"It's All A Work To Begin With," by John Patrick Robbins

 

Cover art by John Patrick Robbins.

Shooter felt his age a million times over every morning he set his feet down on that cold hardwood floor. Beth always was up before him, of course. She was a few years younger, and hadn't been taking bumps he had taken in a business everyone considered fake. Including his own children, who pretended their father was just a guy who ran a gym in Jacksonville, Florida; not the salty old bastard who all the marks knew as Shooter Stevens—

A former college wrestling standout who took that ability and made his living in the circus industry that is pro wrestling.

Shooter felt every break and pin in his tired old carcass as he stood up, looking out the window to witness a beautiful sunny day upon the horizon.

"Larry, Stu's on the phone. Baby, are you awake?"

"Yeah, sweetheart. What the hell does he want?"

Shooter's wife refused to call him by his working name, which, after spending as many years in the biz as he had, he answered to more than his own. Larry Polanski was a rough kid whose life would have been most likely spent wasting in prison like his father had, or drowning his sorrows much like his alcoholic mother, if it hadn't been for a wrestling scholarship. And, in that sense, Larry would have probably died of boredom had he not become Shooter Stevens: the vicious bastard who stretched fellow so-called tough guys for fun. Even the boys fell for the act.

Sometimes the biggest marks, so they say, are in the damn ring.

Shooter was far from a mark for himself; least that's what he tried to make himself believe.

After taking a piss and coughing up half a damn lung, he finally made his way into the kitchen to see Beth as usual: coffee in hand, looking at the small TV they kept on the kitchen counter.

"Moving slow, old man,” Beth said, not even turning to flash him a smile or show an ounce of concern. “Thought you went back to bed after your coughing spell there, Doc Holiday." She was a cold-ass woman; no wonder Shooter had loved her all these years.

"I didn't even hear the phone ring, baby."

"That's because we had it disconnected there, Father Time. Stu called my cell. Apparently, you haven't turned yours on in a week."

"I have a cell phone?" Shooter replied, messing with his wife, who, since his so-called retirement, was easily annoyed at his smart-ass sense of humor and the fact he decided to live in his house instead of out of suitcase.

"Just talk to that prick so he will leave us alone," Beth said, handing him her cellphone.

Shooter didn't bother with the pleasantries. He could barely stand his former manager as it was, and he had spent more time sharing rooms with that sloppy bastard than with his actual family.

"What the fuck is it, asshole!"

"Good morning to you, Mr. Happiness. Shit, why don't you take longer next time. I hear Beth is still as friendly as a rattlesnake, as usual."

"Yeah, well, I woke up this morning, so that usually puts a damper on her plans. So again, what the fuck do you want, shithead?"

Stu cracked up at that one. "Well Chief, I think I may have a reason to wash those crusty old trunks of yours and lace those damn boots one more time, and it's a pretty good damn offer so before you say no…"

Shooter didn't hesitate. He just hung up the phone, tossing it back to his wife.

"Well, that was quick. What did he want?"

"He was asking for a loan for a sex change; told him he could save money and borrow my chainsaw instead. I'm going fishing, be back later."

Shooter and his wife had an understanding: they functioned best when not in each other's way. He was like a child; as long as he was back before the porch light was on and supper was usually burnt on the table, Beth didn't give two shits what he did.

And as the day slowly passed, and he sat kicking back beers on his bass boat, Shooter finally caved in and turned on that overpriced mini-television they called a phone. As he expected, it buzzed like an old grandma's vibrator on a hot summer night. Message after message from his old friend and manager, and even a link to some YouTube video by some meth-looking rubber band-armed jackass calling him out named Ricky Mayhem.

The buffoon was in a cemetery calling Shooter out, apparently pissing on his wife's grave. Which annoyed him greatly, because anyone knew Shooter was so cheap he wouldn't have paid for a nice headstone for that miserable old bitch to begin with.

"If you got the balls, grandpa! Bring your tired old ass down to Indiana and I will make sure they put your ass in the ground with her when I get done!"

The dumbass then broke a bottle over his head and picked up a shovel, and the video cut out as he began to seemingly unearth some woman's grave.

It was just then Stu rang his phone yet again.

"What!" Shooter answered, annoyed. Looking in the cooler, he was down to his last beer and far from amused to have this electronic torture device going off nonstop.

"I take it you seen the video?"

