EX-LUCHADOR TURNS DETECTIVE IN THE RAFAEL NAVARRO TITLE by Bowie V. Ibarra
Rafael Navarro is one of America's most talented independent comic book artists. I recently had the opportunity to pick up his title, 'Sonambulo in Sleep of the Just'. It was a real find. The story is a noir-style mystery mixed with elements of lucha libre.
The story revolves around our hard-boiled hero, Sonambulo, which is Spanish for 'Sleepwalker'. Sonambulo was once a lucha libre star until he had a fateful run-in with the mob, who beat him down, shot him, and left him for dead. Instead of dying, however, he fell into a kind of hibernation state, waking up years later. When he woke up, he never went to sleep again and was afflicted with the superpower to 'see' other people's dreams. It's that ability that helps him put puzzle pieces together to solve crimes.
The story itself is a lot of fun. But the best part of the title is the art. Navarro has a very distinctive artistic style that brings its characters to life. The black and white story helps add to the spookier elements to the story, and also give you that 1950s TV feel of the story.
If you have the opportunity, find this graphic novel or the individual copies of each chapter. 'Sleep of the Just' is not only well-crafted story with dynamic art, but a fitting tribute to the tradition of crime fighting luchadors. This title is ZBFbooks.com approved!
You can pick up a copy of 'Sleep of the Just' and other works from Rafael Navarro at his official website HERE.
And if you like lucha libre stories with zombies, pick up the ZBFbooks.com title, 'Sword of the Angel'. It's about a Mexican luchador who faces the zombie apocalypse with spectators after a pro-wrestling event in San Antonio. It's a great title you can find HERE in paperback or kindle.
BOWIE V. IBARRA is the author of the 'Down the Road' zombie horror series from Permuted Press. Bowie likes to refer to his works as Tex-Mexploitation, as they all feature strong cultural elements of south Texas, where Bowie was raised. Some titles include 'Codename: La Lechusa', 'Tejano Star and the Vengeance of Chaplain Skull, and Alamo Rising.
Network with Bowie at his official website ZBFbooks.com.
LATEST FIGHT CARD TITLE DROPS A PRO-WRESTLER IN BUSINESS INTRIGUE
reposted by
Bowie V. Ibarra
Our Fight Card entry this month comes from Nathan Walpow, author of the popular Joe Portugal mystery series (www.walpow.com). Fight Card: Push takes us behind the scenes and behind the hoopla of the world of professional wrestling.
FIGHT CARD: PUSH
You’re a ‘jobber’. You make your living by losing in the wrestling ring. You’re a good wrestler, but promoters don’t think you have what it takes to become a superstar. Then Thumper shows up. Big and strong, with a bunny-rabbit gimmick and fans eating out of his hand. His finishing move is called The Thump, and most guys don’t get up from it on their own.
One night, Thumper puts his opponent in the hospital. Not a big deal. Sure, the outcome of a wrestling match is fake. But the ‘bumps’ in the ring can be all too real. Sometimes you get hurt. Part of the territory.
Then it happens again. Only this time, the guy who got ‘thumped’ is tossed into a car like a sack of potatoes. Lou Boone, the promoter who runs Central States Wrestling with an iron fist, knows you saw something and offers you a ‘push’ if you keep your mouth shut.
A push. Every jobber’s dream. To get to win some matches, to get to be on the big cards in the big arenas. You want it more than anything. You begin thinking you imagined the sack-of-potatoes guy – until it happens again.
Now, you have to choose between wrestling fame and doing the right thing. Before this is over, someone else will be dead. And you don’t want it to be you…
Based on the short story “Push Comes to Shove,” selected by Lawrence Block for the Best American Mystery Stories series.
This is a work
of fiction. Characters, corporations, institutions and organizations mentioned
in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real,
used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.
All rights
reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or
by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by
any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission from the
publisher.
I was lying on the canvas in a run-down
ring in a run-down auditorium in Baker City. Though maybe lying isn’t the best word for it. I was plastered face first,
right in front of one of the ring posts, with my butt up in the air. The crowd
of a couple of hundred was yelling at Olaf Olafsen, the Swedish Strongman, to
pick me up and hurt me.
He came over and grabbed me by
the hair and hauled me up. When a guy grabs you by the hair, you have to match
how fast you get up with how fast he’s pulling on you, so it doesn’t hurt as
much as you’re trying to make it look like it does. I didn’t do a real good job,
so it felt as if Olaf was yanking my scalp off.
