Death Match: A Spar Battersea Wrestling Thriller

By Jay Ridler

A friend’s death at a pro wrestling show sends gutter journalist and punk rock hasbeen Spar Battersea back to the underground of the city to find the killer. Along the way he rams into a washed up grappler deadlier than a snake bite, a dominatrix who dresses like June Cleaver, and the freak of nature who may be the killer, the mime known as Johnny Silent. To get to the truth, Spar will have to contend with each and then survive his very own . . . Death Match!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay Ridler
• Release date: Mar 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301005857

Jay Ridler

Jason S. Ridler is a writer and historian. He is the author of BLOOD AND SAWDUST, the Spar Battersea thrillers (DEATH MATCH, CON JOB and DICE ROLL), the short story collection KNOCKOUTS, and has published over fifty stories in such magazines and anthologies as The Big Click, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Out of the Gutter and more. His popular non-fiction has appeared in Clarkesworld, Dark Scribe, and the Internet Review of Science Fiction. A former punk rock musician and cemetery groundskeeper, Mr. Ridler holds a Ph.D. in War Studies from the Royal Military College of Canada. Visit him at twitter at http://twitter.com/JayRidler, Facebook , http://www.facebook.com/Ridlerville, or his writing blog, Ridlerville, at www.jsridler.com

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CHAPTER ONE

KING OF THE RING

I’VE COVERED pig and pumpkin contests where the fat are supreme; chili cookouts held in shacks made by your local friendly neighbourhood inmates from Dismas Penitentiary; and more shitty rock concerts than I can remember, and even more that I am trying to forget.

But I’d never thought I’d ever be paid to write about a hobo beating up a clown.

Even if it was just pretend.

They traded punches in the middle of the wrestling ring, so fast and furious it really did take a bull’s-eye-look to realize each shot was hollow and the impact a farce. But the fans, all one hundred of them, dug in with both claws, cheering until the nefarious Hobo the Destroyer got the best of our hero Clown Royale and shot him into the ropes for his dreaded finishing move: The Bindlestaff Lariat!

Me? I scratched my mutton chops and ignored every beer bottle and shot glass that filled the joint, the taste of hops, sweat, and barley in the air making me weak.

But I had a job to do. I gripped my Johnny Cash belt buckle (featuring the Man in Black giving the finger) and held on for dear life while praying that Clown Royale would bring this bizarre cinema of flesh, violence, and pretend to a crashing halt so we could get the fuck out of here.

But it was the Clown’s big match. And tonight, I was his scribe. So I focused on the madness inside the ring.

Clown ducked the lariat but kept his momentum, hitting the ropes on the far side, but the Hobo was geared up for another decapitating clothesline. The crowd was eating this shit up like free salted bar nuts.

And what a crowd. A mix of blue collar thugs, mostly cops or prison guards in training (this city breeds both like maggots) that I’ve hated my whole life; snooty pop culture college kids I’ve hated since I chose punk rock instead of college; and a couple of Latino kids in sparkling green and gold Lucha Libre masks that I didn’t care about either way.

On any other night, this wicked brew of ugly parts would be tossing insults and fists at each other. But tonight, in the sweltering den of the Diamond Club, they watched the action in the ring and wore locally-made silkscreened chest-wear featuring the name of indie nowhere-stars like The Kamikaze Hurricanes, Captain XTC, The Nightmare Express, and, of course, the king fish in this little pond, our hero, Clown Royale. Each fan’s first curled around a long neck bottle. Each mouth was stained with suds. Each brain swam in blissful poison.

And me? I sucked on a ginger ale until my teeth were fuzzy, trying not to freak. But I’ve been one year sober, ever since Ray Clown Royale Kingston stopped me from drowning in a toilet filled with my own leftovers. So I didn’t run. I didn’t drink.

I ordered another ginger ale, ignoring the craving for liquid oblivion, and turned to the ring—

BAM!

