WTF

The WTF—World Twister Finals—is held every ten years, and never in the same place. Now hidden within Omaha, Nebraska's dark dredges, this year’s WTF competition is perhaps the most anticipated since the 1976 Castle Classic. Rodrick “Rocky” Wilson stood in the alley next to an inconspicuous door, a smile plastered across his face. The door looked like any other in the alleyway, except for the four circles of red, green, blue, and yellow freshly painted above it—the WTF crest. Rocky brushed his fingers across the circles, feeling the nerves in his body fire-off in rapid succession. I’m here, he thought, I’m really here. He had been training for this day since his father took him to the very same Classic twenty years ago. 

Gods, that was a day, Rocky thought, as he opened his wallet to look at an old polaroid of him and his pops. They were grinning ear-to-ear, standing in front of the official championship mat hand-crafted by Chuck Foley, the father of Twister himself. The photo had been taken right before the match was set to tip-off, and Rocky could still remember the buzz in the air, the pure excitement mirrored on the face of each and every person that had been in attendance. No one knew that they were about to witness history, but perhaps they sensed it. There was just something different about that night. 

It was a clash of Twister Titans—the United Kingdom’s Everett Geraldine versus 3x WTF champion, Vladislav Margarita of Russia. It wasn’t supposed to be close; Vladislav was the heavy favorite, but then what later became known as the “Geraldine Gambit” changed the course of Twister forever. Up against a wall, Everett Geraldine did something drastic, he managed to dislocate his left shoulder to out twist Russia’s Vladislav Margarita. While Geraldine's incredible effort is what history should remember, the bout lives in infamy due to Vladislav’s attempt to maneuver his neck similarly. What happened after that… well, let’s just say there’s a reason the WTF committee never released the match video. Regardless, today was different… today, Rocky would bring home the mat. 

Rocky took a deep breath and centered himself. Just breathe, Rock, just breathe. With a shaking hand, Rocky knocked on the door precisely four times. 

“This is a private event,” a voice called from behind the door. 

“Weird, I must have gotten my directions all… twisted up.” 

A few beats passed before Rocky heard the sound of a large bolt being undone. The door opened slowly, it’s hinges yelling in protest with every inch. Behind the door stood a block of a man. He wore an all-white suit and a blue circular mask that hid his entire face. 

“Name and country,” the man asked. 

“USA. Rocky Wilson, well actually I prefer Rocky but—”

“Mr. Wilson, you are expected,” the said, holding up a bear paw sized hand to cut Rocky off. “Please proceed down the hall and take the fourth door on the right.” 

Rocky thought better of responding and gave the man a nod. The hallway was as white as the man’s suit, septic and unnerving, like an abandoned hospital wing. 

“It’s a scare tactic,” Rocky said aloud. “Stay cool, Rock, stay loose.” 

“It’s only a scare tactic if you’ve got something to fear, American,” a voice called behind him.

Rocky turned around to see someone else had entered the hallway. No, not just someone—this was Gunther Steiner, aka the German Gumby. The man was twice Rocky’s height and perhaps half his weight. If he had ahead of green hair instead of the shortly cropped bleach blonde fade, it’d be easy to confuse the German with the actual Gumby toy. 

“Mr. Steiner, wow, this is… well, this is such an honor.” Rocky put out his hand to greet the legend. Steiner looked at Rocky’s outstretched hand and frowned.

“Yes, it must be,” Steiner replied and walked right past Rocky. “I hope you find honor in defeat as well, American.” He didn’t look back.

“I hate to stereotype Germans, but that guy is a bloody Nazi if I’ve ever seen one,” a new voice muttered. Rocky turned to see a fresh face, someone new, like him. “Name’s Ethan Green,” he said and shook Rocky’s hand that he’d left hanging limp in the air. 

“Rodrick Wilson,” Rocky replied, “but everyone calls me Rocky.” 

“Pleasure to meet you, mate.” Ethan ran a hand through shaggy brown hair, not dissimilar to Rocky’s. “Glad to see not everyone around here is such a prick.” 

“Yeah, I know they say don’t meet your heroes, but seriously, that guy sucks.” 

“Oui, ain’t that the truth,” Ethan replied while craning his neck to look down the hall. “Which room did they stick you in?”