He got me to my feet and delivered
a forearm smash. That one we pulled off just fine. Olaf stomped his foot when
he hit me. You’d think the fans would understand the foot stomp that always
goes with a forearm smash doesn’t do anything, it’s just to make noise so the
smash sounds like it has some force behind it. Maybe they did understand, but
if they did, they didn’t mind.
I sold it really well, falling backward
into the ring post, and sliding down onto my butt. Olaf hauled me up again,
again by my hair, and this time I got it right. He pulled me to him and
whispered, “Time for some shots,” and I twisted around and made a V with my fingers and poked him in the
eyes.
Of all the dirty tricks a heel can do to a babyface, that’s one of the worst. It just makes you seem, well,
evil. It’s as much against the rules as anything can be, but no ref in
wrestling history has ever disqualified anyone for an eye poke. I hated to do
the poke, because there’s always the chance one of the fingers is actually
going to do some damage.
But I did it anyway, because
it’s what the fans expect from the heel. One finger hit just below his eye and
the other never touched anything. But Olaf sold it really well. He stumbled
around, holding his arm in the air, palm forward, just like the fans expect. Of
course, all the damage he’d done to me immediately stopped hurting. I rushed over to him and kicked him in the leg, once,
twice, three times, until he went down to one knee.
I went around back and clamped
on something that was supposed to look like a choke hold. I’d never figured out
exactly how that was supposed to go, but I knew it had something to do with
putting one forearm under the other guy’s chin and grabbing it with the other
hand, so I put it on and shook and howled and yelled, “Who’s tough now?”
At which point Olaf stood
straight up, and I ended up riding on his back. Any normal person in that
situation would just let go. But wrestlers never do, especially dumb heel
jobbers like I was in this match. So I hung on, feet hanging in mid-air, and
then Olaf reached back and tossed me over his head. I flew through the air and
made that ring post’s acquaintance again.
Everyone was stamping their
feet, and yelling “Moose!” The name for Olaf’s finishing move. He picked me up
again and held me upside down and climbed to the bottom rope, facing into the
ring, and as he jumped off he tossed me forward, so I took another swan dive
toward the canvas and head-first. I went limp, like I’d had all the fight taken
out of me. Olaf came over and turned me over and hooked the leg and one, two,
three, it was over.
The ref came and held Olaf’s
hand up and the announcer told the crowd what they’d just seen, and I magically
recovered enough to roll out of the ring and make my way back to the dressing
room.
There were thirteen matches
that day, enough to supply the local TV stations for a couple of weeks. I was
in three of them. In the first, I was up against Man Mountain Beazel, which
made me the good guy. Which meant the white trunks. Then there was Olaf, who
was a babyface, so I got moosed in
the black trunks, with matching tights. Now, Olaf wasn’t any more Swedish than
I was. His name was really Ted Perkins, and he was from Ohio. But he was a
superstar, and it was 1993, the time when they were starting to give all of the
superstars’ gimmicks, so Ted became Olaf and talked on camera with about the
worst Swedish accent you’ll ever hear.
I had one more match to go,
against Tino Terranova, who the company had flipped from being a face to being
a heel at the last pay-per-view by having him attack his tag team partner, Rick
The Trick Finnegan, during an interview. So, back to the white. But there were
a couple of matches in between, so I grabbed a Coke and sat down to watch on a
monitor.
I was about the onlyjobber they’d let be a good guy sometimes
and a bad guy sometimes. There were guys like Tyrone Banks, who always played
the heel, and ones like Sam
Masterson, who was always the babyface. But there was something about me that,
even though they always announced me by my real name, the fans were fine with
me being the always-play-fair innocent victim of Man Mountain and an hour later
be evil enough to poke Olaf in the eye.
Ted – outside the ring, I was
able to ditch the kayfabe names and
think of them with their real ones – came into the dressing room with Harvey
Higgins, one of the refs. Harvey was really good at always seeing when a face
did something a teeny bit illegal and always missing bad guys hitting people
over the head with chairs. The two of them were laughing about some girl in the
first row. I’d seen her too, with her boobs hanging out all over the place.
There was one in every town, hot to hook up with one of the superstars, though only
Silky Morgan ever owned up to having gotten together with one of them. However,
if he was to be believed, he’d gotten together with all of them.
I was standing there with my
Coke, when Ted came over and said, “Good job out there.”
“Thanks. Means a lot when you
say that.”
“I mean it. You sold that moose really good.”
“Thanks again.”
“Really, I think…” He looked
around. Dropped his voice. “Some of these other jobbers, that’s all they’ll ever be. But you, you got something. I think
they ought to give you a push.”
