Category: When Wrestling Was Fake (But We Didn’t Care)

To it concerns,

The drugs fill my veins and the ghosts fill my head. They torment me and make me their unwilling servant. I am beyond mortal help. Kurt’s ghost tells me it won’t hurt, and I believe him. Daddy Jim, I love you. You are a saint among the sinners. Louie you are a friend worth your weight in gold. And Binx, fuck you.


 Christopher finished the last note he’ll ever write. Tears splashed down onto the paper as he rose from his seat. He could feel the warmth of the drugs swim in his cold veins. Voices he can’t see or entirely hear whisper in his head. With a blank face he caught his reflection in the mirror. But he wasn’t alone in the mirror. A blonde man with a shaggy heard and flannel. The ghost of Kurt Cobain, or maybe the guise of some poltergeist, nodded to Christopher.
  The troubled man closed his eyes. With all his might he tried to fight the drugs that ran through his body, he tried to remember the times before the drugs. He couldn’t. Tears ran down his cheeks as he mentally called out to Jim, his adoptive father figure, but he couldn’t bring himself to call out or even remember his face. He opened his eyes at the mirror that hung in front of him. He didn’t recognize his surroundings, he didn’t know if he was in his bedroom or in some run down motel on the side of a freeway. It didn’t matter to him, he was lost. He kept his eyes on the mirror, as the other man in the reflection kept nodding. Christopher’s eyes lowered to the drawer. A handgun. With all his willpower and inner strength he shook his head at the mirror. Fire burned in his eyes as tears washed down his face and he could only grunt his frustration. How much drugs were in his body? He slowly felt like he was paralyzed.
 “Do it,” the voices repeated. But this time the voice became clear and distinct.
 Christopher’s eyes widen and his jaw dropped. The blonde hair and beard started to vanish. In his face was a painted face. He wanted to scream out his name, but the drugs wouldn’t let him articulate. This wasn’t the normal effects of his drug of choice.
 Christopher tried to mouth the name of the man in the mirror. A click was heard. The clown cocked his handgun, placed a small pillow at the side of his head and shot it. Christopher fell, dead before he even hit the ground.

 “Binx!” Christopher bellowed as he shot up, sweat eclipsing his entire body. He was in his bedroom; the alarm clock read 3:28 AM. Christopher scanned the room and felt his head. With heavy breathes, his heart raced quicker than ever before. “Just a dream?”


 “Come to me, Greg,” her sultry and seductive voice ran through the phone. “Curt can’t do what the Devil always did.”

 Greg clinched his fist and jaw. Rachel just called him for the first time in months. He knew what she wanted and he swore he’d never give in. But unlike his wrestling moniker, he is just a man.

 “Greg, please?”

 “No… Rachel.”

 “Come on baby. Don’t you remember that night in New Orleans? It was hotter than Cajun spices. Wasn’t it?”

 “You mean when I caught you in bed with my father?” he snapped.

 “Baby, it was the start of our Ménage à trois. I’ll let Trisha join in.”

 “Leave my wife out of this,” Greg quickly hung up his cell phone.

 Greg was in his kitchen. Well, not his original kitchen. Trisha recently upgraded the entire room. She felt if she was married to the world champion, she might as well live like one. After searching the different cabinets he found his shot glasses. Then came the adventure of looking for his liquor cabinet.

 “Where the hell she put it?”

 “What you looking for?” his wife’s sweet accent carried. He looked up and saw her busty frame squeezed into a red nightie.

 Greg licked his lips and his eyes were glued to her thick and firm body. “Um… Uh…”

 “Your precious ‘lover liquor’? Very bottom, next to the fridge,” she pointed.

 He grins at her and found a bottle of Kentucky Gentleman. Greg nodded and poured himself a shot. This time for a more good reason, his wife’s eagerness to please.

 Suddenly the house phone rang. Trisha picked up the receiver at the wall. Her beautiful face darkened. “Rachel? What the fuck do you want?”

 A crash. Greg dropped his shot glass, spilling splintered glass and fine whiskey all over the white tile.


 The door to Jim E. James’ office was kicked open. The owner of NLW looked up half interested. Once when he looked up, before he even saw who it was, he downed a shot of vodka. Then he recognized the face and body of Louie Heart.

 “Fuck you’re already drunk,” Louie growled.


 “I want to talk business.”

 “What’s stopping you? You’re in my office of business.”

 “I want to break up the Douchebags.”

 Jim shook his head and put the bottle of vodka off his desk. “Okay I must be drunk. I thought I just heard you say—“

 “I don’t want to team with Eddie Stiles anymore. I’m sick of being “The Heart of The Party”. Damnit Jim I want to fucking wrestle! No more dumpster matches, no more period jokes, no more Eddie.”

 “What’s wrong with Eddie?”

 “I am not in the mood for jokes, Jim. I want to be a serious wrestler.”

 “No pun intended but what’s with the change of heart?”

 “I talked with my mentor Sinn Bodhi and he agrees that Eddie Stiles is just weighing me down. Now either let me be a wrestler or I quit.”

 Jim just blinked. “Sinn Who?”

 “Sinn Bodhi? The Warlord of Weird? My mentor?” Louie sighed, “He married Stacey Carter some months ago.”

 “Oh! You mean Nick? I remember him. He was a human dartboard for his freak show.”

 “I don’t care! I want to end the Douchebags.”

 “And why’s that?” asked a new voice.

 Jim and Louie looked at the entrance and see the new man is none other than Eddie Stiles. The residential prankster walked up to Louie started pushing him. “You got a problem with me, asshole?”

 Louie shoved him back, “There isn’t any cameras, Eddie. Stop acting like a prick.”

 Eddie shoved his hand into Louie’s face. “Got something to say?”

 “This isn’t going to end well,” Jim thought out loud.

 Eddie just shoved Louie as hard as he could. Louie fell past the desk and into the filing cabinet. The sound of glass broke as the smell of booze filled the air.

 “Fuck, there goes my drinks!”

 “I’ll buy you more,” said another new voice. This time it was Binx.

 “What’s the clown doing here with the assclown?” Louie barked when he rose up.

 “Told you Louie’s been talking shit,” whispered Binx.

 “Oh great, I got a clown who conspires,” Jim rolled his eyes. “Take it outside.”

 Louie launched himself but Eddie, always the quicker, ducked. Louie landed a powerful Superman punch on the jaw of Binx. The clown fell to the ground knocked out. Eddie took a shard of broken bottle and went to stab Louie, but only sliced his arm.

Jim jumped up and tackled the pissed off prankster. Louie then ran his arm bleeding. Eddie bellowed threats down the hall.

Binx took a swig from his bottled water. Taking a deep breath he tried to push the memory of last night out of his head. But no matter how many times he stared at his notes from the pay per view, he could still see the police officer’s steel like gaze. Binx took another swig of water, and then thought where Earl ran off to. He lost him at IHOP when two stoners started fighting over a girl. He sighed and then looked at his camera man; he was at the right storage facility this time, no more Eddie Stiles pranks. It was time to shoot the post-Hardcore Cookout Circus….


