UGLY AS SIN (Excerpt)

UGLY AS SIN
By James Newman




MARK:
1 n, fr. late 1800s underworld, circus and carnival hawkers . . . victim of a swindle; one who is easily duped
2 n, a fan who believes that professional wrestling is real.




They caught him walking out the back door of the Amarillo Civic Center around two a.m. Must have been parked off that service road the whole time after the show. Waiting.
At six foot nine, a hair under three hundred seventy pounds, he was one of the biggest in the Biz. In the history of the Biz. But a single homerun whack to the back of his skull with their aluminum baseball bat was enough to lay that big bastard down.
Of course, what fun would it have been if they stopped there?
Motherfuckers hit him again, hard as hell, in the ribs.
A third time across his bum knee, just for shits and giggles . . .
Then everything went black for Mean Max Crowley, a.k.a. “The Widowmaker.”


* * *


“Wake up, asshole. Wake the fuck up.”
A high-pitched titter, like the mating call of some exotic but brain-damaged bird, followed by a second voice: “Time to pay the piper!”
“Shit, that smarts,” Max Crowley moaned as he came to.
At least one of his ribs was broken, he knew right away –he could feel it scraping against something soft and vital inside of him with every breath he took. Back of his head throbbed like an eighteen-wheeler had rammed into it at full speed. Not to mention his left knee. Damn thing hadn't been the same since Handsome Dan’s sloppy Figure-Four at the Brawler Series a year ago; now it felt as if that same eighteen-wheeler had driven over it, reversed, did it a few more times just to add insult to injury.
“What is this?” Max said, once he was fully conscious. He went to rub at the back of his head, at the sticky warmth oozing from his scalp, but then realized he couldn‘t move. His captors had cuffed his wrists together, around some kind of heavy post -- he felt cold steel between his shoulder blades. He looked down, saw that his ankles were bound as well, with what looked like thick rubber tubing.
The persons responsible for Max’s condition were still fuzzy humanoid shapes looming twenty or thirty feet away from him. They watched him struggle and flex and curse their mommas for several minutes before they finally crossed the room in one fluid motion . . . .
Max‘s long black hair hung in his face, framing the men before him like a snapshot of insanity come to life.
Two of them. About half his age, but a thousand times uglier. First thing Max noticed: they wore matching referee shirts. Zebra-striped, zip-up, the Association’s blood-splatter logo over the left breast.
“What the fuck are you –” he started to demand answers again.
But one of them stuck a long, skinny finger in his face, barked, “Shut up, 'Maker. You speak when spoken to. That’s the way this is gonna work. Unnerstand?”
“Yeah,” said the other man. “You keep yer fuckin' mouth shut 'less we tell you to open it!”
Guy on the right, the taller of the two, sported maybe half as many teeth in his mouth as fingers on one hand. Tufts of dirty blond hair stuck out from beneath his greasy blue baseball cap. On the T-shirt beneath his rumpled ref-wear, Max recognized a smiling portrait of Rebel Yell, those Confederate Flag-wearing “rednecks” whose gimmick portrayed them as tag-team spokesmen for the downtrodden Southern man (truth told, they were about as “good ole’ boy” as two Polish brothers born and bred in Brooklyn could be).
The scumbag on the left had a few more teeth than his companion. They were all green. His hair fell past his shoulders in a tangled brown mop, though he kept it shaved close to the skull at his temples. He had only one arm – the other ended in a pink, misshapen knob where his elbow should have been.
The shirt beneath One-Arm’s ref smock advertised his idolization for the Association’s reigning Heavyweight Champ: Big Bubba Bad-Ass. Max had always liked Big Bubba -- just this past July 4th, in fact, their families had gotten together for a barbecue in Mr. Bad-Ass's (nee' Eric Ritchey’s) backyard, Max pushing Ritchey’s giggling eleven-year-old on her swing-set for hours, harmlessly flirting with Mrs. Bubba as he was wont to do -- though things appeared quite the contrary inside the squared circle. In the ring, their ongoing feud kept the fans screaming for blood.
Usually at the Widowmaker's expense.
After all, Mean Max Crowley was the Global Wrestling Association's top heel. All that sacrilege, cartoonish crap about 'Maker being the “Son of Eternal Darkness” . . . it never failed to get the marks going good.
Take these two idiots. To suggest that the men before him were wrestling fans was a bit like saying . . . well . . . like saying the matches were rigged and it was all a big soap opera for men.
Max glanced around now as much as his bonds would allow, trying to get a handle on his predicament. The cuffs around his wrists bit into his flesh, nearly cutting off his circulation.
He sat in one corner of what looked like a homemade wrestling ring. The thick darkness beyond it suggested an immense room, perhaps some kind of warehouse. Max wondered if the two dickheads before him made a habit of emulating their heroes, often taking the game too far, as rust-colored splotches stained the mat under his feet. He had to hand one thing to them -- the whole getup did appear genuine. Ropes, turnbuckles, and all. Even the smell was authentic: sour sweat, scabs, baby oil, and soggy spandex.
“Here's the deal, Mr. Widowmaker,” the guy in the Rebel Yell shirt began the festivities. He stood over Max, arms crossed, the expression on his face one of sheer hatred. “Or is it ‘Mean Max Crowley?’ What should we call you? Maybe you wanna go by your old name, back when people liked you? Let’s see . . . what was it again? Oh, yeah. ‘The Good Goliath’? You shoulda stuck with that.”
“Yeah,” echoed One-Arm. “You shoulda stuck with that.”
“But nooooo . . . you had to get too big for your britches, didn’tcha? Had to turn on your buddies in the Alliance. I couldn’t believe it when you hit Joe Cobra with that steel chair. You helped Darth Hater take the one-two-three, left your buddies high n’ dry. After all you guys’d been through!”
“With friends like you,” said One-Arm, “who needs fuckin' enemies.”
“That was five years ago.” Max wondered why the hell he was explaining himself to these freaks. “The Alliance angle was going nowhere. Ratings were at an all-time low.”