“I wish Lou thought so.” I
said. Lou Boone was the promoter and just about everything else that counted in
the Central States Wrestling Federation.
“Yeah, well, maybe I’ll put a
bug in his ear. Not that he ever listens to me. Or anyone else.”
“Appreciate it.”
He clapped me on the shoulder
and headed for the showers. I drained my Coke and tossed it and sat down to
watch the next match on the monitor. Then Thumper came into the dressing room.
I’d heard about him, of course.
He was the next big thing. His gimmick was about the stupidest I’d ever seen,
but the fans loved it, and they loved him.
He dressed up like a giant
rabbit. He had furry tights and furry boots and furry trunks. He had a pair of
rabbit ears he attached to his head before matches. He had this finishing move
called The Thump. It started out like
a power slam, but then he would twirl the other guy around so he’d go
face-first into the mat. Then the poor guy would just lie there and they'd get
a stretcher and carry him off.
Thumperwould
act real sorry and walk halfway back to the dressing room beside the stretcher,
and then suddenly run back to the ring, put his rabbit ears on, and get a big
pop from the crowd.
I’d seen him on TV, from a
taping I’d missed because Sue’s cousin was getting married and we had to go to
Akron. But in person, holy maloney. He must've been six foot six. Real buff,
not bodybuilder buff, but enough to know he hit the gym regular and lifted a
lot. He was nowhere near the 380 pounds they announced him at, but a solid 300
at least. His face didn’t look like it belonged with the rest of him. It was
real pink, one of those faces that looked like he never had to shave.
I’m a pretty friendly guy. I
used to be shy until I joined the Toastmasters Junior in high school, and now I
can talk to anyone. And there’s a certain amount of, I don’t know, call it team
spirit, going on in the dressing room. There are guys who hate each other,
sure, but in general we’re just workers on a job together. The guy you were up
against wasn’t your enemy. He was just someone you were supposed to entertain
the fans with.
So, after Thumper stopped in
front of a locker and opened it and dropped his Army green duffel bag, I walked
up to him and told him my name and held out my hand.
Thumper looked at it. But he
didn’t shake it. It wasn’t like he thought he was too good for me. It was more
like he didn’t know what he was supposed to do.
Then he looked in my general
direction and said, “I’m Thumper.”
“I get it,” I said. “But what do
your friends call you?”
“Name’s Thumper.”
“Right, but…”
“Got no friends.”
“Okay, but...”
He turned my way. I looked at his
face. Then I thought better about the whole thing, and backed away to where I’d
been sitting by the monitor.
The look on Thumper’s face...it
wasn’t like he was mean. Not a tough guy. Not a jerk. It was like he was like
some kind of space alien or something. Like his eyes weren’t attached to the
rest of his face, but just sat there in the sockets and sent what they saw to
his brain by radio waves. It was the weirdest vibe I’d ever gotten off anybody,
and I’d been in Desert Storm and had seen my share of crazy vibes.
My stomach was twitching. My breakfast,
which had been nice and peaceful for three or four hours already, was
threatening to come back for a visit. I closed my eyes and focused and opened
them again. I looked over at Thumper.
He was taking his furry outfit
out of his duffel bag and tossing it into his locker. His back was to me.
Without those eyes he seemed like just another guy. Maybe the eye thing had
been some sort of psych-out. Getting in my head so he could get me distracted
and...
Except why would he want to
psych me out? I wasn’t going to wrestle him, and even if I was, he would for
sure beat me. I was a jobber, he was on his way to superstardom. There was no
psych needed. If I ever wrestled him, it’d go pretty much as it always did when
I was the bad guy. Thumper would fight clean for a couple of minutes, until I
did something like poke him in the eye like I did Olaf. Then he’d beat the crap
out of me for a couple of minutes, then thump
me. And that would be all she wrote.
Some of the guys were weird,
sure. Some had their superstitions and crazy routines and, yeah, mind games
they liked to play. But my interaction with Thumper was the creepiest minute
I’d ever had since I started in pro wrestling.
“How you doing?”
I looked up, and there was Lou
Boone. He had on one of those crazy checked jackets he always wore, and a tie
with the biggest knot I’d ever seen.
I stood up. I always stood up
around Lou. I gave him a bad smile and tried to look him in the eye. Best I
could do was the top of his bald head, where three drops of sweat sat. “Hey,
Lou.”
“You meet Thumper?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“What’d you think?”
“Big guy.”
“Anything else?”
