The Job The sun was in its last waning hour when the workers began to set up the ring. Pieces of long board, hollow poles, and long sheets of flexible yet sturdy thin material were brought in from the large, beat down, bus accompanied by the sounds of screaming and angry curses. The owner, a short overweight man with garishly striped pants and bright blue suspenders was the main cause of the commotion as he told his workers where a certain piece went and how they weren’t doing it right and what the crowd expected within the time span of 2 hours. The crowd was already forming around the ring. Young boys, anxious from the hours spent in school, were running around pretending to be their favorite wrestlers, throwing each other on the ground, trying to impress the young girls by picking each other up and performing signature moves. The older boys were with their girls, who had really come to see the performers but put up with the company of their wannabe suitors. Finally the older folk were gathering around talking about various activities of the day and who they expected to see tonight. They made up the minority of the crowd, since most old folks thought of the acts as silly, immature, and basically activities for the youth. They had all come from the nearby town, and more and more people started streaming in from the surrounding valley. Within an hour people will be coming in from over the ranges of the western horizon, mountain folk from the Sierra‘s. It wasn’t very often that this sparsely populated northern region received a visit from performance troupes. A few hundred feet west of the ring, in one of the six trailers, an old man slowly began to put on his attire. He was about five feet ten inches tall, with a big thick frame. From a distance he would’ve been a terribly frightening figure, but as one approached they would’ve been able to see the marks of old age that scarred a once chiseled body. Sagging skin on the arms and chest, matched with graying hair stood out. He used to wrestle in a simple black Speedo, but the old man now used long tights because he was self conscious of his legs, no more the muscular weapons of his youth. His face, however, was still intimidating. In fact, age had made his facial features more intimidating. The lines on his forehead and around his eyes accentuated his beady glare. His thick jowls, coming down in a near perfect square, were covered in a short gray fuzz. When he was younger he looked to much like a baby face, said the other wrestlers, but now he looked as if he were carved from stone. For most of the day he had been reading the periodicos, and smoking cigars, trying to make the time move as slow as possible, but now he had to get ready. He had looked at this night as both an end and a beginning. An end to his career and the beginning of his retirement. I said the same thing three months ago near Guadalajara, but here I am. This must be my last match though. It gets harder and harder to lace up my boots and get into my tights. He thought this as he got dressed. His bones ached with the pain that comes with more than 30 years of wrestling. Each ache was a plead from his body to stop. Move out somewhere far away, perhaps over the border and tend some crops. Drink a little every now and then but you sure as hell can’t do this anymore. The old man was scared about staying in one spot for the rest of his life. He had been moving around with various performance troupes for so long that the thought of staying put for more than 2 weeks made him feel scared and vulnerable, as if some force were chasing him around, but he always had the jump on them and escaped just in time. Now, after this night he would be vulnerable. Silently waiting for his pursuers to catch him. He pushed the thought out of his mind. That will all come later. I still have tonight, and worrying about fictional villains won’t make tonight a good night. After lacing up his boots, He pushed himself off of the seat and opened the door of the trailer. The other wrestlers were already out, going over the routine for tonight. The luchadores were sitting on boxes of rope and padding stacked around haphazardly near one of the trailers. The old man thought of how he had wanted to be a luchadore during his youth, but wasn’t agile enough. He remembered a botched hurricanrana that kept him off the circuit for several months. After that he worked on his upper body to become a grappler and thrower. Not as quick as the luchadores but everyone loved to see two big guys throwing each other around the ring. Standing around outside in the circle of luggage and equipment, the old man put out a cigar he had been nursing since the late afternoon, and began to stretch. To the west of the ramshackle collection of trailers was the town. A small little hamlet of farmers and artisans totaling to no more than three hundred at the most. To the west, the mountains rose up over the horizon and to the east, the desert stretched far into the unknown, with various little hills of its own to mix things up a bit. The town seemed to lay at that exact boundary between the dry inhospitable realm of desert, and the cool fertile