You're a Mean One, Mr. Lynch: Saga of the Jerkass Woobie

“Successfully (whatever that may mean)

or unsuccessfully,

we all overact the part

of our favorite character in fiction.” - Aldous Huxley

The Observable Universe - Present Day

A man walks into a bar. A tavern, actually. His eyes pan the scene and squint for focus. It's noticeable by the state flag on the wall, the unhealthy obsession with high school sports, and the pungent stench of poor political decisions, that this local small business is an Ohio tavern.

Ben Lynch walks into the tavern wearing mix-matched pajamas. Checkerboard orange and brown pants with a blue, satin, long sleeved button-up. Slippers, of course. Wikipedia has Lynch billed as six feet tall, but he looks closer to 5’11”.

There's a coming of age story being told with Ben’s body.  He's losing the war against aging, and carbohydrates. Years of hustle, and independence, define his unshaven visage. He will have one of those horseshoe hairstyles in ten years; give or take. That's judging by the taper and trajectory of his receding hairline.

The thick wall of roisterers interrupted his observation. It's Saturday night in the buckeye state, and that means a few things: celebrating (or, mourning) their football team, paying tribute to their dictatorship, or pre-gaming for church in the morning.

There's a different sporting event on two televisions, Donald Trump (and the failing of America) is on a third, but the volume is substituted for the art of Kendrick Lamar.

Crowd conversation has escalated into an abstract sound where the slightest oddity is highlighted; such as the woman that snorted like a pig or the out of context mention of the vas deferens. Yet, throughout this substance fueled social orgy, Ben spots what he's looking for in the form of a waving hand at the opposite side of the room.

The crowd slowly splits as if Ben summoned Moses for a quick late-night miracle. The waving hand at the end of the divide belongs to a man named Dean Gullberry. The role of ‘up to no good acquaintance’ will be played by this man, a portly roadie meathead with a braided pirate beard and a beautiful head of greasy black curls. Greasy is a good word to describe him. He’s also the host of a podcast that Ben often participates in.

“Wah…well Hell!”

Dean’s exclamation is easy to hear over all the noise. His unique voice, a mix between late ‘80s glam metal and John Goodman, is highly identifiable in a large crowd.

“About damn time, bud. Somethin’ told me you wasn’t flakin’.”

His smile is a victim of lifetime dental abuse. Tar stained teeth are asking for another cigarette while hanging on for their lives. A leather biker’s vest is having the buttons tested by Dean's paunchy gut.

“Had to put the kids to sleep,” Ben explained while getting comfortable with a solid 80 degree lean against the bar. “You're taking time away from the memoir.”

Dean drums against his belly and leans back.

“My sincere apologies,” he genuinely replies. “Whatcha callin’ it again?”

“Ben Lynch: Wrestling With Shadows,” Ben proudly grins.

Dean’s peepers might pop out of their sockets. His eyes scan across the northeast Ohio nightlife. There's a sense of enlightenment about him. He snaps his fingers, slaps his hands against his thighs and then points directly at Ben.

“Bloody brilliant,” he says enthusiastically.

“I can be creative sometimes,” Ben replies.

“The reason your presence was requested…” Dean leans forward and whispers “...I was briefed with some highly classified information” he leans back and looks around the tavern to ensure nobody is listening.

“PRIME will be contacting you.” He continued.

“No, they aint,” Ben smirks. “I'm done. Plus, that was 7 months ago. I figured they didn't want me.” He stands tall and shrugs his shoulders.

“Why am I hearing about this from you?” Ben curiously questions.

“Well, sir, I know a guy,” Dean smiles. He leans back and drapes his arm over the back of the chair.

“Who?” Ben asks.

“Todd Braxton,” Dean is quick to respond. There's a moment of silence with an awkward stare down. Ben flutters his eyelids in confusion, as does Dean because he's confused as to how Ben doesn't recognize the name.

“Intern of Live Events,” Dean goes on. “Todd was backstage the other day and overheard an intern discussing what they found out last week from one of their senior officials who dates a lady in human resources named Jane Wheeler who is friends with Mark Fleming over in accounting. Mark likes to burn one outside behind the dumpster with the on-site electrician named Doug Houser who heard it from a custodian who apparently tripped over a cord in somebody's office and fell into the desk where they saw your name on the list.”

“That doesn't mean they're going to hire me,” Ben raises an eyebrow while responding.

“Oh, but this is the list,” Dean reassures.

