"What would that be, Mr. Dale?" Tojo asked anxiously.
Samuel smiled and thrust a stubby thumb against his own temple. "The psychology. Your character. Your gimmick. It is the most important part of the equation. It can make a mule or break a thoroughbred. It's the acting. And yours needs work. This business is equal parts sports, comic books and soap operas. You got the two types. There's the babyfaces, and they have it easier, I think. They pop crowds by patting children on the head or waving the flag. The heels, though, they do all of the heavy lifting in a storyline. They make it interesting. It is a hell of a lot harder to inspire someone to hate you. But you know all of this."
"Where do you see someone like me?" Tojo said.
"Okay, Tojo. I will give you an honest appraisal. You're scary, homely and built like a barrel. I don't know where your ambition leans, but you ain't never gonna wear a white hat in this business," Samuel explained.
"I sort of figured on heel myself, for all those reasons as well," Tojo confessed.
"You got a beast inside, Tojo," Samuel said. "The other boys respect you. They know you are special and you don't flaunt it. You watch out for them in the ring. More than they do for you, that's for sure. But they also sense something dark deep down. Something sinister that they don't wanna stir up or be on the receiving end of. The personas we develop are based on some factuality that we recognize in ourselves."
Samuel reached down and picked up a white hat box. He put it on the desk. "Open it. I had it made just for you," he said.
Tojo reached inside the box and pulled out a red and blue luchador mask.
"Put it on," Samuel encouraged him.
Tojo wrapped it around his big head and laced it up in back. He thought his mama would be happy about this disguise.
"Picture it," Samuel said, pulling an imaginary ring mic to his face. "Ladies and gentlemen, now making his way to the ring! Standing at six foot seven and weighing in at three hundred and fifty pounds-"
The business always exaggerated- Tojo was six five and three twenty-five.
"Hailing from parts unknown! He is the terror of Texas! The scourge of the South! Beware the Crimson Demon!"
Tojo smiled behind the mask and applauded. The irony was not lost on him and Tojo was damned impressed by Samuel's perception. Maybe the old bastard had a supernatural shine.
Samuel took a slight bow and caught his breath before continuing. "You are a monster, son. I can make you the most feared and reviled heel that ever entered a wrestling ring. My son, Weldon, he is a few years older than you. He is built like I was and has a taste for the business, but he has a brain, praise Jesus. He is going to start and manage a promotion in Fort Worth. The HKWT. Hard Knocks Wrestling of Texas. I will be a silent partner. I would like to make you the cornerstone of that organization, Tojo. You'll have to work your big ass off with me here for the better part of a year, but when we're done, you'll be a legend in this business."
Samuel pulled another glass from the top desk drawer. He blew dust from it and filled two glasses of bourbon. He picked his up and regarded Tojo.
"To the Crimson Demon?" the old man asked.
Tojo pulled his glass into the air quickly. "To the Crimson Demon!"
5.
February 12th, 1985
Tyler, Texas
"Would you like some goat's blood?" Darryl Smith asked his son. "I can heat it up for you."
"No, Daddy. I am good," Tojo said.
The two sat in the living room. A black and white Western movie played on the muted Philco. "You watch the TV now?" Tojo asked. "I always thought you hated it."
"Not much else to do these days," Darryl said grimly. "Not since your mother was called back down last year and my retirement from the church and all. I started out watching your televised matches and the damned thing sucked me in."
Darryl crossed the room, turned the set off, and then returned to his recliner. "I am glad you could meet me on such short notice, Tojo. I know the Hard Knocks promotion keeps you hopping."
"It's no problem, Daddy. I always have time for you," Tojo said.
Darryl grimaced, like he always did when something close to sentimental came from Tojo's lips. "They're calling me back down, son. My mission is done, and I will be returning to Hell in a few days."
"What? Why now?" Tojo said.
"I am surprised they didn't bring me back sooner," Darryl said.
"Well, at least you will be with Mama," Tojo offered.
"No, son. Our union was severed when they took her home last year," Darryl explained. "I'll be on my own."
"Well, can we still talk? Communicate somehow?"
"That won't be possible. Hell purges the returning earthbound of their memories so they can be reassigned without attachments."
"You won't remember me or Mama?" Tojo said. "That's terrible, Daddy."
"You ask me, it's a blessing," Darryl argued. "It's about the only kindness the devil has ever offered."
Darryl pointed toward the kitchen. "There is a folder with everything you need. My will is in there. My savings, the house and everything else is yours. You can bury this human suit of mine next to your Mama's. The plot next to her dead skin is paid for. It will look like natural causes when I go. The demon will be scraped out and I will appear human on the inside. Just like when your Mama went."
Tojo nodded sadly. "I put flowers near her headstone every month. I'll visit the graves often."
"Why?" Darryl said in amazement. "Tojo, those husks won't be us. We'll be in the pits serving the dark lord. We won't have a memory to spare on you, so forget us."
"It's what the humans do, Daddy," Tojo insisted.
