Fight Card Presents: Battling Mahoney & Other Stories

by Jack Tunney

  It was just starting to get dark. They main-evented before intermission to keep the fans away from Mr. Hero. The boys from the locker room deposited the ex-champion onto the grass beyond the parking lot and they gave him a farewell stomp.

  The boys eventually left and took the fans who followed them out, back inside. With nobody to mess with him, Mr. Hero shouldered his duffle and walked slowly down the hill toward his car. He was the first one there, so no one would guess where he parked.

  Benny the Goon Black sat on the hood of Mr. Hero’s car.

  “I should have added the country whippin boy match stipulation.” Benny laughed.

  “I’d be whipping your butt for real, right now – even if you had twenty idiots with leather belts – ain’t never gonna happen with this boy.” Mr. Hero said, taking off his mask after looking around to reveal plain old Kip Follet underneath. Mr. Hero was gone. Maybe for good.

  “The house looked good,” Kip said, even his voice different than Mr. Hero’s.

  “You know, I’ve never paid a main eventer who has never been on TV this much money.” Benny laughed. ”One dollar for every paid admission – kids, too. Four-hundred-thirty-seven dollars cash money.” Benny handed Kip the envelope of money. It was wrapped in what was probably one of the last Mr. Hero t-shirts from the gimmick sales.

  Kip looked in the envelope. “All ones and fives?” He laughed. “I don’t need major TV exposure. I’m a weekend warrior, now. I have a real job. This gets me out of the house for alone time, and it beats the heck out of Afghanistan, brother. I joined the military to learn how to work on cars and trucks. What did I get? Three tours of combat.”

  “Are you sure this kid Zantar can pull off what you did here?” Benny asked, changing the subject.

  “Kinda late to ask, don’t you think? Kip asked. “Where are the keys?”

  Benny tilted his head. “The windows are down, keys in the unused ashtray. Still, about the kid – what do you really think?”

  Kip shrugged. “He’ll be fine if he stays free of injuries and doesn’t leave unexpectedly. Don’t make him mad. Let his head start swelling at about six months, make him a tweener and then full blown heel at eight months. He should ride that horse till he drops the belt in a year and a half from now.”

  “When does Mr. Hero come back?” asked Benny.

  “Did you hear about the guy who got run over while wearing a John Cena T-shirt?” Kip asked.

  Benny shook his head.

  “The driver didn’t see him.” Kip said. He opened the door and tossed his duffle in the back. He threw the mask into the passenger seat and put on the Mr. Hero t-shirt. “This ride home might be the last time anyone ever sees Mr. Hero, ever again.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I have to go away for a while to be able to come back fresh. I think I’m gonna do without the mask and gimmicks for a while. Besides, your crowd would spot me with or without a hood if I showed up in the next two weeks, or six weeks, or even three months.” Kip said.

  “I know,” Benny said, hanging his head.

  Kip hefted the money envelope. “This looks like a drug pay-off.”

  “There’s a payroll receipt in the bag,” Benny assured him. “Besides, what cop would pull over a straight-edger like you? No tats, flat-top military haircut, no drugs or alcohol….” Benny laughed. “At first look, anyone would take you for a cop. I’ll sure miss ya, Mr. Hero.” Benny slid off the hood of the car and gave him a hug.

  “You’ll miss those butts in those seats if you go off course.”

  “I know – tape everything, don’t hot shot unless it’s absolutely necessary, monetize what you can, YouTube promos and hand out tons of flyers. Are you sure you don’t want to co-promote and book the territory?” Benny asked.

  “I’m just a worker bee, Benny.” Kip said. “You can have all the headaches.”

  “Okay, then give me a call whenever you’re ready.” Benny extended his hand. It wasn’t the limp kayfabe handshake of legend, but the firm grip of a friend. “Gonna miss you, Kip.” Benny said, and gave out another hug.

  Kip sidled into the driver’s seat then leaned over to stash his cash in the glove box. Kip pulled down the Mr. Hero t-shirt and retrieve the second key he had hidden in the car. He pulled out of the parking space with the Mr. Hero mask riding shotgun as it did most nights when he wrestled.

  The mask was an homage of sorts. It was a modified Assassins-style hood with stars circling the crown like the Masked Superstar and an H on the forehead like Captain America. It was a great mask to see out of with its extra-large eye holes as long as it was fitted right for the wrestlers. Those old ladies at C&S could sew.