mountains. Even though the majority of the vegetation was chaparral, the cool air that blew down from the mountain valleys, and the three streams that followed, helped stave off the harsh dry land from enveloping the hamlet. The sky was deep shades of purples, with clouds creating rippling effects horizontally. The crest of the great mountains to the west were accentuated by the bright orange halo of the setting sun. The old man thought that this would be a perfect place to live after retiring. He had been pondering where he would go to for quite some time. He never liked the big cities, with the multitude of people, each one uncaring and inhospitable. Of course there was a lot of convenience living in the big cities such as The cinemas, and the boxing, and the food. But still, putting up with all the people seemed like to big of a hassle to the old man. No, he decided he would much rather live out the rest of his life in a small town like this. Maybe not this one in particular though. He also thought of possibly going north, over the border, or perhaps far south, way below the city. The old mans thoughts were interrupted by the promoter. The fat little man, running up in his garish pants, and his white collared shirt, absolutely soaked in sweat, and bright blue suspenders, the promoter gave the old man a hearty handshake, asked him if he was feeling alright and if everything was fine. The old man said he felt fine, not nervous at all. The fat man nodded unceasingly, his fat little face smiling all the while, and his little remaining hair, flaring out in various directions from the stress of the getting the workers to set up the ring and the lights correctly. Behind the fat man, was a young man, of similar stature to the old man. He wore a red speedo and red boots with poorly painted flames on the sides. His body was sculpted and well defined. The old man figured that the kid had to be in his early twenties. The young mans face was impressive as well. Flat forehead, small ears, and a straight nose, with a large cleft that reminded the Old man of that actor in “the Strange Love of Marth Ivers” with Barbara Stanwyck. Despite his intimidating stature, the young man had been slumped, with his head down so that the Old man didn’t even notice him until the fat man presented him. At this insistence from the fat man, the young man shyly put his hand out to shake the old mans. Upon, shaking the young man, finally burst forth with many praises for the old man. It’s an honor sir. I’ve been such a big fan. I will do my best. After the show could you please sign my boots. The old man was so overwhelmed that he could just nod and smile as the young man went on about how great he was. Meanwhile the fat man had returned to his trailer and put on his black jacket, and top hat. He came back out hollering and yelling at several luchadore’s who promptly put on their masks and ran out towards the makeshift fences that marked the entrance. The crowd had been gathered into a circle around the ring with one long line of fences to make an entry way for the wrestlers. As the old man and the young man sat on the benches, they could hear the eruption of applause from the crowd as the first match got underway. After listening to the whoops and cheers for a while, the two of them finally began to settle in and talk about how their match would go. They knew that it would end with the old man losing. That was agreed upon. The young man was being built up as the next big thing, and it would be beneficial for his career to see him beat one of the professions best and most revered. The old man didn’t have a problem with it. Back when he was a young wrestler starting out, that’s how he received his major push. They just had to settle on how he would lose. The young man tried to be very respectful, never referring to the inevitable loss, and trying to assure the old man that he wouldn’t look bad. The old man was beginning to get annoyed with this. I know I’m gonna lose, you don’t have the beat around the damn bush. It’s not like I’ve never lost before. I have always jobbed to other wrestlers. The fat man came running back to them, screaming at another group of wrestlers that their time was up. He asked the two if they had decided on what they would do for the main event. The young man suggested a redundant series of grapples, clothesline throws, and big kicks and punches, with a finishing power slam by the young man. The fat man didn’t seem to excited. Finally the old man suggested that he turn heel in the ring. The idea had been in his head for some time. Throughout most of his career he had been a technico, which certainly got him a lot of loving support from his fans, but secretly he had always admired the guys who played the heels. They got to say whatever they wanted, and they got to act like tough guys. With the little time left in his career, he had been deciding when would be the best time to do it. At first, the fat man and the young man were in shock at the suggestion. But the old man explained that by him turning heel, he could instantly alienate any of the fans who had been cheering him on. They would ally themselves with