Chapter 1: CHAMP

I'm gonna kill this punk, and he's not gonna know what hit him.

The lights, the screaming of the fans, it's just him and me and the ref makes three in the ring.

He thinks he's got the upper hand, the advantage. Pretty boy, selling it good too. So am I. That's why the crowd is nuts right now. They think I'm down. They think I'm hurt bad. But I'm just selling it. This particular little episode ends with punk boy there doing the job.

He puts me in a sleeper hold. Not a real one, thank God, I'd be passed out faster than you can say boo. This is more like a modified chin lock that looks worse than it is. The crowd is on its feet, screaming bloody murder, waiting for the comeback. Nobody jobs to a sleeper hold any more. So at the count of 2 and 29/30ths my arm shoots straight up, I'm not dead, oh no no no.

Elbow to the ribs, one two kaboom. I'm free and punk boy is doubled over. My left arm around his head, his left over mine, lift up and he's vertical. Hold it for the flash photography and BAM, one perfectly executed, perfectly sold vertical suplex. The crowd is screaming my name and the noise is beyond deafening. I signal for the finisher, my thumb under my throat, left right, like that French dude at the beginning of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Snick, snick. I pick up punk boy by the hair, move to the center of the ring, and tuck his head between my knees, grab him around the waist and hoist. He's now sitting on my shoulders facing behind me, his crotch in my face - nasty. That's all about to change. I hoist him higher, actually throw him up, grab his knees, and drop to my back, slamming him face first into canvas from 6 feet up. Dirt Nap, I call it. My finisher. Nobody gets up from it.

Punk boy sells it like the former champ he now is, his body as stiff as petrified board. One-two-three. Straps mine.

Explosions and noise and mayhem and carnage. God, do I love this job.

The announcer gets on the mic. He's a short, chunky guy with hair down to his ass, with a voice like god in the Ten Commandments. He hollers out, "Ladies and Gentlemen - Your NEW Undisputed World Champion! Max Carnage!"

Yep, Max Carnage, professional wrestler. That's me... whoops, 'scuse me - UNDISPUTED WORLD CHAMP Max Carnage, that's me.

The ref hands me the fifteen pounds of gold which I take with both hands and fly it over my head, showing the crowd, loving that pop. I do the four sider and head back toward the curtain, making sure to slap as many high fives as I can with the ringside crowd. Keeps me in face country, doing stuff like that.

I head up the ramp, turn back to face the crowd one more time, fly that belt high and proud for all to see. One more huge pop, and I milk it for all that it - and I - am worth. Then I duck behind the curtain to meet the boys.

The gang's all here, yelling and laughing and slapping me fives and buddy punches, giving me the congrats. I see punk boy over by the ref. I walk over to him, shake his hand, give him a big hug. "Thanks, Kurt, I say. That was quite a match."

"Max, its a pleasure getting in the ring with you," Kurt says. "You're the best. You earned that belt, my friend. Wear it proud. You know Ill be gunning for it, not to mention everybody here will be as well. But you enjoy the laurels, Max. You've earned 'em. And nobody can take that away from you. Remember that."

I tell Kurt I will remember it, and head off for the dressing room.

More of the boys are there, drinking beer, laughing, yelling, throwing suds my way. I soak it up, love it. Not as good as a crowd pop, but still good.

The boss man comes in and shakes my hand. "Hows it feel?" he asks, his teeth whiter than naturally possible, he's a trained monkey in a good suit.

"Feels great. Damn great. Any ideas on how long I get to keep it?"

"Whoa! Slow down there, big fella!" The boss calls everybody big fella. The boss is a shrimp weasel in Armani, a garden slug in Italian shoes. "You just got the brass ring! You're THE man! Enjoy it while you've got it. If you keep getting pops like what you had tonight, I'm pretty sure you'll have that belt for several months." The monkey grin never goes away and I smell fertilizer and rotten eggs, chorizo farts with a crock of crap.

"Ok," I say. "Couple months. Cool." I stare at the belt like its my baby, give it a little kiss. Boss weasel likes that, the Armani wearing monkey slug. Yeah, you just try and pry this belt outta my hands, old man. Give it your best shot, slug monkey.

Boss weasel leaves, and I have a beer. I shower and have a beer. I get dressed and have a beer. I pack my gear and have a beer. I look at the belt some more and have a beer. I brush my teeth and chew some mint-flavored gum. I walk out of the dressing room with my gym bag over one arm and the belt over the other. I step out of the arena. The crowd. The crowd is everywhere and they're still yelling and screaming and going nuts and throwing pens and paper at me and I start signing autographs and I get whapped upside the head with a pair of black thong panties. I look at em, grin, and put them in my pocket. I finish signing autographs around 12:30. Now I feel beat up.

I climb in my rent-a-heap and drive the six miles to the Ramada that I'm staying at. Sharing a room with three other guys. Just hope they didn't do something weird to the bed.