  The first hood cost as much as a pair of custom boots. The two spares were cheaper and made from a pattern just for him. They were different colors. Good equipment cost money. Cheap equipment didn’t last and wasn’t worth the bucks spent on it.

  He slipped his personal mix-cd into the player. It sang out Highway Song then a Mellencamp, a Meatloaf, a Lynyrd Skynyrd, followed by Journey, Bad Company, and Barbara Streisand. An eclectic selection of distinctive voices telling stories as only they could.

  Kip wasn’t a singer at all, but he could – at times – mimic the singers sound and style. The drive home was easier on Kip if he sang. It helped him not be Mr. Hero anymore. Kip hated his own character. However, it had been the only thing he could come up with to talk Benny out of a G.I. Mo gimmick – don’t ask, don’t tell. Way too close to home and confusing psychologically.

  Times were rough. Grown men hustling lawn mowing jobs kids used to do. Farmers now baled huge, round hay bales and left them in pastures. No farm jobs for kids either. Let alone any jobs for grown people. People worked hard for pennies at Wally World while being taught how to game the public assistance.

  Thanks Congress, thanks trade agreements. Third World USA…

  Kip wasn’t living hand to mouth. He hadn’t just given up. He wasn’t living only for the buzz of drugs and booze. He wasn’t robbing banks or liquor stores, or selling dope to kids on the street.

  He fixed cars and trucks and had it good compared to some. The wild west was home now. Pro wrestling was his escape. He could be the heel under the mask, letting people vent by watching a brand of violence that didn’t really hurt anyone much. It helped people stay out of trouble and kept their dark side at bay for a while.

  Kip earned everything he had. Nobody ever handed him anything. Kip worked hard and saved and scraped.

  Kip’s time in the Stan had been frustrating. Life there made the wild west of the inner city look like a cake walk. Especially the house to house stuff. He understood the hate of an occupying combat force from a different country, culture and religion. America would be no different in the same situation.

  Armed and unarmed combat took different skill sets. Army style was take ‘em out – take ‘em out fast and leave them in the dust.

  Wrestling was the opposite. It took great ability to not harm your opponent and keep them safe. Pro wrestling was based on a form of shoot wrestling. It was amazing that a fake sport was based on the ability to really put the hurt on someone in a bad way – so real, Kip could easily hospitalize a man. Just as he could kill with his Army Recon training. It meant he often struggled with his own dark side, had trouble with his system repressing it.

  Kip wondered if things might be different if Mr. Hero was really a hero.

  No drive-thru tonight. Kip figured he would just get gas and a quick sandwich at the Speedy-Go. Tomorrow would be a trip to the Lobster Shack for surf and turf with his sweet bride – Carie – and friends. Fun and laughs…

  After Freebird played a second time, Kip changed discs. He changed the mood entirely with the soundtrack to the Irish, soul musical-comedy, The Commitments – Alan Parker’s underrated masterwork. It was Cha-Cha-Chains, Ride Sally Ride, and R-E-S-P-E-C-T, all the rest of the way home.

  Kip pulled into the Speedy-Go Gas Mart a little before eleven. Even though he seeme
d to be the only customer, he took the pump furthest away from the convenience store. Still padded and in trunks and t-shirt, Kip didn’t need noticed. He use his debit card at the pump.

  Off in the distance, he heard a train whistle at a far off crossing. He heard the clatter blocks away, but not the bells of crossing gates. Soon, the train would nosily cut off this outlying corner of town. Kip rummaged around the duffle and found his wallet wrapped in a pink brassiere. The bra was a bad locker room joke, intent on eliciting a bad reaction. Even if Carie found it, she knew him better than to believe the implications. Still, the bra ended up in the gas pump trash bin. Not funny.

  The debit card would keep him off the inside security cameras. Kip didn’t see any outside, but, knew they were there. He slid the card into the slot and punched in his info. Flipped open the lid, popped off the gas cap and pumped the gasoline.

  Topping off the tank, he heard noises from the opposite end of the lot. Hanging up the nozzle, Kip peaked around the pump and spotted two bandana wearing robbers – one with a pistol the other with a pump shotgun. Behind Kip the bells of the crossing gates clattered as they went down.

