The well attended funeral of the “Indo-Canadian Inspiration” Ranjeet Rougeau

Horseworth Family Funeral Home just outside of Tampa, Florida

If you’ve never been to the funeral for a professional wrestler, lemme set the scene for ya’...

Packed to the rafters mostly due to doddering old moochers lookin’ for a free meal and a captive audience for their old war stories. “Sure, I was on a card with ol’ whats his name forty fifty years ago, yeah yeah sure sure… so anyway, I was this and I was that. Me me me.“ That sort of deal.

Dabney and I definitely didn’t know this “Indo-Canadian Inspiration” Ranjeet Rougeau fella’ personally but we were chaperoning Gramps and Masher, the deceased having been an old tag team partner of the former and a longtime rival of the latter. To compound a weird day even more, the service is at dad’s workplace… Cecil and our pop Dale’s weird slash uncomfortable slash tore up from the floor up-ass relationship is one of Bill “The Masked Masher” Dobrowolski’s favorite things to needle Gramps about.

“So we gonna see yer’ boy, Cecil?” Masher doesn't even hide the shit eating grin.

I can hear Gramps bristle and grumble quietly to himself from the backseat of mom and dad’s Pontiac Trans Sport minivan. Once we arrive at Horseworth’s however Gramps and Masher’s beef takes a backseat as Dabs and I clock dad’s boss, the rotund and red faced Courtney Horseworth standing on the front porch having what looks like a very animated, very one sided conversation with one of his beleaguered maintenance workers. Poor bastard.

“Oh, strap in Dougie, he spotted us.” Due to Masher’s wheelchair we have no choice but to pull right up in front of the building where the handicap parking spots are. The rude tub of a human being Courtney Horseworth plods over to the van and stands there sweating through his ugly custom suit. He taps his foot impatiently and checks his big ugly watch as we unload Bill’s chair and get him and Gramps both situated and pointed towards the building.

Horseworth’s insane, sort of put on, clearly insincere southern drawl always makes my skin crawl off my fucking body “Well well well if it isn’t the Doubleday boys… baw gawd, did my lead embalmer have two more sons? Who are these handsome young fella’s you boys have with ya’.” If there’s one thing Gramps and our dad agree on, it’s that Mr. Horseworth is a living breathing dingleberry in the shape of a man. Gramps does an awful job of hiding his contempt, but he’s Gramps so he shakes Courney’s hand with a forced smile. "Courtney, nice to see ya'." Just gritted false teeth. Hilarious.

He then goes to shake The Masher’s hand…

“Eat shit, tubbo. Keep movin'.” Just ghosting the prick completely. Not even making eye contact.

I yearn to reach this level of not giving a shit. Just flawless.

Goddamnit I love that mean old bastard. I swear to God, I want to be Bill when I grow up.

I can’t help but roll my eyes as Dabney jumps in the middle and tries to smooth things over with a laugh and a firm pat on Bill’s shoulder. “Hah yeah, sorry about that Mr. Horseworth. You know ol’ Mr. Dobrowolski. He’s a umm… he’s a spitfire.” Horseworth sneers a little smile as he and Dabs go to shake hands. As per usual the fat sack doesn't even acknowledge I’m there, which I’m absolutely fine with by the way. Just as a note, the entire extended Doubleday family hates this schmuck, it’s our one unifying topic of conversation at holiday gatherings. My great-aunt Virginia famously punched Courtney’s dad and broke his nose during a particularly prickly family funeral. Anyway, story for another day.

Forced pleasantries over with, Courtney spies someone more worthy of schmoozing in his mind. “We’re short handed today, so your father is suited up and helping run things. He’s hiding somewhere in the back of the chapel like some sort of anti-social gargoyle, I’m sure… boys, gentleman.“ Off he goes… Dabney wipes the hand he shook with on his pants leg. By the look on my brother's face it’s clear he’s thinking some very un-Dabney-like thoughts about our dad’s boss. I give the goon a little nudge to get him moving towards the building again.

