By Dave Walsh
The ritual aspects were the most important part of Jake’s warmup for each match. Each time followed the same rigid formula. He’d start by pulling on his pads, slapping them each once for good luck, and laced his boots with a meticulous attention to detail like if he skipped a rivet the world would notice with great scorn. He stared at himself in the mirror, fingers smudging bright paint along his cheeks, waiting for the transformation to happen, each time it taking him by surprise. The mask of Kid Nebula that the world saw was never what Jake wanted for himself. A shiver ran through him, while the lights flickered and the face glaring back at him looked otherworldly; warped as if he were melting into a demonic figure. When he opened his eyes again, the lights were fine and staring back at him was Kid Nebula. Someone unlike him. Brave, daring, outgoing and comfortable under those blinding lights.
His match that night flowed smoothly like he was a seasoned pro, his brain taking over on auto-pilot. The back-and-forth, playing to the crowd, and into the heat segment where his opponent, Butch Branson, was really laying into him, fell together with ease. Backed against the corner of the familiar ring, roasting under the lights in the already sweltering high school gym, he braced for the second impact. Butch was the kind of ornery asshole who’s shoulders the industry was built upon; a weekend warrior and part time dreamer that was never going to make it to the big leagues, but allowed someone like Jake to cut his teeth in the ring and hone his craft. He was contented with a match a week, getting blackout drunk at the bar afterwards, and bullshitting with the boys. His hairy arm was coiled up in front of his chest and he did an overly performative shush towards the crowd, who all followed in suit, on the edge of their seats for the incoming smack. With a laugh, he unloaded, letting the back of his forearm loose upon Jake’s chest, although the sleight-of-hand was that the contact came from the extended palm of the brute’s hand. At the last second his hand rotated, and it was less of a “knife edge” chop and more of an open hand slap. The smack of palm on meat echoed through the gymnasium and the paltry few dozen in the crowd responded in kind, hooting and screeching at the sound of performative violence on another dead end of a Saturday in the fringes of the suburbs in Arizona.
“Harder,” Jake grit through his teeth. He allowed himself the occasional indulgence and tried to sneak in things he’d seen from his massive collection of dubbed VHS tapes from Japan, where the wrestlers laid into each other instead of this light touch dance most would engage in state-side. Butch laughed and unloaded with another chop, this time with more power behind the blow. Then another one. Each one another in an ongoing salvo of Butch rising to the challenge. Harder each time until Jake almost felt alive.
Inside, something latent stirred into existence. The time had come, and he couldn’t suppress the urge any longer. He took more chops, whispering for Branson to go faster, and he obliged, leaving Jake’s chest streaked raw with red lines. He stopped selling them, though, pushing himself forward while he clenched his fists and absorbed the blows. Branson’s face turned red and he unloaded harder, Jake giving the return receipt with a palm blow to the jaw that leveled the man. Staggering back, Jake launched at him with a series of kicks to the chest, then following up with a belly-to-belly. Jake went down for the pinfall and the ref, Brett, who was also the owner of the promotion, counted to two and glanced over at him, shaking his head.
“Cut the shit, kid. This ain’t no Budokan.”
Jake growled and nodded, pulling Branson up and pushing him back into the corner. He whispered for a face kick he’d miss, then return to the match they’d laid out beforehand. Heart sunken and face dour, he dashed forward, making it look good while he missed the kick, letting Branson tear up his chest with more chops, followed by a few punches, the last one potatoing him – that is, wrestling slang for hitting him for real – busting his lip open.
The brute grabbed Jake’s hand and yukked it up for the fans more, unleashing a maniacal laugh — the kind of laugh that would have been gauche for local theater even, but in the exaggerated world of pro wrestling, connected — and then leaned in, letting his long hair obscure their faces.
“Corner whip,” he whispered to Jake.
“Sunset flip nearfall,” he responded. They’d already laid the whole match out, but Butch needed the reassurance Jake wasn’t going to go off-script again.
Branson, for all of his faults, didn’t miss a beat. No, he wasn’t the kind of guy that would ever end up in the big leagues or get attention outside of these small venues, but the basics of wrestling were dead simple. Even an oaf like Butch could have a good match. They were chest to chest, Branson giving Jake’s hand a tug that sent him dashing across the ring in big, galloping steps towards the opposing turnbuckle. He had a split second window to catch his hands against the top rope, leap to the second rope, and thrust his feet up. His body twisted in mid-air, feet clearing Branson’s hefty shoulders just like they’d planned. The magic happened when he locked his feet under his opponent’s armpits, and somersault onto the mat where his momentum brought Branson’s body down onto the mat with Jake’s hands locked around the man’s waist.
