PROLOGUE

In the art of interpretative combat (pro wrestling, to the layman), the term 'sell' refers to the way a wrestler takes a move, as in, selling it to the audience. If he no-sells, he makes it look as if the move doesn't faze him. If he oversells, he makes it look much worse than it should.

I am of the opinion that oversells should be done sparingly, even for the worst and most powerful maneuvers. I like to save it for when a guy introduces a new finisher that should get over, or a big match, like the end of a long and harsh feud, as in the one Psymon Mercy and I culminated on a cold winter's night in a small, barely lit arena, with maybe a couple thousand in attendance.

Luckily, it was taped for a Pay Per View special to be aired later, or I'd have no evidence that that night was one of my premier performances. I sure as hell don't remember much of it.

We had fought a bitter and brutal running battle. We had been tag partners in a little group we called Team Self-Destruction, but as always in this whirlwind sport, things change at the drop of a rating. Our resulting feud was quite successful, and Stan Richmond, the head honcho of Battle Field Wrestling, wanted to finally end it with a bang of a headlining match between the two of us: no rules, no referees, only the last man standing for a 10 count would win. Psymon and I agreed instantly, because that was the style we excelled in.

With the addition of a major promoter wanting to put the best match of the night on a compilation of hardcore wrestling to be shown on PPV as well as distributed on tape, the stakes were even higher. As always, though, we both showed up and showed damn well.

The match had gone on for nearly twenty minutes with no quarter given and none asked. I started by giving him a baseball bat to the gut; he retaliated with a chair to my skull. I kicked him in the balls, and he bodily threw me out the ring. We ended up on the timekeeper's table, trading blows, until he finally managed to bodyslam me through the thing. All this happened before the bell ever rang.

I was able to showcase some of my more spectacular aerial moves and bone-crushing submissions, while Psymon displayed his sheer toughness and raw power. We were bringing out the best in each other and after twenty minutes of unmitigated carnage, were ready for the big finish.

The match hadn't stayed in the ring long, and we had worked our way through the screaming audience and into the lobby. I nailed Psy with a piledriver, set him on one of the autograph tables, and climbed to the second story balcony, ready to hit him with my patented finishing move, the shooting star press. Called one of the most spectacular moves in wrestling today, the shooting star press is a high-risk maneuver wherein the wrestler flips his body counterclockwise, spinning nearly 360 degrees and landing stomach first on his opponent.

Psymon was unmoving on the wood. I stood on the ledge of the balcony, no fear in my body, only a quiet stillness. I signaled the crowd and tossed myself over.

Psymon rolled off the table.

It was a good idea that I had tossed him on the table instead of leaving him on the concrete floor, my original intention. The table broke my fall, and probably my ribs, but my head and neck both stayed clear of impact. Had he been on the floor, I doubt I would be here telling you this story today.

The count began.

1.

2.

3.

Psymon stirred.

4.

5.

6.

He groggily made his way to his feet, swaying like a punchdrunk boxer. Truthfully, boxers had it easy, but there's no term in the vernacular to describe the feeling you get after a twenty minute match.

7.

8.

I should point out for the record that at this time I hadn't blacked out, per se; only grayed out, if that's the proper term. The world was fuzzy and muffled, and my limbs just didn't want to listen to me. I sure as hell wasn't answering a bell, and we could have left it at that. But to the both of us, it was the easy way out and we didn't play like that.

Psymon quite literally dragged me up by my hair on the 9 count. He held me up for a moment, until my arms could move again. We then locked up for what felt like years but was really close to 20 seconds, until I was coherent enough to nod that I was ready for the big ending. I kind of remember that part.

He shoved my head down between his legs and walked me to the front of the lobby, where the glass windows showed the lobby's front steps leading down to the parking lot. I sort of remember this, too.

Psymon grabbed the back of my pants, and I feebly tried to block what was coming by standing up into a back body drop, but he wasn't having it. He stomped his legs down flat, yanked two handfuls of jeans, and hauled me up over his head. Psymon is 6'6, and I got a good view of the audience going ballistic over what was coming next.

It was the last thing I would remember for three days.

Psymon sent my body through the glass with his dreaded powerbomb, and my last concious thought was, ÒDon't forget the oversell.Ó

As my upper back and head hit the concrete, I somehow managed to bounce up and flip over onto my face, then tumble halfway down the stairs.

Needless to say, I didn't answer the ten count.

The camera guy managed to get outside and down the stairs at a speed approximating that of sound, as he got an incredible shot of Psymon with his arms folded across his chest and the light from the arena streaming out into the darkness of the parking lot, staring down at the wreckage of my body with a triumphant look on his face.

I suffered a major concussion, four broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, a hairline fracture in my forearm, lost two molars, and needed 87 stitches along my arms and back to seal the cuts I sustained going through the window. In all honesty, I'm damn lucky thatÕs all I took away from the fight. I could have punctured a lung with one of those ribs, or crushed my windpipe against one of the steps, or had a piece of glass stab into my body or slash my throat.

When Simon visited me in the hospital, I made sure to thank him for my broken bones and lacerated body. He smiled and then told me the good news. "Rick, we made it onto the tape."

I laughed. "I just put myself in the hospital so that I could pay for the visit. Of course we made it onto the tape."

That is the world I live in.