November 3, 2015

  • Wrestling with the Heart - Day Two

    Violet stared up at the figure above her. Warren was obviously playing it up for the audience, leaning over the top rope and waving for everyone to cheer him on. Violet found herself staring as the muscles in his taut calves led up to the might thews of his thighs to the deliciously short shorts to a defined six-pack, to... Warren leapt backwards off of the ropes, depriving Violet of her ogle, and began to walk a small circle in the ring, arms still extended towards the ceiling, the crowd in his hand. Violet suddenly realized that her throat was dry and she was feeling really warm.
    “He's pretty awesome, huh?” Kiera said beside her, on her feet and clapping enthusiastically, “Why don't you get up and cheer him on? It's all good fun, right?”. Violet weakly smiled and rose to her feet, her hands numb as she replayed that encounter with him in the hallway over and over again. I must have looked like such a dork... The announcer jumped up to grab the ropes of the opposite side of the ring and spoke into his microphone in his other hand.
    “Aaaand his opponent, weighing 275 pounds, the Mad Musician, the Crude Composer, Gustav, the Brawler, Mauler!” the announcer trilled, then leaned back form the ropes, holding the microphone out to the curtain, where a man who had to be over halfway to seven foot stomped out from between the curtains, clad in long black slacks, and an absurd short tail-coat. In one hand, he had a conductor's baton, tiny in his mitt, and he strode toward the ring, gesticulating wildly with it as the loudspeakers played something vaguely classical-sounding. Kiera cackled and pointed.
    “He used to be Man Mountain Marko but according to the dirtsheets, Marvel served with a C&D, so they made a gimmick up for him real quick.” She said. She didn't have a chance to add to it before Mauler, or maybe Marko, snatched the microphone from the announcer.
    “I,” he boomed, and paused, drinking in the jeers of the crowd, “have prepared a symphony. Of pain!” The last made the jeers even louder and someone off in the cheap seats yelled, “buy a better gimmick,” provoking a glare from the large wrestler toward that direction before continuing. “Warren Peace, your days have been measured and I am prepared for the downbeat with your beat down!” He paused again, and Kiera took the moment to sit down and add a comment.
    “He might be at this for a while. I think he's been sitting on those puns.” But Mauler seemed to have finished, or maybe run out of steam. He slapped the microphone back into the announcer's hand and jumped the three feet to the edge of the apron, grabbing the ropes to steady himself before stepping  through them between the second and third rope.
    “Huh. That's was a pretty impressive leap for this size. Maybe he's been doing Crossfit?” In the ring, Mauler and Warren had started circling each other, the circle getting smaller and smaller until they were suddenly adjacent and locked into an overhead grapple, struggling back and forth, jockeying for position.

    All too quickly, Mauler's greater size seemed to be carrying the day and he drove Warren down to his knees, but Warren struggled back up to a standing position, muscles quivering with the effort, and then he suddenly dropped back down to one way, turning his shoulders in a circle, causing Mauler to fall forward, losing his grip, but catching himself in a forward roll, and coming back up to his feet. Opposite him, Warren stood slowly, and slapped his pectoral muscles with the alternate hands, first his left, then his right, the meaty smacks echoing over the arena. Violet found herself entranced, watching every moment, as Warren sank down into what looked like a fighting stance, arms spread , as he waited for Mauler's next move. He didn't have to wait long, as the larger wrestler charged forward, bearing down on Warren, only for Warren to hook one arm around Mauler's shoulder and seemingly effortlessly throw him to the ground, only to have him roll back up again.
    “Vintage arm drag there,” Kiera said as the men glared at each other again. This time, Warren darted forward, taking one step and then jumping up, seemingly floating in the air as he oriented for a two-footed drop-kick which took Mauler in the chest, driving him back into the turnbuckle as Warren landed and rolled back to his feet.
    “Is he really hitting him that hard?” Violet said.
    “Nah. Mauler just over-sells those hits,” Violet said as Mauler pushed himself off of the ropes and swung a vicious clothesline at Warren, bowling him over to land on his head on the map, almost flipping over with the impact.
    “He's gonna kill him!” Violet squealed. Kiera gave her a funny look and half chuckled.
    “It's fake, right?” Kiera's smile was practically sardonic as Violet glared at her and punched her co-worked in the shoulder lightly. She look back up to see that Mauler had grabbed Warren's legs and was viciously yanking them up and over Warren's head, compressing the smaller man. In the ring, the referee, heretofore unnoticed by Violet in light of the spectacle, darted in and slapped the mat twice before Warren apparently worked his legs loose and kipped-up, slamming his skull into the bowed face of Mauler, causing the larger man to recoil toward the ropes. Warren was back on his feet and shoved Mauler into the ropes, and kept pace with the recoil, one arm snaking between Mauler's legs as he lifted  the larger wrestler up and over his back to slam him into the mat, bearing his full weight down on Mauler. The referee only managed one count before Mauler twisted his legs to yank Warren down. The two men rolled on the canvas, landing with Warren in what looked like a painful arm-bar. The referee leaned down and yelled something at Warren.
    “What's happening?” Violet asked loudly, her voice excited.
    “He's asking Warren if he's submitting. They never do this soon, though,” Kiera said, and rocketed up to her feet, slapping the fence in front of them. “C'mon, Warren! You can do this!” Somewhere off to their right, a slow clap started and slowly gained in intensity and speed as the two men strained against each other. As the clap started to devolve into scattered applause as people lost the rhythm, Warren began arching his back to relieve pressure on his arm, then planted one foot and did some sort of a sideways flip over Mauler, slamming his forearm into Mauler's face as he landed, then striking more blows, leading to his arm being released. He staggered to his feet, holding his arm close to him, doubled-over in pain. Then, suddenly, he reared back and raised the arm skyward, provoking a sudden cheer from the crowd. He ran forward toward Mauler, braced arms raise to grapple the man, when suddenly Mauler straightened and preemptively shoulder-slammed into Warren, driving him back to the ground, motionless. Silence held in the arena for several seconds and Violet realized she was holding her breath as Mauler waded in, lifted Warren's head, and delivered several measured blows, punctuated by a pause each time to let the crowd react.
    “If he were a face, they'd probably be counting the hits,” Kiera proffered as Mauler ceased his pummeling and stood, arms outreached and twitching as if conducting an orchestra, “But he's going to get his.” Violet looking at her quizzically before a roar from the crowd had her looking back in the ring, where Warren was again standing, albeit shakily, and put his hand on Mauler's shoulder.
    “Wait for it,” Kiera breathed. Mauler spun around  Warren pasted him with one, two, three jabs. Violet noted absently that the crowd was counting the hits. The fourth hit stunned Mauler and spun him around, and Warren quickly grabbed his middle and leaned back into a neat suplex. The referee counted one, two, but then Mauler slid out.