Wrestler

By charles fisher

This is a novel about the life of the greatest professional wrestler of all time, beginning in 1955 and following his career until the very end. Realistic and gritty, and somewhat sad. Pro wrestling fans will love this, as it is loosely modeled on the life of the legendary Ric Flair.

• Language: English
• Publisher: charles fisher
• Release date: Jan 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524258993

Book preview

St. Paul Metro Arena

December, 2006

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Here ya go, champ, the cabbie said, his voice tinged with reverence. Careful, it’s nasty out there.

Yeah, the aging man in the back seat muttered. Stay here and wait for me, okay? His voice was soft and ragged.

You got it, the cabbie said.

The old man opened the door into the cold December night. It was blowing snow mixed with freezing rain. He turned his collar up against the awful weather and slowly, painfully made his way toward the employees’ entrance.

Poor old bastard, the cabbie whispered.

The old man looked at the door for a long time, then pushed it open. Inside, a young security guard stopped him.

Hey, pops, nobody is allowed in here. You want tickets, the box office is out front.

I used to work here, the old man whispered. I just came to visit. You know, see some of the boys. Look, he said, pointing to one of the old 1950s framed wrestling programs on the lobby wall. That was me, he said quietly. Ralph Banta.

You’re kidding, the guard laughed. He looked the old man up and down. The yellowed shirt, the tattered coat, and the worn out shoes with tape holding the soles together testified to the presence of a bum, a failure; not a world champion who had arrived at wrestling arenas in limousines surrounded by movie actresses. I don’t believe you.

Banta fumbled for his wallet and with a shaking hand produced a faded World Wrestling Alliance  ID card.

Huh, the guard grunted. I’ll be damned. What the hell happened to you?

Life, Banta shrugged.

Jesus, the kid laughed, shaking his head. It don’t pay to get old, huh.

It’s just temporary, Banta said. Now I want to go see the boys.

Sure, the guard shrugged. Why not. You know the way.

Banta walked down to the door leading to the dressing room and stood there for a minute, pretending that the distant cheering from the arena was once again for him. He envisioned himself standing in the middle of the ring with his bleached blond hair and feathered robe, surrounded by starlets, bad mouthing punks in the audience before defeating another challenger. The cheering faded, and he pushed the door open.

Inside, two young WWE wrestlers sat on benches lacing their boots. They looked up briefly, then went back to lacing. Neither showed any signs of recognition. A third wrestler came out of the shower area with a towel around his waist. He was covered with tattoos.

Whaddaya want, old timer? he said as he opened his locker and got out his gear. You lost? Ain’t nobody supposed to be back here.

I’m Ralph Banta. Don’t you know who I am?

Nope. Now move aside, old man. You’re in the way.

I was the World Heavyweight Champion before you were born, Ralph said quietly. The WWA.

Old story, the young muscle head said as he oiled his body. They been gone a long time. You too, from the looks of things.

I wrestled until I was 60, Banta whispered. Maybe not big promotions at the end, but I hung in there. When I was with the WWA we were the biggest thing going. Fifteen years ago I quit.

Booze? the youngster smirked. Pills?

Pain, age, booze, and a  little of this and that. What the hell do you care, anyway? You got no respect for them that came before you. Look at you, with that shit all over your body.

Hey look, old man, don’t give me any sermons. I don’t care if you’re Lou Thesz reincarnated. Step off. I got to get ready for my match.

I beat Lou Thesz, Banta said. Straight up. Who’d you ever beat.

You, if you don’t leave me alone, the youngster said with a menacing look.

Ralph shook his head and turned away. Two more wrestlers with Mohawk haircuts and face paint walked by; they didn’t even look at him.

Where is everybody? Ralph called out. Jimmy Cantrell here?

Dead, a youngster laughed. Ten years ago.

Snake Johnson, Banta said weakly. He has to be here.

Retired a long time ago. Died in Florida, the youngster said.

Pete.......oh, never mind. I guess they’re all gone. How about Jurgens, he said suddenly. Big guy. Nazi.