"You are not human, Tojo," Darryl reminded him. "You are a viper in the nest. You shouldn't have a single shred of devotion for me or your Mama. It's unnatural for demons."
Tojo straightened up. "Damn, Daddy. I know you are a thing of hell, but did my existence give you any pleasure at all? Or was I just an incomprehensible burden?"
"You were a black miracle," Darryl said, and Tojo could sense pride glowing on his father. "There are so very few Eden-born, and they all make an impact. I have watched you in the ring and it is beautiful work, boy. You were born for that business. There is a lot of hate to harvest, and your net is huge."
"But what happens to me at the end of it?" Tojo asked. "Do I get hauled down and have my mind wiped as well?"
"I don't know, son. There is very little explained to any of us. You were damned the moment you were conceived, but that conception was on Eden. I don't know the rules for your kind."
"So what do I do after you're gone?" Tojo asked.
"Just keep feeding the hate to Hell. And don't waste emotions you shouldn't even have on two lower demons who won't even remember your name."
Darryl stood. "You should take the paperwork and get moving. I know you're busy."
Tojo went to the kitchen and collected the manila folder. When he returned to the living room, Darryl was standing at the front door. It was opened, and winter air rushed inside. Tojo began to leave. Darryl presented his hand respectfully. Tojo shook it.
"I am proud of you, Tojo Smith," Darryl said, giving the sign of the horns. "Now go forth and spread the darkness. Hail Satan."
"Hail Satan," Tojo said back. And then he walked sadly outside into the cold.
6.
Two weeks ago
Boyd, Texas
Tojo stood on a makeshift set in a cold and damp corner of a former square dance hall and after hours club. The building served now as the television studio, corporate office and training facility for the Hard Knocks wrestling promotion.
This old building sat on an acre of Boyd, Texas flat land and had belonged to Weldon Dale's uncle, Virgil. Virgil was a schemer and moon shiner who had died twenty years ago and the property went to Weldon, who was the only kin the lawyers could find.
It was a blessing to the promotion, and though it was a hike from the Dallas area, the property had served as a decent foundatio
n to the wrestling organization that still struggled even after all of these years.
Tojo stood in his wrestling gear: a red and blue twirled singlet, his Crimson Demon mask and nearly knee high shiny red boots. His eyes glowed their natural orange and his demon fangs jutted slightly from his lips. They were thought cosmetic props. It gave Tojo a rush to light up his character with his own hidden traits.
Next to him, standing a little lower toward the wooden planked floor was Boris Shinnick, an elderly commentator who wore a puffy white toupee that wasn't fooling anyone. Boris had been with Hard Knocks at the start and he was as much a fixture as Tojo. He was a failed TV newscaster who had been drinking buddies with Samuel Dale. The lure of being on camera- even public access- had been a strong pull. Boris wore a light blue leisure suit from the seventies and he clutched an ornamental only microphone that was slipped into a cardboard holder that had the stenciled letters HKP stamped on it.
Behind them a decades old Hard Knocks banner was tacked to the wall. Long pieces of clear tape held it together. It needed to be replaced, but the wrestlers and staff respected it more than the Texas flag. Tearing it down for a new banner seemed sacrilegious.
Standing behind a DV camera that was attached to a rusty tripod was Weldon Dale. Weldon, in his 40s now, was much larger than his late father had been. He was a fatter clone of his mother, Ima Gene Dale, with shorter hair but the same friendly and overeager face. Occasionally, Tojo saw a flicker of Samuel Dale in his boy's eyes. The man had gone to the grave a decade ago, betrayed by his liver. Tojo missed Samuel every time he laced his big boots up.
Weldon pushed the record button on the camera. "Lights!" he shouted.
Two teenaged production assistants took a side next to Weldon. They were pale and lanky twins who were vaguely related to the Dales. They were named Ray and Wray. They pointed clamp lights, one with a yellow gel and the other with a red gel attached, toward Tojo and Boris and lit them up.
"Jesus," Boris grumbled, shielding his eyes. "Striking! How many times do I have to tell you pricks to call lights striking before you hit the switches?"
"Striking," Ray and Wray mumbled in harmony.
"Christ, I know this ain't a big television studio, but could we at least act like a professional outfit?" Boris complained further, and it was apparent to Tojo that the old man wanted a drink. The need gave off an odor.
Weldon ignored Boris and gave his marching orders. "Do it up big guys and take it over the cliff! People tune in for the Crimson Demon promos if nothing else. They are also our biggest monetized videos on the YouTube channel!"
Weldon reached out and switched the shotgun microphone that rested on top of his camera on. He slipped on his headphones.
"Action!" he cried, wincing as he was too close to the microphone to be yelling.
"This is Boris Shinnick standing next to a man who requires no introduction," Boris spoke into the fake microphone. "The Crimson Demon has terrorized the Hard Knocks Promotion since its inception. He has been called the nightmare that won't end. Pure evil on two legs. But tonight he faces a foe for something he has never held in his three decade wresting career- the Hard Knocks world title. And to earn that prize, he must face and defeat Dazzling Robin Lutzke, the current HKP world champion who has yet to lose a match."