the young man insuring that he has a strong fan base for many years to come. Still, the young and fat men asked if the old man was sure of his decision. By now, the old man was absolutely set on it. The idea made him giddy and excited to step into the ring. After reluctantly settling on this, the fat man and the young man began to offer up ideas on how to end the match. They settled on the basic layout and left the rest of the match to be made up on the spot by the young and old men. After this, the fat man ran back to the ring to introduce the next match, and the young man went back to his trailer, to wait out the time. The Old man sat on the bench and thought up how he could turn heel in the match. After what seemed like several hours of thought, he settled on a low blow. They would never see it coming he thought to himself. The fans, screaming for him to defeat the young man, would collectively call for his blood. He could also admonish the fans. The old man was so busy laughing to himself, thinking of the evil intentions he had for the match, when the fat man, out of breath and sweaty, came running up to him, saying that it was time. The young man was already outside, visibly shaking from the nerves. The fat man ran back out to the ring, and announced the old man’s name to the crowd. The young boys erupted with applause, and gestures of excitement. The Older men were more silent, but appreciative. They knew that this man always put on a good match, and the previous matches, being filled with botches and all around laziness on the part of the luchadore‘s, made the older fans anxious for this match. He strolled through the aisle. The fans on either side of the fence threw their hands out to try and touch him. It reminded him of when the bishop visited his village, many years ago, and how all the people reached out to try and touch him, as if his gown could cleanse them of their faulty human nature. He gave them as noble a smile as he could, all the while thinking of the cruel swerve he would throw them later in the match. When he got to the ring, he grabbed onto the bottom rope, and pulled himself up to the top of the ring apron. All the aches and pains that his age-worn legs felt on the ground disappeared when he stepped up onto the apron. That familiar hard, yet slightly springy surface was the true bishops gown. Waving to the crowd, the old man stepped under the top rope and sauntered over to the upper left corner of the ring, placed his arms on the ropes, and leaned back against the turnbuckle. He studied the crowd. A pocket of people directly behind him, started chanting his name, and several people in the crowd let out loud gritas. The fat man, clearly sweating through his dark suit, motioned for the crowd to settle down. With his loud, grating voice, he announced the young man, who stood at the entrance, jumping up and down, cracking his knuckles and neck. The young man pumped his fists up when his name was mentioned and ran up to the ring with all the agility of a marathon runner. He jumped right up onto the apron, jumped over the top ropes, and began to circle the ring throwing his arms up over his head, as if he had already won. The crowd was filled with mixed reactions. The young man was more known in the southern part of the country, were he was already a hero, but up here, he was still a nobody. The girls in the audience, were more receptive to him, and flattered him with leering eyes and clapping. He returned the flattery with winking, and hand motions to his heart, and proclamations of their beauty. The old man shook his head. Damn kid, how the hell am I going to make them like him if he is hitting on all the men’s girls? The fat man then introduced the referee who announced the stipulations of the match. Two out of three falls. No weapons. No illegal hits(low blows, eye gouging, hair pulling). No outside interference. The two wrestlers shook hands, and then retreated into their corners. The fat man stepped out of the ring, rang the bell, and the match began. The two wrestlers began circling each other, eyeing each other up and down. The crowd clapped and hooted for the old man, while the young man received little reaction, neither boos nor cheers. Finally the two wrestlers locked up in a grapple, with each others arms around their heads, pushing against each other like two buffalo who have locked horns. “Whip me into the ropes, and hit me with a big boot”, said the old man. The young man did as he was told, pulling out of the grapple, grabbing the old man by his left arm and throwing him into the ropes. The old man rushed to the ropes bouncing hard against them, and sprang towards the young man who had thrown his huge leg up in the air. The crowd gasped as the old man hit the outstretched boot, collapsing face first onto the mat. The old man dropped within an inch of the young mans foot, close enough to feel the sole of the boot on his cheek. It was an awesome effect, and always drew the crowd in to the match. He lay on the ground selling the hit to the face as best he could. The young man picked the old man up onto his feet, and began to deliver a series of punches to the face. Each