You gotta be fucking kidding me, one of the painted grapplers said. You think this is an Indiana Jones movie? Raiders of the Lost Wrestling Ring? Nazis? Nobody has used Nazis since the 1950s. That guy died a long time ago. Who the hell are you, anyway?

Never mind, Banta said after a long pause. It doesn’t matter any more.

Just then a young man of perhaps 35 years of age strolled into the dressing room. He was wearing a business suit, but had the look of a wrestler. The way he moved, the way he looked around, told Ralph he was a player. He looked at Ralph, then at his watch, then at the wrestlers.

Everybody here? The dark matches are over.

I guess so, one of the Mohawk wrestlers said. I’m here. I don’t know about nobody else. He got up and left. Ralph laughed.

Good fucking luck, he smirked, leaning against a wall for support. Fucking dummies you got to work with. I feel sorry for you.

The young man turned around, his keen eyes boring into Ralph’s. They were the eyes of a competitor, a man who would never back down from anything. It was a look Ralph had seen very few times in his life.

The young man came closer, then straightened up when he saw the look in the old man’s eyes. It was the same look he saw in the mirror every morning.

I’m Shane McMahon, he said.

Oh, Ralph said. I know you. Well, not really, but I see you on TV every week. You can really wrestle. You don’t give a flying fuck what you do to yourself in the ring as long as the fans get what they paid for. I respect that.

Thanks, Shane said. You’re right. I really don’t care what happens to me in the ring. Now, who are you, and why are you back here?

You don’t recognize me? Ralph wheezed. Ah, why would you, he said with a wave of his hand. I don’t look the same, and I haven’t been big time since the seventies. I feuded with your old man for a bit, that’s why I had to finish my career in the shit league. It don’t matter, though, so don’t worry about it. I’m Ralph Banta.

Good God, Shane whispered. You’re Ralph Banta? What the hell are you doing here? I thought you  were retired someplace, lying on a beach with a bunch of movie actresses.

You wish, Ralph smiled through yellowed teeth. I wish, too. No, that isn’t the way it goes. You give this business everything you have, and you wind up in a flop house in St. Paul because of politics. AWA, NWA, WWE, it’s all politics and money. Nobody cares about the sport, or the grandeur, or the class. It’s all money, and it’s all bullshit. Look around.  Who do you have here? You got anybody like Lou Thesz or Verne Gagne, or Bruno Sammartino, or Killer Kowalski? No, you have assholes with green spiked hair and tattoos. Good luck. This business will never be what it was. It will draw money, but so does a carnival sideshow."

I know what you mean, Shane said. It’s different now. The fans want action, they won’t accept anything less. You see what we do now. I do it when I wrestle, which isn’t that often, thank God. I don’t know how you guys did it. You, Flair, all the greats. It was something we can never duplicate.

I wrestled Flair, Ralph whispered. He was with the NWA then. One match. That was it. He’s all done now, he should retire. I know about him, he has a heart condition. A lot of the guys you have should retire.

They love the business, Shane shrugged. What are you going to do. The fans go crazy when Ric comes out.

Do they go crazy when he craps out after ten minutes and lays down for some 25 year old asshole who doesn’t know what end is up?

That’s the way it is, Shane said. Ric can’t maintain a championship schedule.

Yeah. Neither can I, Ralph sighed. Look, I didn’t come here to break balls. I just wanted to say hello to the boys. I wasted my time. Nobody remembers me. Is Flair here? He’d remember me.

No, he isn’t here, Shane said. Not tonight. But it was nice to meet you.

Sure, Ralph said as he shuffled toward the door. You remember what I told you. And you stay out of the ring. You don’t give a fuck about yourself. You keep that up, you’ll kill yourself some night.

I hope not, Shane laughed as Ralph left.

Shane stood there for the longest time, then turned around and headed back to the production trailer. For some unknown reason, visions of his own death flashed briefly through his head. He shook it off and went back to work. 

Outside, the cabbie watched the building until Ralph reappeared. He reached back and opened the door. Ralph slowly got in and settled into the seat.

How’d it go? the cabbie asked.

Like shit, Banta sighed as he stared out into the cold darkness. Nobody remembered me. All the guys I used to work with are dead. I met Shane McMahon, though. I can tell he has the old spirit. But he has to play the game. There is no more wrestling. It’s just entertainment now. Soap Opera.