“Uh-oh! NLW is in trouble again! And it was all because of what happened on Hardcore Cookout. We are now suspended from television because we showed ONE match. Well here at the Circus, which is live only on the World Wide Web, Uncle Binx will tell you EVERYTHING that you missed. And not just the potato salad that my cousin Kinko brought over.

 “The NLW first ever International Showcase match was a wrestling fans wet dream. It was hardcore, it was technical, it even had a new nut shots! Joe Rico, that crazy little jumping bean, injured himself when he did a 450 flip with a steel chair on Rekhyt! Well the idiot tilted the chair and broke his ribs. Rekhyt was sent back to Egypt to be mummified as well. Tommy “the Gun” Smith picked up the win when he pinned the injured Rico. Figures the Canadian would jump on an injured Mexican… Puerto Rican… Cuban? Anyone know where they said Jose Rico was from? I know Tim Dale, that idiot, said that Riley O’Hare is from Ireland when that red hair and pale skin is clearly Scotland!

 “Next up was a Bitch match. No seriously, Sabrina Cox and Rachel were chained together like the dogs they were! Rachel ended up winning when Chris Cobain made his return! The reason? Cobain showed up naked as the day he was born, and rambling about ghosts and grunge. Hey Chrissy, the ‘90s called, they don’t want you back either!

 “And for the racist portion of the show, the Singapore Cane watch between Tyrone Butler and Rocco “The High Roller” Rockefeller was interrupted when the NAACP stopped the match! They literally jumped the guard rails and stopped the match, because Tyrone Butler would have been caned like it was 1862. You don’t interrupt an NLW event! The health department couldn’t do it, the Athletic commission didn’t get away with it and they didn’t either. Tyrone Butler and Rockefeller put aside their differences and caned the NAACP! Jim E. Jones is expected to be in court next Tuesday.

 “Okay the next watch reeked to high Heaven. The Douchebags did the impossible and made Pig Vomit smell better by throwing themselves into the dumpster! After the match Eddie Stiles stated in an interview he found his teddy bear he thought he lost. And Louie Heart thought he saw a case of beer that wasn’t finished yet. Pig Vomit is still the tag team champions.

 “The Man with The Turtles did it again! Because Fade Gordy still hasn’t figured out his pain medication, he didn’t show up to be in the corner of his Violent New Breed partners. But Jason Turtle did have backup. The same snapping turtle that injured Fade Gordy! It ended up biting the referee’s shoe after the match.

 “And in the main event it was history in the making. After a long, hard fought battle, with one of the most scientific wrestling matches seen in living memory, Shannon Shooter pinned the Devil himself. Shannon Shooter defeated Jihad Sullivan to be the first ever woman to win the NLW heavyweight championship. Her first challenger emerged right after her declared victory. Another shocking return- Curt Evans challenged Shannon Shooter!”


A knock at the door. Jim didn’t even look up, the familiar musky scent of cologne crept into his office. Breaking away from the words on paper he watched as the man in a light gray suit, with sleeked back hair, cross the short distance between the door and his desk. The dull brown eyes of the man looked at Jim, as if silently judging him.

 Jim E. Jones leaned back against his chair. The sound of heavy breathing behind Jim was audible and the man in the suit casually glanced in the direction.

 “So that’s him?”

 Jim straightened up and narrowed his eyes. “Yes that is my adoptive son. I took him in when his mother kicked him out, gave him a home and a family that he needed. And when I took over NLW I even gave him a job.”

 “You’re defensive, Jim.”

 “I just read your memo, Bates. I will not fire Christopher because he showed up naked and drugged on a live pay per view. As far as many of the fans thought, it would be a new gimmick.”

 “But we at the network know better. And we told you not to show any footage on the show. And you did.”

 “It was of the handicap match. We had to put Jason over!”

 “You still broke contract.”

 “No we didn’t. We edited the footage so it had no mention of Christopher’s incident.”

 “Then we’ll cancel you because of your ratings.”

 “That is your fault, Bates! We are on Thursday at midnight. And we hardly get any advertisement! You set us up to fail, Bates.”

 “That is disputable. We did nothing wrong, Jones. Is that really your name?”

 “I… I don’t know,” Jim trailed off. He tried to keep his emotions in check when the stooge from the network was around.

 Bates looked behind him and finally saw Christopher. Shaking in the corner, covered with a thick blanket, was the scrawny blonde haired man that ranted about the ghost of Kurt Cobain. Bates shook his head, knowing he was shivering from withdrawals.

 “I thought he was out on bail.”

 “Leave my personal life out of this, Bates.”

 “But it’s now professional. How are you going to spin this? Will you keep letting your “son” take drugs before each show and rant about a dead rock star that just whined?”

 “It’s better than leaving my son in Tijuana because I thought he was gay.”

 Bates’ eyes widen in shock. “H-How do you know about that?”

 A sly grin came to Jim’s face, “You don’t watch the program do you, Bates? Ever notice we have a really tall guy by the name of Abnormal Norman? He didn’t turn gay, don’t worry. But he did learn how to suplex other guys out of their boots. Mainly because he’s like 7 feet or something. Lanky as hell, reminds me of Gonzo stretched out.”

 “Junior is here?”

 “Not if you get the show canceled. You cancel the show, how else are we going to pay his family?”


 “You didn’t know you are a grandfather, Bates? Beautiful kids. Two little girls, curly black hair, pearly white smiles. I think I have a picture of them somewhere…”

 Bates shook his hand. “No… no. That’s alright. I think I’ll report to my bosses with high regards,” he said quickly. Tears of regret and guilt clogged his vision as he quickly left the room. Jim let out a sigh of relief.

 “Good thing he left, Christopher… I ain’t got any pictures of those ugly babies.”


 “You son of a bitch!”

 Shannon lunged forward at the blonde haired man in front of her. Her cousin, Emily, held her back, which enraged her even more. She never took her eyes off of Curt as he remained seated on the comfortable recliner. A new hand jerked back Shannon, a stronger force. It was Greg. He still had pieces of his makeup stained to his face. He held Shannon back, whose face was red.

 “How fucking dare you, Curt! How dare you weasel your way into the company after what you did!”

 “Shannon please,” Emily begged. “Sasha is right outside. She’ll hear you.”

 “Don’t defend him, Emily. You know what he’s doing! She’s just a starfucker, Curt and you know it.”

 “Shannon calm down. You don’t know what kind of a witch Rachel really is. She’s almost a drug and now he’s hooked. He doesn’t know where he is half the time,” Greg urged as he struggled to keep a grip on her.

 Curt remained silent as he stayed on the recliner. A glazed over look filled his eyes. Emily held back the tears as she remained, literally, between her cousin and her husband.

 “I love him, Shannon. I can’t let him go. Sasha needs him too.”

 “He’s just using you because once when Rachel is done with him she’ll spit him out! And he knows it.”

 “I didn’t want to make a big scene, Shannon. I wanted Curt to tell me so we can work it out like a married couple.”

 “Like his father? Curt Senior had the biggest collection of ring rats outside the Von Erich family.”

 “Shannon you’re too angry right now. It was the Vachon family who were horn dogs. Von Erich were saints,” Greg slammed her onto the couch.

 “He won’t even talk and man up,” breathed Shannon. “He just sits there, playing the victim.”