Clown Royale ran into the ropes like a slingshot filled with a paintball pellet, ducked the second Bindlestaff Lariat aimed at his throat, rebounded off the ropes, and dove in the air sideways to knock the Hobo down with a flying cross-body!

Sipping liquid sugar, knowing I looked like a throw-away from a post-punk cowboy movie amidst the modern testosterone brigade around me, I was almost embarrassed that I knew the names of all these moves and could write an essay on the difference between a hurricanrana and fisherman’s suplex—

A greaser in a bowling shirt and rolled-up jeans shouldered past me.

I shouldered back before I could think. Fucking suicidal instinct. I tightened my hold on my pint glass of soda, ready to shove it in this guy’s face—

Hey! said the pushy greaser. Hey, man, I know you.

Do you? Do you really? Shut up, I told myself. You’re not ten feet tall and bullet-proof.

He squinted, then zoomed in close and it was all I could do not to drill him a hundred years and yards out of my personal space. Didn’t you used to play at the Lonesome Crow during happy hour?

Jesus. Someone here remembered my band? Once upon a time.

Yeah, yeah! He nodded like a goof. Right, the Cowboy Spar and the Knuckledusters. You guys were like Link Wray meets Johnny Cash. Too fucking wicked.

The fact that this cro mag knew Link Wray stopped me on a dime. The fact that he knew my old band’s name made me sick. Uh, thanks.

You were awesome! I used to play your singles on my radio show at KCLN before they tossed me out. KCLN was the university radio station, the only place you could hear our stuff…that is, if you lived within twenty paces of their shitty antenna and wore a tinfoil beanie to pick up the signal. What the fuck ever happened to you guys?

We went all Spinal Tap, I said. Drummer exploded.

The greaser cackled. Dude, that is classic. I’m buying you a beer.

The fact that he even considered doing this meant he didn’t really know me. Back in the days of rye and ginger, people wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire. Or maybe he liked the kamikaze asshole I used to be.

And I hated ginger ale.

I jammed my thumbnail into my palm. Next time, I said. I want to watch the rest of this match.

The greaser laughed again. Yeah, wrestling is awesome. Except that fucking Clown Royale. Do you know that dude works at Kinko’s? What a fucking conformist shit. Bet he gets his just desserts tonight.

I smiled and swallowed the urge to jam my glass into the greaser’s mouth until it broke into bright red and crunchy bits, but thankfully a full-breasted waitress caught his eye and I turned into a ghost. Besides, the little freak thought wrestling was real. I’d rather not add beating up the retarded to my rep. Even a shitheel like me has standards. I sipped the warm ginger ale and turned back to the ring—

—where Clown Royale got kicked in the gut and upper-cut, landing flat on his back with full force.

Ouch. Ray was always high impact. Always took the hard bumps to make his opponent look like a powerhouse. And that ring was not a mattress. A stitch of canvas across wood and rusty springs. When Clown Royale hit the ground, you thought he’d cracked his back. The Hobo did his jig around the ring, taunting the crowd, singing This Land is Your Land!—

—when, suddenly, the Clown kipped-up to his feet from the canvas and the crowd cheered. Clown hustled around the ring, pulling off the old Hulk Hogan gag of mugging for the crowd, turning their cheers into energy, strutting around in wide circles. The Hobo stomped the mat and screamed as Clown Royale banged on his chest like a circus Tarzan, thick arms and belly jiggling. The kind of physique you get from insane amounts of dumbbell curls, mild jogging, and spaghetti dinners three times a week. Then Clown Royale roared.

The crowd popped with screams and chants. They loved their Clown Royale, and he loved ‘em right back.

Ray was in heaven. The grease paint was nothing but flecks of red and white around the edge of his sweating head, torn off from phantom punches and kicks, flecks like drywall in a rotting house. But the smile was pure and true. Clown Royale looked at me, nodded as if to say, Do you get it now, Spar? Do you get why I love this shit?