The referee’s hand slammed down for a quick 1-2- and Branson kicked out just in time, thrusting his shoulder off the mat and hand grasping towards the lights in the sky, which got the fans to shout along with the referee for his call of “two.” Just like that, the crowd was stirring to life; their quiet awe swelling to a rumbling murmur that told both men they were in control of that audience.
Brett leaned in like he was telling both men it was only a two count, instead to whisper to bring it home. Jake wasn’t a huge fan of planning his spots out, but Branson wasn’t an improviser like him. He wasn’t there for the craft or to ply his trade. No. He was just there to have some fun, kick some ass, and feel one step closer to being truly alive. Jake, on the other hand, hit the road each week and effectively lived out of his car most of the time, making towns and working similarly small shows for similarly small, but equally deserving crowds. There was a simmering sentiment in the dirt sheets that Jake was a southwestern star on the rise. The smart fans in the chat rooms and forums had started naming him as a prospect from leaked handheld cam footage that made its way to them, but some luck that was for him until he actually secured a spot on TV. Branson had wanted Jake to kick out of his finish, a running powerslam, but Jake had another idea. They made it to their feet and Jake whiffed a punch, the big man following up by whipping him against the ropes and crashing into him with the weight of his considerable torso, then playing it up to the crowd like he had this in the bag. The fans jeered while Jake fought up to his feet, pumping his fists like the never-say-die hero from a movie he was moonlighting as, and the crowd urged him on.
Branson absorbed the few blows that came in and cracked him across the shoulders with a stiff hammer blow with enough force to send him crashing to the mat. The greasy clod lowered the straps on his singlet and called out for the finish; the crowd booing him while he grabbed Jake by his flowing locks, whipped him against the ropes again, and snatching him up onto his shoulder. He backed up into the corner, which was Jake’s cue, locking his boots around the ropes and slipping off of Butch’s shoulders. This left Jake perched up top, a bird ready to take flight. Branson spun around to catch a boot to the jaw that sent him stumbling about, turning around in the nick of time into a mid-flight Jake, left arm extended out and catching his opponent square on the chest with a flying lariat.
Both bodies struck the mat and Jake draped his body over Branson’s, the ref pounding out the three count while the fans cheered along. He celebrated in the corner, with the owner slapping him on the shoulder, thanking him for the great match. Jake scanned through the crowd, sifting through the familiar faces before hopping down, pounding out high fives and heading to the back.
Backstage he was greeted by the owner’s twin brother, business partner, and former tag team partner, Larry. Larry had his usual clipboard and dour expression that accentuated his gray slacks, matching button-up that he wore every week, and touristy bolo tie. He glanced over at Jake while tapping his pen on the clipboard. They exchanged their usual post-match pleasantries, which included Larry’s veteran advice that always bordered on condescension, only this time there was an awkward, pregnant pause.
“Trying something new out there?” He asked without looking up from the clipboard. “Branson ain’t your man for that.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Jake said.
“Well, anyway… I got a call last night from my buddy in Atlanta. I’m gonna cut to the chase here. It was Burt. Sure you know that WFCC is blowing through town next weekend, right?”
“Yeah, what of it? You actually didn’t book a show next weekend because you knew these fans would all be across town at that show.”
“Yeah, well, they needed some local talent for the show and asked me for names.”
“What? On screen security guard duty again?” Jake groaned. He’d been on screen security at least four times already when WFCC came to town. A mind-numbing job where he’d have to come out with a few other guys in matching company polo shirts, and get slammed around to make the babyface look invincible while the heel scrambled away. The first time was exciting, and every subsequent time cemented it as a dead end, regardless of how big he bumped or however many hands he shook backstage.
“Already booked those spots up. Sorry.”
“I’ll live, Larry. So, I get the week off? I gotta know so I can try to book something else.”
“Well, that’s up to you. Burt was asking if I had anyone for TV. Nothing glamorous, just a job guy spot, but he promised you can get some stuff in. Think of it as a tryout.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” Jake glared at Larry, knowing the dour man hardly joked around, if ever. A glimmer of excitement shot through him. An actual shot at TV. Finally.
“Remember. This is TV. Be yourself, kid. You’ll only get a few minutes. Would be a shame if you went out there and blew your chance. You’re the best up-and-comer we’ve got. Show ‘em what we’ve got.”