 “Let her go, Greg,” Curt finally spoke.

 The room went quiet and Curt stood up. Emotions were drained from his face, all but sadness.


 “I said let her go. My father never owned up to his mistakes. But I will. I am not Curt Evans, Sr.! I’ve always been the better wrestler, but my morals were stunted by him. So please, Shannon. I beg you, do your worse. Do what my mother should have done to my father.”

I used a writing prompt from the generous Maria Kelly

Jim E. James finished recording the promo for the Hardcore Cookout pay per view. He sat back in his chair in his office and for once had a smile on his face. He looked down on his new tie; a colorful array of flowers on a wide, white tie. A few of the workers shared a laugh and it seemed morale was increased. Jim straightened his shoulders and looked over his desk.

 Not a drop of whiskey could be found. All papers were stacked in different piles and a telephone was plugged in and positioned an arms-length away from him. A smile was planted on his leathery face and looked around. He was happy, yet he had no idea why. He went to sooth his hair, but was only able to scratch his bare head.

 Suddenly a knock at the door broke his gleam. He had an open door policy with his employees, so no one in NLW ever knocked. Like a thunder in the distance his smile slowly faded. A sixth sense came over him; he could smell the musky cologne even with the door was closed…


August, the hottest time of year, is about to get much more hot! Live on pay per view NLW invades every house party in Tampa Bay, Florida. It’s Hardcore Cookout August 21st. Be sure to order tis hot pay per view:

 NLW isn’t all about blood, gore and beer. It’s a showcase of high aerial, ground tactics and all around great wrestling. You get that and more in this International Showcase! Jose Rico vs. Riley O’Hare vs. Othello Plato vs. Akimitsu Hyosuke vs. Tommy Smith vs. Rekhyt.

It’s a catfight to end all catfights. Rachel has been running her mouth for years, and running from Sabrina Cox almost as long; now there is nowhere to run when you’re tied to your challenger! Rachel vs. Sabrina Cox in a Dog-Collar Match.

Whip it! Rocco “The High Roller” Rockefeller has been stealing victories thanks to the interference of his bodyguard Tyrone Butler. Now Tyrone is done being the whipping boy for the golden boy. Rocco “The High Roller” Rockefeller vs. Tyrone Butler in a Singapore Cane match.

The Douchebags have been under the skin of everyone since they came to NLW. Pig Vomit wants to keep their tag team gold and send them packing. The Douchebags vs. Pig Vomit in a Dumpster Match for the NLW tag team championships!

The Violent New Breed seeks retribution against the one man who has been destroying their ranks. Jason “The Man” Turtle vs. The Silencer and Judge Mental with Nick “Fade” Gordy

 And finally in our main event, it’s history in the making for the NLW Heavyweight championship. Shannon Shooter has proven herself capable of handling her own, and Jihad Sullivan has welcomed her challenge since eliminating longtime foe Onyx the Corpse. Can the Devil hold onto the championship or will Shannon make history? Jihad “The Devil” Sullivan vs. Shannon Shooter for the NLW Heavyweight Championship!


  The pain filed voice of Hank Williams Sr. filled the country bar. A lone bartender, a burly man with a Hulk Hogan type mustache, filled a pint glass full of Budweiser and handed it to a thirsty customer. The bar was not empty, but it wasn’t packed. It was just a weekday and not yet quitting time. Other than the classic country music, the sound of a pool game broke the silence. None of the drinkers even dared to look at each other, almost like the different herds of animals on the savannah.

 The only two exceptions are at the end of the bar. A large man with short hair with a wide white tie with many flowers on it, and a scrawny man with thin, yet longer hair. Louie Heart downed his beer and called for another. His companion only stirred his glass.

 “You need to come back. People think you’re dead,” Louie finally whispered. “Get cleaned up.”

 A soft chuckle escaped the scrawny man. “A drunk telling a druggie he needs to get clean. That’s comic gold, Lou.”

 Louie shook his head, “I’m serious, Chris. Eddie almost saw you at the Round Up. Jim’s been looking for you.”

 “Jim’s been looking for me? Oh well that ought to mean I better get clean and make the old man proud!”

 Louie took the beer and drank a sip. “Keep your voice down. And you owe Jim, Chris. He took you in.”

 “Took me in?”

 “Yeah, everyone knows he pretty much adopted you at 17 when your mom kicked you out. For this habit you still haven’t broken.”

 “Notice I never said I wanted in?”

 “Well you are. Jim cares about you like a son.”

 A huff, “And he abandoned his kid.”

 Louie slammed his beer down. “Jim E. James is a fucking saint, Chris and you know this. His wife couldn’t handle the fact he made more than her so she left. Fucking feminist.”

 “Or maybe he abandoned her needs,” Chris pressed on. “Nothing is like it seems, Lou. Everything is permitted.”

 “It’s because of you everyone thinks I’m some drunk. Even Eddie thinks so. Why do you keep doing this? You look terrible.”

 Chris was silent for a moment. Louie drank half his pint before Chris spoke. “I see him again.”

 “Who the clown? That’s where everyone gets their drugs.”

 Chris shook his head, “No, not the clown. Kurt.”

 Louie spit his beer out, “You’re seeing the ghost of Kurt Cobain?”

 He nods, “Every time I break the astral plane, I see him.”

 Louie was left with his jaw open and beer drooling out. “I think it’s time we get you to a meeting, Chris.”



The fresh taste of mint filled his mouth as Curt Evans chewed a piece of spearmint gum. He looked at himself in the mirror that hung crooked. Curt ignored the sticky bathroom floor, the peeling wall paper and even the roach that balanced on the curtain liner. He didn’t check into this no-tell motel for a rejuvenating day the spa, hell he never even been in one of the bathrooms! Yet today he was left staring at himself in the mirror, completely naked. He leaned forward, pressing his hands against the sink; his triceps burning from the previous hour of ‘sex-ups’, where he did push-ups while having sex.

  His eyes burned a hole into his reflection, it seemed like a stranger was in front of him. He didn’t recognize the shaggy blond hair that was drowned in sweat, he didn’t recognize the tanned and toned athletic abdomen and chiseled chest. He did, however, recognize the one thing that has been the focus of his entire life on and off the past year—his penis. Although he never remembered getting it pierced, his hand slowly swept down and touched the metal rod and his eyes bulged. It was new! When did he get a prince albert?

 His mind raced, trying to think of what he does remember. His baby blue eyes turned distant, his memory has become hazy. Clowns, sex, needles, bright lights, body slams, money, gun blasts, a little girl on a tricycle, a crying woman… They all spun together in a cycle of moments, like they were connected. He touched his face, he mouthed the words ‘Where is Curt?’ but no voice came from his throat.

After a long, silent moment of remembrance Curt’s concentration was broken by the view behind him. Licking her full lips and leaning against the doorway stood his naked mistress. Her thick chestnut hair hung down her head, her doe eyes came alive with lust. Her full breasts bobbed slowly up and down as she slowly inhaled. Being a full foot shorter than Curt, her body gave way to a few extra pounds that carefully created dangerous curves of sex appeal.

