Chapter 2: CELEBRATION

I go to the room and get ready to climb into bed. I pull up short 'cause I notice Mikey's asleep. Mikey doesn't sleep. Mikey stays awake until his roommates roll in. Mikey being asleep is a sign. A sign that Mikey has done a bad thing. A sign that Mikey is going to get an ass whipping in the immediate future. I pull back the covers on my bed. Written in dirt clods on my bed is CONGRATS CHAMP! I don't say a word. I climb on top of the dirt clod laden bed, jump up and out and land a perfect diving elbow on the mostly unsuspecting Mikey.

"You bitch boy chud muncher," I say. Mikey's laughing too hard to respond with anything witty. I leave.

I walk up the street to a 24-hour stop-and-rob, buy a six-pack. Guy behind the counter is in utter awe of me. "You're Max Carnage!" he says. Boy genius. "You're, like, the most awesome!"

I say thanks, slap down my cash for the buzz, and walk out, the door bells tinkling my departure. If the kid noticed the little height chart that they have at the doorjamb, he'd notice I'm not as tall as the announcers claim I am.

I pop a top and swig my brew, sitting on the curb in front of the store. Undisputed World champ. I oughtta be in a nice hotel somewhere, swilling champagne or something. Instead, here I sit, brew in hand, ass to the curb, watching traffic.

I never thought my life would take this little turn. I'd wanted to be a pro wrestler from the first time I saw Hulk Hogan go berserk in the ring, from the first time I saw Jimmy Superfly Snuka go flying from the top rope headfirst into some poor schmoe, from the first time I saw Sid Vicious powerbomb an opponent. I wanted that power, I wanted that prestige, I wanted that exhilaration and excitement running through me. I wanted people to see me and know I was a bad mofo with a nasty attitude. I wanted people to know I was not to be screwed with. I wanted the limelight, the spotlight, the SOLD OUT banner scrolling on my shows.

I sit and drink my beer. I reminisce. I drink my beer and remember watching Dusty Rhodes and Tony Atlas and Baron Von Raschke and Bobo Brazil and Hillbilly Jim. So many names. Some remembered. Rick Flair. Harley Race. Nick Bockwinkle. Gorilla Monsoon. Classy Freddie Blassie.

Some not remembered that should. Flyin' Brian Pillman. Brett Hart. Rick Rude. Owen Hart. "Quick Draw" Rick McGraw. Hey, those guys are dead. Except for Brett of course. He's as good as dead in this part of the industry. More's the pity 'cause he had the work ethic of the Amish.

Some remembered that probably shouldn't. Doink. Kurgan. Brooklyn Brawler. The Grand Wizard of Wrestling. God save us from gimmick wrestlers.

I remember seeing Rowdy Roddy Piper beat Rick McGraw one-handed - literally - on national TV back when squash matches were the standard for televised broadcasting. Back before Attitude. Before Get the F Out. Most goshdarned thing I'd ever seen on TV because Rick McGraw wasn't a standard jobber. He actually won matches once in awhile, which, again, was unheard of in that day and age. A jobber was a jobber and that was that. You wanted TV time and weren't a star, you jobbed in a squash, 'nuff said. Hulkamania changed some of that, but Attitude changed it the most. Now the matches are more evenly matched, haha I make joke. The marks really have no chance of truly guessing who will win a match because everything is so topsy-turvy anymore. I mean I could lose this thing to Brian Kendrick, the Boy Wonder, for cryin' out loud! And the violence level has gone up because of it. Now, we're lucky if we don't have total bloodshed in every match. God only knows how many noses I've busted with the Dirt Nap, from guys landing wrong. God only knows how many times I've gone to the medic desk after some punk pops me in the melon with a folding chair.

I sit and drink my beer. I sit and drink my beer and remember my first match. Max Carnage versus Jimmy "Haymaker" Hayman. No relation to Paul HEYMAN, founder and cult leader of the ECW freaks, heel manager extraordinaire. Two years ago, my goodness. Jimmy made sure I looked good. I tried to make him look good, but hadn't got the full hang of selling yet. I jobbed, and Jimmy tells me after the match to quit working so stiff, his jaw's killing him. For awhile there, that's what the boys called me. Working stiff. It was not a good nickname to have in this business.

I sit and drink my beer. I sit and remember the last seventy-two hours or so. Boss weasel coming up to me. Says "Max, Sunday you get the strap." I tell him he's joking. He says he's dead serious. I ask why. He says "'Cause you're like TNN, big fella. You got POP." Now this slug monkey's comparing me to cowboy TV. I'm so friggin' honored. I keep my mouth shut on the matter and now I have the belt.

I sit and drink my beer. I sit and drink my beer. I sit and reach for another beer and realize I've drunk my way through the sixer already. I stand up to head back into the stop-and-rob for another one when I hear noises off on my left. There's an alley over there. I see shadows moving. I start over to investigate. Probably shouldn't. I've had too much to drink and I'm dog-tired from signing autographs. I go over anyway. I've never been one for taking advise from anyone, even myself.

I get to the alley. There's a guy on his hands and knees. There's another guy standing over him. The standing guy is holding a pipe. The standing guy brings the pipe down on the kneeling guys head and neck. I hear the sound of breaking bone echo off the brick walls.

Hey!

The guy with the pipe looks up, drops the pipe and runs away from me. He doesn't care what direction, just so long as its away. Sumbitch be climbing the wall if it could get him away faster. The sound of his shoes hitting pavement is accompanied by the sound of the pipe rolling around in the alley, echoing off the brick walls and trash cans and dumpsters and garbage and...

Hey!

I'm running. I'm not going to catch the sumbitch and I know it. I stop at the body. I kneel down. Feel for a pulse in the neck. Zero. Damn. I stand back up and jog a little toward where killer took off to, hoping he might have left a clue or a sign or some such shit. No luck. I walk back. The stop-and-rob guy is standing there, eyes bugged out like some bushbaby in a National Geographic. Call 911 you jackass. Bushbaby turns tail and runs back to the store. I stay with the dead guy, half hoping the killer will come back like in some cheap dime store pulp, survey his handiwork as it were. No luck.

So much for celebrations and remembrances.