"Yeah, and there isn't enough penicillin on God's green earth to make me lace up my boots to get in the ring with that mental reject. These punks aren't wrestlers, they’re fanboy junkies with a fucking death wish."

"Yeah, but he dug up your dead wife and all," Stu said, cutting up.

"Yeah I would have helped dig the damn hole and probably let him wash his only shirt had he killed her ass. My grandson is taller than that prick, and he is ten, for fuck sake Stu!"

Stu continued to laugh, as Shooter was always hilarious when he went into rages. The two old farts talked back and forth. And as much as Shooter hated to admit it, he missed the con artist bastard, and he missed everything about the show. It just gets in your blood. The cheers and the boos, the crowds, and the drinks after chasing the occasional rat to an afterhours hotel room excursion.

It was life on the road, and nothing beat the characters in and outside the ring.

"You know, once Beth heard the money these marks are throwing at you, even she lightened up a bit."

"How much can some outlaw show be paying to see some grandpa in his pampers kick the crap out of Peewee Herman on crack?"

"How does eight grand sound, Chief, for one night's work?"

“For a match in a shithole in Indiana? Who the hell’s booking this crap, Tony Montana?"

"Who gives a shit long as they're paying? Unless you’d rather go sign some autographs at a fan expo in Charlotte for hundred—if you’re lucky—and considering how much you love people that won't even cover your bail money after you shove some mark’s head up his own ass. And it's being held at Lawrence County Recreational Park in Springville. It's a big event, so get your dance shoes shined. We’re back in business, you old fart."

Shooter had to admit, even though he felt older than dirt, working some dumbass for a chunk of change and getting in there one last time kept sounding more appealing by the minute. He looked in his wallet as Stu rattled on, realizing he was broke as a joke and in need of beer.

"Fuck it, get it up to ten and I'm in. And I'm not sharing a room with you, you old buzzard. I can't sleep as it is, let alone when you're sounding like a beached whale, you old cocksucker."

Shooter hung up the phone and fired up his boat. On the way back in, he tried to figure out how the fuck he was going to explain to the battle axe that his sixty-year-old ass was going back to the one thing he swore he'd never do again.

To Shooter's surprise, Beth didn't put up a fight. Apparently, the thought of him dying in the ring was far more appealing than him dying on top of her.

As he touched down in Indianapolis, he automatically knew where to find Dr. Stuart Phelps. In the bar, as always. That high-pitched laugh always lit up any room. Considering the guy spent most his life in the business and made a living taking as few bumps as possible shooting off his mouth, the old bastard should be given an award for being one of the best hustlers he had ever known.

"Well, I see you made it here in one piece," Shooter said to his old manager, who automatically spun around on his bar stool, hugging the old crab.

"Jesus Christ, it's good to see you, Shooter! Nurse, another Jack and Coke for me and Heineken for my friend here."

Shooter knew it was pointless arguing with Stu. The man lived off booze and must have had a liver made of some space age technology or was kin to Ric Flair at least.

The two old farts shot the shit and swapped old stories waiting for their ride. Some goofy ass kid in a station wagon eventually came for them and, as he tried what Shooter assumed was the act of driving, he also decided to tape a podcast for his fellow marks. He asked questions that made Stu laugh his ass off and Shooter wish he had just kept his tired ass at home.

The shit was always the same and Shooter hated that they had broke kayfabe. The fans should be just that; it used to be the business was protected. Now, any jackass with a cellphone and an internet connection was a journalist running their own dirt sheet, talking out their ass about shit they didn't understand, but damn sure didn't mind bullshitting about.

Shooter hated all of it, and all he knew was he was eager to get through tonight and get in that ring and get his ass back on a plane and be homeward bound.

As Shooter lay in bed, he had to question why he had decided to do this in the first place.

He called Beth, who was oddly calm. The conversation was a blur, as most of the night was as well. Beth didn't seem concerned. Of course, she didn't seem anything more than an acquaintance these days. But, he had put that woman through hell for a majority of their time together. She just knew her husband would always be okay, somehow.

The event was far bigger than Shooter or Stu had thought. There were concerts, tents everywhere. It reminded the boys of the bashes down in the Carolinas; just a tad bit smaller, but not by much.

Shooter's dance partner was late. And when he did arrive, the smell of the bastard entered the room before he had.

"Mr. Stevens, it’s an honor.”

"Yep, kid. So I will be blunt. Who trained you?"