 Her name was completely misleading; she was not an innocent lamb. She was Rachel. No compassion came from her warm body; many of her past lovers would call her the reincarnation of the first evil woman, Lilith. When she spoke, Curt’s skin crawled with sensation.

 “My, my, you really are a dirty boy,” she cooed as she looked around at the bathroom.

 Curt hung his head, he did not respond.

 “Your wife called,” she hissed.

 Curt looked up, but only to look at her in the mirror.

 “Poor little Emily,” she faked a whiny noise, “My husband is cheating on me with a hottie that I can only wish to be like and I can’t prove it,” she gave a soft laugh. “What did you ever see in that bitch, Curt? Curt? CURT, ANSWER ME!”

 Curt couldn’t think of what to say. He couldn’t think of anything at all. He just stood there.

 “I don’t need this abuse, Curt. There are many other men who will treat me better,” she hissed again. Crocodile tears filled her eyes. Curt has seen it a thousand times but he couldn’t stop it. He knew what was coming next, but he couldn’t brace it. “You’re just like your father.”

 It got the effect she wanted. Curt swung back, grabbed her by the hips and threw her onto the bed. The moment of reflection paled in his lifetime of proving he wasn’t his father. Yet the more he tried not to be, the more he became Curt Evans, Sr.

  The owner of New Line Wrestling was great at being two things: being a booker and being cheap. To Binx, however, it has crossed the line as he opened the door to a storage cell. To save money, Jim E. James rented a few storage cells for interviews and rants for the taped weekly show, Adrenaline. Now, Binx entered the cell that was transformed into a colorful array of circus objects: The wallpaper was covered with barbershop pole stripes; the chair wasn’t one of those ‘hand’ chairs, but all fingers were sawed off, save the middle finger; a television monitor was behind the camera man, for Binx to see how he looks while talking. The TV monitor was covered in fur! The floor was hard with no carpet and a purple curtain hung on the cement wall with no other company. As Binx would have guessed the NLW logo was hung over the small desk, as if any other company would hire a sexist clown.
 He huffed at the camera man, “This is where my segments are being taped?”
 The camera man simply nodded and went back to the camera.
 The clown’s eyes flared up, “I swear I’m going to drop so much OxyContin in that bastard’s whiskey…”
 “Almost ready Mr. Binx?”
 Binx shrugged, “Sure, why the hell not.”
 Binx managed to squeeze behind the desk, which added more fuel to his fire towards Jim. Binx has been conscious about his weight lately and now Jim went and gave him a small place to do his segments! He sat down on the wobbly finger chair. The camera man made a motion and Binx saw the TV monitor with fur light up. Before he could speak he heard music. His own theme song? It better not be, as he made out the chorus of the Weather Girls’ “It’s Raining Men”. The clown shot up, furious.
 “That drunk seriously fucking with me?”
 The camera man pulled a card out of his breast pocket and slid it on the desk. Binx raised an eyebrow and slowly picked up the card. After a few seconds he let out a laugh and turned the card to the camera: a Joker card.
 “That douchebag.”
 The camera man simply nodded.
 “Now all I have to do is prank Eddie back.”
 “Good luck with that,” the camera man laughed.
 “Why’s that?”
 The lights began to flicker and a soft humming became audible. Binx looked up, his jaw slightly dropped as the humming became higher in pitch. The lights went from flickering to sporadic, causing Binx to twirl, unstable. The door to the storage cell slammed shut, the only noise that overrode the buzzing. Binx fell to his knees, his eyes shut, yet his mind kept racing. He wasn’t on anything; it couldn’t be a bad trip. He mentally went over his last drug usage: a shot of cocaine two days ago; half a Prozac three days ago; snorted a single Xanax pill last week. He hasn’t anything that causes hallucinations in over a month.
  The buzzing and humming went away, though it echoed in his head. The only other sound was the clown’s screaming. Binx was curled up against his knees, like the tornado drills in his school days. Fear has gripped him as sweat ran down his make-up, smudging it into undefined colors. A soft light illuminated the room. Binx looked up slowly and a grinning skull was on the TV monitor. Green text glowed under the hanging skull that simply read Wanna play a game?

 This caused Binx leap back, slamming into the small, yet hard desk. His eyes were wide, adrenaline pumping, yet he couldn’t scream anymore. He found his voice after a few seconds, but he adopted a more squeaking, scared voice.
 “I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die. I never even seen the Saw movies!”
 Cackling could be heard on the TV monitor as the skull danced. The text began to move in a circle, slowly at first, then in a fast spin. Finally the skull vanished and heavy breathing was left being heard. It was Binx; he was slipping into a panic attack.
 The lights came back on, which hurt Binx’ eyes. His eyes slowly focused and could see the figure of the camera man… but it was different. The man no longer had a beard.
 “Want to play a game?”
 Binx finally focused in and his fear was replaced with equal anger, “Eddie you asshole!”
 Eddie Stiles bent forward laughing. The prankster raised his arms in a sly gesture, “How about a board game? You do owe me for breaking my DSi!”


  The driveway formed a U and was made of cobblestone, and gave Jason a small bounce as he crept. Jason gasped as he lightly pressed the brake of his truck in front of the small manor, coming to a stop. He turned the ignition off, killing his engine. His jaw dropped as he climbed out, hanging over the roof of his truck to view the manor more. The sun was hung low, casting a giant shadow of the light yellow manor. It stood two stories high and quite wide with the two car garage free standing beside it. The Florida palm trees stuck out on either side, almost encasing the home. Jason gave a grin and shook his head. He dropped from the truck onto the cobblestone, nearly knocking him off balance. He shook his ankles and closed his door and the smell of the fresh grass filled his nostrils.

  Jason walked up to the bright red doors and cocked his head to the side. To him the colors crashed rather grossly. He shrugged it and turned his head seeing other automobiles parked in disarray. A party? Jason hoped he wasn’t crashing anything formal. Then again how formal can wrestlers be? He rapped at the door, and within moments a beauty of a vixen answered the door. High cheek bones, full lips and fuller breasts, bleached blond hair and a slender frame in a silk evening gown. Jason blinked and shook his head, he knew better than stare at Trisha Sullivan.
 Her sweet Southern accent greeted him, “Mr. Turtle! What a lovely surprise.”
 He gave a soft smile, “Hello Mrs. Sullivan. Is Greg here?”
 She took a step back, “Yes, come on in. Nick, Ian and David are already inside.”
 Jason walked in and gave a chuckle, “Sounds like a VNB ambush.”
 The white, plush carpet submitted to Jason as he walked in, the walls lined with beautiful art work and family portraits. A sweet fragrance Jason never smelt before filled the air. He nodded as he looked around, drinking in the view. Being a champion pays off, it seemed. Trisha led Jason deep into the house, and some noise could be heard. Cheers, jeers and general sounds of a boys club grew louder as Trisha stopped at a closed door. The door had a bumper stick, slapped sideways; Jason titled his head to read it. It showed a tea bag on one side and a pitcher of Kool-Aid on the other and the text said Drink the Tea, not the Kool-Aid in 2012. He gave a small chuckle, realizing it’s a political joke. Jason never was interested in any form of politics, not even the many that swarmed in the backstage of any given wrestling show.