It’d been twelve months since that night where Jake had left it all in the WFCC ring. At least he thought he had. That tape nagged at him, never leaving his VCR, where he replayed it night-after-night like a piece of forensic evidence trying to find where he’d gone wrong. Backstage after the match, Burt Cobb had stood there, gut spilling over his slacks while his suspenders clung to life, and shook Jake’s hand, thanked him for coming out, and mumbled some mealy-mouthed bullshit about someone being in contact if there was interest.
No call ever came.
The following week when he had asked Larry if he’d heard anything, his facade broke, and he actually sat down, setting the clipboard aside and told him he’d heard from Burt. Burt had said he was good. Great, even, but was missing that special something. “Wooden” was one of the words he called him. Everything was fine, done well, and in time, but the connection with the crowd wasn’t there. The other word he’d used was “stilted” and it crushed Jake’s spirits dead in their tracks.
“Kid, when you’re on TV, what works in these small crowds doesn’t work the same. Look at all the top guys. They aren’t playing some bullshit character. They’re playing themselves, just turning the volume up to eleven. I don’t know,” Larry rambled. “That was never my thing, kid. That was always my brother the showboat that carried us. Brett was the star. I was the worker. I don’t know. Talent alone isn’t enough.”
That last sentence stuck with him, like a popcorn kernel stuck between his teeth that no toothpick or floss could reach. Each and every subsequent match in high school gyms, legion halls and community centers, he couldn’t help but think about that night. He’d stopped tuning into WFCC on TV, as the seething at every younger guy—guys younger than him—who’d gotten their shots and earned spots, even if they barely got TV time, wore him down. They got to be a part of the show. What did they have that he didn’t? That led him back to his true love, which was harder-hitting Japanese wrestling. Finally removing that same tape and instead getting lost in imported tapes he’d traded online. The kind of stuff he didn’t dare talk about around the other wrestlers, who felt it was too strange, foreign, or too violent. Yet, he found it fascinating and comforting. Wishing he could let himself go and work like that, instead of the softer touch, overly theatrical style that dominated the more conservative western world.
He’d stare at himself in the mirror until his face warped beyond recognition preparing for yet another match. For years he’d known himself, or at least the version of himself that he was comfortable with. He’d ground out his hours on the road, watched enough tape to consume him, and hyperfixated on every minute detail of what went into being a wrestler. Why should he care if fucking Burt Cobb didn’t find him relatable? Burt Cobb was an asshole, renowned in the industry as the guy who got off pissing on ring rats in seedy hotel rooms and would pass out in puddles of his own vomit. But that was what they were looking for. That was Burt turned up to eleven, like Larry had told him. The genuine deal.
Larry’s voice echoed down the hall, calling Jake out for his match that night. They’d hardly exchanged words in the convening twelve months, or at least about the same as they did prior to Larry’s talk about turning himself up to eleven. Jake was already turning it up to eleven. Jake in his natural state was quiet, reserved and always hyper aware of his surroundings. He obsessed over the details, and didn’t like to be around other people more than he needed to be. He couldn’t deny there was an emotional dam in place, but it’d been there for so long. It had always been a part of him. Talent be damned, Jake was better than those assholes on TV. Who cared if he couldn’t let himself go? He was leaving it all in the ring, or Kid Nebula was. As best he could in four minutes on TV bumping like a madman for Mike Ortiz, that bland asshole babyface. Oh, he had that “it” factor, alright.
His face continued to warp in the mirror, the shooting star streaks etched across his cheeks, when the lights flickered again. A piercing swell of electricity buzzed overhead and his face melted into something ugly and evil. What were they perceiving him as when he was out there? He’d exhausted himself night-after-night, left blood, sweat and tears across the US southwest, slept in his car in Walmart parking lots to save a few bucks, and had nothing to show for it beyond nagging injuries. Had to get intimately comfortable with gym locker room showers and the local creeps who got booked on shows and would watch him shower, or hang around backstage with their literal balls hanging out to show who was boss in that town. Amateurs. Neophytes. Yet, according to goddamned Burt Cobb, he was doomed to be confined to their level. The rage had always been there, but it passed over his face like a shadow, himself watching his own metamorphosis in real time, unable to control the bubbling anxiety that always simmered beneath the surface.