“Come on, Dabs. You can stare bloody holes into our dad’s least favorite person later. Let's get these two old fossils in there mingling with the rest of the ghosts of pro wrestling past. Try and talk our dad out of a complete nervous breakdown having to be around all these people slash HIS dad and boy is… ” I had more material but it’s about this point I get that goddamn look from both Dabney and Gramps to shut the fuck up. I’m a needler by trade but even I know when my audience has had enough.

Inside the chapel where this Mr. Ranjeet Rougeau’s memorial service was being held it looks like… ok, so if my Gramps and Bill were governed under Gremlins rules it looks like we got them wet or whatever. Feel me? Just old grouchy white haired wrestlers shoulder to shoulder, as far as the eye can see. Luckily all these old farts will be well and asleep long before midnight. Gramps breaks off and wheels Masher up to give their condolences to the widow Mrs. Indo-Canadian Inspiration.

Dabs and I find our sweaty little dad in a large suit jacket looking like he’d rather be anywhere than in this room with this crowd. If you recall my dad Dale has some hangups with wrestlers and wrestling in general. And as we’ve mentioned before he and Gramps have one of those fun “we just won’t talk about it” white people relationships when it comes to stuff like feelings or whatever. “Oh hey boys. So dad’s here I take it?” The tone with which he asks, he might as well have been asking if there was a sniper in the treeline. “Yeah pop. He’s up there with Bill talking to Mrs. Rougeau. She asked him to give the eulogy.” Dad just rolls his eyes and mumbles to himself “Ahh, a stage and a captive audience. He must be thrilled.”

It’s around this point I zone out a little and play Marvel Snap on my phone as Dabney and he get into their traditional quiet back and forth argument about Gramps. When pop is calm and in his native ecosystem he’s not such a dick about it. But here? Just a ball of socially anxious nerves in a scratchy wool suit jacket in this wonderful humid Florida heat? Yeah, his nerves are a little frayed. I don’t blame him, he’s spot on. The minute the widow Rougeau asked Gramps to do this he’s been on cloud nine. If there’s one thing Gramps loves, it's an opportunity to be The Amazing Cecil Doubleday again.

-=-

Like an hour later, everybody is seated at this point.

Gramps stood at the podium for a few beats, he looks over at the urn and the framed photo of his friend. I give the old fart the business about enjoying all this attention but I get it. I see both sides, but this is the part my dad just don’t get. Like I said earlier, this is a room FULL of essentially my grandpa… this is an entertainer, eulogizing an entertainer in front of a room full of entertainers.

How else does he figure this would go, ya’ know?

“Ranjeet Rougeau was born in Wagah, India. A small border crossing with Pakistan. He was a child when his mother fled circumstances beyond their control and towards an uncertain future in a country on the other side of the planet. She ended up in Quebec of all places, where she met the man who went on to raise Ranjeet. An incredible story already by any measure, and the guy hadn’t even really gotten cookin’ yet. That’s our friend Ranjeet to a tee though, ain't it folks? Cocky little over achiever, he was… “ big laugh from all the olds filling the pews. Back in the 80’s when his career in the ring was essentially over Gramps tried his hand at stand-up, he was actually pretty good.

“A natural born athlete, Ranjeet played every sport imaginable through school. He got a scholarship, a full ride to college. That he turned down, much to the chagrin of his parents. What did handsome, square jawed, built like a brick-shithouse Ranjeet Rougeau do? He hauls off and does the only thing his heart ever told him he wanted to do since the very first time he laid eyes on the sport of kings. Like a damn fool, he wanted to be a professional wrestler.” Sorry, I zoned out again. He goes on to regale everybody with tales from the road. When he personally met Ranjeet, what a nice guy he was out of the ring, what a killer he was in it. I looked over at Dabney and he’s just sitting there in just rapt attention.