 Trisha opened the door and the laughter carried out as she gracefully walked into what would be described as a man cave. Violent New Breed merchandise and replica belts of past championships (some NLW, others different promotions) lined the walls and shelves.
 A few other sports were mixed in. The wall was a light green, but the carpet was still white, but more walked on and not so plush. Trisha sat on the arm rest of a wide, beige colored rocking chair which sat the big man on campus himself, Greg. He had on a t-shirt and sweat pants and no face paint. He looked youthful, save for the scars on his forehead. Nick was seated on a recliner; with a smirk he gave a wave to Jason with the hand with a hole. Then, on the pea soup green loveseat, playing the latest Madden NFL on the Xbox 360 were Ian and David.

 They were unaware of the new entrants as they played the last quarter. Ian was the larger one, but not by much. He had silky black hair that shined in the light and had more muscle tone. To the NLW fans he was the disbarred lawyer Judge Timothy Mental, or simply Judge Mental. To his left was David, a bald man with a goatee, and very talkative. Right now he was talking mega trash, saying the Browns will finally beat the Steelers with the next play was playing. On camera he was the agile silent type named The Silencer. Jason nodded to himself, thinking that the entire Violent New Breed was hanging out together like they would on the show. With a few exceptions of course.
“Jason!” cheered Greg, “Good to see you. What do I owe the pleasure?”
 “Hello Greg. I didn’t know you were having a party.”
 Greg waved him down, “No, it’s alright. Just hanging out with a few co-workers. Have a beer.”
 Jason walked more into the room, “Thank you.”
 The game paused and David looked back, “Hey, it’s the rookie.”
 Ian turned, “Oh cool, hey dude.”
 Nick remained silent but his hand with a hole was still up.
 “I’m glad you’re here. We were actually running down some good spots for the next show. Of course I won’t be there, so it can really put you over by attacking David or Ian. Do what the Spooks couldn’t do.”
 Ian rolled his eyes, “Billy is a great wrestler but he has no creative ideas.”
 “What you expect, he’s English. They frown on that or something,” David chimed in.
 Jason cleared his throat, “You hear about Louie Heart? He seems really depressed.”
 Trisha glared, “That douchebag. You know what he did to our carpet!?”
 “I think Eddie told me. But I sort of had to rescue him from a bar.”
 “Let me guess, Eddie cornered you and gave you a guilt trip until you took him?” Greg asked.
 Jason nodded.
 “And when he got there he just stole drinks while Louie made a ruckus? Mhm, sounds like the Douchebags.”
 “Eddie didn’t give me a guilt trip. Just bombardment me with information I didn’t care. Like Curt Evans and Rachel back together.”
 Trisha fell off the arm rest as Greg shot up, “They what!”
 An uneasy tension filled the room as the group stared at Jason. His mentor’s eyes were cold on him, like he botched the spot of the year.


“No Shannon. I think it’s best if I stay home and be mom for a while,” huffed Emily to her cousin. “The match at the pay per view was designed for me to take time off so I can spend time with Sasha.”

 Emily Evans, or Emily Shooter to the NLW fans, was on her cordless house phone talking to her cousin, Shannon Shooter. The strawberry blond “Cold Heart Bitch” was still in her pajama bottoms and a light top, with no makeup on. Emily paced the cool tile floor of her kitchen, half listening to Shannon and half looking out to the backyard. In the backyard a firm bodied gentleman with spiked, bleach blond hair was playing with a cute little girl with blond curls and a pink dress. Emily watched her husband, Curt and their three year old daughter Sasha. She smiled as Sasha rode her little tricycle around with Curt chasing her, laughing. Emily stretched, raising her arm above her head, causing her small pink top to rise.

 “I’m just saying the fans ate our match up at the pay per view,” retorted Shannon’s voice. “The online marks are begging for a second match. Besides you know what you were getting into when you married Curt.”
 Emily paused, “And what does that supposed to mean, Shannon?”
 “Curt is a wrestler, a damn fine one at that. You knew one of you would change and you were never prone to being ladylike.”
 “Bitch I am ladylike!”
 “Emily, calm down.”
 “No, Shannon. Sasha needs her mother and father. Curt is about to leave NLW and Jim never has anything for me. He’s always trying to get into your pants.”
 “Whoa, where is this coming from?”
 Emily sniffed, holding back some tears. “I’m sorry Shannon. It’s just…”
 “It’s just what? Emily what’s going on? Did Curt hit you again?”
 “No, no. It’s not that.”
 Shannon sounded concern, “What’s wrong?”
 A tear dropped down her cheek, “Curt is cheating on me again.”
 A gasp from the phone, “Are you sure?”
 “Yes I’m sure. Rachel sent some… pictures when Curt was doing his bike run with Sasha the other day.”
 “That bitch,” Shannon breathed. “I always knew she was a ring rat.”
 Emily wasn’t paying attention. She was looking out of the window in the backyard. Curt was playing chicken with a laughing Sasha. Both her eyes welled up with tears, begging to run down her soft cheeks. A few moments passed when she heard Shannon scream her full name.
 Emily blinked, “Oh… yeah?”
 “I thought I lost you.”
 “No, I’m still here…”
 The tears silently fell as she kept a fake smile when Curt looked her way. He waved and turned just in time to collide with a speeding toddler. They both fell to the grass, Sasha erupting with giggles.

 The door squeaked open as the colorful face of Binx the Clown poked in. Jim E. James already filled his shot glass with bourbon, as the air was thick with its scent. The clown could only see the reflecting light of Jim’s bald head when he walked into the small office, taking a seat. It never ended, the pattern of liquor and tears after every show. Jim looked up from the desk, his eyes red from the tears.

 “It’s been ten years, Binx.”

 Here we go again, Binx thought to himself.

 “She left me ten years to the day. Took the kids, the house, even my name. I’m not even interested in how she got my name I just want to know why?”

 “What is your real name anyways?”

 A blank stare washed over Jim’s face. Suddenly the tears came flooding back, “That bitch stole my name and now I can’t even remember my real name!”

 “Fuck that is rough. You look like a Phil. Think your name was Phil?”

 Jim’s face went red from anger as he lunged forth, grabbing the clown by his shirt collar. Paper scattered as liquor poured from the toppled bottle. Binx could smell it on his breath, “Don’t patronize me, clown.”

 “Easy, Jim. You’re the head of a major wrestling company, not the president of a record company.”

 Jim let him go and sat back down. He rubbed his head, not looking up. “What do you want, Binx?”

 “I don’t want to be the color commentator anymore.”

 Jim’s head snapped up, like a prairie dog sensing danger, “You what?”

 “I think Tim is a great commentator but I don’t think a clown commentator is going over well. I’m more of a sideshow.”

 “I have been getting complaints from women’s rights groups about your rhetoric.”

 “I think if I do a weekly video blog on the website it could be smoother. I do reviews, false predictions and even conduct interviews.”

 Jim nodded, “That could work. We will call it Circus Binximus.”

 Binx just blinked, “No, no we won’t.”


 Jason left the building, as the last die-hard fans remained. Within seconds he was swarmed by the younger members of the crowd, primarily teenagers. He laughed with them, took pictures and signed autographs.

 “Do you really have a pet snapping turtle?”

