buddystl's blog

Buddy knocked at the door of the promoter's office, which was in the back of a bakery, accessible only by taking a dark, muddy alley to the back. He was supposed to meet with Joe, the man he'd been speaking on the phone with for the better part of a month to sign a contract to join the wrestling fed. He'd tried his luck at reaching out to other, more legitimate feds, but got no reply as his experience was limited. The advice given to him by other wrestlers was to start at one of the smaller feds and work his way up to the big leagues. He had been pleasantly surprised when he heard that Joe's wrestling fed was attended by audiences of one to three hundred. With a crowd like that watching him, he was bound to be spotted soon.

"Come in" he heard from the other side of the door, though it was more like a ramshackle piece of wood jammed into a frame. He was actually surprised that it swung open when he pushed it. Inside, he found Joe seated in an old leather office chair and the sight wasn't at all what he'd expected. Instead of a man in a suit, or even business casual, Joe wore a purple animal print number adorned with silver chains and studs. He looked more like a pimp than a promoter. "Sit" Joe indicated a chair by pointing with his cigar.

Buddy sat on the worn velvet cushion of the wooden dining chair obediently, eyeballing the stack of papers in front of him. Joe produced a pen and grunted, "start signing."

"Are you going to go over these with me?" inquired Buddy.

Without looking up from whatever had his attention, Joe said, "It's all standard forms. Release of liability, character ownership, creative agreement, costume measurements. I'm gonna step out for a sec, but I highlighted where you need to initial and sign. Have it done by the time I get back and I think we have an opening for you on tomorrow night's show.

"Tomorrow?" Buddy asked, surprised.

"Yeah, tomorrow. Got a good crowd ticket wise. You get to signing and I'll put you in the opening." And with that, Jim was gone. Buddy turned his attention to the stack of papers. He'd only gotten half of his name signed when the pen ran out of ink.

"Shit," he said and started looking for another pen. There wasn't one in sight, so he slipped behind the desk and opened the drawer. Lifting some papers, he found a new pen and grabbed it. As he put the papers back, he noticed that there was a list of matches on the top one. It was dated for tomorrow, but there weren't any openings he could see. "Maybe someone can't make it," he thought as he closed the drawer. He could hear voices in the alley way, so he hurriedly put ink to the paper and slid it over to the main side of the desk.

Joe came in closing his flip phone and said, "ok kid. You're gonna be in a handicap match tomorrow.

"A handicap match?" questioned Buddy.

"Yeah, a handicap match. You and another greenie are gonna be in there with one of the regulars. It'll be a good way to get your feet wet." Seeing the look of disappointment on Buddy's face, Joe added, "You got no experience. Everyone starts somewhere. If you wanna make it in this business, saying no isn't he way to go about it"

Buddy sputtered, "Oh no it's not that, I was just.. uh."

"You were just expecting to be on the main event against the champ? Dream big kid. Meanwhile, you'll be here at 5pm tomorrow. Show starts at 7. You and your partner need a little time to plan your strategy. Now take off, I got things to take care of."
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Buddy showed up to the arena at 5 as ordered. After a kerfuffle with security who wasn't expecting a new person on the roster, he was led to the dressing room. It was little more than a covered shed with benches along the wall and a shower out back. There was a lone standing mirror to one side and the ceiling was held up with metal poles. The guard reappeared after a moment with a paper sack which read "ROOK" on the side.

Buddy took the sack and sat down on one of the benches feeling a little out of place. Soon, a guy who appeared in his early 20s came up. "You the new guy?" he asked? Buddy replied with a nod. "Great, I'm Pyroguy." the man said. "You can call me Pyro."

Buddy shook his hand. "Buddy. Nice to meet you. So, Joe said we should go over a plan of attack."

Pyro snorted and said, "He did? That's funny."

"Why"

"Cause the only plan of attack we have is to do is stay in the ring until the bell. This is a timed match. You and I are going up against Hefty."

"Hefty?" buddy asked.

"Yeah, Hefty. Freight Train. FT. Hefty," Pyro explained. "He's got a thing about tossing guys to the outside. In our match, we just got to last until the timer goes out. 5 minutes. If we are still in the ring at 5 minutes, we get the purse. If you get tossed out, you're eliminated. No money, and you can't reenter. "

"I see. Just 5 minutes? Should be easy"

"Should be, yeah," said Pyro. "Suit up and get ready. We're in the second spot on the card. They always put the new guys there."

Buddy sat down and opened the paper sack. Inside was a note and some gear.
It read, "Rookie, It was too short notice to get you a costume made up, but I was able to get a pair of briefs from one of the guys and some ankle guards since you don't have boots. They'll work for your first match. –Joe." Plunging his hand into the bag, he pulled out a pair of sweat stained, white trunks and two mma style ankle guards.