punch just barely grazed the side of the old mans face. After about five punches, the old man blocked and began to deliver his own volley of punches, the crowd cheering with each punch to the young mans face and body. The old man ended it with a kick to the chest that sent the young man stumbling back into his corner. The old man backed off, allowing the young man to regain his composure, and receiving applause from the audience for his sportsmanship. The old man hammed it up. He couldn’t wait to turn on the crowd. Finally the young man stepped back up to the old man, getting into his stance, with his arms ready to lock up in another grapple. The old man returned his attention to the match, and reached out for the grapple, only to be met by a sneaky kick from the young man. The old man bent over, holding his stomach, while the young man ran towards the ropes, as if to give the old man a nasty knee to the head. The boo’s from the crowd were halted when the old man backed out of the way of the knee, and delivered a brutal looking clothesline, knocking the young man completely off his feet. The young man sold the hit so well that he did a back flip, falling directly on his stomach. The old man was so impressed by the display of athleticism that he almost forgot to go for the pin. Recovering from his stupor, the old man rolled the young man over and pinned him. The fat man slammed his hand on the apron three times, and the old man received the first fall. The crowd erupted, with joy. Sure, he is older and perhaps past his prime, and that other guy may be more chiseled and athletic, but he is just a flash in the pan compared to the old man. The young man awoke from his daze, holding the back of his head, and hit the mat hard, showing frustration in his face. He stumbled up to his feet, and backed off to his corner, as the old man had gone to his. The fat man announced that the old man had one win, and then rang the bell. The two wrestlers locked up immediately into a grapple. Once again, the young man got out of grapple, and whipped the old man into the ropes, stretching his arms out for the clothesline. The old man bounced off the ropes, ducked the young mans arms, ran into the opposite ropes, and jumped into the air, delivering a drop kick into the chest of the young man. The two fell down on the mat. The young man lay on the ground, completely motionless, while the old man quickly rose to his feet, and smiled for the crowd, which was drawn in by his every motion. He walked over to the turnbuckle, and climbed up top. With his left foot on the second rope, and his right foot on the turnbuckle, the old man surveyed the crowd, and tapped his right knee, signaling for his signature move, the big knee drop. The crowd knew that this was it. No one had ever escaped the old mans knee drop. The men whooped and hollered for their hero, and the women gasped for their beloved young wrestler, who looked to be finished. The older fans, while disappointed in the matches length, were happy just to see the old man, and so they quietly sat still and waited for the pin. The old man stepped up onto the top turnbuckle, straightening his knees. After a little more posing, he jumped up as high as he could. When he reached the height that gravity would allow him, he bent his knees, and prepared to land on the young mans chest. Move out of the way…why aren’t you moving kid, the old man thought as he sailed through the sailed through the air. He was already descending towards the young mans chest, and was about to abandon his knee drop in order to avoid injuring the kid, when the young man finally rolled out of the way, letting the old man fall directly on his knees. The shooting pain that ran through his legs, was enough to make the old man cry out. Thankfully, the crowd had made an even larger cry at the surprising turn of events, so that no one could hear the old man. He lay lying on the ground holding his knees, and then rolled up into a fetal position. The young man had gotten to his feet, still holding his chest from the drop kick. He grabbed the old mans left leg, stretched it out, and kicked the underside of the leg four times. It wasn’t hard for the old man to sell the attack, given that it really hurt like hell. The young man then picked up both legs, and stretched them out. He put his right foot through the old mans legs and then wrapped them up into a figure four leg-lock. Gritting his teeth, the old man thrashed his arms about, desperately trying to pry the young mans legs apart, so that he could escape the hold. The crowd was practically screaming for the old man to get out of the hold. The young man was shaking his head at the crowd. Jesus, my legs hurt like hell, thought the old man. I wish he’d lay of the legs. The crowd began to stomp their feet, and slap their hands against their thighs, trying to rouse the old man out of this predicament. Using all his upper body strength, the old man flipped himself as well as the young man, over on their stomach. Pushing himself up on his arms, the old man slowly made his way to the ropes. Finally, he was close enough to reach out and grasp the bottom rope, forcing