“Fourth on the right,” Rocky answered. 

“Ain’t that a fucking shame,” Ethan sighed, “they’ve got you up against the kraut in the first bout.” 

“You can tell that from which room I’m in?”

“You really are a first-timer, eh?” Ethan bemused. “That’s how it works, mate—you face-off against the door across from you, which Gumby just walked into.” 

Rocky felt the blood drain from his face. He knew he’d face tough competition, but he didn’t expect to go up against the top seed in his first twist. Ethan must’ve read Rocky’s mind because he clasped a hand on Rocky’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry, kid, Gumby’s old and cocky,” he shot Rocky a toothy smile. “You’ve got age on your side.”

Rocky gave a weak smile back but knew Ethan was just trying to keep his spirits up.

“Thanks, I hope so,” Rocky turned towards his door and back to Ethan. “I think I better get going. Looks like I’ll need some extra time to stretch out.” 

“Good luck, mate.”  

For the next hour, Rocky did exactly that—he stretched out every single muscle in his body four times over. His room was no more than an oversized closet, but that was all the space he needed to get loose. By the time the officials knocked on his door, he was ready to twist. Two men in white suits both wearing circular masks—one of red and green—led Rocky down the hallway to the door at the end of it. They unlocked the door with two keys simultaneously and opened the door to Rocky’s first WTF experience since the Castle Classic. 

The room was massive, easily twice as wide as the building was built underneath. There was stadium seating all along the walls, and each seat was filled with people from all around the world. They waved flags for their country, and some even broke out face paint. The seats staggered downward toward a ring that occupied the room's center. In that ring was the legend itself—Chuck Foley’s original Twister mat. Kept in pristine condition and monitored by guards 24/7 for the years in between each WTF. It was a thing of beauty, of perfection. I’m going to twist on that, dad. 

The fans were raucous, chanting for their favorite heroes to take the stage, but all the cheering stopped when the announcer spoke up. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my privilege to host the fifth annual World Twister Finals. Many have tried to twist their way to the top, but as we know, only one contestant can qualify. This year, we have the American, Rodrick ‘Rocky’ Wilson, a newcomer to the WTF, from New Jersey.” A slight cheer went out through the crowd, but it felt more like a courtesy. “Ivan Ivanovich, the Russian Rope, hailing from Moscow.” The cheers grew considerably louder. 

“Lucy Keswick, or Loopy Lucy, a contortionist from the UK.” The crowd got even louder for Lucy, which Rocky expected—she’s basically the face of modern-day Twister. “And finally, returning champion, Gunther Steiner, the German Gumby.”

 Rocky turned to see Gunther enter, opposite of him, much to the delight of the crowd. Chants of ‘Gumby’ echoed through the Twister coliseum. Gunther looked over at Rocky and smiled. 

“You hear that? They already know I’ll win.” Gunther said, walking past Rocky, taking long with his lanky legs. 

“Nah, they’re cheering for your retirement,” It was Rocky’s turn to smile. “They just don’t know it yet.”

Gunther looked back and sneered before heading to the mat. Rocky followed, and the two contestants met in the middle next to the referee. Instead of the black and white striped attire most refs wear, WTF refs wear white with polka dots of Twister colors. The ref looked at both Rocky and Gunther.

“Gentlemen, as you are well aware, each match in the World Twister Finals has two halves. Whoever wins the most rounds by the end is the winner. Understood?” 

Rocky and Gunther nodded. 

“Good, now remember, only move when it’s your turn, hands and feet can’t hit any white, absolutely no touching your opponent, and if you leave the mat, you are automatically disqualified.” 

They both nodded again.

“Alright then, take your places.” 

Rocky walked over to his corner and stretched out. This is mine to lose. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, contestants, it’s time,” the announcer cried, “to unveil the spinner!” 

A twelve-foot tall circle covered in a sheet was wheeled in on a platform from the main entrance. The people wheeling it in ripped the sheet off and revealed the ultimate WTF Twister spinner. One of the men in the white suits and masks approached it and took hold of the arrow. 

“Ready, set… Twister!” 

The man spun the arrow with a ferocity that the crowd matched in their cheers. The arrow spun and spun and spun until finally, it landed.

“Left foot on green!” 

