Chapter 8: BURGERS AND BOOKING

My body clock says it's nearly noon, but all the clocks I see say its nearly 3:00 in the afternoon. I'm starving for a Carnage Burger. Unfortch, we're headed for the arena for tonight's festivities and the likelihood of me getting more than a chili dog from the concession stand and possibly a Coke is pretty damn nil. My stomach growls a loud obnoxious burble. Release the hounds.

I see these other guys eating their pasta and their vegetables and their fruits and grains and I wonder how in the world they get through a match without shitting themselves. One good size bump and its stink city. Poison gas at the very least. I mean that's natures Roto-router right there man. I just don't get it.

Me, I need MEAT. I'm fond of burgers, but steak works real well. I try to lay off the greasy food for the most part. That's as bad for you as the Compost Smoothies some of these guys chow down on. Although once in a while a big ole Carnage Burger and fries really hits the spot.

For the uninitiated, a Carnage Burger is three quarter-pound patties, six slices of cheese of various varieties ranging from good old all American to cheddar to provolone to whatever happens to be available when I open the fridge. Lettuce, a whole onion, a least one whole tomato, several whole pickles sliced all nice, slather it in mayo, at least six strips of bacon, horseradish sauce or hot and spicy mustard like that stuff they serve at good Chinese restaurants, four avocado slices, a fistful of mushrooms, two fried eggs, three thick slices of ham, crisp fried onion rings for texture, and all of it smothered in barbeque sauce. Now that is GOOD eatin'. A sixty-four ounce beverage to wash it down, and you've got yourself a nice snack.

Who am I kidding? The last guy that even attempted to eat one of those things nearly had to get rushed to the hospital to get his stomach pumped. Of course the idiot forgot to saute up the onions first and hadn't cooked the eggs well enough. Never put those two foods together unless they are both well cooked. Unless you want to spend significant time praying to the great god Ralph at the porcelain alter of swirling water. It really is an art, and everybody thinks I'm kidding about that. Chud munchers.

I wander over to the concession stand. The only other clientele are fellow matmen and women, so it should be a quick in and out. I get a burger, fries and a coke, and head to the dressing room.

Dillon is already there with the night's log. Dillon's the head booker.

Max, you've got a fifteen minute promo with Vince tonight at about the 25, after the Acolytes and Hardys do their dance. He's gonna play up how you cheated and all that, and -"

"Dillon, I didn't cheat."

"Wha...?" Dillon checks his ever-present clipboard. "Whoops! No, you didn't. You got it clean. Sorry about that. Jet lag."

"Jet lag? Dillon, we just flew up from LA. If anyone has a reason to be blitzed right now, it's me. I didn't sleep last night, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Ok, well, I dunno this promo thing... Vince is gonna play it up that he's not to thrilled to have you holding the belt, blah blah blah. Probably claim you cheated. You know the drill."

"Yeah. Just like he does with everybody else."

"Yeah, you know the scene. Anyway, Kurt will come out, demand a match, but Vince won't allow that either, so you're in the M.E. with Kurt against Mark and Brandon."

"Tag with Kurt against Scab and Cap'n Crunch? Oh, that's gonna be a loo-loo."

"Figure it'll give you a chance to rest up. We've got a shit load of run-in attacks on you over the next three weeks. Tonight included."

"Oh. Who's company do I get to expect tonight?"

"Taker."

"Taker?"

"Taker."

"Taker. As in Night of the Living Undead, American Bad Ass, Taker?"

"Yeah. As in The Phenom, Big Evil Red Devil UNDERFUCKINGTAKER. Chair shot to the back. Dogyard. Two more while you're down. Kurt chases after him to no avail - fade to black. You promo tomorrow night vowing revenge, of course."

"Of course."

"M.E. with Taker tomorrow night. You win by DQ. Headshot with a chair. Little more serious beatdown. But we'll discuss that tomorrow. Right now, you need to get with Kurt and Mark and Brandon and get things figured. You know M & B are gonna want to try and do that table thing with you. Green light?"

"Not tonight. Let them do it on a run in a week from now. My neck is pretty sore."

"Done deal, Champ." Champ. I like the sound of that.

"Ok Dillon. I'll let you get back to it."

"Cool. Bug me later tonight after the promo. Well talk. Plan. Strategize."

"You mean plot and scheme."

"Of course! What did you expect? Get outta here ya big galloot!"

I head to the john after dropping off my stuff at my locker. Do my business, wash, come back.

Somebody's dicked with my burger. I can tell because the wrapper isn't straight. An amateur has rewrapped my burger. His ass is mine. Can you sense the glee?

I start asking around: "Who messed with my burger?"

"I dunno." "Wasn't me." "What burger?" "Musta been Paul."

I hunt down Paul. Paul's wearing nothing but a jockstrap and his boots. So much for my appetite. Nothing will throw you on a diet faster than a 300+ pound man nearly naked. I shudder.

"Paul, did you dick with my burger?"

"Max, Max, Max. Why do you assume that I would misappropriate and convey malice upon your foodstuffs?"

"'Cause you're the type of asshole that fucks with people's food, numnuts. What didja do to my burger?"

"Oh, come now, Maximillian. I would NEVER dream to harm your food."

"Yeah, and the popes jewish. Get off it Paul or you're wearing your teeth for jewelry."

"God, you never could take a joke. Sheesh. Hot mustard."

"Thats it? Thats all?"

"Hot mustard. Thats it, thats all. On my mothers grave."

"If you had a mother. I think you were hatched in some laboratory underneath Colorado somewhere."

I go and take a bite of the burger. Hot mustard. REALLY hot mustard. I'll thank Paul later.