A year ago, I’d have been laughing my balls off at this shit, too busy being drunk and righteous as Dismas’s only true punk rock cowboy. I would have pissed in the face of this second-class meth for the masses. But with the crowd chanting Clown! Clown! Clown! I thought of all the dime store clubs I’d played, and smiled back. Yeah, I get it, Ray. I tossed him a salute.

Ray smiled double wide, then ran around the ring, whipping the fans up, acting like a deranged orangutan who just happened to know some Judo. He tossed the Hobo around like a rag doll, beat him like a government mule with some chops across his chest that echoed through the crowd. He went through every move in his repertoire: suplexes, flying elbows, Russian leg sweeps. And with each one the crowd roared louder. Then, when the ref got bumped out of the ring, Clown Royale went for the dirty trick that the fans loved: he yanked a flask from his boot and drilled the Hobo in the head, then took a sip and shoved it back.

The chants and cheers perked my spirits and my nerves eased. This was his art. Gutter art, sure, but who the fuck was I to judge? Hell, if I was being honest, I enjoyed it. Like a Saturday morning cartoon come to life. That’s why wrestling was relegated to my occasional column, Spartek’s Rant, at the Dismas Dispatch. No real staff writer would touch it, but there was an audience hungry for hyperbolic accounts of the latest indie match.

So tonight, I was going to make Ray Clown Royale the star attraction of tomorrow’s headlines. His biggest match awaited tomorrow night, and I needed to do him justice.

While Ray kept up the action with a criss-cross, bouncing from the ropes as the Hobo did likewise, I scanned the crowd, looking for the real monster Ray would face tomorrow.

But Keith The Bullet Winnick was nowhere to be seen. The dude only showed for his matches, did his bit, then left. The old pro never slummed with newbs. And his temper was short and deadly. Ray told me the whole story of Winnick’s fall from grace, but I was detoxing and nothing much stuck with me. I knew Winnick was fired for getting in a real fight, and the guy eventually died, so Winnick was a pariah for everyone except shit leagues like Buzz Magnum’s Rage Wrestling Federation.

Back to the ring.

The Hobo drove in a low blow to the balls and Ray went down, and the crowd went with him. Then the Hobo unleashed his epic assault, tossing Ray in the ropes and— BANG! He hit him with the lariat clothesline. He covered Ray for the one, two, three—

But the ref was still knocked out! It’s no good! The Hobo dove between the ropes to grab the ref, and Ray worked his magic. He climbed the ropes like he was almost dead. Working the crowd up. Each grasp drove the crowd to scream louder. Ray pulled himself to stand in the corner as the Hobo shoved the ref back in and ran after Ray—

—straight into an eye poke from the merry prankster, Clown Royale!

The crowd roared for Clown Royale, who climbed the turnbuckle in wrestling boots a size too big for him. I winced, but the crowd believed he could do it.

Off the ropes, Clown Royale drove his elbow into Hobo’s skull. The tramp hit the ground, stone cold out.

Royale! Royale! they were chanting and before I knew it, so was I. So much for objective journalism, I thought, scratching my chops raw. Now Ray started his second comeback and we were almost home free for the night.

A slimy hand slapped my shoulder. This is his best match yet! Buzz Magnum wore a shit-eating grin and steroid acne glistened on his cheeks. His massive arms were packed into an ugly red and black suit. At his side was a stoned peroxide-blonde with dark roots, cock-sucking lips, and hoop earrings, sipped a rye and ginger that I could almost taste.

Looking at those lips kissing that poison, I never wanted another ginger ale so bad. But I was down to my last ten bucks so I just lingered on her face. She may not have been as pretty as my gal Rachel, but she made me think of the stumbling joy of drunk sex with punk sluts in fishnets and second-hand bras. Loud, hard, and nasty.

Buzz leaned in to yell in my ear. Ray is killing! He’s so over with the crowd now, I think he’ll headline the tour!

So he’s going to beat the Bullet tomorrow?

