrapped those thick fingers around the roll, making a fist. The top of the roll stuck out just above the thumb. Hank lifted Milo’s weeping head off the mat with his mohawk as a handle.

Bam, another stiff telepathic blow to the face–this one was made of guilt, repressed desire for love, and deep self-hatred.

The roll of slugs exploded, raining lead all over the ring. The ref called for the DQ. The human marks sputtered a lightly disgusted grumble. The match was over.

Milo was a blubbering mess of newly awakened empathy and regret. The Descendants echoed softly, adding a soundtrack to his victory.

Hank shrugged and blew an ectoplasmic snot rocket on a mark in the front row. He walked toward the back of the VFW hall, his head on a swivel in case of real heat.

Promoter Stevie Silver was waiting in the locker room.

“Hank, you couldn’t even give me 7 minutes?”

“You hired me to take him out. I took him out. What was the house?” Hank grumbled back.

“Not great. I’ll have the rest of your cut when you come back. I got another few of ‘em I’d like to send packing.”

Stevie handed Hank a roll of bills. Hank proceeded to count slowly.

“Yeah, this is light. I got work all over this country from guys like you. You have my money next time.”

“I’ll have it. I’ll have it. Bet you’ll be busy. Bet you’re pissed about what these kids have done to the business?”

“Pissed? I don’t give a fuck! This is a job, and I do it for money. All this nostalgia and nonsense is for the marks. I’d break jaws for free, but you assholes decided to pay me. I am thick as pig shit, but I ain’t a dummy.

We done!? It’s gonna take for-fuckin-ever to get to Buffalo. I gotta stretch some idiot named Jello Lydon, or some silly bullshit. The gate will barely cover my gas. So, I’m tired of wagging.”

Hank rubbed his thumb and two fingers together, making the sign for money, and stared at Silver until he left the storage room.

Hank took off his gear and tape. He smoked another cigarette. He took long pulls from his bottle. He sat in silence. He lost himself with eyes aimed at the ground in front of him. A slight aura snapping away.

When he finished smoking, he got dressed, packed his stuff, and lugged his bag out of the building. Nobody said a word to him. The engine on his Cutlass took a few tries to kick over. The muffler rumbled as he drove away.

Milo was catatonic. He was pulled from the ring by paramedics. Silver collected the contents of Milo’s locker and put them in the ambulance before it pulled away.

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This story is part of the “Unquiet World” created by Jenifer Jorgenson

Thank you for the fantastic prompt.