"No costume yet," Pyro asked.

"Um no, not yet," buddy replied, trying to hide his disgust. The trunks looked like they could practically stand by themselves from the amount of dried sweat in them, not to mention something that looked like either piss or ... worse in the crotch. There was no briefs or a thong to wear with them, and as he wore boxerbriefs to the show, Buddy was going to have to wear only these trunks. "Gimme a moment," buddy said as he took the trunks behind the shed and washed them as best he could in the shower. With no place to dry them, he laid them on a bench after wringing as much of the water and whatever it was out of the trunks.

Pretty soon, the other wrestlers began to arrive and get dressed. Buddy made the rounds, politely introducing himself. To his surprise, the veterans mostly greeted him with a smile. The guys were stretching when they heard the ring announcer start the show. The crowd was loud and the night was off to a good start. As the crowd got to their feet for the first match, Buddy slipped the still damp trunks on and tied the drawstring. With the fabric still wet, it clung to him more than it would were it dry. The effect was rather revealing on his equipment, but he didn’t notice. He was too nervous about making a good debut showing of himself. He pulled the ankle guards on and didn’t half look like a pro fighter. He almost wished he had some MMA gloves to complete the look, but he told himself it was just for one night. He felt sure that Joe would come up with a good name and costume for him.

The time came, and he and Pyro lined up at the curtain to head out. The two first contestants had made their way to the back and were nursing their wounds. The music hit and Pyro smacked Buddy in the chest and said, “That’s us. Let’s go!” Through the curtain they went to the cheers of the audience. Pyro, was slight of build, only 5’6” but had the look of a martial artist. He wore fire printed tights and kick pads with a t-shirt on his 160 lb frame. By contrast, Buddy stood 6’4” and weighed in at 230 lbs of cowboy beef. His body, while not cut like a body builder, was muscled and covered in wispy dark fur. Pecs and abs clearly visible through his pelt, the bright white trunks stood out in stark contrast to his lightly tanned skin. Putting a smile on his bearded face, he followed Pyro to the ring, slapping high fives to the audience as he went. He was so caught up in the energy that he didn’t notice some of the lusty looks his clingy wet trunks attracted. As he climbed into the ring he looked up to notice massive projector screens in each of the cardinal directions. The match was being filmed and projected on the screens to magnify the action and give the audience a close up view. Camera flashes from the audience showed him that there would probably be some great action pics on the net as well!

Between the calls from the crowd, the blood pumping in his ears, and the broadcaster’s loudspeaker, Buddy could hardly make out what was being said. Soon, however the lights focused on the entrance curtain and new music went blasting through the speakers. Through the curtain came something out of nightmares. Freight Train stepped through wearing an Iron helmet welded to resemble a train engine. But this was no Thomas-the-train look. This helmet had spikes and what appeared to be demonic eyes. Smoke billowed out from the sides, and when he threw his head back, a steam whistle screamed out like an angry fog horn. But that was just the head. The thing it was attached to looked like a cross between Big Van Vader and Kamala the Giant. It was impossible to hear what he weighed in at as the crowd was on its feet, but Hefty FT made his way to the ring without a glance away from his prey who were trapped inside by their own need to make ends meet.

At 6’4”, Buddy wasn’t used to seeing many people who were taller than he was. This, however was an exception to that. FT must have been a full 7 feet tall once he removed the helmet. He turned to his two opponents and smile a yellow toothed grin that made Buddy’s blood run a little colder. “So who’s star….” Buddy has turned to ask who was starting for his team, but Pyro was already outside the ring holding on to the tag rope. “ok, then,” he said as he turned back to the ring. The ref gave the signal for the bell, and things were underway.

He’d never even seen someone this big, much less tried to wrestle one. What do I do, Buddy thought to himself. FT was already stalking toward him. “Just got to last 5 minutes,” he heard Pyro yell from outside the ring. As panic set in at the sight of this brick wall moving toward him, Buddy did the only thing he could think of. He stepped forward and leapt into the air, landing a drop kick square to FT’s massive pecs. And it worked! The big man was forced back a step. Pleased with the result, Buddy got to his feet in a flash and took to the air once more.
Direct hit! The dropkick landed square on target, only this time the behemoth barely moved. Buddy found himself on the ground looking up at doom. FT reached down for Buddy’s leg, and Buddy scrambled away, rolling backward to his feet, now back against the corner. Before he would be crushed in the corner, though, he dove between his opponent’s legs attempting to roll toward the other side. Halfway through the dive, though, he felt an iron grip on his left ankle. FT had managed to catch Buddy’s leg as he dove through, stopping him in place. With a grip on Buddy’s leg, FT jumped and came down butt first.

