Deathmatch

When people think about deathmatch wrestling the first few images come to mind. Blood, barbwire, glass, thumbtacks, you get the picture. Weapons and blood, with screaming bloodthirsty fans enjoying every minute of it whether their paid ticket holders or online viewership. Then there’s those that like to refer to deathmatch wrestling as “independent garbage wrestling” or “a dumpster fire”. Or even “nonsense indie pro wrestling that is damaging the integrity of the wrestling business’’. You get the picture. Regardless of what people say, there’s a niche audience for anything in entertainment, especially in the world of professional wrestling.

Now, where I fit into all this? I’m right in the middle of it all. That bloody hurricane of chaos, I go where it goes. The only difference is others that find enjoyment in this genre I do not. I just don’t fit anywhere else. I hate the pain; I hate seeing puddles of blood on the canvas wondering if that’s mine or not. But since I don’t fit in anywhere else, I guess you can’t choose your destiny.

Lately I’ve been trying to find a window of opportunity to branch out, even just a little bit, now that the wrestling community knows my reputation and my name is among those of the most famous of deathmatch wrestlers. So far, the attempt has been successful. Promoters, not related to the blood and carnage, have been in contact more recently and more so than not are willing to do business. But even so, the cries of bloodthirsty fans still ring out, calling to me. Which leads me to my current predicament.

I’ve been penciled in to work an intergender tag-team deathmatch in the main event at a local independent promotion called Natural Born Wrestling.

It wasn’t a simple:

“Hey, would you like to work with us Saturday night?”

“Sure, why not”

Not at all. I was specifically requested by my now partner “Kandy” Kaylin Pearson. Why is she called Kandy? Why does the crowd chant “Kandy Kaylin” in unison? I have no idea. The only explanation I can muster together in my brain is the possibility she’s too sweet for her own good. I guess this might be her way of showing another side of herself. 

Upon further discussion with the promoter, I discovered that this will be Kaylin’s first deathmatch.

Absolutely fantastic.

If you didn’t catch that, it’s called sarcasm.

Now, not only was I partnering with someone popping their cherry in this genre, but she had no idea of the buzzsaw of mayhem she’s about to enter.

Fast forward to Saturday night. After a grueling experience of four individuals, me included, painting the canvas with our blood, sweat, and possibly even tears I sat on a foldout chair in the corner of the locker room drinking a much-needed beer.

The doctor on the scene had just left after he tended to my wombs, especially a nasty one on my arm telling me in these exact words:

“You got lucky tonight.  The glass almost hit an artery. But you should be alright. Just take it easy for a while.”

Great.

Walking to my car that night covered with bandages, stitches, cuts. Bruises, aches and pains in my near future, leaning against the beat-up piece of metal that gets me from A-to-B was Kaylin looking just as bad as I did.

“Hey, I just wanted to express my gratitude again for doing this.” She said as I approached.

“No problem. From the sound of the crowd tonight it looks like the promoter will be giving you frequent calls now.”

Kaylin nods and looks around the small vacant parking lot. Only a few empty vehicles remain before she looks back. I immediately get the feeling of something coming my way. One of those big decision moments. Not only for myself, but another. A few quieter seconds pass. I see the debate in her eyes, even in the nightfall setting.

“So, I have this idea.  I just want to run it by you and see what you think of it. It’s completely fine if you just want to get to the hotel and rest. I can bring it up another time, it’s no big issue. Actually. Never mind, it can wait. Forget I said anything.” Kaylin finally says. Almost as if her words flooded out of her like a trauma dump.

She turns and begins to walk in a hurry in the direction of a rugged blue car a few feet away.

My mind tells me: “Well, if she doesn’t have the confidence to even have a conversation then it’s best to let her go.”

But my heart, along with that nagging soft side of me replies: “what would you want someone to do to you if you were in her predicament?”

In the end I always know which one is going to win this argument. Even if all I want to do is go to my room, shower again, drink until I can’t see straight and then proceed to crash onto a mattress and let the slumberland take me away.

Why? Why me? There’s plenty of people in this industry but I’m the one that gets approached.

I see her reach for her car door, opening it before sitting behind the wheel.

“Hey! Wait.” I called out, walking to her.

She gets back out, leaning against the open car door as I approach.

“Okay, here's the deal. we go get our rest tonight. I’ll give you, my number. You can just text me the outline of your idea and we’ll discuss the details tomorrow.” I say to Kaylin, whose beaten face proceeds to light up as if I just handed her a piece of cake.

She types my number into her phone, calls it so I have hers as well, and to show her I didn’t give her a fake number. We part ways, driving off in separate directions.

After an uncomfortable ten minutes behind the wheel, finally pulling into a parking space outside my motel room.

Let’s get this over with. I pull my phone out and shoot Kaylin a text.

Me: Okay, hit me with it

Kaylin: Oh Okay! give me one sec.

I slouch back in my seat before I hear a whistle go off from my phone.

Kaylin: The gimmick I’ve been portraying I can already see there’s only so far, I can go with it. The “cheerful” character can only last so long before people begin to get sick of it the older, I get. There was a specific reason I requested you to be my partner. So, here’s the basic premise of the idea. I want to get ahead of the curve. Since I play this ‘Happy-Go-Lucky” character and you are well known among the deathmatch scene. The idea is that after our match earlier tonight you saw a darker side of me. So, you decide to mentor me, mold me into this bloodthirsty character, passing down your knowledge to me and essentially “killing off” this current version of me and birthing a new one.

The only response I give is one to myself. One of putting the back of my head back against the head cushion, closing my eyes with a heavy sigh.

Because I know her idea has potential to it.

Which means I won’t say ‘no” to it.

Which also means more deathmatches in my future.

Son. Of. A. Bitch.