What was I going to say? That
the guy’s eyes made me want to run and hide?
“No. Not really. I haven’t seen
him wrestle, except on TV.”
“He’s the best thing that’s
come by in a long time.”
“Glad to hear it, Lou.”
“You got one more match,
right?”
“Yeah.”
“Throw in a little more stuff.
I told Tino to let you. I want to see some more of your moves.”
“Got it.”
“Good.”
He turned away and went over to
Thumper. I didn’t hear a word of what they said, but Thumper nodded a lot.
The next match came and went, and
then it was Thumper’s turn. He was against Farley Reilly, a nice kid from
Arkansas. Farley had a build on him, but he was real stiff in the ring, and I
had a feeling he wouldn’t be around long. The whole time I’d been back in the
dressing room, he’d been over in a corner reading a Bible.
He put down his Bible and
checked his boots. He ran a finger inside the waist of his trunks, making sure
they weren’t bunched up anywhere. Wrestlers don’t like to have to un-bunch
their trunks during a match.
He pounded his fists on his
chest a few times and headed for the ring. I found myself following him. I took
a spot away from any of the camera angles and let myself soak in some of the
stuff that always got by me when I was actually in a match – the hum of the
crowd, the yells from the vendors hawking peanuts and pop, the squeaks from the
PA system.
I watched Farley walk up to the
ring, acting real confident. This place didn’t have the metal stairs they
sometimes used to climb into the ring, so he reached up and grabbed the ropes
and hauled himself in. He looked around to wave at the fans, but he couldn’t
find a single one looking at him. So he did a couple of deep knee bends and
waited.
Not for long. The curtain
opened again and out came Thumper. He had on his furry trunks and tights and
boots and his rabbit ears. The second the crowd spotted him, they came to life.
They yelled and howled and clapped. Thumper jumped straight up in the air, and
then he ran to the ring. Then he jumped right up onto the ring apron, and
stepped over the top rope, and there they were.
“In this corner,” said the
announcer, some skinny guy in a tuxedo. “Weighing in at two hundred and forty
pounds, from Reed River, Arkansas, Farley Reilly!”
Farley may have been built, but
he was short, and I didn’t think he’d ever come close to 240 in his life. Maybe
220, soaking wet. But they always blew up the weights. Farley tried to act like
he had 240 to throw around, but it just looked stupid. Maybe five people
clapped for him, maybe three times each. He went back to his corner.
“And from Green Meadow,
Nebraska, weighing in at three hundred and eighty pounds...Thumper!”
The crowd got into it again,
twice as loud as when Thumper came out in the first place, making Farley’s
lousy welcome look even worse. Most guys had paid their dues like Farley, but I
wasn’t sure Thumper had. I just couldn’t see him ever coming to the ring
without the fans going crazy.
The ref called them into the
center of the ring. Thumper was looking at Farley with those space alien eyes. Farley
tried to stare back, but his eyes ended up somewhere around Thumper’s
collarbone.
The ref went into his routine.
It was always something like, “I want a clean match, no teeth, no eye gouging,
nothing like that. When I tell you to break, break. You got it?”
“Sure,” Farley said.
Thumper just nodded, then turned
and handed his ears to…Lou? Was that really Lou? Lou never appeared at
ringside.
The ref pointed at the
timekeeper and the guy hit the bell.
Collar-and-elbow tie-up. Farley
tried to hip-toss Thumper. That got nowhere. Thumper hip-tossed Farley. Cheers
from the crowd.
Thumper put Farley into a
headlock. Farley pushed him off, and they went into a crisscross, bouncing off ropes at right angles to each other and
somehow never colliding, until finally they met in the middle and again.
Thumper hip-tossed Farley again.
There are hip-tosses and there are hip-tosses, and this one put Farley all the
way across the ring. He kneeled down in the corner, waiting for Thumper to come
for him, and when Thumper reached for him, Farley punched him in the stomach.
Then, just like I’d done to Ted earlier on, he poked him in the eyes.
Only Thumper didn’t sell it
like Ted did. Thumper acted as if he hadn’t even felt it. But now Farley had
done something illegal, which mad him fair game for a babyface like Thumper.
First Thumper smashed into him.
Just ran at him from across the ring and squashed him into the ropes. Then,
before Farley had a chance to react, Thumper picked him up over his head and
threw him out of the ring. Sort of clean-and-jerked
him and held him over his head and tossed him over the ring ropes like he was a
sack of potatoes.
Over the top rope. Flying
through the air. Smashing into the floor.
This made the crowd very happy.
