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Three spotlights beam
down into the center of the arena from three different locations high
above and behind the cheap seats in the balcony. The ring isn't the
greatest in the Ohio Valley. It saw its best days fifteen years ago when
the old World Wrestling Federation was still a touring company sending
troupes of workers city to city in tractor-trailer caravans.
That was back before digital TV, before the terrorist bombing
of Titan Tower in Manhattan that took out the entire McMahon family and
most of the WWF writers. That disaster plummeted Professional Wrestling
from the pinnacle of popularity to the depths of chaos in a single
afternoon and put 300 wrestlers permanently out of work. A year
later, Roddy Piper's Universal Wrestler's Union drove the last coffin
nail.
After that, wrestling died.
Peering into the audience through a gap in the entrance
curtain, I gaze out into the arena. More than five thousand real live
marks have their butts firmly planted in the seats. All of them are here
to see me, The Masked Avenger, the greatest heel ever to step into the
squared circle. I am more dastardly than The Iron Sheik or Stone
Cold Steve Austin. I am more cowardly than was Kurt Angle the night he ran
away from Mick Foley in the famous "barbed wire and burning gasoline
cage match" back in 03. I am badder than any biker that ever lived.
They want me, The Masked Avenger - Super Heel, star of the show.
My music explodes into the arena. A pounding drum solo with killer
guitar chords rattles half full coke cups, scaring the crap out of all
three popcorn boys causing at least one to trip and fall. Two of the
spotlights swing around to the entrance curtain falling expectantly on
where I will be standing in less than ten seconds. My pyro shoots red,
white and blue flames ten feet toward the arena ceiling.
The announcer shouts out, "Ladies and gentlemen!
From Covington Kentucky, at 335 pounds, representing God, the USA and
Apple Pie, I give you, The Masked Avenger!"
I step through the curtain and into the spotlights'
convergence. Such a chorus of boos and catcalls greet me, as I've not
heard since the old days in DC. Rocky Steel was the top heel back then. He
too came out into the arena wearing red, white and blue, stars and stripes
tights. One of the fans at ringside shot him with a crossbow, killed him
on the ramp and got a 15-minute standing ovation for it. If there's one
thing wrestling fans hate, it's the Federal Government.
I took my heel turn in Philly three months later. After that,
I started
wearing Kevlar tights. When I took over the red, white and blue, I added a
stainless steel skullcap under the mask.
Tonight I am ready for the heat. Tonight I live for the heat.
Tonight I will crank up their emotions to a fever pitch then allow them to
turn it all back on me. Sweet hatred! Sweet anger! They will shower me
with their livid rage, their sheer white-hot passion.
I grab the microphone from the announcer as soon as I
enter the ring. I motion the crowd into silence and they obey like sheep.
I hold my hands up for silence and rotate three hundred and sixty degrees
to let them all get a good look at the sparkling sequins, the glowing,
twinkling the colors of the Fed. Then, as the arena falls silent, I put
the microphone to my mouth and speak in the wavering voice of the preacher
I was in another lifetime.
I say, "Uncle Sam Luuuuvs youuuu!" spreading the
words over them like honey on bread. Then, "Greetings from the
President, the Congress and the Soopreme Court!" to a suddenly
thunderous roar of disapproval so loud that the fillings in my teeth
vibrate.
At that exact instant, organ music cuts through my heat. The
spotlight darts away from me and falls on a white robed, longhaired,
barefoot figure standing at the top of the ramp. A heavenly chorus chimes
over the PA, bringing the marks to their feet in a cheering frenzy. It is
their all time favorite, JC Superstar, the Ohio valley Heavyweight
Champion. He really needs no introduction, having opened every shopping
mall from Newport to Toledo over the past year.
They weep as he comes down the ramp. They throw roses in
every color of the rainbow. Mothers hold out their babies on the off
chance he might touch them. It is his time in the light. I cower in mock
fear as he climbs into the ring.
The referee pats us down. The bell ringer is poised for the
opening second. The crowd falls silent again waiting the first lockup. At
that instant in time nobody in Cincinnati knows what is going to happen
except me, the promoter and old Superstar himself. The guy has plane
tickets to Miami stashed in his locker.
There will never, ever be anything like this again anywhere
in the
mid-west. I will be lucky to escape alive and I know it. Will the
$3000 a week raise in pay be worth the inevitable gunshot wound in my
future? I'd have to say yeah.
I'm a legend now. Nobody draws more heat than me.
Nobody.
(c) 2001 by Bob Liddil.
All Rights Reserved
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