“Yea, but there’s lots of lists,” Ben is quick to retort.

“But this is the list, bud. Can we have a gentleman's agreement here?”  The question is delivered with slight sense of desperation.

“Hm, sure," Ben shrugs his shoulders.  "So, what am I going to do?"  There's a dash of fright in Ben's tone.  "I've put on the freshman 40 here, Dean. I'm all washed up. I'm the Hasbro of has-beens," Ben wraps his hands around his stomach and reveals a handful of cellulite.

“Wellllll, agree to disagree," Dean looks down at what Ben is holding.  "That's more like 50 pounds," he looks Ben in the eyes, "and that would mean you're an action figure. Last I checked? You lack action and have no figure, but hear me through. You still got one more big run left in you, bud.”

“I did not think this through,” Ben scratches the top of his head.

“Perhaps you're right.  Have no fear! I've been enjoying this cocktail while concocting quite a most extraordinary plan,”  Dean rubs his hands and leans forward.  Ben's hand stops him on a dime.

“I'm good, Dean. You've done enough. This is my problem. Plus - they haven't called me yet, so I still have some time," Ben turns so that he's directed toward the door.  "Oh, and thanks for spoiling it.”

“You're welcome, bud. Plus, it's better this way! Now you're prepared. Oh! I know! We can work on a phone celebration together!”  It's too late for Ben to embrace Dean's knucklehead tomfoolery.  Dean leans forward to grab Ben by the shoulder, but fails.

“I'm going home now, Dean. Thanks for the catch-up,”  Ben says without looking back.

“Oh come on! Really?"  Dean is confused, a little shocked, and a tad disrespected.  "I haven't seen this Jerkass Woobie in 7 months, and you only give me less than 5 minutes?”

Initiate the cliche record scratch.  Listen to the pin drop.  Ben pauses in the center of the divide and slowly turns around.  He's been triggered, and he glares at Dean while showing teeth.

“What did you just call me?”

—--MANUSCRIPT EXCERPT—-- The Indiana House: July 11th, 1992

The house was canary yellow. One level, with an attic. Two bedrooms, one bath, small kitchen, and acceptable living room. These little homes were developed for returning military. Returning from war, I guess. There's an army base down the street, so that tracks. I'm not sure when the houses hit the market for non-military, but here we are. It has a respectable slab of yard, too. The backyard connects with the woods. I committed arson in those woods, twice.

Saturday's in New Chicago meant one thing: neighborhood fights and good old fashioned pro wrestling.

Did you know that some of these dweebs thought that wrestling is fake? Well, Derrick, what's so fake about this superkick that just sent your teeth on a field trip to the fudge factory? Or, Jake, how does the back of your head feel after a vicious scoop slam onto the unforgiving Earth?

That's what I thought.

Amateurs. Make sure to tell’em when you get home! It's like that scene in Pee-Wee Herman. Tell’em Big Boned Benny sent ya! Then I mutate into a creature that looks slightly similar to the Evil Minion from Despicable Me 2.

The evening therefore meant war. One street versus the other. Neighbor versus neighbor. Cousin versus cousin. Friend versus friend. Lovers at odds. The rules of engagement were simple: grab whatever you can that's near you, and yeet that humdinger at the enemy. The war ends when one team can no longer fight.

This was no ordinary childhood dust up. This is deranged gang violence. This was political warfare. My team had the advantage. We were uphill, with the woods at our backs, while they were down below with the adjacent backyard. This was a good showing: five on five.

I found a rusty pipe. I threw that thing as hard as I could. This old fence post with a small chunk of concrete at the bottom is very effective. It was, and it knocked out two boys across enemy lines. I threw an old oil canister, a stick, a piece of rubber, a rock, a pinecone, and then I got hit in the head with a chunk of concrete.

The chunk from the fence post. It must've slid off the pole at impact, faster than a stripper when you make it rain. My own weapon was used against me? Well done, lad.

Everything was dark and there was a lot of ringing. My vision was blurred and my hearing was muffled for a minute.

It cracked my head open like an eGG. My hand was covered in blood. I removed myself from battle and cried all the way home. Dr. Dad, phDrunk, gave me a wet cloth and told me to keep it on my head. I didn't go to the hospital, but my head sure hurt.

My team lost the war. The hill didn't matter.

This was the day that I chose to become a pro wrestler.