Tojo gruffly steered Boris' hand toward his mouth. "It was never my intention to take the title, Boris. But it was something I could have taken at any time," he barked. "This beast doesn't need a gold-plated tin affirmation to know who the lion who rules this jungle is. Robin Lutzke is everything that I hate. Handsome. Adored. He talks about the finer things. Pretty women. Money. Limousines. This is all a game to him. Well tonight, the game ends. He faces me for the first and last time. I will bring judgment and damnation to the Will Rogers Memorial Center. I will drag Lutzke's sorry soul to the fiery pits of Hell!"
Tojo intensified his stare into the camera. "Lutzke, I am not coming to take your title- I am coming to destroy you. Because when I put my hands on you, I am putting my hands on all of those people in the audience and at home watching on their TVs. Hurting you is the next best thing to hurting all of them. I despise the happiness you fill them with. Behind this mask, there is nothing but torment, darkness and pain. I will trample you and your dreams. You may come back from the pit, if I allow. But you will be a broken man. And whether I take your title or not, you will fall before the Crimson Demon."
Boris slowly lowered the mic. "Now, we have seen the path of destruction you have been on since your introduction to Hard Knocks. There has never been a more hated or feared figure in the Hard Knock ranks. But recently, we have noticed that you are eliciting a few cheers from the audience. How does that make you feel, to have some fans out there?"
Weldon had been leaning on Tojo to turn face for a few weeks now. Tojo felt a little ambushed and unprepared for the statement, but he rolled with it.
"Whether they boo or cheer is of no importance to me," Tojo growled. "They are all cockroaches beneath my notice that I would squash under the heels of my boots with no remorse. I am the enemy of all that is good and pure. My dark mission is to destroy their joy and ruin their hopes and dreams."
"Well, there are some who think that attitude of yours is all a hollow bluster, buster," Boris teased. "A put on. Some say, behind that mask, you are really just a misunderstood pussycat."
Tojo gave a deep howl and he grabbed Boris by his antiquated lapels. He pushed the old commentator off-screen. Tojo then glared at the camera and charged it, screaming evilly as he came. He stopped just short of the lenses and gave it a playful raspberry.
"Cut!" Weldon said excitedly. "That was great! I will cut to a static filter and end on a technical difficulty card with your face on it!"
Tojo looked to the floor. Boris lay on a mattress that he had been tossed to too many times. His white toupee was slightly askew. He was propped up on an elbow. "Could one of you boys please fetch me a bourbon?" he asked Ray and Wray. "And if I find ice in the glass this time I swear to God I will stab someone."
Weldon dug the memory card from his camera and shut everything down. "I am going to hop on the computer and slap this together so we can cut it into tonight's taping."
"Can we talk a minute?" Tojo asked.
"Sure," Weldon said with a smile. "Let's go to the editing bay."
A couple of rookies climbed into the worn ring at the center of the building now that filming was complete. There were half of dozen other people milling around- two refs and the live event crew. Boris finally had a drink in his hand and neither of the twins was bleeding.
Tojo followed Weldon into the tiny office where a computer and storage drives- all committed to promos and broadcast HKP episodes- rested. Tojo realized most of his career was digitized on those drives. Every newspaper clipping devoted to the promotion was tacked to the walls.
"What's up?" Weldon asked, once they were inside and the door was shut.
"I wish you'd stop pushing a face turn," Tojo said sternly. "I told you it don't feel right."
"It's in the air," Weldon said, defending himself. "You've been gathering cheers for a few months now. They are adding up and we just keep ignoring them."
"It won't happen as long as I have creative control. So it's a tease," Tojo maintained.
"Heels flip sides all the time now, Tojo. I don't understand why you are so resistant to it."
How would Weldon know that being a fan favorite might set off a red flag in Hell? Tojo was actually flattered to a degree by the recent attention. But he had hate to stir. "I'm not just some rule breaker, Weldon. I'm the damned boogeyman. I am darkness and evil incarnate. How would we polish that?"
"I don't think you would have to change anything," Weldon argued. "You keep trying to pull them away from this, but you aren't creating heat. It's backfiring. The fans love you the way you are. I just hate to see you struggling against character evolution. A lot of people would give an arm for this type of bump in popularity after thirty years."
"I am not a damn tweener, Weldon. I just don't know if giving the fans what they want is good business," Tojo said. "They'll lose respect for the promotion if we start catering. We're the ones steering. Not them. They're just along for the ride. Everything we do is predetermined. These idiots are supposed to cheer and boo on our say so. "
"The Crimson Demon is an anomaly. Look, they see a hero in him even if you don't," Weldon said. "We orchestrate the stories, but sometimes they are taken out of our hands by the audience. But I will respect where you want to go with this. For now. You realize we might be leaving some sweet merchandise money on the table? Lutzke makes a killing on photos and t-shirts."
"That's not what I am about," Tojo said firmly.
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