“You should be ashamed o’ yourself,” said Rebel Yell. His tongue raked across his rotten teeth as he spoke, and the resulting sound reminded Max of a snake slithering across wet concrete. “Them guys was your best friends! Scotty Mojo, Freddy Face . . . hell, even that wetback fucker, El Diablo. They forgived you for that stunt you pulled on Joe, believed that horseshit you fed ‘em about the Corporation brain-washin’ you. Remember when you was gonna give away Freddy’s fiancée? They was getting’ married at the Doomsday Pay-Per-View, right before Diablo’s ‘Rage In the Cage’ Match with Vesuvius. But you turned on your friends, and you hit Miss Jessica with the ring-bell?”
One-Arm nodded, his single skinny limb flailing about as if to emphasize his buddy’s point. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Always playin’ dirty, kickin’ below the belt, cheatin’ to win . . . didn’t your momma teach you that ain’t the way to get nowhere in life?”
Max looked up at the men, winced. “You guys are joking, right? I’m on Candid Camera, some shit like that?”
They just stared at him. One-Arm scratched his greasy head, then his balls.
Max no longer knew whether to scream with laughter, or fear for his life. This felt like a lame beginning to an even lamer storyline, something the Association’s writers had conjured up in a fix but they’d neglected to tell him about it. Marks who believed the work was real? Maybe thirty, forty years ago it would have been possible, but wasn’t it common knowledge these days that the whole damn thing was scripted? That the outcome of every match was predetermined, and even the promoters had taken to calling what Max did for a living “sports entertainment”?
Apparently, these two morons didn’t get out much.
“You think you’re so smart, don’tcha?” Rebel Yell said. “But we got you. Waited on you after the main event . . . almost didn’t recognize ya without your demonistic makeup.”
“We got you,” One-Arm gloated. “Fucker.”
Max said, “Gimme a day or two while I try to be impressed.”
One-Arm clawed at his flaky scalp again, tried to figure that out.
Rebel Yell got it, though. And he didn't appreciate Max's sarcasm. He reared back, slugged the Widowmaker square in the mouth.
Max hadn’t noticed the guy’s brass knuckles before now.
His busted lip spewed a river of blood down his chin. He spit out a tooth. Still, he couldn't help but chuckle. His laughter was deep, like thunder rumbling on the horizon.
“Stupid marks. You fucks don’t even deserve to wash my cup.”
“Huh?” said One-Arm.
“Look,” Rebel Yell broke in, as if trying to reason with Max before things really got out of hand, “When Black Samson killed you in that ‘Loser Leaves Life’ match at New Year's Evil two years ago, what’d you do?”
Max smirked, spat out another tooth.
“What do you mean, what’d I do?” He decided to play along with their ridiculous game. Why not. He had nowhere else to be. “I didn’t do anything, right? I was dead.”
“Don’t play dumb. You remember. Big Bubba Bad-Ass carried you backstage, told the crowd he was gonna do what was right since you guys used to be so close. Said he was gonna get Father Ivan Ruffstuff to give you a proper Christian burial.”
“Sure.” Max sighed. “Whatever.”
“And what'd you do to come back?”
“You’re the experts. You tell me.”
“You sold your soul to the Devil, so’s you could live forever!”
“Right.”
“A week later, on Thursday Night Hardcore, how’d you repay Big Bubba?”
“Don't recall. But I'm sure you'll refresh my memory.”
“You slammed him through the entrance ramp! You teamed up with the guy who slit your throat, fer Chrissake! You helped that nigger throw Big Bubba fifteen feet onto that concrete floor. Damn near broke his back!”
When Rebel Yell finished, he looked like he might start crying.
“Actually,” Max said, “Eric had some vacation time to burn. Took Renee to the Bahamas for their tenth anniversary . . . ”
But he trailed off. Knew it was hopeless. Like trying to argue with a couple o’ ring-posts.
“But that was the storyline. Sure. We fucked him up good. Put Big Bubba in the hospital for a month or so.”
“You’re evil, Mr. Widowmaker,” said Rebel Yell. “You shoulda known it was just a matter o’ time till a couple o’ God-fearin' Southern boys decided you'd bullied your way through the Global Wrestling Association long enough.”
“Wrestling” he pronounced rasslin’. Naturally.
“You’re worse than Leviathan!” said One-Arm. “’Least he's a big dumb monster, can't help doin’ the things he does.”
Max shook his head in disbelief. This had to be some crazy steroid dream. But then, he hadn’t touched the juice for the better part of three decades . . . .
“What the hell you gonna do, huh? You guys bring me here to kick my ass, is that it? ‘Cause I don’t play fair? Gimme a break.”
“We brung you here to send you back where you belong,” replied Rebel Yell, a bizarre gleam in his eye.
One-Arm let loose with another excited, birdlike giggle, as if he had waited his whole life for this moment.
“You dildos are crazier than my last wife,” Max taunted his captors. He couldn’t help himself. “And trust me . . . that's pretty fuckin’ crazy.”
Rebel Yell handed the brass knucks over to his partner-in-crime then, reached into his referee shirt. He gripped something hidden between his pants and the small of his back, brought it out slowly.
Max flinched.
The knife was one of those big mean sons-a-bitches with a serrated blade, spiked knuckle guard. Kinda piece made you feel like you should start bleeding somewhere tender just for looking at it. It reminded Max of a weapon from some post-apocalyptic B-movie, something with road warriors and leather-clad mutants.
“Hold him,” Rebel Yell told One-Arm.
One-Arm obeyed, scrabbling spider-like atop the ring-post to which Max was tied.
A thick rope suddenly wrapped tight around Max’s throat, forcing his head back against the turnbuckle. He thrashed about in his chair, fought for air, briefly wondered how One-Arm could overpower him so easily. Even with his handicap, the freak seemed stronger during those next few seconds than most of the guys Max had wrestled through the years . . . .
“H-Hey . . . J-Jesus . . . waitaminute –”
Rebel Yell began to cut.
“You wanna reveal a man’s true colors,” he said, breathing heavily as he threw himself into his work, “Sometimes you gotta dig deep, get to the skull beneath the skin.”
Max Crowley didn’t start screaming until the knife had traveled in a complete circle, from just above his left eyebrow down to his chin then up again, like a grisly game of connect-the-dots . . . .
His screams didn’t reach their fever pitch until his tormentors began to peel his face from his skull, stripping it away like the crimson skin of an apple carefully pared for eating . . . .