He stormed into the ring, a man with volatile nitrous coursing through his veins and a chip on his shoulder. That night he was working with Pete Sunfire, a car salesman and local bodybuilder known for being snug in the ring. Not out of spite or bravado, but raw, forgivable incompetence. Jake was done fucking around. Pete started off slow with the showboating nonsense and basic holds. Jake let him get his spots in while growing increasingly frustrated. When Pete messed up a basic arm drag sequence, Jake refused to hold back, springing up to his feet and greeting him with a crack of a forearm to the jaw. Pete glared up at him, a lost little lamb away from the herd. Jake shouted for him to step it up, and Pete scrambled back to his feet, trying to re-run the missed spot, which only set Jake off more. Instead of the armdrag, he grabbed him by the nape of the neck and dragged him down onto the mat, following up with a series of concussive elbow strikes before Brett pulled him off, asking him what his damage was.
This allowed Pete space to crash into him in the corner with a body block, and follow up with some punches in the corner, with whatever space between asking Jake what was wrong. All Jake could do was grunt and tell Pete to follow him, and trust he wouldn’t actually kill him. Pete hit Jake with a belly-to-belly suplex, which Jake sold out of pity, allowing him more space to run through his bland offense. When the time was right, Jake took a vertical suplex and popped back up, smacking himself in the face a few times and rubbing at the facepaint until it peeled under his fingernails. When Pete turned around, he didn’t know what to expect, eating a few kicks from Jake, who pushed him into the corner and rained blows down upon him. Pete tried to fight back, Jake screaming at him to go harder until Pete cracked him across the jaw for real.
That was what he wanted. Pete went for another big, looping punch, and Jake ducked it, grabbing him and using the momentum to bring Pete’s body up into the air and down onto his shoulders with a stiff backdrop suplex. He followed with a quick cover, allowing Pete back to his feet and back into the match which had transformed in front of their eyes into something very different. Something that Pete couldn’t recognize. Finally, he goaded Pete into exchanging strikes with him, where Jake took out his frustrations on this poor pud. Jake called for Pete to hit him with a DDT for a quick nearfall, then take it home. Jake kicked out, ducked under a strike and ran at him full speed to take his head off with a stiff lariat, the crowd in awe when Brett counted the pin to end the match.
After the match, when the adrenaline dump came, Jake apologized profusely to Pete for working stiffer, but Pete just shrugged, the lunkhead that he was, and said it was a great match. Perhaps the best of his career, and thanked Jake.
It was impossible to know what these people wanted anymore. What anyone valued or considered good. That was it. He needed to be done with this fucking sport. With these people. He didn’t care what some golden showered asshole who puked himself to sleep to become a legend had to say about him. He was done.
Larry approached him with that damned clipboard again and the torrent flowed.
“I don’t want to hear it, Larry. I know I worked stiff out there. I can’t do this shit anymore. I can’t watch assholes make it on TV that I know aren’t as good as me. I know they aren’t.”
“I know, kid. I agree.”
“I can’t keep grinding away knowing this is all just dumb luck or who I know. It’s bullshit. That some asshole who gets off pissing on underaged girls thinks I’m too wooden or too… whatever when I know I should be out there knocking their heads off. I’m done, Larry. I’m fucking done.”
“That’s too bad.” His tone remained flat.
“Yeah, too fucking bad. Don’t book me next weekend. I’m done. I’m making the rest of my bookings and that’s it.” He flung open his locker and stuffed the rest of his clothes into his bag while Larry looked on, tapping his pen against the clipboard like a patient father waiting for his toddler’s meltdown to taper off.
“I wasn’t going to book you next week anyway, so that’s fine.”
“Oh, good. You were going to suspend me for stiffing asshole Pete?”
“What was that you were doing out there tonight?”
“Fucking strong style,” he said. “That shit nobody here is willing to try but I feel it in my veins.”
“Well, whatever it was, it’s got nothing to do with booking you or not. WFCC is in town again, remember?”
“Oh, right. Fucking Burt probably needs security guards for some lifeless angle to make Mike Ortiz look like a god.”
“If you’re really quitting, you gotta tell me now. I’m sure Pete would be happy to fill in with a tryout spot on TV instead.”
“I said I was done, Larry.” Even Jake didn’t believe the words that spilled out of him. Larry gave him a sidelong look. “I can’t do it again. I can’t go through this again. The disappointment is too much. I’ve worked too hard. I don’t know what anyone wants of me anymore. None of it makes sense. I’m sure Pete has that special ‘something’ that asshole is looking for.”
“If you’re really done, what does one more match hurt, then? C’mon, kid. You’re more like me than either of us would like to admit. You don’t have a Brett to fill in those blanks, but what I saw tonight was something. An intensity. Maybe you don’t need a Brett, or to be like him. Maybe this is who you are. What was it, again?”