Ah, they don’t know nothing, the cabbie said. I remember you. I used to watch you kick the crap out of everybody. I was at the arena when you beat Lou Thesz.

You were? Banta said in amazement. That was a long time ago. That was some fucking match.

Yeah, my dad took me. I’ll never forget it. You were the best.

Yeah, Ralph sighed. I was the best. Me and a handful of guys started this whole thing. I paved the way for these assholes, and they don’t even know who I am. I’m not looking for anybody to bow down to me and kiss my ass or anything, but a little recognition for what I did back then would be nice. Nothing, though. Not a thing. What a fucking shame.

Times change, it’s all new shit now. Nothing like what it used to be. Now it’s all bullshit. Fake as hell, and they even admit it.

It was never fake, Ralph said. Just arranged. It was always that way, we just didn’t tell anybody. Kept ‘em guessing. Except for me and Thesz. That was real. We really wrestled. He was something, that guy. He was great.

You too, the cabbie said as he pulled away from the curb. You were the best ever.

Sure, Banta sighed. But it was just temporary.

St Paul, Minnesota,  1955

Offices of The World Wrestling Alliance

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Ralph Banta walked into the World Wrestling Alliance office and looked around. There were faded pictures of grapplers on the wall, and the place stank of sweat and cigar smoke. Handbills from old shows littered the floor, mixed with cigar butts and empty Rheingold beer cans. An old man sat at a desk at the rear of the office. He didn’t even look up.

At 6’3" and 240 lbs, Ralph envisioned himself as the next Gorgeous George of professional wrestling, that newest phenomenon of  1950s broadcast television. Wrestling was starting to gain more popularity now that some organizations like the Boston AWA, where Gorgeous George performed, pushed the showmanship aspect of the sport. On TV, George was as big as Milton Berle.

In Washington, D.C., Ray Morgan commented weekly on matches from the Capitol Arena presented by Capitol Wrestling, soon to become the WWWF. The struggling Minnesota World Wrestling Alliance, their main competition, owned by a drunk named James Gooley, sought daily to become number one. From what Banta now saw, they weren’t trying very hard. Finally, the old man at the desk looked up.

Whaddaya want, the cigar chomping giant, a former wrestler named Paul  Crusher Liskowski, growled from behind a newspaper. We ain’t hiring no more wrestlers. Ralph leaned over Liskowski’s  desk.

You’ll hire me. You want to be on top? I’ll put you there. Banta stood back and puffed himself up to his full height.

Bullshit, Liskowski laughed. Who the hell do you think you are? I seen guys twice your size took out of here on a stretcher after two days. Now you get the hell outta here. You think you’re some tough guy, huh, he grinned. Why would we want to hire you?

I’m the next World Heavyweight Champion, Banta smiled. And don’t you forget it. I was born to do this.

So was every other asshole that ever walked in here. You ever hear of Lou Thesz? He’s the champ, and he don’t work here. Nobody can beat him.

Leo Nomellini beat him last March, Ralph grinned.

That was by disqualification. The title don’t change hands by DQ.

I can beat Lou Thesz, and anybody else you got. I wrestled over 1500 matches in high school and college, undefeated. Real wrestling, too. Not this bullshit you do.

Hey! Liskowski roared. Whaddaya talking about? We wrestle for real, this ain’t like boxing. It ain’t fixed.

Sure, Ralph grinned. Okay, prove it. Give me a tryout. I’ll take anybody you got and that’ll be the end of him.

Now wait a minute, Liskowski said. You gotta understand a few things. Okay, maybe we take it easy sometimes. If you don’t, you got no more wrestlers for the next show. You understand? Now if you wanna shoot, or wrestle for real, that’s up to you. The big name wrestlers won’t shoot because they got to work every night. Whaddaya gonna do?

Make money for this company is what I’m going to do, Banta said. You put me in that ring with anybody you want, and within one month you’ll be number one on TV. If I can’t do that for you, you don’t have to pay me.