the young man to relinquish his hold on the old mans legs. The young man stood up on his feet and paced around the ring, raising his arms in triumph as the crowd booed him. The old man lay on the ground for a while, until finally pulling himself up onto the feet using the ropes for leverage and balance. He was just in time to be hit by a punch to the face from the young man. The old man landed back on the ropes, and lay there allowing for the young man to hit him some more. “Bust me open” said the old man. Hesitantly, the young man began to actually hit him, strategically aiming for the eyebrow. The old man knew that blood flow would really add drama to the match, and waited patiently for the young man to cut him open. The young man was so nervous about seriously injuring the old man that he punched as gingerly as possible, trying to exert the least amount of force necessary. The old mans brow started to get sore from the punches. “Just hit me as hard as you can” said the old man. Once again the young man obliged, and planted one so hard on the brow that the old mans neck bounced off the top rope, and he lost his footing, falling on his rear against the ropes. But the job was done, as a nice stream of blood began to pour down old mans face, running down either side of his nose. The young man picked him back up and threw him into the ropes, and body slammed him onto the mat for the pin. One. Two. Three. The fat man signaled one fall for the young man. The crowd exploded in gasps and screams. By now the other wrestlers, unmasked, came out to the ring in order to keep the drunks and angry fans from jumping over the guard rails and entering the ring. Still rolling on the floor, the old man rolled over on his left side, showing the crowd his agonized face, twitching and stretched to emphasize the damage that had been done. He could see the young kids and boys reaching out to him as if to lend him their strength, with faces as agonized as his looked. An enthusiastic young man sucker punched one of the guards, jumped over the railing and nearly climbed into the ring, pulling his upper body through the ropes before two other guards pulled him out and beat him alongside the ring to the cheers and jeers of the crowd. The young man, seeing that the old man was really hurting started a mock argument with the referee in order to buy the old man some time to regain his composure. Finally the old man pushed himself up to his feet, and entered into a fighters stance, much to the delight of the crowd. The young man returned his attention to the old man and they began to circle the ring. The young man threw a clumsy punch at the old mans head, which was avoided. It was followed up by another punch, which the old man ducked. The old man side-stepped a third punch, maneuvered himself behind the young man, and tapped him on the back. The young man turned around, and gave him a shocked looked as if he were amazed at the old mans speed. The crowd whooped and hollered, and the young man quickly responded to their taunts by pointing at them and issuing threats to the loudest of the jeerers. When he returned his attention to the ring he was met with a punch to the stomach from the old man. The old man continued his assault, finally knocking the young man into the turnbuckle. Grabbing the young mans right arm, the old man whipped him into the opposite turnbuckle and followed through with a clothesline. The young man fell onto his knees, holding his throat and finally rolling onto his back kicking his legs up into the air in agony. The old man dropped down for the pin, but was knocked off after only two counts. “I’m gonna throw you into the referee” the old man said as he picked up the young man. He placed the young man into the nearby turnbuckle, who was looking intently at the ref over the old mans shoulder, who nodded to show that he knew what was coming. With a mighty whip, the young man went flying into the ref who dramatically threw himself into the opposite direction and landed face first on the mat, and lay there completely motionless. The young man had fallen to his knees, stunned from the collision. “Drop me” said the old man, as he bent down to pick up the young man, and his request was answered when the young man slapped his arm away, and gave him a nasty punch to the thigh, dropping the old man. The young man stood above him and saw the anxious look in the old mans eye. This was the moment. The turn was imminent. The crowd began chanting the old mans name in a beautiful unison that shook the ring. The young man reached down to pick up the old man, and picked him up to his knees. The old man remained on his knees, head slumped over as the young man backed up, preparing to nail the old mans head with a kick. He backed up about four feet, almost tripping over the ref, who remained unconscious on the floor. Pausing to look at the crowd, the young man saw them still chanting in unison the old mans name. He tried to imagine how the crowd would react in the next minute. The old man was so excited, he could barely remain still, and if the crowd could’ve seen his face, they would’ve seen a devilish smile. The young man