A lot of them were on their feet, and some of them were smashing the seats of
their chairs up and down, and people were yelling, “Thump him! Thump him!”
Farley may have been
musclebound, but he still knew how to fall. When he was lying there on the
concrete floor, he was selling the throw. I could see he wasn’t really hurt.
There was a kid in front of
him, yelling, “Get up, you loser! Get up!” No more than eight, with a really
scary look on his face.
Then Thumper was on the apron
outside the ring, and then he was jumping to the floor, and then he was
striding over to Farley. He grabbed him by the hair and pulled him up. He threw
him onto his shoulder. He marched back to the ring and hoisted him straight up
over his head and tossed him over the top rope.
Inside me, a voice said, holy maloney! It was my Uncle Charlie’s
voice, and that was what he said whenever somebody did something amazing in one
of the matches.
Up, then down. Usually, you
lift a guy and throw him, he’s pretty much going straight out, then down.
Farley went up first. Jesus, Thumper was strong.
Farley hadn’t handled this new
fall all that well. Maybe he was busy being amazed by the flight he’d just had.
He stumbled to his feet, looking like he was ready to call it a day.
Then he looked over at Thumper.
The big man was climbing back over the top rope.
And Farley must have realized
how things were going for him. Not in the match – that was all set in cement
beforehand – but in his wrestling career. He must have known if he was ever
going to show Lou and the other people who ran things anything, it was going to
have to be right then.
So, he waited until Thumper was
near enough, and then he bounced off the ropes and launched a flying dropkick.
It was a damn good one, and coming from a lunk like Farley, it was a hell of a
surprise.
He bounced off the ropes and launched
his feet off the floor and swiveled his middle and everything looked perfect.
Thumper was turning toward him in just the right way, like he was going to take
it and sell it and let Farley get in a shot. It would be a damn good shot, and Lou
and the others would like it and Farley would be on his…
Thumper swatted Farley out of
the air.
I’d never seen anything like
it. One second Farley’s feet were headed right toward Thumper’s pecs, and the
next Thumper had raised his arm up under Farley’s lower legs and shoved up, and
those legs shot straight up. Which meant his head shot straight down. It hit
the canvas maybe a foot from Thumper’s furry boot. Then his shoulder hit, and it
looked to me like it got dislocated.
Holy
maloney!
Thumper
walked away.
For just a little fraction of a
second, I thought something weird had happened. Like maybe the ref had
disqualified Thumper. That was the only way a jobber ever beat a star, and it
did happen sometimes. They’d decided to change the ending and…
“Is it Thumpin’ Time?” howled
Thumper.
Right. This was how Thumper
ended his matches. While his opponent was lying on the canvas, beat all to
crap, he’d go to a corner and climb up so his feet were on the second rope and
ask the crowd if it was Thumpin’ Time. There’d be a big pop from the crowd, and
then he’d get down and go to another corner and ask the same thing. This time
the pop would be louder. He’d go to the third corner, and then the last one,
and each time there’d be more of a pop until on the last corner you couldn’t
hear yourself think.
Thumper was somewhere between
the second and third corners when Farley started trying to crawl out of the
ring. He wasn’t trying to sell anything. He really just wanted to get the hell
out of there. I’d seen it before. Some kid all excited about the glory of wrestling
realizing, even if you did make it, your body took an awful load of punishment,
and you’d never get free of the pain. A dislocated shoulder can do a lot of
convincing.
He’d almost reached the ropes
when Thumper finished his routine. Then there was a hand on Farley’s ankle
dragging him back to the center of the ring, and then it was Thumpin’ Time.
Thumper hauled him up, more or
less into a fireman’s carry. He went over to one corner, like he was going to
power slam the kid. But there was more to it.
Thumper ran forward, and then
Farley was being turned around on Thumper’s shoulder. Then Thumper left his
feet, and Farley was flying, flying like a bird, headed face first for the
canvas.
He hit it.
He didn’t move.
There’s not moving and there’s not
moving. One is kayfabe and the other’s real.
This was real.
I ran to the ring and up onto
the canvas, and even while the announcer was announcing Thumper’s latest
victory I was kneeling by Farley. But only for a second. Because now I was
sure, and I jumped up and grabbed the mic from the announcer, and I hollered, “Is
there a doctor in the house?”
Every single person in the
arena thought it was part of the act.
I finally got through to the
ref that I was serious. Then a doctor did come out of the stands. And before
you could say Bruno Sammartino they had a stretcher out. Then Farley was on it,
and they were headed to the parking lot.