Huh, Liskowski huffed. Okay, I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you a tryout. You’ll be sorry, too. You be here tomorrow at 3 o’clock.

I’ll be here, Banta said. And it won’t be me who’s sorry.

Wladek The Polish Giant Siskowski  had wrestled professionally since 1925. Now completely broke and a severe alcoholic, he made enough money to pay for his room and vodka habit by beating up prospective WWA combatants at the behest of Crusher Liskowski.

Whaddaya got for me, he slurred as Liskowski fumbled with some papers.

Tryout, Liskowski muttered, not even bothering to look up. You okay?

I’m okay for a tryout, Siskowski grinned. His name rhyme with ours?

Don’t give me that shit, Liskowski growled. That’s a coincidence. Polack names all sound the same. This kid is a big Guinea, and he looks confident. You watch him. You hear me?

Yeah, Siskowski sighed. They is all tough guys, right? You want I should fuck him up, or what?

Liskowski stared at his papers for a minute, then looked up. No. Just teach him what this is all about. You can hurt him, but don’t break him up. Just teach him some respect. There’s something about him I like. I think maybe he’s got potential, even though he’s a wise ass kid.

You got it, Siskowski grinned. He left for the locker room after letting out a huge fart.

Fucking slob, Liskowski grumbled. You be careful! he yelled at the retreating drunk. Fucking kid is probably trouble, he muttered as he went back to his paperwork.

––––––––

Bob Carruthers was a WWA referee who also worked as a trainer. In the ring, his job was to count the pace, make sure the match finished on time, and make sure the outcome was what had been decided by the promoter and Gooley. He worked in conjunction with the timekeeper, and whispered instructions to the wrestlers as the match went along. He wasn’t used to dissention.

Okay, he said as he held out both hands as if to keep Siskowski and Banta apart. This is a tryout. No rough stuff, no shooting, no hard shots. Just show me what you have. Work the match the way I say and I’ll take it from there. Understand? He glowered at Banta and ignored Siskowski.

He’s drunk, Banta laughed as he pointed at the Polish Giant. I can smell the booze on him from here. You expect me to wrestle a drunk? What the fuck kind of company is this?

Don’t give me any shit, Carruthers snarled. You worry about what I tell you, not him. You ready?

Sure, Banta shrugged. Ring the bell. The timekeeper did so, and Siskowski lurched out of his corner in a traditional grappling posture, arms up at the ready.

Just what I expected, Banta muttered as he dropped to the canvas in front of the Polish Giant. He entwined his legs around Siskowski’s and took him down to the mat. He immediately rose up and grabbed the big man around the neck with both hands, rearing back, while exerting backwards pressure against his spine with the leg hold.

Jesus fucking Christ! Siskowski yelled. Leggo me! What the fuck is wrong with you!

Banta released the hold and strolled back to his corner.

Wrestling lesson, he shrugged. Want some more?

Siskowski came off the mat with a roar. You rat bastard! I’ll break your fucking neck! He charged in, arms spread wide. Banta sidestepped him and grabbed the back of his head. He slammed Siskowski face first into the turnbuckle three times, then threw him bodily onto the floor outside the ring. Carruthers stepped in.

Hey! What did I tell you? Take it easy.

I did, Banta said. How about you get me a real wrestler to work out with? This piece of drunken shit can’t even find his own corner.

You asshole, Carruthers smirked. I told you, you listen to me. I’m in charge in this ring. Any referee is. Don’t you forget it. You fuck with the ref and you’ll never wrestle anyplace. Got it?

Bullshit, Banta snarled. I’ll wrestle any damn place I want, and no piece of shit referee will stop me. Money trumps power. Remember that. People line up to see wrestlers, not referees. Without us, nobody needs you.

You little cocksucker, I’ll bury you; you’re all done.

Without somebody like me, this company is all done, Banta yelled at the retreating Carruthers. Take it to the bank.

What the fuck happened out there? Liskowski screamed. What did you do?

I beat your boy’s  ass, Banta shrugged as he sat down in a broken chair opposite Liskowski’s desk. It was easy. Is that all you have for tryouts, is that old drunk?

That old drunk was one of the best wrestlers this business ever saw, Liskowski growled.