took three large steps forward, dragged his right leg behind him on the third step and launched it up towards the old mans head. The crowd gasped, as the old man ducked the kick and threw his right arm up through the young mans legs and nailing him in the crotch, before the crowd could stop gasping. A silence fell over the crowd. The kids who were jumping up and down in excitement just a few minutes ago, stood still and looked to each other as if to confirm that they weren’t the only ones who witnessed their hero resort to using a cheap trick. The silence continued as the old man pulled himself to his feet, surveyed the crowd, and then undid the belt that help his spandex pants up. Folding the belt in half, he looked at the crowd around the ring, all of the confused faces. He then picked up the young mans head, which showed the pain of the previous low brow. Holding the young man up by the hair, the old man began whipping him in the back with the belt. The young girls and women put the their hands over their mouths and eyes at the sight of their young hero in such torment. The men, from young to old, shook their heads in disagreement at what they saw. They wanted the old man to win, but not like this. The screams and whimpers of the young man were the only truly audible thing. Pleased at the reaction he was getting, the old man began cackling and laughing at the misery he was inflicting, which began to draw boos from the crowd. As the blows continued to be landed, the crowd reacted more negatively. The old man fed this negativity by cursing the crowd, calling them country hicks and spitting at them. Young men began rushing to the guard rail trying to jump it in order to attack the old man as the guards held them back, and the old man baited them further. The fat man yelled at the old man, calling him washed up and no good. The old man responded by viciously throwing the belt into the fat mans face, who doubled over on the floor outside the ring. Fantastic, absolutely fantastic, thought the old man. Not even in my dreams could I imagine that this would have gone this well. The young man was writhing on the canvas, his back bleeding from the cuts that the belt left on his back. The referee also remained unconscious on the canvas, waiting for the cue to get regain consciousness. By now the crowd had begun to hurl whatever trash they could find at the ring. Crumpled up papers, cups, a few bottles, and various other accessories. The old man was nailed in the head with a ring, while boasting at the crowd. Briefly stunned, he regained his composure, hurled curses at the direction that the ring came from, and walked over to pick up the young man. A bottle flew past his right arm, nailing the young man on the back, as he was being picked up. Better get this over with, the old man thought, this damn crowd will tear this ring, and me, apart. He dragged the young man over to the ropes and dropped him neck first onto the top rope. He then pushed down on the young mans head, giving the impression that he was choking the young man. He did this about three times, allowing the young to fall on his back. The old man then dragged him to the center of the ring and spread him out. He then went to the nearest turnbuckle, where the referee was still lying, and nudged the ref in the ribs as he went to climb the turnbuckle. Standing on top, the old man patted his knees as the crowd gave a simultaneous cry. The old man jumped soared through the air, drew his right knee out, and landed across the young mans chest. The crowd cried out in anger, almost as loud as they had cried for joy when the old man tried the move earlier. The young man sighed a huge sigh of relief, when he barely felt pressure applied on him, thanking god in heaven that it was the old man performing the maneuver with his years of experience. The old man pushed himself off of the young man and raised his right arm with his index and middle fingers up in the air. He performed the big knee drop two more times and then, seeing the ref trying to push himself back up on his stomach, tried to pin the young man for the win. The crowd seeing, the pin dropped their angry cries and released exhausted boos and hisses at how the match had gone. Some began to leave the field, heading back to their homes to mull over the events they saw in the ring. The ref slowly slapped the ring twice, but was prevented from the calling match a victory for the old man when the young man shot his right arm up in the air. The hisses and boos ceased, and anyone who was walking away hurriedly pressed themselves back into the crowd. This in itself was a miracle to the crowd, as no one had ever survived the knee drop, let alone three! The old man feigned a stunned look, and stood up for a second with his hands on his hips as if to ponder what he could possibly do next. The young man continued to lay on his back, his hands back to his sides, looking exhausted and spent. The old man climbed back up to the turnbuckle, landed another knee drop, and went for the pin. One. Two. Again the young man shot his hand back up, causing the crowd to once again cry out in his favor. The old man grabbed