The impact would have likely broken his leg, but buddy kicked out at FT’s ass and managed to pull his leg free. FT landed on the mat butt first to the laughter of the crowd. Buddy got to his feet and swung a double axe handle blow to the side of FT’s head. CRACK! The impact hurt Buddy’s hand, so he knew it must have rattled FT. In fact it had. Whether it was the adrenalin of the his first official match, or just that Buddy was a solid man in his own right, the blow had been significant. And considering FT’s size, it was quite unexpected. Wasting no time, Buddy laid in stomp after stomp, but the blows were hampered by the lack of boots, so he abandoned that attack and circled around to pull FT up by the head and chin. Quickly, he tagged Pyro in and held FT in place for the smaller man to scale the corner and deliver a top rope stomp to the exposed back of FT.

The excitement was palpable as Buddy stepped out through the ropes and took his place in the corner. The great FT had taken a few kicks, gotten clocked in the head, and was now engaged in a cat and mouse game with Pyro who was quick enough to duck a punch, fast enough to side step FT’s charge to the corner, and dumb enough to raise his arms to the crowd. That split second was all it took for FT to come backward out of the corner with a sledgehammer like elbow that dropped Pyro cold to the mat.

ONE MINUTE GONE, FOUR REMAINING came the announcement. Ft didn’t bother to go for a pin—this wasn’t that kind of match anyway. Instead, he lifted Pyro by the back of the neck and smashed his face into the turnbuckle. A whimper like moan escaped Pyro’s limp form as his face was again rammed into the turnbuckle. Anxiety gripped Buddy, as he watched his partner take a beating. Propping Pyro up in the corner with a forearm under his chin, FT drove his right fist to the gut of his defenseless foe. He was about to again, when the referee stepped in and pushed him back. Ft let go of Pyro who crumpled to the mat in the corner. Immediately the ref waived his hand to signal that Pyro couldn’t continue.

Now it was just Buddy and the monster facing him. Buddy bounded over the top rope and charged FT who wasn’t as agile as Pyro had been. He landed a shoulder block square to the center mass of Freight Train, who fell back to the corner. Buddy followed it up with a series of shoulder blocks to the gut of FT before climbing to the second rope and raining down blows to FT in the corner. ONE.. TWO, THR……the audience counted, but was stopped at three when the giant reached up and grabbed the back of Buddy’s trunks and pulled, unbalancing the handsome man. FT took a step forward and then dove face down, maintaining his grip on the back of Buddy’s trunks. They landed with FT’s head in the lower abdomen of Buddy who had the wind knocked out of him. FT shook off the effect of the blows and got to his feet, grabbing Buddy’s feet. Lifting them into a V, FT stomped hard to the furry gut of Buddy. It was like a bomb going off on his insides. Buddy tried to curl into fetal position, but FT wrapped his fingers into the ankle guards Buddy was wearing. Swinging his boot back for leverage, he swung the pendulum forward, impacting with the toe of the boot to Buddy’s tailbone.

Buddy had never been in such pain! The impact travelled up his spine, tensing up every muscle along the way with an aftershock of agony that travelled down his legs. Without releasing his grip on the ankle guards, FT placed the sole of his boot on the plainly visible balls of his downed victim, pulled his ankles up, lifting his rear off the mat, and then curb stomping Buddy’s pelvis back downward to the mat.

The sound that escaped Buddy’s lips was neither a scream or a moan, but something in between, which was cut off by TWO MINUTES GONE, THREE REMAINING. FT threw Buddy’s legs to the side where Buddy curled unto a ball. Moving to the back of Buddy, FT, aimed a kneedrop to Buddy’s left kidney. Buddy’s lower body was now in a state of shock. His legs spasmed and his back arched in pain. Another knee was dropped, this time to his spine. FT followed up with a series of stops to Buddy’s injured back and kidneys. Waves of sickness rose up in Buddy as his balls were still aching from the curb stomp and now his kidneys and lower back were under attack. Another toe kick, this time to the right kidney, tore through him, and Buddy could do nothing but try to put his arms back to try and soften the incoming assault.

With half the short match still left, FT pressed his advantage. Laying a knee across Buddy’s back, he Pulled Buddy’s legs by the ankle guards into a modified Boston crab. Buddy Frantically tapped and called out a submission, but the ref was only there to officiate the rules. This match would only end if you were ko’ed or eliminated by being tossed out of the ring. Soon his submissions turned to sobs of pain as his hand stopped slapping on the mat and instead gripped his head in agony. FT released the hold, and instead added insult to injury by stepping on his downed opponent’s back. THREE MINUTES GONE, TWO REMAINING.