The State of Ohio - Lynch House - Present Day

“Do it for 6 months and if you don't like it then forget about’em,” is Clair Lynch's thoughts about the situation.  This is Ben's wife of a decade.  Claire's an interesting piece of the puzzle.  She's about 5'4", sandy blonde hair, and a thicc lil'puddin' cup.  She's a feisty, saucy, diva who is the only person in the universe with enough power to control Ben Lynch with a single word.  Her smile melts hearts.  She has beautiful eyes.  She's an impressive little lady, to say the least.

“Yeah,” Ben sits at the kitchen table and stares at a 16 oz can of Miller Lite.

“We will figure it out,”  Claire walks around the table and puts her hand on his shoulder.

“We always do,” He grabs her hand and looks up with a smile.

“You know - you don't have to take the job,”  Claire says directly.

“I don't?”  Ben is baffled.

“Are they holding a gun to your head?”

It was at this moment that Ben realized that he could easily gallop into the sunset and continue to do absolutely nothing only to eventually die as a proverbial failure, or take the job.

“No,” Ben looks away from Claire.  He understands now.

“Are you contractually obligated?” She asks.

“Not…yet?” he's unsure.

“Feel free to back out. It will not hurt our feelings,”  Claire walks away.  It's kind of a mic drop moment for her.

“I can't do that, Claire. That would undeniably bruise my already fragile ego,”  Ben's concern stops her.

“Ga’head and bruise it. It's worthless anyway. Maybe it'll transform you into thinking man,” her scathing response would have potentially driven any normal man to the brink, but not Ben Lynch.

“I’m doing it, Claire,” Ben pushes the chair back and stands.

“You're doing it,” she says while rushing to his side.

“I'm doing it,” He smiles and stares into the ether.

Claire slowly wraps her arms around his waist so that she can rest her head on his shoulder.

“See, I knew my sweet lil simp had it in him to make a decision,” she murmured as if talking to a child.

“I can be pretty dumb. I'm more of a bruhsband than a husband,” he immediately side-eyes Claire to signal a need for a reaction to what he just said.

She rolls her eyes and is clearly unimpressed.

“Please don't go around introducing yourself to people as my bruhsband."

“Well, now I can start taking my anger out on other adults and get paid for it, again," he looks down at Claire.  "There's always the silver lining.”

“Yea, and you can stop powerbombing Grant all around the living room.”

He leans in closer.

“That'll never stop.”

Closer.

“Are you going to be mean Ben, again?”

Closer.

“You betcha.”

He boops the tip of his nose against the tip of her nose.

“Aw, yay!” Claire exclaims as she pumps a fist in the air.

“Are you going to let the kids watch my promos and stuff?” That's a fair question to ask considering Ben is in a business that's rather vulgar, and Ben plays a very large role in how absurd it can be.

“Oh, 100%. I want Grant to take after his father. He needs to see how a real man handles the world,” is Claire's answer to the inquiry.

“In that case I'm going to turn the volume to 11,” Ben proudly remarks.

“I think the girls will find it funny. They don’t take you seriously at all,”  Claire observes her husband staring into the ether once more.

“I'll have to use a lot of butt jokes then,” he says with undeserving seriousness.

“I like this side of you,” Claire tugs on her husband and studies her man like he's the most delectable slab of wagyu on Planet Earth.

“I embraced my vilification long ago,” Ben stands statuesque resembling Lady Liberty.

“Awww, my lil Jerkass Woobie is all grown up,”  Claire gets on her tippy toes and asks for a kiss.  She gets two fingers pressed against her lips instead.  Her eyes pop open and she's greeted with her husbands angry mug staring deep into her soul.

“What did you just call me?”

ETH Zurich - Switzerland - Some point on the general timeline

Written on the dry erase board is 'Jerkass Woobie'.  It's been mentioned in the story a couple times.  The unkempt gentlemen in the dirty white lab coat that's next to the dry erase board is Dr. Pav Byorn, Director of Science and Global Engineering, ETH Zurich.  His glasses magnify his eyes so that they are enlarged.  He gives off a mad scientist meets Hank Azaria type of vibe.  He uses a severed antenna as a pointer and taps the tip of it against the board.

“Ze Cherkass HWoobay es someone you punch in face an feel sorry for," Dr. Byorn says in a very over-dramatic Swedish accent.  "Zey es pitiful zpecimen withs redeeming qualitays.”

Life on Earth - A Monologue - Present Day

“I’m doing it. Again.”

“I've quit. I've boycotted. I've been on injured reserve. I've entertained a career ending injury. I've taken time away. I've retired.”