the ref and began shouting at him to count faster. The ref shouted back threatening to disqualify the old man, who dropped the ref and began delivering stiff kicks to the young mans side who maintained the look of pain and exhaustion. He then screamed insults at the crowd, who gave up screaming insults at him, instead putting their voices and hopes behind the name of the young man. The old man angrily climbed up the turnbuckle again, and sprang into the air as high as he could putting his knee out again. At the last moment the young man shot his right leg up catching the old man in the neck. Goddamn bastard! I’m trying to make this guy the next big thing and he can’t even time his kicks right. The old man collapsed on his back, holding his neck and rolling in pain. The young man began to get up, struggling to his knees. The old man forced himself back up, walked over to the young man and prepared to land a massive punch to the head, when the young man surprised him with a punch to the stomach. The old man doubled over again, as the young man finally rose to his feet, and surveyed the crowd, who were on their feet jumping and crying for the young man. He couldn’t believe that only a few minutes ago they had dismissed the young man as a nobody, not worthy to be in the old mans shadow. So absorbed was he in the crowds loving embrace, that he almost got knocked out by the old man who had charged him again with left hook that he expected to be blocked. The young man collapsed on his back, slightly dazed. Luckily, the old man slowly picked him up allowing for the young man to regain his composure. The old man began throwing jabs which the young man blocked, despite his slightly rattled head. Finally the old man grabbed his arm and threw the young man into the ropes. He charged the young man, preparing to give a clothesline, but the young man ducked it, ran into the opposing ropes, bounced off them, ran back and nailed the old man with a clothesline of his own. On his back, he could hear the roar of the crowd, the cries of joy and excitement, and he knew that the end was near. As the young man bent down to pick him up, the old man told him to finish the match with a martinete. The young man shook his head. He had never performed the maneuver and felt unsure about his ability to pull it off. But the old man said it again with a strong tone of conviction in his voice. The match had been building up to this moment, it needed something spectacular to finish it. The old man had never been put through the martinete but he had seen it many times. It never failed to impress. The positively brutal look of the move would seal the young mans fate as the next big thing. And so he repeated again that he wanted the martinete. The young man slowly nodded his head, and pulled the old man to his feet. He shoved the old mans head between his legs, wrapped his arms around the old mans belly and pulled him up, so that his back was to the young mans belly. This is it! What a way to go out! Now I can heal up, recoup from all those years of pain and punishment. Not that I look at those years as wasted time. No, god knows I love this business. Put all my heart and soul into it. Sacrifices were made no doubt, but I don’t regret them. I will miss this, the roar of the crowd, and the energy they provide. None of that will be had on my farm. But I will have quiet time. I haven’t had that in a while. No more hustle and bustle. Moving from one city to the next. I can let the days go by, let them blend into one another. Sit on my porch, smoke my cigarillos, drink my vino, read my books. Yes this will be nice. This will be-. The young man dropped to his behind, dropping the old man on his head. The crowd went wild. The old man fell over on his belly and lay motionless on the canvas. The young man remained on his behind, legs spread out, sitting there with the face of a child who had done something wrong, something he could not undo. The crowd interpreted this face with exhaustion and begged him to pin the old man, the old cheat. The ref, whose face reflected the same grave knowledge that the young man knew was true, nodded towards the young man, and waved his arm towards the old man, as if to say the show must go on. And he was right. The young man crawled over to the old man, rolled him over, and pressed himself upon the cold body. One. Two. Three. The crowd erupted, hats thrown up in the air, gunfire sounding from the back. They embraced each other, and danced at the young mans victory. All the years of loyal support for the old man had disappeared as they began to chant the young mans name. The fat man crawled back into the ring, and raised the young mans right arm in the air. Several of the wrestles who were guarding the rails were close enough to the ring to hear the sickening crack, and they went into the ring and pulled the old man out, carrying him down the entrance way and the people lining the rails spit and threw trash at the disgraced old man as the young man stood in the center of the ring with his arms at his sides and tears, which the crowd could only presume were of joy, streaming down his face.
Copyright © 2007 Kain |