I didn’t know if Thumper knew
that this time he’d really hurt the guy. But he did like he always did. He
walked along with the stretcher and acted real sorry. Then, just like he always
did, he turned back before they went through the curtain and ran back to the
ring. Lou handed him his damned rabbit ears. Thumper put them on, and he got a
huge pop from the crowd.
I didn’t see any of this. The
noise told me what was happening.
Then the ambulance came.
I was going to go to the
hospital with Farley. But suddenly Lou was right there by my shoulder. He said,
“You still got a match left.”
I should at least have thought
about it harder. Instead, I gave him a little nod, and headed back inside.
ROUND 2
Most of the time, if they hung
out together at all, the stars hung with the stars and the jobbers with the
jobbers. Tino Terranova and I broke that rule. There was a time right near when
I started when Sue came to see me and Tino’s wife Diana came to see him, and
somehow we ended up going out to dinner together after. Tino had started out as
a jobber, and we compared notes on how things were now with how they were
eleven or twelve years back, just before he got his push and started winning
matches and making some money.
Tino said the main difference
was there weren’t so many gimmicks. Wrestlers would have fake names, just like
they always did– I mean, nobody was
really ever named Gorilla Monsoon– but
they mostly wore something that more or less looked like wrestling tights. Except
for the ones who were supposed to be hillbillies, like Haystacks Calhoun, who
wore overalls.
One thing led to another, and
before I knew it Sue and Diana were trading phone numbers, and afterward, every
couple of months if we were anywhere near each other, we’d get together. Tino
won and lost the tag team championship with Rick Finnegan twice. I never
managed more than a one-count.
But Tino was looking out for
me. He couldn’t break kayfabe, of course, but he’d talk me up to people on the
inside who understood how good a wrestler someone was didn’t have much to do
with how often they won. It never did any good, because the only opinion which mattered
was Lou’s, and Lou never listened to anyone.
Still, the couple of times I’d
wrestled Tino, he tried to make me look good. Which I really appreciated,
because when you’re a jobber you don’t get to look good very often.
But that night in Baker City,
my match against Tino was a drag. My heart wasn’t in it, and I took a couple of
really poor bumps. I’d been getting the crap knocked out of me for three or
four minutes when Tino threw me into the corner, then ran at me and squished me
into the turnbuckles. You know how that works. If the guy in the corner is a
star, sometimes he moves, and the guy who’s running at him crashes his chest
into the turnbuckles. This is always played as if it hurts like hell, so the
guy who smacks himself in the corner loses the upper hand to the one who moved
out of the way.
But when it’s a jobber like me
in the corner, he always takes the hit. So Tino smashed me and backed off a
step and I fell face-first to the canvas, and then he went to pick me up and said,
real low, “Lou said you were supposed to get something going.”
“Right. I forgot.”
“Might be time to start.”
So I punched him in the
stomach. Then again, and a third time. He sold it really well, and I was able
to stand up and give him one to the jaw. And down went Tino.
The crowd started to wake up.
They do anytime a facejobber starts
to get some shots in on a heel star.
That woke me up too. I looked
at the crowd, and I nodded slowly, as if asking, you want to see some more? They did, judging from the cheers, so I
waited until Tino got to his feet and I gave him one of the kicks Stephan
taught me when I was a teenager. Stand on one foot, point your side at the guy,
shoot the leg up and then out, and pow. Tino went down again. I went for the
pin.
It scared the crap out of me.
Tino let the ref get to two before he kicked out, and for a second I thought
he’d go to three and both Tino and I would be in big trouble. But Tino kicked
out in time, and then when I went to dish out more punishment, he pulled my
legs out from under me, and gave me his signature Senor Suplex move, and that was that.
***
“It’s not so bad,” I told Sue.
“How bad is it?”
It was a couple of hours later.
I was on a pay phone at the arena, and Sue was at home. She was my girlfriend. I
figured she’d be my wife someday, if we ever got around to it. I’d headed to
the hospital right after the match with Tino. Just threw my street clothes over
my wrestling duds. I’d made a nuisance of myself until I was sure Farley was
going to be okay, then came back to shower and stuff.
“They popped his shoulder back in,” I said.
“It hurts like hell, but no permanent damage. The concussion is the main thing.
They’re keeping him overnight.”
“Does he have anybody there
with him?”
“Yeah, his wife and kids. He’s
just a kid himself, but he’s got three of his own.”
The operator came on, asking
for more money. I found a bunch of change and shoved it in.
“How’d you do today?” Sue said.