 “Are you part turtle?”

 “Is Fade missing a finger?”

 “Where are your turtles now?”

 He loved the questions the young audience and tried to answer them as fast as they shouted.

 “Yes, I have two.”


 “If by finger you mean brain, then yes.”

 “In a pond.”

 As the crowd dispersed, Jason quickly left to the parking lot. He smiled to himself as he neared his prized black Ford F-250. Growing up on a farm will teach you to appreciate big trucks and even as he lived in the city the love never died. However, his smile vanished as he found his black truck, and an unexpected visitor.

 Dressed in tie-die pants and a black leather jacket was Eddie Stiles. Eddie had a reputation of being a prankster so Jason ventured with great care. Eddie jumped off the hood.

 “Jay-Jay! You busy?”

 “Um,” he was taken aback. This was the first time he was actually talking to Eddie since he arrived in NLW. “I was just heading—“

 “Please tell me a bar. Specifically a bar named the Round-Up.”

 “You’re a country fan, Eddie?”

 “Me? Hell no. But it’s Lou.”

 “Oh the other Douchebag,” Jason laughed. Louie Heart was a legit drunk. Eddie Stiles seemed to be the other partner whom Louie didn’t injure in a match.

 “Yes. Well the douchebag left before the show ended. I just got a call from the bartender and said that well…” he cleared his voice to mock a country accent, “Tha big ol’ boy is hasslin’ my customers. Get him outta here befo’ I call the boys in blue. Now I’m not an expert but I’m familiar with Johnny Law.”

 “Why am I surprised?”

 “Well… you see, I sort of, maybe have a suspended lisence so I need a ride to pick his ass up. And you have this big and beautiful truck. I mean look at it, you can fuck like two fat women in this thing! You like fat chicks, Jay-Jay? I’m sure they’re stalking the Round Up.”

 Jason is just dumbfounded, “You’re actually serious?”

 “Uh, yeah. I’d ask the clown but I can’t find him. Greg won’t do it because his wife said something about Lou taking a shit on the carpet or something. I think she just has a bladder control problem and can’t come to terms with it,” Eddie was actually rambling on to Jason, “The black English people don’t know how to drive in America! Curt Evans is fucking Rachel again, but you didn’t hear that from me. Oh and your turtle might have turned Nick into a one handed drug fiend. Which reminds me, you seen Cobain?”

 Jason could only just blinked. He realized that he never met any of these people, with the exception of Greg, Nick and the English folks.

 “Don’t worry about it, he’ll show up. Let’s go Jay-Jay! We’ll get you a fat chick.”


 Billy wiped away the makeup, as Chantelle struggled to get out of her corset. His back ached as he hunched over to the mirror. He winched and shook his head, “That match took too much out of me. I might have to take some time off.”

 “Now’s a good time,” huffed Chantelle as she hopped, trying to squeeze out of her outfit. “You know Jim ain’t got a fucking storyline for us. Greg kicked your ass and now we’re old news.”

 “That’s not true, Chantelle.”

 “It fucking is!”

 “Says who?”

 “Mr. Ewing.”

 Billy almost collapsed at the name. He spun to look at his friend with a face of shock. “Mr. Ewing? As in Vincent Ewing?”

 She raised an eyebrow, “Yeah. Why?”

 Billy took a seat by the mirror. “Chantelle, Mr. Ewing is a shrew. He is the booker of a large wrestling company and is not responsible for the finances so he gets to throw money at everything. All style no substance.”

 She growled. “Unlike here it’s just substance and no style.”

 “No there is style. Just look at Greg’s back.”

 “How the hell did he live? You two fucking fell off the balcony all wrong.”

 Billy chuckled to himself, “I’d like to see the correct way then.”

 “All that blood, mate,” Chantelle shook her head, “I thought the paramedics would give you tampons to soak up the blood.”

 Billy scoffed, “Don’t be so crude. You’re an English woman, act like it.”

 “Fuck off, I am. Not everyone attended fucking Oxford.”

 Billy glared at her, “It was Cambridge you twit.”

(NOTE: I wanted to do a more on screen episode. What better episode than at a pay per view? I hope you enjoy it!)

The crowd was cheering loudly at the hardcore clinic they were witnessing, live on pay per view. Chairs were dented, tables were broken and shattered remnants of florescent light tubes were scattered around ringside and in the ring. The commentators were silent for dramatic effect, and the fact that Binx the Clown couldn’t think of anything sarcastic to say.

Dressed in a green sports top and tights, a sweaty Shannon Shooter and her arch rival, and real life cousin, Emily “The Cold Heart Bitch” Shooter, had wrestled the last 15 minutes just as they said they would—hard, fast and looking good while doing it. Well, with the exception of Emily’s missing nose ring that Shannon ripped out during the peak of the match.

 “Binx, I don’t know how you cannot give these girls, no these women long overdue credit. They are taking it to each other without backing down. I can see both of these women breaking the glass ceiling in professional wrestling,” NLW’s play by play commentator, Tim Dale, commented into his live head set.

 Taking a breath, Binx replied with his typical heel response, “Tim there is no glass ceiling. That is just a lie women like these overactive piles of PMS in the ring, like to say when they realize they can’t hang with the big boys. They should be like the Black Halo and valet for the real wrestlers.” The clown said that with so much conviction that he almost believed himself.

 Tim Dale heard in his headphones the three words that made his voice raise in anticipation, ‘taking it home’. His eyes widen as Binx ranted, Tim always loved watching the finish to a Shannon Shooter match. Without even realizing it he spoke, “Here comes the Artic Crab… on Emily Shooter! Shannon is doing her cousins own move on her!”

 In the ring he was right. Shannon had a Singapore cane right behind her cousin’s knee cap and leaned back with a single leg crab. She cupped her hands together as she could hear her cousin selling the pain like a true professional. Finally the bell rings when Emily tapped out. Almost immediately her adrenaline subsided and she fell into the canvas exhausted. The crowd gave her a standing ovation.


 The camera scene panned back to the announce team in the announce table a few yards away from the entrance ramp. Tim Dale, in a casual blue dress shirt, spoke to the camera directly, while Binx made faces. “That was a top notch match won by a top notch wrestler. I think Shannon Shooter will be breaking barriers very soon,”

 “Yeah, the barriers to the buffet!” Binx laughed.

 Tim rolled his eyes, “Folks we’ve been watching a great pay per view thus far but we are just gearing up! Pig Vomit said they will end the careers of their heated rivals Genocide and Brimstone tonight in a dumpster match.”

 Binx hissed at Tim, “Those piggies don’t like losing their tag team titles. Especially to a duo who can’t even think of a name!”

 “Sounds like someone fears of being irrelevant could be becoming a reality. Speaking of reality, it is finally happening tonight: Jihad “The Devil” Sullivan vs. Onyx the Corpse one on one.”

 “One on one? Hasn’t that always been the case?”

 “No, you clown. The Violent New Breed always came in and tried to kill… or un-kill… the Undead Priest.”

 Binx just laughed, “You do know that someone will be leaving in a body bag? The Corpse worked his voodoo powers on Jim E. James and got his wish granted. Tonight’s main event will not only be one on one and for the NLW World Heavyweight championship, but it will be in a Who’s Your Daddy match! That means Jihad will admit that he’s nothing more than the Corpse’s bitch!”