Anyway, he eventually gets to the end of his eulogy “Ol’ Ranjeet, he had better sense than some of us. He got out before time and the business passed him by. He met Laura there and started a family and opened his own business. He was proud of his life after the ring. Proud of his family. I’m just proud to have counted him as a friend. Thank you folks.” As Gramps nods and pats the podium, he gives the urn one last look and nearly bowls over my dad coming up to the podium to do the dismissal.

I failed to stifle a laugh and Dabney punched me hard enough to leave a bruise.

Dick.

-=-

The room started to clear out some, like I said earlier bedtime for this crowd is like five o'clock so, you know. At the front of the chapel they have a bunch of pictures from Ranjeet’s career as a wrestler. He and I are standing there killing time whilst Gramps mingles when Masher comes rolling up between us. Oh and in case you’re wondering? Yes, his wrestling mask is on. “Need help using the restroom old man, what’s up?” Like I said, I’m a needler. Bill loves it though. It’s easy for people to treat even a certified bad motherfucker like Bill like an old feeble piece of tissue paper. He enjoys when I treat him just like anybody else, like anything but a nearly 90 year old man. He gets quiet as he looks over the photos of his deceased friend… friend? Ehh.

“I probably wrestled the man, hell, hundred times if that. Beat him bloody. Nearly killed him one rainy night in Chicago.” Even with the mask on we can see the wistful smile on what little of Masher’s prune-like face we can see. “You’d have liked ol’ Ranjeet, Dabney. He was also probably too nice for his own damn good.” Yeah, Masher rolled up with a point to make, so I take a healthy step sideways. Near enough to hear whilst still giving Bill the floor. Poor oblivious Dabney just smiles and nods, Bill shakes his head with a sigh and continues on. I know where he’s goin’ already, and boy howdy does Dabney need to hear it considering his match coming up against RIA.

“He knew when to turn it on though. I noticed your grandpa omitted the one time he and Ranjeet got sideways and wrestled each other into a bloody mess.” That gets Dabs’ attention. “I don’t think I ever heard that one.” Bill just smirks. “Probably because it was the closest Cecil ever came to bein’ a prick heel, by God.” Even my ears perk up at that one, our sweet babyface for life Gramps a heel? Oh do tell Bill. Do tell.

“It started off over a title. Some old regional Television title. They were both young and hungry, great tag team them two. This promoter actually had an hour of television on Thursday nights, all of Florida tuning in. It was a big deal. Your Gramps and Ranjeet found themselves on opposite ends of the finals of a tournament to crown the very first Television champ. Two of the nicest schmucks in the territory, both of them just squeaky clean and fresh faced. But both of them wanted that title something fierce. More than breathin’ your Gramps wanted that title. They both did.” Dabney’s just floored. So am I, to be honest. “Why have I never heard this story before?”

If you’ve been tuning in since jump street with us here you’ll recollect how Dabney has always worshiped the ground our Gramps walks on. We grew up watching his collection of wrestling VHS tapes. It's why we're both on the journey we're on in PRIME. Dabney is the world's foremost authority on the life and times of The Amazing Cecil Doubleday so his incredulousness continues unabated. “Because if there’s one thing your Gramps loves more than entertaining a crowd, it’s LYING.” He says that last part a little loudly. Remember, they’re tied at the hip but Masher still sort of hates Gramps. Like hates hates. But they’re all old and harmless now, so we call it admirable and move on.

Dabney is about to refute Bill's claim but good ol’ Masher just bullies his way forward. “Your Gramps has painted a pretty sweet little picture of his career for ya’. Which is pretty easy to do considerin’ how long ago all his stories happened. On more than one occasion he’s decided to polish and scrub some of the grimier parts of his career. Like that night right here in Tampa where he made a complete ass of himself and got a whoppin’ from Ranjeet that puts even my work with your Gramps to shame.” Like I said, Dabney still looks a little doubtful but he crosses his arms and settles in for another tale of wrestling yore.