When, 1930? Banta laughed. You got to get with it. Nobody is going to pay to see some old drunk Polack put another drunk Polack in a full nelson.

What do you know? Liskowski roared. You ain’t but what, 25 years old? I been doing this all my life.

And you’re doing real well from the looks of things, Banta said, looking around. Nice office. Don’t you get it? You have to change. I watch wrestling on TV, and it isn’t this 1920s grunt and sweat crap you do. You need a new angle. You need wrestlers with personality; you need conflict and drama, not sweating and grunting. Your choice, hire me or  I’m going to go see McMahon.

Wait, Liskowski said. Come back tomorrow at 2. I’ll see what I can do.

Okay, but that’s it. No more after tomorrow. Banta got up and left. Liskowski balled up his fists and slammed them into his desk.

Goddamn punks! He roared. Think they know every fucking thing. We’ll see about that, he hissed as he reached for his telephone. After  three rings, a man came on the line. Yeah, it’s me. Can you come by tomorrow at 2? I got a tryout gave us a bunch of shit. He’s got something, but he’s got to be fixed right. Yeah. Okay, I’ll see you then. He hung up with a smirk and sat back in his chair. Now we’ll see.

Where is he, Ironhead Smith drawled as he slumped into Liskowski’s guest chair. I got a title match tonight. This has to be fast.

I told him 2, Liskowski said. He’ll be here any minute. Anybody who talks this much bullshit won’t be late.

The WWA World Heavyweight Champion yawned and stretched mightily. A 30 year old Marine Corps Korean veteran who had killed more people than the flu, Richard Smith got his ring name from the steel plate in his head, the result of surgery that had corrected a rather large piece of Chinese shrapnel that had imbedded itself between his eyes. He had been unable to get a normal job after leaving the Marines due to violent mood swings and temper outbursts. His sister in law, who was married to Liskowski’s cousin, had suggested wrestling. Two years later Smith was the WWA champion, much to the dismay of the men he had injured or crippled along the way.

Smith was very unpopular with the fans. He had been spit at and had more junk thrown at him on the way to the ring than anybody could recall. He had been stabbed three times by fans, two of whom were now in wheel chairs. The third was dead, his spine snapped neatly in half. Smith had been acquitted some 26 times on various assault charges, always claiming that his victims wanted to try the champ and it was just self defense. His wife was very careful to stay out of his way. As champion, he made $20,000.00 per year, a princely sum for anybody working for the WWA. Gorgeous George made close to $100,000.00 according to most rumors.

Who’s this guy you got, Smith mumbled as he fiddled in his pocket for his medication. He took out two large yellow pills. Got any whiskey?

Don’t take that shit, Liskowski said quietly. Please. Save that for the shows.

Fuck you, Smith snarled with a dead look. I’m doing you  a favor here. You want this bastard fixed? Gimme some whiskey.

Okay, Liskowski grumbled as he reached into a desk drawer. But you remember, I can’t help you if you kill this son of a bitch. You take it easy out there. I don’t want him dead, just fixed.

The junk Smith was on was a dangerous new type of experimental medication that suppressed nerve spasms and convulsions triggered by the metal plate in his head. Without it, he couldn’t function at all. With it, he became a dangerous psychopath who had no control over his violent side. Any provocation sent him into a rage. This made him a champion of epic proportions; he ran over his opponents in mere minutes, due mostly to their fear of putting up any resistance.

I’ll take it easy, Smith grinned as he popped the pills into his mouth. He drained half the bottle and wiped his mouth. Here ya go, he said as he tossed the bottle back to Liskowski.

Banta walked in at 2:05. The two other men took one look at him and burst out laughing.

I don’t fucking believe it! Smith roared, tears rolling down his face. A fucking queer! You got a fucking queer for a tryout!

You asshole! Liskowski keened. What the fuck did you do to yourself? You crazy or what?

This is my new look, Banta shrugged. I told you, you got to have something different. It works for Gorgeous George.