Buzz laughed. Hey now! You saying wrestling’s fixed? Buzz Magnum was the bastard son of P.T. Barnum and the ShamWow infomercial guy, but with half the brains of either and more ambition than both, and he always had serious arm candy that looked storebought for every occasion. His mullet was thick and black, and he was convinced that five o’clock shadow was a sign of manhood. His real name was a mystery. When I picked his pocket on a dare from Ray, his driver’s license even said Buzz Magnum. Idiot had changed his name, becoming his character, the mad genius wrestling promoter. Dude was ass-over-tit through the looking glass.

And his hand was still on my shoulder.

Watch the threads, Buzz, I said. You’re going to kill my girl action tonight.

The promoter laughed because I was wearing a second hand blue flannel shirt, complete with a cigar hole in the arm, rolled up denim jeans and combat boots. Any time you want to do commentary, Spar, you just let me know.

Which was retarded. There was no TV taping and no commentators in RWF, except in the fantasyland future where Buzz was the big dog in this crooked world. His lady sucked hard on her straw, throwing me a gross look. Thanks, Buzz.

Say, how about a headline in the paper? Local heroes wow the capacity crowd.

His gal caught me gawking, and bit the straw as she smiled. God, I don’t know if I wanted those lips more than the drink. That’s the plan, Buzz.

Awesome, Spar. Just awesome. Great belt buckle. I love Johnny Cash.

I smiled, knowing he was full of shit, and turned away from the babe sucking poison and focused on Ray’s big finish.

Clown Royale was perched on the top rope, and the crowd was ramped to the rafters. The air was sickly hot and my mouth straw dry.

Here comes payday! Buzz said, squeezing his lady hard to him as the ice in her glass shook and I did too. Bring it home, Royale. Bring it home!

Clown Royale stood on the top rope, soaking in his own sweat, big arms taut at his side. Every fist was in the air, every voice was singing his name. Buzz was right. They loved him. And at that moment, I caught a whiff of why. It wasn’t just the ridiculous gimmick. They weren’t laughing at the idea of a drunk clown who beat up people for lootbags. Nor the fact that he was about to pull off a tricky bit of gymnastics with absolutely no training at all beyond practicing backflips on our couch. These were not gore hounds at Nascar hoping someone crashed. They were hooked because there, in that moment, Clown Royale was not just my friend and roommate in a goofy costume trying to make a few bucks. He was something else. Something bigger. He was the bright light in the twilight zone and all eyes were on him to show them the way. He was Charon and Achilles, guide and gladiator. He was selling this illusion with blood, sweat, and tears and we sat perched with him on the edge of the climax. He looked at me and gave his battle cry, echoed by the crowd.

Live the Dream!

Knees bent, he launched into the air for the Royale Swan Song, his whole body turning 180 degrees as he ascended, twisted, and then crashed chest first on the prone Hobo.

Dynamite! Buzz screamed into the crowd’s cheers.

The ref dropped to the ground, slapping his fist on the canvas: one…two…three!

Nuclear. The crowd went Def Con 1 nuclear. Royale had long been the fan favourite in Buzz’s league of freaks, geeks, and cheats because he could actually tell a story in the ring and tonight had been a bestseller.

The ref raised his arm in victory.

And it dropped like a dead weight. Ray was still on the hobo. He wasn’t moving.

CHAPTER TWO

DEATH OF A CLOWN

THE CHEERS muted in my head as the ref tried it again. Another drop.

Was this part of the act? One of Ray’s many dinner time lectures rolled through my head. When guys who hate each other work together, sometimes they hit each other for real. Sometimes an accident happens and they roll with it as if it were planned. You can’t tell what’s real or not. That’s when a work becomes a shoot. Wrestling lingo: a work is when a match is rigged, the drama scripted. A shoot is an old term for real wrestling, when it was still a combat art. A shoot is when things get real.