 “Neither man will admit they’re a bitch,” Tim yelled in surprise. He didn’t know the main event had a last minute change. “But first we have to take it to the back. “The Prince of Pranks” Eddie Stiles has an important announcement. This is NLW Declaration of Violence!”


 A flash of static was submitted on the camera scene, followed by the focusing of the camera. A man with wig and ski cap, with a pair of sunglasses that are missing a lens, is shown with a wide grin. Behind him was a man with a black hair wig, with a bit of a drunken stagger. In the camera the nameplate reads ‘Eddie Stiles & Louie Heart’.

 “Hi, I’m Eddie and this is Louie. We’re the Douchebags,”

 Off camera, Jim E. James spat out his Irish coffee and his eyes gone wide. He knew he should have been more involved with someone like Eddie being the mouthpiece.

 “Now that we are the new team of the block we’d like to show you our cock—iness.” He paused intentiouly. “Whoever wins the tag team straps tonight, whether it be Pig Vomit or Genny and Brimy, we are throwing down the gauntlet,”

 Louie stepped in, “Wait, I thought you said we were going to get two on two. I don’t want to wrestle like a marathon.”

 Eddie shook his head, “A gauntlet is a challenge,”

 “Yes it is. A long challenge with typically six dudes,”

 Edie ignored him, “And after we win the NLW tag team championships we’re going to party! So all you women start taking numbers now. Because we’re the Douchebags, and we’re there for you in heavy loads,”

 The camera man said clear and Jim E. James was red faced, well redder than normal. He walked up to the two juninival humor men and a smile came to him. “Pretty funny, douchebag,” and then he walked away.


 Greg was fully dressed in character now. His new wife, the busty blond Trisha, put on the final details of his makeup. She was making three dimensional horns on his forehead. Tonight he would finally dethrone Billy. He was excited to finally be the head of the roster on screen now, but he felt Billy has taught him so much, even more than his estrange father Kevin.

 “Everything okay, sweetie?” Trisha asked in her thick Georgian accent.

 Greg simply nodded, “Tonight is going to hurt like Hell, in every sense of the word. I’m just grateful it’s not another dog collar match.”

 Trish gave a smirk, “It always can be later tonight, sugar,”

 That gave Greg a reason to smile. “You got to go through Hell,” Greg paused and pulled Trisha closer, his hand firmly on her fleshy ass, “To get to the Promise Land,”

 Trish shook her head, “Nu-uh. Business in the front,” she removed his hands, “And no party in the back.”


 The drugs are in full swing now. Nick walks around in a drugged haze. His hand is bandaged from the snapping turtle bite last week and he took, what Binx the Clown told him, was good Vicodin. Although he thought Vicodin was white and not blue, he took the pills anyway. Now, halfway through the show and eating the bottle like it was candy, he was walking around with misplaced steps. He swayed after one step and heard a voice, calling him Jason Turtle. But he wasn’t the Turtleman! He followed the voice. Without actually knowing he walked onto the set of a live interview of Jason Turtle!

 The interviewer, who Nick couldn’t recognize yelled, “Fade Gordy!? You shouldn’t be here. You’re under doctors’ orders not to be here,”

 Jason stayed in character, “Do you need Snipper to break your other hand?”

 “Snipper?” Nick asked in a haze, “Snapper. Snip snap, patty wack give a dog a bone,” Nick laughed.

 “I think we should stop now,” warned the interviewer.

 “I think that’s what Kurt Gobang said before he fucked Courtney Love for the first time,” Nick giggled at himself, “You said fuck on live television. Jimmy is going to be piiissed.”

 Sure enough Jim E. James bull rushed the set, “Cut the camera off. Go to the ring now!”

  Binx The Clown ran his white gloved hand between his itchy, green haired wig and his actual skull and scratched feverously. He had been a licensed clown for over 15 years, but he could never get over the itch of the wigs. Binx dropped his hand as the camera guy made a motion, to let him know that they will be filming in a matter of seconds. As the color commentator for New Line Wrestling’s taped, weekly TV show, NLW Adrenaline, he was use to filming a few extra spots for filler time; didn’t mean he liked the colorful wigs! The man behind the camera made a pointing gesture and the red light burned brightly, it was show time!
 Binx put on a goofy smile and a small, scandalous giggle escaped his painted lips. Binx did enjoy playing the heel, or ‘bad guy’. He finally spoke, his voice forcibly higher pitched than his real voice.

 “Welcome NLW fans to another fix of Adrenaline! What a card we have lined up for you tonight. Fresh off his impressive victory over number one contender “The Devil” Jihad Sullivan, Jason Turtle is set to face off against “The Devil’s” little stooge, The Silencer,” Binx took a breath. Luckily for him, he can take as many breathers as he wished during the tapings. It was the live pay per views that was a test.
 “Speaking of Jihad. As we saw last week, he is set to face our World Heavyweight champion, Onyx the Corpse live on July 3rd at Declaration of Violence. Can the champion, with his mystifying ability to tap into the world of the supernatural, retain against his arch rival Jihad Sullivan? I mean Jihad has a [bleeping] cult! Nick “Fade” Gordy was the greatest lover in the world before he was brainwashed,” Binx paused and shifted his eyes. “At least according to what Rachel told me. Shannon Shooter too,” he added the last part with ‘winking’ eyebrows.
 “Also we have Pig Vomit defending their tag team titles against the team of Genocide and Brimstone in a glass table match. Plus much more,”

 Binx cleansed his jaw firmly as a slender yet strong blond female joined him on the scene. Shannon Shooter was a huge fan favorite since she joined NLW. Skilled in the ring, vicious on the microphone and a sex symbol on camera, she had no place to go but up. Backstage though, she’s very soft spoken and even shy. Shannon took the microphone from Binx’s hand. The clown took a step back as Shannon’s anger was radiant. “Binx, I’m getting sick and tired of your misogyny comments as of late. I’ve busted my ass getting to the top of NLW,”

 Binx leaned in into the microphone, “If you busted your ass—then why is it so fat?”

 Binx didn’t even see the slap coming, though he knew it was coming. The slap was loud and painful. Shannon bent her fingers and smudges of clown paint remained on her fingers as Binx held his face, falling over. She looked at the camera with a fierce look in her eyes.


 Leaning close to the mirror, Billy applied the last small details to his face paint for the show. The bone white color was a sharp contrast to his black complexion. He tilted his head to the side and picked up the contact lenses and pushed it against his eye. In doing so to the other side, he lost all pigmentation in his eyes, giving them a white, albino look. Thankfully he never lost any vision from the change. He blinked to make sure they both fit correctly. He looked to his side to Chantelle, his onscreen manger. She was dressed in an all-white corset, which hugged her curves and much like Billy’s face paint; her corset was also a sharp contrast with her ebony complexion.

 Billy spoke in a prim and proper type of English accent, “I truly despise this character, Chantelle. Every time we go to the ring, I have to do some kind of dance that reminds me of Epilepsy and speak in that dreaded Cajun language,” Billy shook his head, “Father insisted I learn a foreign language and I had to be sarcastic with Cajun!”