Banta had combed his hair out long and dyed it platinum blond. He had also dyed his eyebrows. He had shaved all the hair off his body and had covered himself in baby oil. He wore pink tights and wrestling boots, red knee pads, and a sequined pink and red feathered wrestling robe that had cost him his last $1500.00. Each finger of his right hand was taped. On his tights, the initials RB glared in hot red script.

You’re a fucking fag, Smith roared. I won’t wrestle no fag. Banta came within six inches of Smith’s face.

Your mother didn’t think I was a fag when I fucked her last night, he smiled.

You cocksucker! Smith roared as he lunged for Banta, who neatly sidestepped the charge and threw the champion into a wall. Banta leaned over the groggy veteran and smiled.

I’m Ralph Banta. I’ve fucked more girls and drank more whiskey than ten assholes like you. I can party all night long, and I will be the first wrestler to make a million dollars a year. I’ll fly in jet planes, I’ll ride in big limousines, I’ll stay in the best hotels, and I’ll make wrestling a household word. Every TV owner in the country will tune in on Tuesday night to watch me. And I’m going to start by beating your worthless ass to a bloody pulp next week on national TV.

Banta turned and headed for the ring. Smith staggered to his feet and looked around. Where’d he go? he slurred. I’ll kill him.

He cheap shotted you. He’s in the ring. Take care of him, but don’t fuck him up too bad. We might be able to make money with a creep like this.

Dead queers don’t draw no money, Smith growled as he headed after Banta. Better call somebody, cops, ambulance, whatever.

Carruthers stood in the middle of the ring and stared in disbelief as Banta climbed through the ropes. Are you fucking kidding me? What the hell is this shit, a homo party?

Shut up, Carruthers, Ralph said. Don’t bother me, Just try to keep this other piece of shit alive so I can beat him next week on TV.

They’ll never put something like you on TV, Carruthers laughed. They’ll pull the plug the minute they see you. You look like a fucking girl.

I got two words for you, Carruthers; Gorgeous George. He draws more money in one match than this company draws in a month. I’m going to take what he started and turn it into more. The women will line up around the block to fuck me when I get through.

You’re through now, Carruthers giggled as Smith rolled into the ring. He signaled for the bell and stepped back.

Now you die, pussy boy, Smith snarled. He stalked Banta for a minute, then dove in low for a leg takedown, his standard first move, which everybody knew about.

Banta stepped aside and dropped an elbow onto the back of Smith’s head, driving his face into the mat with a sickening crunch. He grabbed Smith around the chin and pulled back, then pulled his right hand across Smith’s forehead with his bandaged finger, which contained a small piece of razor blade. Blood gushed suddenly from the long slice, blinding Smith.

You fucking bastard! the giant screamed as he staggered to his feet. You cut me! I’ll fucking kill you! He lunged forward in a blind white rage.

Banta scooped Smith up and delivered a tremendous body slam. He then drove a knee into Smith’s sternum, cutting off his wind. Now you get a taste! he yelled. He grapevined Smith’s legs into a pretzel like hold and reared back. Smith began to scream.

Let go! Carruthers yelled. What the fuck is wrong with you? That’s the champ!

Only until next week, Banta bellowed as he pulled back again. Ask him!

I quit! Smith screamed as pain rocketed from his knees to his hips. Leggo!

Banta released the hold and leaned over Smith. Piece of shit, he sneered as he blew his nose all over the prostrate wrestler. Shine up that belt, because it’s mine next week.

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There’s something wrong with you, Liskowski said as Banta sat down opposite him a half hour later. You can’t do this kind of shit. No rookie walks in here and beats the shit out of the champ. It just don’t happen.

It happened today, Banta shrugged. And it’ll happen again next Tuesday night when you put me on TV.

You ain’t even trained, Liskowski said. I got no authority to put you to the board untrained.

Get me an interview with Gooley then, Banta said. I’ll talk to him.

No wrestler talks to Gooley unless they is proved and high up.

Bullshit, Banta laughed. Who is he, Dwight Eisenhower? He’s a jerk who owns a borderline wrestling company. I’ll be here again tomorrow at 2. You have this asshole here, or I go see McMahon.

You bastard, Liskowski huffed. "You got no respect for them that came before you. You wanna take wrestling and make it into some kinda carnival fag sideshow.