Rocky picked a green circle and put his left foot down as the arrow spun again. 

“Right hand on blue!”

It went on like that for 30 minutes, hands, and feet reaching out for different colored circles. Their bodies contorting in ways that defied the laws of physics. He’d dreamt of this day for the past twenty years, and here he was… blowing it. Gunther was as limber as Gumby, but Rocky was as stiff as, well... as stiff as a rock. He lost a few rounds that he normally would’ve taken with ease. Maybe it was his nerves, but by the time the by rang signaling the end of the first half, Gunther held a lead of 10 rounds to 6 rounds.  

Rocky headed to his locker room, head down and shoulders slumped. He punched the wall when he walked in. 

“Come on, Rocky, what the hell is going with you?” He asked aloud. 

“I was about to ask the same thing, mate.” Ethan Green sat in the corner of Rocky’s locker room, sipping on a pint. 

“I’m too tight, I don’t know why. I…” Rocky paused, swallowing sorrow, “I’m going to let my pops down.” 

“Hey, don’t say that. Your pops knows you’re giving it your best shot. I’m sure he’s out in the crowd hyping you up right now.” 

“He’s dead,” Rocky replied.

“Shite, well fuck me, my bad mate.” He patted Rocky on the back. “How about this—I’ve got something that might give you a bit of an edge.” 

Rocky turned to Ethan. “What do you mean?” 

“An advantage, mate. A way to stick it to that kraut.” He held out his hand, and there was a tie-dye pill in his palm. “You pop this sucker, and you’ll be moving like liquid.” 

Moving like liquid… he wants me to cheat. 

“Look, I appreciate the offer, but,” he thought of his pops, cheering as Everett dislocated his shoulder in the final round, “but I want to do this the right way. Win or lose.” 

Ethan smiled. “Good choice, mate, good choice.” He stood up and ushered Rocky over. “Come on, the second half’s about to start.”

The second half started with a spin. 

“Right foot, red!” 

It was like they never took a break. After each spin, Rocky and Gunther moved from one impossible position to another. But this time, Rocky was finally loose. The only problem—Gunther was moving with more fluidity than he did in the first half. How in the hell could he have gotten this much better? Rocky tried not to dwell on it, but the image of Ethan and the pill kept popping into his mind after each round. Could he have offered him the pill, too? There was no way to prove it—all Rocky could do was try and win. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done. Gunther had all but sealed his victory with five minutes left to go in the half. He looked over at Rocky and smirked.

“Try again in ten years, Uncle Sam,” Gunther shouted over.    

“I don’t know if that’s an insult, but I’m going to assume it is,” Rocky replied. “And the match isn’t over yet.” 

“Oh please, it’s semantics at this point. There’s no way I can—”

Gunther stopped in his tracks. He lifted a free hand to his stomach, and Rocky could hear why. It was growling like a rabid wolf. 

“Right hand, blue!” The announcer shouted. 

Rocky was quick to place his hand, but Gunther stayed still. 

“Right hand, blue, Mr. Steiner!” The announcer repeated. 

Gunther looked up at the announcer, fear written on his face clear as day. The crowd started to sense that something was happening, and the room became dead silent. All that could be heard was the growling of Gunther’s stomach. 

Then, he farted. 

It was so loud, the room shook. Gunther’s eyes went wide as a second fart slipped out, only this one sounded… wet. Gunther moved his hand to his rear and jumped up off the mat. A trail of brown liquid trickled down out of his pant leg as he ran to the nearest bathroom. The liquid seeped into the pure white fabric of Chuck Foley’s mat, staining what was once a symbol of perfection. 

The crowd gasped. 

And then they laughed. 

Their laughter rolled down the halls and into the bathroom that Gunther was in the midst of destroying. The only one who stayed quiet was Rocky. For some reason, he just felt bad for Gunther. And then the final bell rang. 

“And the winner, by disqualification, is Rodrick ‘Rocky’ Wilson!” 

The crowd went crazy. His name was chanted from the rafters. Rocky looked around and took it all in. I did it, dad. Maybe not how we thought it would go, but I did it. A hand clasped his shoulder, and for a second, he thought it was his dad, but Rocky turned to find a smiling Ethan Green.

“I told you it was a good choice.”