“Strong style.”
“Whatever it is, that was something. Just do me one favor before you quit. Do that in front of that TV crowd. Go out with a bang.”
Backstage, Jake couldn’t help but feel like a pariah. Not just a local tryout, but a second-timer. The kind who didn’t make it first time and came back for the walk of shame through the locker room. He did the whole show, staring a hole through himself in the rear view mirror of his car before entering the arena, shaking anyone and everyone’s hands, thanking the producers, agents, and other backstage names for the opportunity, before he met with his opponent for the night, a kid a few years younger than him named Brad Rowley. He’d gotten in through a tryout, just like Jake had the previous year, but was everything Jake wasn’t. Loud, musclebound, and made for television. The kid worked in a slick, smooth style in the ring that made it look like nobody ever got hurt.
The same style Jake had tried to work his whole career, and was steering him off the cliff into a fiery inferno of mediocrity. Brad was a nice enough guy, and when Jake told him he was fine making him look good, but wanted to try something different when he got his spots in, he conceded with ease. Leave it all in the ring. Brad seemed fired up with letting him get some shine before taking it home, especially considering he’d broke in via a tryout match much like this one. Just before their match he sat there backstage, staring into the mirror, still afraid of the face that would be looking back at him. To allow him to again enter the skin of someone else. To become the Kid Nebula that was expected of him. Kid Nebula had been what brought him there in the first place. Abandoning that, after years of hard work, would be suicide. Yet he paused. After so long, he couldn’t bear himself to do it. The tin of brightly colored paints stared up at him, almost like it was taunting him. In a burst of rage he flung it aside, letting it implode against the wall, leaving brilliant streaks of blue and gold on the wall.
Burt made an appearance with his clipboard; a veritable funhouse mirror version of Larry, although shorter, more stout, and far more cocksure. The crown of hair that framed his bald head was a mess, while the suspenders with the gaudy gold hardware fought for dear life to keep his pants at his waist frayed at the edges. His bushy mustache stained at the edges from chewing tobacco curled into his mouth, although he didn’t seem to notice or care. “Nebula, you’re up. Prove me wrong, kid.”
“Yeah.”
He didn’t bother with the usual babyface schtick on the way to the ring. The happy-go-lucky, just glad to be there as a local kid gimmick. Instead, he wore his intensity on his tightly bound wrist tape. Those years of pent up frustration and hard work that had evaporated around him, leaving him a prisoner on death row, letting the calm wash over him before his inevitable execution. Brad played it up for the crowd, his blonde feathered mullet a stark contrast from Jake’s wet hair that he clung to his shoulders. When the bell rang he stood in the corner, stalking back-and-forth like a caged lion waiting to pounce on his showboating lion tamer, while Brad played the unwitting role of the prey without missing a beat.
Brad, the bland newbie that he was, started with a basic collar-and-elbow tie-up, transitioning into a headlock. The kind of gentle, polite wrestling Jake had been sleepwalking through for years. They were set for another basic three-act match. Feel each other out, the heel (in this case, Jake) wrests control via nefarious means, keeps Brad from hitting his big spots until the harrowing second act bleeds into the third, and Brad summons energy from the crowd, channeling it to make his hopeful comeback, hit his finish and score the clean three count.
Boring. Pedestrian. Far too ordinary and was never going to allow Jake to shine.
Jake followed the playbook, backing into the ropes and slinging Brad across the ring, relenting his grip from his head. Only he was supposed to drop down, run through the whole sequence of a drop down, a leap frog, a headlock takeover exchange, and a show of parity. Instead, Brad ran his shoulder into Jake, who didn’t budge. Brad backed into the ropes and again dashed at him, driving his shoulder into Jake’s. Jake brushed it off and watched the look of panic blossom in Brad’s eyes; the referee interjecting for them to get back on script. Brad, unsure of what else to do, tried the same thing again and this time Jake sprang into action, driving his forearm into the squeaky clean face’s jaw with a crack heard throughout the arena.
The crowd, prepared for the usual, paused, and an “ooh” rippled through them. Brad gripped his jaw and yelled, “what the fuck man,” following up with a chop of his own, stiffer than the shoulder block. A return receipt. This got Jake’s blood flowing. Jake followed with another forearm that staggered Brad back into the ropes. That had awakened something in the kid, who was fuming mad, smacking Jake across the face with an open hand slap. Jake reeled, wiping his hand against his mouth and getting a glimpse of his own blood. A smile crawled across Jake’s face while Brad conferred with the ref, complaining about Jake’s strikes.