“Ranjeet was the nice fella your Grandpa pretends to be. Like I said, you and ol’ Rougeau are a lot alike. He was reserved, kind and respectful in a way your Gramps just aint. He never looked for the spotlight for himself, always wanted to share it. Generous even with his adversaries. So there he was, he and your Gramps standing across the ring from one another. Winner gets the tourney, the champion's purse. And most importantly to your Gramps, that title belt. They beat the living good goddamn out of one another for nearly an hour. Ranjeet was a natural athlete. Had ten times the wind of your Gramps. He’s a crafty bastard but brains and skill can only weather a specimen like Ranjeet for so long. So what does Cecil do? Well wouldn't ya’ know it Mr. Goody two shoes starts takin’ a few passages out of MY playbook.”

Well I'll be. Maybe I take after Gramps a little more than I thought I did.

Dabney looks almost horrified. Sick. Bill continues.

“Final stretch of that match your Gramps was desperate and started rakin’ eyes and strikin’ a little close to the belt, that sort of stuff. Way outside the bounds of your Gramps’ usual schoolboy schtick. Ranjeet starts to get hot. Damn hot. More steamed than I’d ever seen the man. Cecil had him reelin’ and Ranj just wasn’t going to take one more second of it. He reached down and found something inside of himself, something that allowed a nice feller like him to kick the ever lovin’ hell out of your grandpa. Buddies, stayed buddies afterward, you can see your grandpa was clearly still close to the man. But that night, Dabney? Ranjeet dropped your Gramps on his head and nearly broke his damn neck. And that's a shoot. Ranj felt awful afterward. But in the end Ranjeet walked away with the whole kit and caboodle.”

“Listen, Bill I… “

“Shut yer’ goddamn mouth for a second kid and listen to me.” Dabney’s eyes go a little wide.

Gotta admit, so do mine.

“If it aint ever been clear, kid… Jesus, I like ya’ Dabney. I give ya’ the shit I do in hopes you’ll grow a thicker skin and make it further in this blasted business than your grandpa and I. You've got the natural ability to be a star, son. But it’s all glory days and victory speeches for Cecil. I remember the shitty in between bits he don't talk about anymore. Ranjeet was a nice man. Nicer even than your grandpa. That never wavered, he was always a loyal friend. But in the ring, Dabney? Ranjeet was pure dynamite. Not just because he was explosive, man was faster than a hiccup. No he was dynamite because he was dangerous. He showed your grandpa that muggy night in Tampa, by God. He showed everybody, including himself, there was far more to him than handshakes and headlocks.”

Bill makes eye contact with me a few paces away, then with Dabney.

He makes sure my brother is looking at him dead in his grey, droopy bloodshot eyes.

“You gotta find a small quiet corner of your guts to put the nice guy. Who you are outside of the ring? The way you carry yourself? It ain't my cup of tea, I gave ol’ Ranjeet shit about what a pushover he was outside the ring. He’d give his last dollar away to somebody in need. First time I wrestled the man was the last time I underestimated him, because in that ring? He was a killer. He found that balance. If you really want to rise above the Kenny Freeman’s and Tony Gamble’s of the world? If you want to be more than a face in the crowd you gotta find that balance, son. Life ticks away fast, kiddo… too fast to spend this much time wafflin’ and dickin' around. Pick a lane and get to work. Before YOU’RE sitting in an urn getting yawned at for two hours by all your old friends.”

Give ‘em something to talk about at your wake, Dabney.

This Alias title match is the biggest deal for my brother. Bigger than War Games. At Culture Shock he feels he let his teammates down. And that sucks. This match against RIA? This is a whole different kind of pressure. The pressure to step in there without personal animosity, without a small platoon of teammates at your back drivin’ you and find it in yourself to be the sort of animal you need to be to get the job done. To put someone down who otherwise you might go out and share a few drinks with, laugh and swap road stories. The sort of person you might know til you're attending one anothers wakes just like Gramps and Ranjeet.

RIA is a peer as much as she’s an opponent.

She very well might be my brother's biggest challenge to date.

I know my brother. She’s a challenge he’s game for.

He's got this.

Bring it on, Rainbow Brite.