Yeah, I'd like to solve the puzzle?

“Hey Bill- you awake, old man?”

Douglas Doubleday knock-pushes the door of Bill Dobrowolski open as he takes a step into the room. This particular private suite at Retama Elderly Care is a comfortable furnished space, one wall almost completely covered with memories- magazine clippings and photos from what looks to be decades spent as a professional wrestler. A few older photos show a maskless young man, next to them a few dusty collegiate wrestling medals pinned up with thumbtacks.

“Yeah, come in baby Doubleday- good God what does this one want?“ The old man mumbles that last bit to himself.

The Masked Masher was a seven foot nightmare that stalked the south east territory for decades- a violent shooter and a ruthless villain with a reputation for injuring his opponents more often than not. A reason perhaps why his career stalled out in the mid 80’s. In his heyday of the 60’s and 70’s Bill was quite the attraction, especially in his home state of Florida- but like most men his size, the wrestling business isn’t physically kind.

But that hasn’t stopped Masher.

Bill has spent the better part of the last several decades wheeling around Retama still sporting his orange and blue wrestling mask making the best of things- in his own crotchety way, obviously. Even well into his late 80’s Masher still manages to make life difficult for his friend, neighbor and former ring rival “The Amazing” Cecil Doubleday.

Douglas walks into the room and parks it in the old recliner across from the television, beside him Masher sits hunched over in his wheelchair- mask on- watching Wheel of Fortune. He doesn't even hazard the littlest Doubleday a glance.

“Wadda ya’ want, squirt? I’m busy.”

Dougie kicks back with his hands behind his head.

“Dabs is running Gramps to some sort of doctor's appointment our dear father is far to friggin’ busy to handle apparently- and my brother being a pushover for anything Cecil Dubs related- off they go. Figured I’d duck out on all that noise and come bug you for a little while- what are you up to, ya’ old goat? Watchin’ the Wheel? On brand I guess- you are a million years old after all. Not gonna lie though, Vanna’s still lookin’ miiigh-ty fine at almost 70… you feel me? Eh? Eh? Eh… ”

Masher finally turns and looks at Dougie- his left eye twitching ever so slightly.

“DOUGLAS.” Not loud but clearly bothered.

Dougie smiles mischievously at the old shooter who just shakes his head and turns his direct attention back to Pat and Vanna before asking his next question.

“Douglas- I been watchin’ you and your brother, me and your Gramps. On the PRIME. Seen you and he pallin’ around with that Colton kid. Seems like he and Dabney have gotten pretty friendly- whadda ya’ think of that?“

Dougie’s nose crinkles slightly. “I can’t say I LOVE Nate Colton to death or anything, but he and his weird enumerable wrestling family members seem harmless enough.”

Masher “hmmmphs” through his mask.

“What hmmmph?”

“What what hmmmph? You said it to ‘em yourself on the damn TV, kid- none of them boys came out to help you. Not the champ, not the scary one, not that Asian one- none of ‘em. Not even Dabney’s new buddy- I told you before, you let that boy keep prancin’ through that minefield all handshakes and smiles you’re going to be less one brother one of these weeks, baby Doubleday. You mark my words sure as shit-fire. I thought you saw that- now I think you and your damn fool haircut are as up in the clouds as your damn fool brother is. Neither of ya’ have the mettle- gonna get chewed up and spit out, the both of ya’ I say.”

Another hmmmph from Masher.

“Gonna be workin’ with your fool father haulin’ corpses around before you know it, boy- “

-=-

No thank you, you old prick.

Was the old fart right? Before Dabney- and by extension, I got signed to PRIME- when Dabney would come here to Retama and sit at Gramps’ feet and soak up his sake wisdom. I always spent a little time with Mr. Dobrowolski- the goddamn Masked Masher, baby. He was a realist in the most brutal, aggressive way that just made me feel- good I guess. I didn’t buy every crazy-ass thing that came out of his mouth but I gleaned the good bits.

I credit the old goat for my- unique, rosy outlook on life.

For the longest time old Bill had me believing my brother was “too nice”.

Like he said- in his mind Dabs lacked the mettle for “this business.”

“This business” he says, like he was master of his destiny when he was a part of “this business.”

A forgotten old fossil just like my grandpa. “This business” passed guys like Gramps and Masher by thirty damn years and some change ago- but his words lingered in the back of my head when I’d see my brother reach across the ring and shake hands even after a match where he got his ass tossed around the ring like a little kid- even after he takes an ‘L’ he still would walk over there, bleedin’, black eye, whatever- and shake the schmucks hand.

I never got it, man. Miles of road. Hundreds and hundreds of shows over half a decade.

Always shook my head and lamented how shellacked my poor bro was going to be if he ever really made it in this business. Every night, every dinky little indie haunt all around Florida, Georgia and the Gulf coast region that Dabney and I trekked to in mom and dads minivan- I’d watch him smile and shake hands and be respectful and I’d just just spit and curse my luck.

In my mind I wanted a killer- and I was saddled by blood with the Mr. Rogers of wrestling.

It honestly wasn’t until we started in PRIME that veil lifted. Like something I had stuck in my ear just shook loose the second I saw my brother step out in front of that huge crowd- doubly so when I started comparing apples to apples and wrapping my brain around the competition here in PRIME. The levels of disrespect and bullshit people just accept as part of life around here- these entrenched drains on the company at large and an administration that seems incapable of dealing with them.

Creeps like Vickie Hall, Ivan Stanislav, Cancer Jiles- cruel, gaslighting, lazy dickheads, the lot of them.

I realized the very qualities I’d lamented for so long were the thing that would set Dabney apart from the pack.

Did his attitude- his openness and willingness to plain ol’ help make him venerable? God yes- the schmuck is going to lead us blindly into so many beatdowns, I’m sure. That little lovetap from that crumb Jiles won’t be my last, I’m sure-

And you know what? I’m fine with that. I'm friggin' fearless, son- can't touch me.

Or Dabs.

Masher might be right- Dabney sure as hell ain’t like some of the sharks swimmin’ around here in PRIME. He’s not lookin’ to hurt anyone or take anything from anyone. He genuinely values this business, the people who took the time to train him, the potential to make alliances with the good people here- help those folks with their strife if he can- hell, help WRESTLING at large, man.

He’s not some unhinged maniac looking to sew chaos, a nationalistic caricature looking to harm his way to success, some perceived legend stepping in line and taking a spot from someone who’s put in the hours - he’s just Dabney Doubleday. Ms. Doubleday’s Perfect Little Guy- the nerd who literally wears Fair Play on his sleeve.

Personally? Finally?

I believe in Dabney Doubleday.

#TeamGoodGuys

Bring on War Games.