  The train let loose two long blasts.

  Kip got an adrenaline rush up and down his spine. The lead robber moved like military. The second guy was a different story – clearly jumpy from the word go. The idiot didn’t know one end of the shotgun from the other and even pointed it right at the leader a couple of times.

  Shaky McJumpy was stationed outside the double entry doors as guard dog. Kip felt his fight-or-flight response coming on. Rarely did he run away.

  Obviously, the lead man had either reconned the store or just noticed the train going by while being a customer on a Saturday night. A quick and easy job. Disappear into the night. Even if it was for only forty or fifty bucks, since there was probably a night safe in the store.

  When he heard a muffled shotgun blast inside the store, Kip went into a measured automatic mode. It was from his airborne recon training. He never like bullies. Nobody was gonna push anybody around while he was still standing. Kip had been in plenty of fights and he would always do what he needed to do. Nobody ever came back for a second taste after one real fight with Kip. Still, he needed an edge in the fight. He knew better than to bring fists to a gunfight.

  Kip leaned into the car and pulled on his Mr. Hero mask. From underneath the driver’s seat, he grabbed a few zip-ties, putting them in his left boot.

  Shaky McJumpy was watching the other direction as Mr. Hero slipped around his car and hopped the surrounding guardrail. Mr. Hero belly crawled as quickly as he could toward the back of the store. Spotting a metal service ladder at the back for the HVAC heaters and AC, Mr. Hero followed standard military strategy – take the high ground. He climbed the ladder.

  Once up on the roof, Mr. Hero surveyed the situation. The surface was flat, tarred, and graveled, crunching slightly beneath his feet as he walked as lightly as he could toward the store’s front.

  Shaky McJumpy was still close to the door, forcing Mr. Hero to improvise in order for his plan to work.

  Picking up some loose gravel from the rooftop, Mr. Hero threw it toward the far end of the nearest pump awning. Hearing it, Shaky flinched and walked a short way toward the sound.

  At this point, Mr. Hero lamented he had never leapt off the top of a steel cage or a balcony in a before. The closest he come was jumping off the roof of his house with an umbrella when he was a kid.

  That hadn’t turn out so well.

  On top of this roof, he ran a mantra through his brain: Airborne: recon, overcome, innovate, kick butt, and come back alive… Two steps and he was in the air. Hurdling butt first toward an armed gunman’s back.

  Mr. Hero had seen the move on videos from way back in the day. A Ray Stevens’ Bombs Away keister bump from the top rope. Landing hard, Mr. Hero rode the hapless gunman’s shoulders into the concrete.

  Hiding behind the mask, the inner Kip worried he might have killed the idiot. But, it was Mr. Hero who had jumped off a roof – the one who zip-tied the crook’s hands and feet, checked the unconscious man was breathing, and dragged the limp form out of sight.

  One down – one to go…

  The train whistle blared out…ominous…haunting…

  Mr. Hero checked the pump shotgun Shaky McJumpy had dropped on impact. It wasn’t even loaded. The leader clearly knew better than to give Shaky a loaded weapon.

  Mr. Hero checked himself – only a minor scrape on his leg. He could easily have done it wrestling earlier and not noticed. He felt good. Strong. It was all due to proper training – both military and pro wrestling.

  Mr. Hero thought about the crook inside. Possibly military trained. Possible the shot inside was to get attention. Maybe two clerks inside. He also figured Shaky had to do stupid things regularly for him to be left outside with an empty gun.

  Seeing no better options, Mr. Hero simply walked into the store, hung a right, and headed back to the beer coolers.

  “Jaimie, you idiot what are you doing? You’re supposed to stay outside and watch,” yelled the inside crook. He was holding a female clerk at gun point with an old revolver.

  “Just getting’ a forty…” Mr. Hero slurred. He grabbed two cold forty ounce malt beverages out of the cooler, reared back with the first bottle, and let it fly.

  It hit the drop ceiling, fell to hit the back of the calf or thigh of the robber, and shattered on the floor.

  Mr. Hero then threw the second bottle side-armed as hard as he could.

  It looked like the crook was at a skeet shoot as he swung around and fired, shattering the flying bottle in midair at about ten feet. Foam and liquid were burst forward to cover the crook.