“Not good. My timing was off or
something. And you know what? Lou asked me to show my stuff during the last
match, and I was so shook about Farley that I nearly forgot. Tino had to remind
me.”
“How is Tino?”
“Good. Diana had another kid. I
didn’t even know she was pregnant. She didn’t look pregnant last time we saw
them. Jeez, everybody’s having kids.”
Which led to a real nice
silence. Because it was about the only thing Sue and I disagreed on. She was older
than me, almost thirty-seven, and she wanted a couple. Kept saying her safe baby-making years were almost over,
which she heard in a play at the community theater, where she liked to work on
the sets sometimes.
As for me, let’s just say I
wasn’t crazy about the world, and didn’t know how I felt about bringing kids
into it. Blame Desert Storm, if you want. Sue’s mother did.
Finally, Sue said, “So you
didn’t get to get in any moves?”
“One of my kicks. It went over
really well. I got a two-count out of
it.”
“Really? Your first two-count.
How exciting! I’m going to tell Charlie.”
You’re probably thinking Sue
was making fun of me. But she wasn’t. She understood where I stood as a jobber,
and how my dream was to get a push and wrestle during all the house shows.
Charlie’s my uncle. A wrestler
himself, a while back, and the guy who did most of my upbringing. Sometimes, he
came with me to my matches, but this time around they were having a big sale at
his Ford dealership and he couldn’t get away. He used his wrestling in a lot of
his ads. He’d come on TV wearing one of those singlets like Andre the Giant and
say stuff like, “Wrestle down some big savings.”
“One away from the big time,” I
said. “Hey, Sue? You mind if I hang here and come home in the morning?”
“You meet one of those
front-row chicks with the big boobs?”
“Yours are plenty big enough
for me. No, it’s late and I’m tired and I don’t know that I want to drive five
hours in the dark. I’m gonna see if I can get another night in the motel.”
“Okay. I’ll keep your side of
the bed warm.”
“You better. I’ll call you in
the morning before I leave.”
I went back to the locker room.
Most everyone had cleared out a long time ago. Just Barry Silver was there. He
was watching basketball on the monitor. He didn’t have much of a life.
What he did have was a gimmick,
and he was one of the only jobbers who did. They didn’t play it up a lot, but
he was known as the Jewish wrestler.
He had a Jewish star on his robe. He was working his way up to
jobber-to-the-stars. The guy who won a match once in a while, so when some new
guy came along and they were giving him a push, he could beat Barry and it was
a little more impressive than beating someone like Farley…or me.
And Barry was one of the first
guys who Thumper had wrestled.
I went over, sat down on a
bench. Said, “Who’s winning?”
He looked up at the screen.
Then over at me. “You care?”
“Not really.”
“So, what’s up?”
“I wanted to ask you about
Thumper.”
“What’s about him?”
“You were up against him once,
right?”
“Twice. Springfield and, I
think, Arlington.”
“What do you think of him?”
“Gonna go places.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He’s just got it, is all.”
“Yeah.” I let a few seconds go
by. “I know what you mean.”
“Son of a bitch is strong as
hell. You see how he threw Farley over the top rope from the floor?”
“Yeah. Is he a good worker? He
know how to sell stuff?”
“He doesn’t have to sell stuff.
The guy against him has to sell stuff.”
“Did he hurt you any?”
“No more than anybody else.
What’s this about?”
“You ever look in his eyes?”
He held back just a whit. “What’s
that supposed to mean?”
“I think you know.”
Barry didn’t want to answer.
Too bad.
“Come on, tell me.”
A shrug, and then he said, “Guy’s
eyes are spooky.”
I waited for more. There wasn’t
any. I said, “See you,” and picked up my gear, and got the hell out of there.
===============
Want to see how it plays out? Pick up Push today on Amazon HERE.
And if you like outstanding fight stories, then ZBFbooks.com has some picks for you. Pick up your copy of the 'Pit Fighters' series today in paperback or kindle. Follow the adventures of the fighters in the south Texas fight stable, San Uvalde International, in 'Baptism by Fire' and 'Double Cross'. Get themHERE. The stories feature a Scottish boxer trying to make a name for himself again.
Check out the trailers and the book covers for both books below.
TRAILER: PIT FIGHTERS - BAPTISM BY FIRE
BOOK TRAILER: PIT FIGHTERS - DOUBLE CROSS
BOWIE V. IBARRA is the author of the acclaimed 'Down the Road' zombie horror series from Permuted Press. He earned a BFA in Acting and a MA in Theatre History from Texas State University. His latest titles explore superhero themes, including 'Codename: La Lechusa', 'Room 26 and the Army of Xulhutdul', and 'Tejano Star and the Vengeance of Chaplain Skull'.