Buddy felt his head being pulled up by the hair. With no choice, he followed. FT took his time, and wrapped his python like arms around Buddy, across the kidneys, and pulled him into a bearhug. Pop, Pop, pa, pop went Buddy’s back as FT’s arms hugged tighter. At first, Buddy found the energy to thrash about in pain, but soon it was too much for him and he slowly went limp in his opponent’s arms. Unhappy with that, FT decided to wake Buddy up by releasing the hug, and grasping the muscle man’s head in his hands, so that he could proceed to bite his forehead. This brought a new level of kicking and thrashing to Buddy who felt his skin tearing and blood flowing down his face and into his beard. By the time the ref pulled FT off of him, Buddy’s face was covered in blood, and his beard and chest hair were matted with a combination of sweat and blood from his forehead. His eyes burned from the blood, and he had trouble seeing, but Buddy staggered away with the thought to just roll out of the ring. Anything to get away from this monster. FOUR MINUTES GONE, ONE REMAINING.

Through the haze of red, Buddy’s hand found the rope. He let himself collapse to the mat and tried to roll under but a hand grabbed his beard and the fingers locked in their grip. Buddy tried to swing his legs out to the ring floor, but FT pulled backward and drug his bleeding man back into the ring. For a moment, it seemed like Buddy might be able to pull away, but as he felt himself losing ground, his spirit broke and he sent limp, despite the pain of being dragged by the beard. This monster wasn’t going to let him escape that quickly. Maybe it was the first strike with the drop kick that angered him. Maybe it was Pyro’s early exit having suffered only a quick KO. Whatever it was, Buddy was going to be the one to pay for it.

FT dragged Buddy to his feet. Scooped him up and slammed him hard close to the ropes where the ring is the least forgiving. In doing so, he knocked the wind out of the rookie. Another lifting of his man, only this time the landing was across the knee of Freight Train who pushed down on Buddy’s throat and knee, not only stretching him out, but robbing him of more air. Buddy’s arms waived in the air drunkly as his back screamed in pain and his lungs screamed for air. The ref might have seen him turning a little blue from lack of oxygen had his face not been covered in blood.

Shoved off the knee, coughing on the mat, Buddy found himself free of the grip of FT. THIRTY SECONDS REMAINING. FT was taking his moment to jeer at the crowd and soak in their anger. It would only take a second to toss the young man over the top rope. He’d already broken his opponent. FT had nothing to worry about. With twenty seconds left, he kicked the crawling rookie in the gut and sent him to land on his back, with his eyes struggling to look in the same direction. He reached down to grab Buddy by the hair again, but this time on the way up, buddy swung an elbow with all he had left into FT. Unsure where he it, all Buddy knew was that it had landed in something soft. And it must have hurt, because FT let out a howl of rage and pain before falling back. TEN, NINE.

Sucking in a lungfull of air, Buddy reached into his reserves and spent all he had left. FT had staggered back to one knee, and now glared hatefully at the greenhorn. Both men moved at once. EIGHT, SEVEN. Buddy leaped backward into the ropes, launching himself at FT. Freight Train threw himself forward. Both men, it seemed thought to take each other’s head’s off with a lariat. As the two collided, the force of the momentum lifted them both, spun them in the air, and landed them 180 degrees clockwise. On the mat. SIX, FIVE, FOUR, THREE. Buddy was done for. He had given everything he could in that final effort. FT, on the other hand, had sustained much less damage, despite the power of the last blow. He had intended to clothesline Buddy out of the ring and to the floor, but instead found himself with three seconds to get the rookie out of the ring.
Freight Train got to his feet. TWO. Reached for buddy’s head to pull him up. ONE. But before he could send the youngster to the outside, the bell rang, signaling the end of the match. The new guy had won the purse. But it didn’t matter. At the end of it all, FT had a handful of the man’s hair. He yanked Buddy up, turned him around and lifted him into a torture rack. The ref signalled that the match was over and tried to intervene, but FT had just been embarrassed in a match that should have been a quick and easy win. He already had blood. Now he wanted revenge. Jumping up and down, FT pulled on Buddy’s chin and on his leg, doing his best to break the man’s back. He might have succeeded, too, but for the sweat and the blood making it hard to keep a grip on his man. The bell was frantically sounding, and the ring lights were blinding as Buddy lost consciousness.

It took several members of the locker room who flooded the ring to make Freight Train drop the new guy, but eventually they managed to extricate Buddy from the madman’s grasp. He would likely need medical attention right away, as he was unresponsive. The crowd cheered for Buddy as he was strapped down to the stretcher and taken to the ambulance for treatment. Strangely enough, it was Pyro who looked the worse for wear sporting two black eyes and a concussion. Joe had held onto the team’s earnings for winning until they got out of hospital. It would be a couple of months before they were able to return to the ring. Freight Train was given a small fine and a slap on the wrist for the post-match attack, but he was fine with that. The time the new guy spent recovering he spent planning a way to get back at him for the humiliation of being beaten by a greenhorn.