"I just picked it up as I went, dude. Never really went to a school or nothing. But fuck it! I can work, man."

Shooter just stared at this missing link junkie jackass.

"So good to know I will be entrusting my body to someone that can potentially dump me on my head. Well, fuck, I feel assured. Hey, want to go hop the fence at the airport after this, maybe steal a plane? I once played a video game. I mean, that should be good enough training, don't you think?"

"Shit, man, I hope you’re joking. I'm, like, on probation, dude. I can't be leaving the state right now."

Shooter was ready to snap, and generally thinking about showing the kid the reality behind his name, when the kid smiled a buck tooth grin, laughing.

"I'm just fucking with you, gramps. Hey, I do want to ask what you want to do out there…"

"Well, being I watched your work in some field on the net, and you don't know an arm-drag from an outhouse, why don't you enlighten me there, Jesse James."

Stu snickered, and had to walk off, for even he knew this kid was in over his head.

As special needs Ricky Mayhem stepped out of the room for a second, Shooter looked to his old friend, giving him a glance like what the fuck?

The kid quickly returned with a garbage can full of light tubes and other assorted crap.

"What the hell is this crap?" Shooter snapped.

"Look, Mr. Stevens, we don't have to use all this shit. It's mainly for show, like this weed-eater."

"You pull that weed whacker on me, I'm going take it from you and bust your hymen as I trim your pussy hairs, you little son of a bitch."

"Hey, bro—chill the fuck out. It's not like in your era. We can't exchange moves and dry hump each other for thirty minutes. This shit entertains people, not put them to sleep!"

Shooter had enough; as Stu grabbed him, Ricky jumped back.

"Goddammit, Stu, let me go! I'm going to kick the living shit out of this pissant!"

Stu yelled at the boys in the makeshift locker room to get little Ricky out of the room, and oddly enough they didn't have to. The clown had already stormed off.

Stu did his best to calm his ever-intense friend down. They sat, both questioning just what they had gotten themselves into.

"Fuck, no wonder the business is in the damn shitter. Fucking any idiot with a ring or a venue thinks he is a booker and showcases idiots like that fool Mayhem around. Chief, we can always just bail and burn these fuckers."

"Yeah, well, if we didn't have the internet whistleblowers we could do shit like that. But, unfortunately, I got to work with Mr. Potato Head and his bucket of parts and pray I don't catch hepatitis from his ass bleeding like a stuck pig."

"Look, Chief, just get in there, take his shots, and take it home as quick as possible. You’re going over anyways."

Shooter laughed at that one as he stood up.

"Yeah, anyone mention that to the human pin cushion out there? We don't even have a finish, for fuck sake."

"Like he could remember it. The kid’s high as a fucking kite. Just watch your ass and stiff his ass if he gets out of hand. Shooter, you got this."

Just then there was a knock on the dressing room door as Ricky stuck his head in. “Hey, Mr. Stevens, it's time to roll."

There was an intense silence between the men as they stood behind the curtain.

"Yo, dude, we good and shit? I'm sorry I got hot. I just, well, I fucked up. Sorry."

Shooter didn't bother replying. Ego was all the same no matter the skill level. He had spent his life getting turd balls like this kid over that he could easily wipe his ass with. He was getting his duke raised and making a damn good paycheck. He could take some shots. Who gave a fuck if the crowd was into it? He was an over-the-hill, past-his-prime wrestler. He couldn't pretend he had any dignity left, so as long as he could walk away from this without going to the hospital afterwards, he was good with that.

But no matter what, this was it. Shooter Stevens was dead and buried after this match, never to return.

The kid was already in the ring when Shooter heard his music hit.

Stu touched his shoulder. "You alright, Chief?"

"Yep. Let's get this shit show over with."

The crowd was lukewarm and highly intoxicated. Some spit, others just looked like, who is this old fuck? as Shooter and Stu made their way down to the ring.

No sooner had he stepped through the ropes, Ricky Mayhem jumped out the ring and cussed the fans, then shot under the ring.

The ref leaned in to speak to Shooter. "Just keep talking to me. He's going to pop up behind you to dry gulch you, Shooter."

"Alright. Well, at least this is starting out like total dog shit."

Shooter tensed up and waited for what seemed like forever. He felt the little shit enter the ring and he felt the light tube bust over his head.

As Shooter fell to the mat, his opponent met him with a barrage of kicks that, if one actually hit the mark, he would be amazed.