Network with Bowie at his official website, ZBFbooks.com, the leader in Tex-Mexploitation literature.
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE CONTACT: Permuted Press Gabrielle Faust - Marketing Director gabrielle@permutedpress.com
FROM SHARK WEEK TO VAMPIRES, WE HAVE TITLES WITH BITE YOU CAN SINK YOUR TEETH INTO!
July was a phenomenal month here at Permuted Press! From Emily Goodwin's novel "Contagious" sweeping the Contagious Horror Reading Awards to the continued success of all of our incredible new titles, the future is looking as bright as a supernova! And we're just getting warmed up! Check out the latest news below and stay tuned for more exciting announcements as we head into the Fall months...
Still Alive by AC Thorne
Light bends around the edges of a cloaked elliptical sphere as it glides down unnoticed and attaches to a freeway overpass during rush hour. It begins spraying a green mist that wafts down across all lanes of traffic. A few begin to notice the mist but even they are oblivious to what’s about to happen. Ceres is a recently unemployed and recently single twenty-something. Already burned out on the pursuit of love and money she decides to move away from the city at just the right time. Burnout, she would learn, is the mother of intuition.
STILL ALIVE is a genre-crossing thrill ride that takes the reader through the perils of a running-zombie infested world while learning that the plague is just the pre-cursor to something even larger and much more sinister.
During the Second Great Depression, Orissa doesn’t think things can get any worse until a virus breaks out, leaving the infected crazed, aggressive, and very hungry. Used to only being responsible for herself, she finds herself a reluctant leader of a group of survivors and must make a choice: set aside her issues and help the others or go off alone in search of her own family and friends.
"A gory, action packed plot with lots of close encounters of the undead kind a totally recommendation for any zombie lover!" — Shandy, Mama Knows Books blog
People start to explode. Literally. Inexplicably. A wave of spontaneous self-combustion sweeps the globe, quickly reducing the world's population and leaving the survivors wary of one another as anyone can go at any time--with devastating consequences to those in their vicinity. Amidst this madness, roommates Michael and Jimmy Boy stand together against the end of the world as they journey from North Carolina to Philadelphia.
As we have mentioned before, there are a lot of exciting developments occurring at Permuted Press this year. We have begun updating the official website regularly throughout each week with new content including interviews with our authors, guest posts about the horror industry, book trailers, and promotions surrounding the release of our 2014 titles. Be sure to visit our News section at www.permutedpress.com!
As we mentioned in our previous newsletter, we have begun developing a series of guides specifically tailored to gamers with an affinity for the horror genre. If you're looking to extend your gaming experience check out these titles hand-picked by our staff and paired with the most anticipated new games of 2014! The second installment of the Gamers' Guide to Permuted Press is now live!
Ever wonder what kind of vampire heroine you would make? From now until August 5thfind out the answer and win a chance to receive a free autographed copy of Tentyrian Legacy by Elise Walters (this summer's hottest vampire read!). Just take the quiz and post who you are most like on the "Tentyrian Legacy" Facebook fanpage or tweet your answer to @tentyrian! https://www.facebook.com/pages/Tentyrian-Legacy/687156554667336
Permuted Press is in the process of developing its very own film division entitledPermuted Pictures! We will be revealing further details on our initial project, which is based on the story "The Apocalypse Shift" by Derek Goodman, in the weeks to come as we lead up to the relaunch of the Permuted Press website on Halloween. The first film entitled "The One-Stop Apocalypse Shop" will be screened at the 2015 Texas Frightmare Convention in Dallas, Texas, in conjunction to The Killing Kindshort horror film competition co-sponsored by Popcorn Horror.
SHARK WEEK!!!
Like millions of you around the world, we too are getting very excited about the return of the Discovery Channel's SHARK WEEK in August! In celebration of this terrifying and educational week exploring the world of the oceans' great predators we will be bringing your the latest SHARK WEEK news on the Permuted Press website, as well as videos, facts, and, of course, which books in the Permuted Press library you should have on your nightstand to supplement your underwater terrors obsession such asDavid Salkin's Deep Black Sea, Briar Lee Mitchell's Big Ass Shark, andWarren Fielding's Great Bitten: Outbreak!
What is your favorite horror movie involving sharks? Tweet to us@PermutedPress with hashtag#SharkWeek.