 Chantelle took a swing from the beer bottle was had in her hand. However, when she spoke it was a more street punk, Sex Pistols-like English, “Yeah, I hear you Billy. I have to put on a smile and act like a fucking beauty queen with an innocent poise. I want to get into the fucking ring, like Shannon, hell even how the other chicks wrestle each other. But no, that wanker Jim E. James says it’s best for the English people to stick together,”
 “I sense some racial tension in that purpose. We’re both ebony toned and I’m the world champion, have been the last year and a half. I think American politics have entered our… ‘prestigious’ wrestling company,”
 “Americans are too fucking thin skinned.” Sniped Chantelle as she took the last swig.

 A knock at the door interrupted the two complaints. The door squeaked open and a man with long black hair, both arms riddled with tattoos walked in. His face paint was much more vivid, with his skull structure; the dull gray paint traced every inch to form a frightening skull mask. He had on a t-shirt that read his wrestling group, the Violent New Breed and black wrestling trunks. He gave a smile to the two.
 “Gregory, m’boy,” welcomed Billy. “I’m glad you’re here. We need to go over the spot for tonight. Mr. James said something about a flaming whip,”
 Greg nodded, “Yeah I heard something like that. If that isn’t build up to our match at the pay per view, I don’t know what is,”
 Chantelle just stared at Greg, “Dude, did you get a new makeup person? You look fucking scary,”
 Greg laughed, “Thank you, Chan. And yes I did. The Mrs. took over for makeup,”
 Billy sat down on the spinning chair in front of the mirror, “How’s your knee? That Turtle chap seemed quite vicious,”
 Greg waved him away, “I’m fine. The clown gave me some pills and I’m better now. And Turtle is just green. I like his style but he’ll learn how to pull off spots better,”
 “How the fuck did he hollow out that turtle shell?” Chantelle wondered out loud.
 Greg snickered, “Who said he did? That’s why I was actually knocked out. It was a shoot. I didn’t feel the pain ‘til I woke up,”
 Billy shook his head, “See this is why I dislike American wrestling. It’s a spotfest with chairs, tables… and turtle shells. I miss the sweet science of the sport, like we have back in England,”


 “That’s a snapping turtle,” NLW owner Jim E. James said bluntly. There was an edge of shock in his voice. He was staring at an actual, live snapping turtle backstage at one of his events! Jason Turtle held the beast like a professional. He better, turns out he owns it! “Why is there a snapping turtle?”
 Jason raised an eyebrow, “You approved of it, bossman. I was bringing a special guest and you said okay,”
 “I thought you meant like a fan… or an indy guy. NOT A SNAPPING TURTLE!”
 “Keep your voice down, boss. He scares easy,”

 Jim’s jaw just dropped and there was a small twitch in his neck. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
 “Is that a live turtle?” asked a new voice. From behind the camera man, holding a cup of coffee was Dennis. The pretty boy blond played the ‘brainwashed’ tag partner of Jihad Sullivan, Nick “Fade” Gordy.  He took a sip of coffee.
 “Yes it is,” Jason beamed. “Raised him since he was a hatchling,”
 “So why is it here?” Dennis asked.
 “For a promo,” informed Jason. “I think it’s appropriate with me winning last week from a turtle shell,”
 Denis laughed, “I can see a whole year long angle of turtle puns, kid,”
 “I’m sure you do,” Jim muttered.
 “Boss… is that-“

 “Yes it is,” Jim snapped. He looked back and his snappiness turned to confusion. Behind him is the residential prankster, Eddie. He had on a thick yellow jacket and padded jeans. Behind him was a man with a beard, backward ball cap and trenchcoat. “Why are you dressed up like Jay and Silent Bob?”
 Eddie shifted his eyes, “It’s a joke. We’re supposed to reveal our new tag team tonight. Remember?”
 “No. And I don’t remember letting Turtle bring in a fucking turtle either!”
 “You promised,” Eddie whined.
 Jim gave him a clipboard, “Write for next week. Then you can reveal it however you want. Except for the-“
 Eddie took the clipboard, wrote three simple letters at an early slot and gave it back to Jim. The two ran off cackling. Jim could only describe it as two ferrets running with something shiny.

 Jim looked back at the scene that is about to be taped. Denis went to go pet the animal when all of the sudden, the turtle jerked up and bit his hand. A collective gasp filled the area. After the initial moment of shock, Dennis bellowed loudly in pain. The turtle got startled and let go. Dennis retracted his hand, which blood just gushed out from the wound.
 “Medics!” called Jim.

  The small office was filled with the strong scent of whiskey. The office had no carpet; the walls lined with past wrestling events, in a corner had a filing cabinet. Two men were sitting in the glorified janitors’ closet that is the office of the owner of New Line Wrestling. The desk was more of a PC desk, with papers scattered and three empty Wild Turkey bottles, with a fifth of Kentucky Gentlemen whiskey with a few shots of liquor left.

 Jim E. James, owner of NLW, took another shot. NLW was very successful, it has a rich history, the fan base increased at every show, yet Jim could never escape the bottle, and it has caught up with him. His hair dwindled down to a horseshoe-like hair style. A beer gut hung over his once impressive abdomen, his skin adopted a more leathery look.

 Jim sighed, his voice raspy, “I don’t get it, Binx. I’m the owner, I am a creative genius. Yet when it comes to the payroll, I can barely cover the expenses,”

 Across from Jim was a clown. He had on the typical clown makeup, with a red nose, but he was dressed in a fine suit that was pressed. Binx was the color commentator for the TV program and secretly the financial backer for the company aswell. The clown remained silent.

 “I lost it all when I took over the company. I lost my hair, my money, my wife, hell even my name! I’m legally called Jim E. James now,” he downed another shot. “I really don’t understand, Binx. New Line Wrestling has risen above all expectations. We appeal to the teenagers who crave bloody, barbaric matches, we appeal to the old timers who love technical, mat-based matches. We even appeal to theatre kids!” Jim laughed. He looked over at the wall, a newspaper clipping about a high school drama club meeting with some of the wrestlers, to get tips on how to breathe during intense scenes and other fun facts.

 Binx remained silent.

 “I don’t know how you make your extra money and I think I shouldn’t know. I’m just grateful you can help give the boys the extra money. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have honor and take some for me. Lord knows I need it. Did you see—of course you did, you were calling the match. Greg damn neared got injured because of that rookie. But he’ll just pop a few pills and forgive the kid. Jordan is a good kid, just very green.  Billy came in and asked for raise. Ha! Like I’m some billionaire. I can see him jumping ship with that Robert Ewing showing up at every show. You know that son of a bitch has been trying to buy me out for the last two months?”

 Binx was still silent.

 Jim sighed. “Thanks for listening Binx. I suppose I should go over the program for next weeks’ show. I want Shannon in the main event picture. That will appeal to the damn feminists,”

 Binx didn’t move. Jim looked up and tilts his head, “Binx?”

 Jim moved out of the desk. He poked the clown, and he didn’t react. Jim’s eyes widen and then saw the clowns’ hand. Pills? Jim rolled his eyes. The clown wasn’t dead, he was just so high on pills he wasn’t conscious!