Ricky cracked Shooter with another light tube, and pulled a stapler from his back pocket before he could object and shot two in his forehead.

The crowd cheered as Shooter reached up Ricky's shorts, quickly grabbed his balls, and squeezed.

"Fuck, dude—that hurts! What's that shit called!"

"It's called a Polish vasectomy if you don't slow the fuck down and put that stapler away, you idiot! Now pick me up and Irish whip me into the ropes. I’m going to reverse and toss you from a belly-to-belly suplex, then roll out to the floor."

Much to his surprise, the goofball did as he was told as he hit the floor. Shooter followed, hit the kid with a steel chair, and they brawled all around the ring.

The crowd was, oddly enough, into it. But Ricky was gassed as well as Shooter.

"Hey, Gramps, follow me," Ricky said as he shot under the ring. And, against his better judgment, so did Shooter.

"Damn, dude, you can still go,” Ricky said. “Fuck, I'm blown up. Hey, want a hit?"

Shooter struggled in the dark to see what the kid was holding out towards him.

"What the hell? Are you smoking weed under here?"

"Naw, man. It's crack. Hey, want a beer? We can't make them wait. This trick always works."

Ricky took a razor blade and gaffed himself several times. Blood quickly poured out his forehead.

"For fuck sake—are you insane!"

"I'm doing this shit, ain't I, pops?"

Shooter had seen some weird crap in his day and some legit tough and crazy characters, but this was full on psych ward material. And although he hated Ricky’s guts, he almost felt bad that his profession had inspired loons like this kid.

As the match drug on, the kid bled around the ring, fighting in and out of the crowd until eventually they came to their finish. As Shooter lay beaten on the mat, Ricky set up a barbwire-wrapped table in the corner.

The ref leaned in to Shooter. "You ready to take this home, boss?"

"Let's just get this over with, for fuck sake."

Ricky picked up Shooter from the mat. "I know this is going to suck, but it will be over quick."

And that was an understatement. Barbwire was not in Shooter's wheelhouse and to willingly throw himself into it was insane.

But as he was whipped to the corner and crashed into the table, the selling part was easy.

It hurt like hell.

Just as planned, the halfwit came running as Shooter moved away at the last minute, allowing Ricky to crash through, headfirst, breaking the table. Shooter then hit three rolling German suplexes into the pin as the crowd was cheering—mainly because they were all high as kites by this point, and happy the match was over.

Ricky finally stood up to take five paces, puke his guts out…and fall face first in his own vomit.

The crowd gagged and went speechless as Shooter got the hell out of dodge with Stu in tow. Shooter grabbed a trashcan as soon as he was behind the curtain and began puking himself.

Later that evening, at some dive bar, a kid approached him.

"Mr. Stevens, is there any way I can book you for a show next week down in Louisville?"

Stu quickly shot the wannabe promoter down. "Sorry, son Mr. Stevens is officially retired."

Shooter looked down at his phone, seeing a text from his wife:

Larry, I hope you’re okay, but honestly I can't take this shit anymore. I want a divorce. Our kids are grown, and we just don't work as a couple. I want you to move out. You belong on the road. Not stuck here with me. I'm sorry it has to be like this, but is there ever truly a right way to say it's over?

Shooter read the text and buried his emotion, just like he had long-since buried the man known as Larry Polanski with any true sense of dignity.

Shooter called out to the kid as he motioned to the bartender for another round, then he looked at Stu.

"Well, there, you old bastard. Looks like I just got a whole bunch of free time and plenty of space to fill up with some bad habits."

Shooter Stevens, it seemed, was destined to ride once again.

John Patrick Robbins is the editor in chief of The Rye Whiskey Review and Black Shamrock Magazine. His work has been published in Schlock Magazine, San Pedro River Review, Punk Noir Magazine, Fixator Press, Fearless Poetry Zine, Piker Press, and The Dope Fiend Daily.

His work is always unfiltered.

Check out John's prose-poetry collection: Death Rattle & Roll @ https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/john-patrick-robbins/death-rattle-roll/paperback/product-q46ej8.html?page=1&pageSize=4

Check out John's various e-zines:

The Rye Whiskey Review @  https://ryethewhiskeyreview.blogspot.com/

The Abyss E-zine of Horror @ https://theabyssmag.blogspot.com/

Crossroads Literary Magazine @ https://thecrossroadlitmagazine.blogspot.com/

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