  The robber tried wiping his eyes and shooting repeatedly at the same time, blowing up the top row of potato chips of the rack in front to Mr. Hero.

  Mr. Hero was cool enough to count shots. Five shots. One shot more and it would be mano-en-mano. Mr. Hero was confident both he and Kip Follet could whip any punk robber in a fair or dirty fight – Defendu was a heck of a martial art.

  A beer joint bathroom smell wafted over the scene. Either the gunman or the clerk had wet themselves in terror. Likely the former. Without any hesitation, Mr. Hero threw a jar of Conqueso Dip.

  The robber shot at it – reacting not responding.

  Mr. Hero sprinted straight at his target who was fumbling through his pockets for shells.

  Spearing the criminal through a candy rack, Mr. Hero heard the satisfying, deep, guttural oomph sound of breath leaving lungs. The crook’s gun clattered on the tile floor.

  Mr. Hero took two hard shots at the crook’s jaw. He then got up and went into his zip-tie routine.

  Mr. Hero realized he now smelled like a beer joint urinal – bath and laundry express as soon as he got home.

  Kip stood there with a sense of accomplishment, he’d never felt before in the ring as Mr. Hero. He’d lost a fake Loser Leaves Town match, but he’d beat the snot out of two real criminals in an eliminator handicap match that was real as real could be.

  “Are you okay?” the female clerk asked. “You saved my life. He knew I recognized him. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “This mess will take all night to clear up,” Mr. Hero lamented. “How about a five minute head start out of here?” He asked. Then a thought hit him. “I’m on pump twelve and on camera.”

  “I can make the outside video disappear,” the girl said, then went on. “But I saw you out there. I went to school with you.”

  Mr. Hero hung his head.

  “I’ll never tell,” she said, sensing what he was feeling.

  She offered Mr. Hero a free tank of gas. He declined. It would have made him feel like he drove off without paying.

  Taking his mask off, Kip pulled out some of his wrestling payoff money. For the life of him, he could not remember her name.

  “While I’m uploading the inside video for the cops, I’ll wipe the outside video of you at the pu
mp and clear your card off the computer. Are we copasetic, Mr. Hero?” she asked.

  Kip smiled.

  Outside in his car, Kip still had to wait for the last of the train to pass. Boxcars and containers ended with a clatter of bells and the gates raising.

  Kip had that old Eagle Scout feeling of helping someone when needed. It was the first time Kip actually felt any affection for his wrestling alter ego.

  He felt a frieze of excitement. I’m Airborne – recon, innovate, dominate, and come home alive…Just like Afghanistan, he thought.

  Perhaps, Mr. Hero may not have to retire after all.

  ART BOWSHIER

  Art Bowshier is an Ohio native and lifelong pro wrestling fan. His reading tastes lean toward Edgar Rice Burroughs, Robert Heinlein, and H. Beam Piper. He lives with his daughter, Sarah Dejah, two granddaughters, Livi and Hannah, and two dogs, Cocoa and Hannibal. He has been writing short stories since he was a kid in school. Two years ago, he wrote, illustrated, and self-published the Calendar Komix Anthology. He is currently working on another comic entitled, Dreamcatcher: The Man Who Walks Between Worlds, to be published in spring 2015.

  ROUND 15

  ON BOXING ~ AN ESSAY

  WILLIS GORDON

  Boxing. A man’s sport. Blood is spilled, punches are traded, and the winner is carried into the sunset on the shoulders of his supporters while the loser is forced to slink off into the corner of failure, obscurity, and shame. You play baseball, you play basketball, you play football and soccer. You don’t play boxing. Ask anyone in any gym around the world. This is not a game.

  There is something raw and emotional about boxing that we as Americans are slowly falling out of touch with. It’s primordial, almost embryonic. It takes the two most basic fears a man has and forces him to resist them while putting himself squarely in the Lion’s Den. Getting hurt (i.e. getting punched in the face by a full grown man) and Hurting someone. That cosmic fear that starts in your chest and spreads to the pit of your stomach when you’ve gone a step too far, when you see someone is really hurt. Your throat dries up and your heart begins to race, your mind speeding across every possible outcome, every possible consequence. Men have fought in that ring for years, for many different reasons, but one thing is universal. Fists don’t discriminate. Men have been crippled for life, terribly scarred, brain damaged, and even killed.