On the Ropes by Robb T. White
from TIGHTROPE: a PUNK NOIR Magazine series
One shitburgh after another. Now the cow towns of the Midwest were in for their treat—namely, six ex-cons with a variety of physical and mental problems touring with a wrestling sideshow. Every time I told O’Connor that the next rinkeydink town on the itinerary was my last, the silver-tongued ex-con and ringleader of our sideshow of bozos talked me into staying.
“Doyle, just give me more time to get your replacement worked in.”
“You said that last time.”
I wasn’t even sure where we were for tonight’s show. They were all the same. Cookie-cutter motels off interstates or places that made the Bates Motel look like the MGM Grand.
“What’s so funny, Doyle?”
“I was just thinking. If you took the ten worst places to live in the country and strung them between Barstow and Camden, we’d have hit them all by now.”
“You’re in a pissy mood because your knee’s flaring up again. Look, I’ll get you the right doctor when we get to Sellarsburg.”
The right doctor, meaning pill pusher.
Our new guy, the Okie, tried to bust it up in the ring. I told him to do the hip toss from the other side. The guy wanted to hurt me—“Max Bombo, the Mustang Wrangler from Wyoming.” No more ridiculous than my moniker slapped on the Wrestle-O-Mania flyers printed up from town to town by O’Connor, ring announcer. I was “The Spitting Cobra, Mumbai Snake Man.” My pasty complexion was beneath dark tanning spray and theater paint.
O’Connor whipped the crowd into a frenzy with lurid descriptions of Cobra’s cruelty, reviling my “dirty techniques.” But it was the Okie cowboy who strained Enrique’s elbow ligaments by bending and twisting his arm back before he let him tap out from unbearable pain. Lomax kept applying pressure until he did damage.
That afternoon we pulled into another motel that would make the Bates Motel look like the MGM Grand. I went to Lomax’s room and knocked. Bare-chested in briefs when the door opened, he smirked at me. Two pairs of bare female legs were stretched out on the bed. Some girls he’d spotlighted with his monologue and crotch-grabbing horseshit must have liked his act.
“Lomax, I don’t want you damaging my leg like you did Enrique’s arm. Last time I’m warning you.”
“Sure, Doyle. You’re old, your pussy hurts. I get it. Fuck off ‘fore I break your neck. I’m fixin’ to go for that leg tonight.”
I called an Uber and left the premises. Two hours later, I began preparations for tonight’s show.
George Hardcastle, “Steven Sarcosis, the Steroid Man,” stopped by my room.
“Doyle, you read this crazy shit O’Connor wrote? What the fuck, man. I got to say this?”
He handed me the paper. At the top it said: Wrestling’s Nite of Vengence. As usual, it was full of O’Connor’s garbled grammar. The rant he wrote for me to say in the ring was aimed at God, Mom, and Apple Pie.
“Look at the bottom, Doyle. What he wrote.”
Doyle: Take American flag and wipe your ass.
“The boss is trying to get you killed,” George said.
Not him, I thought. That was Lomax’s doing. I sat in our makeshift dressing room before my match with Bombo the Wrangler. Lomax sauntered over, smirked at my taped hand. He extended a hand. “No hard feelings?”
“None.” I shook hands. He threw one of his buddies in the corner a wink.
George’s bout was before mine with Lomax. His face was beet-red and his eyes were bugged when he climbed out of the ring while Mickey introduced the next match.
“Good luck, Doyle,” he said while I held the rope for him. “Lomax told the guys he was gonna twist your leg into a pretzel and shove it up your ass.”
We went through the first half of our routine. My knee was on fire. Lomax used more force than necessary for the tosses. We’d done the Half-Nelsons but not the leg takedowns. I’d shifted my body in a defensive sprawl, moving my legs and hips back to prevent him from grabbing my leg. He hissed when he had me backed against the ring post in a maneuver called a Crossface, forearm against my face. “Fuck you doin’ asshole?”
Sweating, furious, he tracked me around the ring, but I evaded him. The crowd booed at the inaction. O’Connor’s face popped up below the ropes. He made the throat slash: Get out.
The last series involved a combination of “The Cradle” and the “Granby Roll.” I was to be pinned twice, roll out of the pins in a defensive move, just before the final pin and the three-count.
Lomax was spitting with fury. He was going to make me pay. Before the ref—Enrique in his backup role—could count me out, Lomax whirled around like a giant pinwheel, throwing himself over my legs—going for the knee. Enrique fell to his hands and knees, slipped the bag into my good hand. I shoved the bag’s spout under Lomax’s jock, squeezing with all my strength to release the mixture before he wrenched my knee out of its socket.
Lomax jumped off me, practically levitating off the mat. Off went his speedo, exposing his genitals. Screams, laughter, howls from the ringside crowd.
He wailed and hopped around in agony, slapping at the powder speckling his joint and balls, making it worse. Enrique and I dashed to the dressing room. I grabbed my go-bag. O’Connor, red-faced and sputtering, tried to stop me. I shoved him aside. We made for the exit.
My night of vengeance was the price of a pharmacy bag from a CVS, cayenne, chili powder, and jalapeño powder from a Kroger’s—all mixed into a fiery concoction by Enrique, whose nickname back in Pelican Bay was “the Cook” for his batches of pruno for Florencia 13.
I’d savor that image a long time—the Cowboy nude to his boots hopping about with his dick on fire.
Robb White has three series detectives: Thomas Haftmann, Raimo Jarvi, and Jade Hui. Betray Me Not was selected for distinction by the Independent Fiction Alliance in 2022. Fade to Black is a collection of noir tales, and Jersey Girl is his latest thriller. He has two works in the queue at Brick Tower Press: a crime novella (Easy Money) and The Dearborn Terrorist Plot, a collection of stories featuring private-eye Haftmann.