It wasn’t until then that I realized the tension between a work and a shoot. I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. Ray could be a sneaky shit, and he liked the psychology of messing with people, but this wasn’t fun. Clown Royale was limp. And the Hobo was wiggling out from beneath him.

I looked at Buzz.

He was still smiling, but between his teeth he muttered, What the fuck is he doing? He released his gal and moved through the crowd to the ring, leaving me with her and her disdainful smile on thick, rye-stained lips.

I pulled at my chops and followed Buzz.

Cutting through the meat of jocks, locals, and wrestling geeks, I got hit with the bright lights above the ring. The ref, a joyless old man named Stretch, shook his head and muttered low.

Behind me the crowd was starting to catch wind that something was off script. I could taste the change in atmosphere. Fear and anxiety flooded the air that could spark into chaos.

I grabbed the bottom rope and was shoved back by a big Asian dude in a black t-shirt that read YOU ARE NOT ON THE LIST.

No one gets in the ring, he said.

That’s my friend in there! I yelled.

He kept his arms at his sides, ready for me to try something. And I wanted to, wanted to tear through him like acid to get to Ray…but I had never been in a fight sober. I could scrap pretty good, but this was a pro, and even if I knew how to take a good beating I’d always had my old band to pick me off the floor. Against a real pro I’d end up mashed potatoes.

So I went the route of the coward, and instead of throwing a punch or headbutt, I screamed, Buzz!

The promoter was kneeling next to Ray. He screamed, Out! Everyone out!

The bouncer gripped my wrist and it hurt like handcuffs two times too small for my wrist. He dragged me out with the rest of the crowd. I yanked, and the guy spun me around into a hammerlock. Get out.

Buzz! I screamed. Kick me out and I’ll fucking bury you in the paper!

Let him go! Buzz yelled.

The bouncer released me and moved into a wall of muscle with his kin to hustle out the stunned drunks like wolves herding sheep.

I ran to the ring, under the bottom rope, but where there had been terrified looks there was now only glazed disbelief on the faces of Buzz, Stretch, the Hobo and some of the other wrestlers in full get-up. Kabuki Slim, Kid Kong, Stampeder McCoy, and all were hanging their heads as Buzz called in an ambulance.

It was a formality.

Big smile on his face, Ray Kingston, AKA Clown Royale, AKA the town joke, AKA my best friend, lay dead. Smiling, still, and dead.

***

Shocked? Numb?

Nope.

I shook.

I had ants under my skin so bad I couldn’t sit and I rubbed my chops and cheeks raw and red. I stalked the emergency room like I’d stalked Ray’s apartment the first month he confined me to his basement home and forced me to get clean and sober. No twelve steps, no bullshit prayer, just willpower and a friendship that had become an anchor in my life, and now the chain was cut and every emotional tsunami in my brain raged in all directions and the only thing I wanted was to drown myself.

But that would kill Ray.

Who was already dead.

So what’s the difference?

I was already waltzing under the burn of track lighting toward the automatic doors, evil on my mind, when they opened before me.

Sharon Kingston, all five feet and four inches of fury and as anorexic as a starved twig, gripped my flannel and yanked, hard. Where is he?

I don’t know, I said. They bussed him inside after the ambulance. They wouldn’t let me in because I wasn’t family.

She pushed me away. Where’s that fucking leech? She meant Buzz, and he wasn’t around. The security guard, an old black man with grey hair and a tired face, stood and told her to control herself.

Sharon only had two modes, angry and asleep. She was pushing thirty and had been a local model for years, but now ran a talent agency for future-failed models, dancers, and actors. Like every kid in the neighbourhood, I’d had a crush on her until I saw her scream at Ray and watched the poor guy’s self-esteem crumple like dry leaves in a tight fist.

And I wanted no part of whatever interrogation she had in mind. I needed air, distance, and time alone to get my shit together or get it torn apart, and I was out of there.

But the goddamn doors opened again. In walked Mildred Kingston, Ray’s mom. Her cane was thick and the black handle stained grey with sweat. She’d