“Enough of this bullshit.” Jake muttered, grabbing onto that feathered mane and cracking him again with another elbow. “Is that all you’ve got? C’mon!”
Brad’s pride was wounded from the provocation, sending him into an impotent rage. The two men stood toe-to-toe, exchanging blows while the referee screamed at them to cut it out, but it was too late. They’d gotten lost in the moment. Jake whipped Brad against the ropes, ducked under the wide clothesline and followed with a kick to the chest, then another. Brad whiffed yet another punch, Jake again ducking under, this time grabbing a hold of the muscular torso, whispering beneath his hair “back suplex,” which Brad grunted in forced agreement, perhaps believing Jake had lost his mind and he’d either agree and brace for the bump, or let Jake break his neck. Jake held nothing back, slamming him down to the mat with a thud. Instead of playing to the crowd, Jake rolled on top of him, following with more stiff forearms towards his chest and jaw that rocked him with each blow. The referee was lost, tugging Jake off of him and corraling him into the corner, where he told him to get his shit together, which only made Jake laugh even harder. Brad had staggered up to his feet, Jake pushing the ref out of the way and backed himself against the ropes, catapulting himself forward and held nothing back, cracking Brad across the jaw with a lariat that folded his body up on the mat. Jake leaned in, placing his forearm across Brad’s jaw for a pin, which the referee apprehensively went in to count. Jake let his hair dangle over him, obscuring both of their faces, where he leaned over and told him it was time to take it home. Jake would go hard, Brad would duck and hit his finish, then get the three.
Brad kicked out just in time and played it up for the crowd, while the referee continued to chide Jake, including telling him he would never work there again, to which Jake could only smile. That was the plan. When Brad stumbled to face Jake, he offered a conspiratorial wink of encouragement, Jake laying into him harder than he had before, with a series of kicks to the chest, followed by elbows, then he reared back for a head kick, not holding back. If Brad didn’t duck it, he’d be knocked out and they’d both be screwed. Brad ducked, though, narrowly avoiding a full force boot to the temple, the wind whipping along his boot while he spun and gave his back to Brad, who grabbed him in a full nelson, hefted him up with Jake exaggerating the force by throwing his legs up to really sell it, and drove him down with a full nelson slam. The perfunctory pinfall after was followed by the three count for the three, those moments crawling along while Jake imagined this as the final act of his insignificant career.
The referee raised Brad’s hand and he played it up for the crowd, who were stunned, but energized, at what they’d just witnessed. Jake rolled out of the ring and pushed past the cameras and production staff buzzing around, back towards the backstage area where Larry was waiting with a proud look on his face. Brad rushed in soon after and caught Jake before anyone else did, and Jake prepared for a beatdown of a lifetime; an apt bookend to this failed experiment.
“Hey, man!” Brad called. “What the hell was that?”
“Hey, I thought…”
“No, really. What was that out there? I felt like I was fighting for my goddamned life.”
“Larry, what the hell? This kid going into business for himself out there?” Burt sauntered through the curtain from the makeshift control room. “This kid will never work another shit hole venue for as long as I have any say. That kinda shit has no place—”
“Wait,” Brad interrupted. “That was incredible, man. I’ve never felt so alive and the fans… they really bought it. That I’d overcome something. That was fucking awesome, Burt. Wasn’t it?”
“Err, I mean…” Burt stammered, unable to comprehend their deviation. “He went into business for himself. Stiffed the shit out of you.”
“I stiffed him right back! Wow. We’ve gotta do that again. Didn’t you see how that crowd ate it up, Burt?” Brad’s enthusiasm was infectious. “Jake, right? What was that out there?”
“That?” Jake straightened himself up, massaging his banged up jaw and looked back at Larry, who still wore that big, shit-eating grin on his face. He turned, catching his own reflection in a monitor. He face was bloody, bruised and exhausted, but it wasn’t Kid Nebula, nor was it the face of a monster. It was Jake. “Strong style.”
Dave Walsh resides in the high desert in New Mexico, a former combat sports and entertainment writer who focuses on the weirder side of speculative fiction instead now. Author of the Trystero and Andlios series, his work has been featured in Phano, Typebar Magazine, Hell Itself, and elsewhere. He moonlights as an audio expert. Find him at dvewlsh.com, on BlueSky as @dvewlsh.com, and everywhere else as @dvewlsh.