* * *


Later. Impossible to tell how much later, as time – reality -- had become a nonsensical joke that was anything but funny.
A mad cacophony of wailing sirens . . . doors being kicked in . . . shuffling footsteps . . . squawking radio static . . . and the staccato clicking of innumerable gun-hammers. All echoing about the room, multiplied a hundredfold.
“Freeze!” someone shouted.
Another voice: “Drop the knife! Don’t you fucking move, dirtbag!”
“Step away from him! Both of you! Now!”
“I said drop the knife, godammit!”
In the center of the chaos: the body of a sweat-soaked muscleman with a Grim Reaper’s head.
A gruesome grin stretched across its glistening non-face . . . a horrible red rictus on the skull of a monstrosity that had once been a man but was now a sunken-cheeked, bulging-eyed Halloween decoration.
“Took you long enough,” croaked the thing in the ring, to the boys in blue standing over it.
More stunned gasps from its saviors, a chorus of disbelief exhaled on breaths that stank of coffee and doughnuts.
Until the thing spoke, none of them had known he was alive. His massive chest rose and fell so slowly it barely appeared to move at all.
And the blood . . . so much blood . . . everywhere they looked . . . .
One tall cop with salt-and-pepper hair and a thick moustache slipped on something as he stepped into the suspects’ homemade ring. He pirouetted gracelessly, nearly went down. But he caught himself just in time, gripping the top rope with one hand to regain his balance. A stern, self-conscious glance at his companions, then he bent, and lifted something pink and dripping from beneath his shiny black shoe.
“Holy Mother of God. Is this what I think it i–”
He dropped it. It hit the canvas with a sick plop, like a soiled diaper striking mud.
The policeman looked ready to lose his supper. All of them did.
The thing in the chair also stared at the gory pile. And, when some helpful soul finally got around to uncuffing his hands, he reached for it. Wept for it. As if he could just slide it back on, and everything would be A-Okay.

***

At last, his pain overtook him. Unconsciousness reclaimed him.
Max Crowley’s faceless head rolled back.
He slipped into sweet oblivion. But no one could tell. Because he had no eyelids.




Copyright 2008 James Newman