“I've returned every time. There's just something about this business that has driven me batshit crazy since the dawning of life. It's been part of me since day one. A timeless tale of the most passionate love and insidious toxic hate.”

“Would PRIME be any different? Probably not. Just more lights, muscle, and out of pocket behavior.”

“So, the saga continues. I will mostly dislike my job because of exclusivity and then I will take that anger out on anybody I deem fit. This will lead to me being mostly hated, and eventually devising a plot to coup the organization. It's a very organic situation.”

“The final chapter? We’ll see. Already have an opponent. Opening the show. Only seven months dead but singing my song from the bottom of the barrel upon resurrection. That's OK. I understand the process, and I trust it. The process is my soul food.”

“So, let's talk about them.”

“I should add as a side note: I do not call my adversaries by their name. This is written in my Code of Conduct: My enemy will have no identity; and, all enemies shall be combined into a singular entity of endless void. That's almost verbatim.”

“It all makes sense to me, so don't worry.”

“I digress. I know you. I know of your ilk. I know of your rise to stardom, and the verbal agreement you made with the bingo hall. I know you said that you weren't changing. Trust me when I say: I know.”

“I am in favor of this desire to not change. I hope that you never do. Be proud of God's progress, and his tender healing. Be confident about who you are. It's a miracle that you're here. You shouldn't be. Luck be on your side, compadre.”

“You are but a pawn; cannon fodder. They are feeding you to me because you are the first step in a flight of many. You’ve got nothing to offer but a body that can be selflessly sacrificed.”

“Or, change. It does not matter to me in the slightest. I’m not their favorite Soviet muppet, or their beloved Farthington FrankenKael. I’m not their cherished neck nibbling reptile, or celebrated eunuch.”

“Come to think of it: you should change, friend. PRIME is a who’s-who of all-time over-the-top characters and performances. Are you willing to give up everything to be modified into a kebab for the Red Army? Or, perhaps, be reborn using another man’s seminal fluids? Have you ever witnessed a castration? Ever seen a neck snatch in broad daylight? I don't think so my guy.  No siree, this isn't for you.”

“Maybe you’ve heard something similar in the past? But, you are the wrong shape, and this is the wrong hole.”

“Then there’s Ben Lynch. Hi, that’s me. I fit like a glove, and that’s because I’m not your standard example of a proper human being. Yer boy here is choc-full-o-cray cray. Kinda like an absurdist wasteland. I'm where really pisspoor life decisions go to die. I am an outlander with the worst possible case of insanity. I, unlike you, slide into the hole like a hotdog down a hallway.”

“The plan is to hurt you. How badly? I'm still deciding. I've thought about getting it turnt to 11 but I'd like for you to live another 5 years. You have the right to see half a decade of failure before decomposing into a memory. There's a strong possibility that you wither into obscurity following your demise. That's always a goal of mine; I find comfort in people getting cancelled. That's probably where I belong.”

“The plan is to get into your head. Never leave. Post traumatic Ben Lynch disorder. PTBLD. It'll ruin you. I'll ruin you. Because you're a weak host with a weak body that will crumble at the sign of a cerebral squabble.”

“The message should be plain, and simple. The rest of you will witness the barbarism and better understand the storm to come.”

“Put another fish on the bambie! Because Ben Lynch is coming to Austria.”

Meanwhile - Lynch Home - Northeast Ohio - Present Day

“The end,” Ben looks down at his two daughters peeking over the edge of their comforter.  "What'd you think?" He's not trying to quiz them, but they look stumped.  They haven't blinked.  His youngest daughter, a freckled blondie with emerald green eyes, pops her head from the blanket like playing whack-a-mole.

“Again!” She shouts.

“It's time for bed,” Ben says as he pats her on the head.

“Aww, biscuits,” she's unsatisfied and sinks back below her comforter.

“Daddy?” He is summoned by the oldest daughter, an adorable short haired brunette with a deviously cute big toothed grin.

“Yes?”

“What's a Jerkass Woobie?”  She asks while tilting her head.

Silence.  Ben stares down at his oldest daughter.  She stares back at her father.  The youngest daughter looks at both of them during this moment of stillness and intensity.  Ben looks at the youngest daughter.  The youngest daughter looks at the oldest daughter.  The daughters look at their father.  They simultaneously shout and celebrate.

“YAYYYY!”

UP NEXT: Ben Lynch defeats [NAME REDACTED] and wins by sheer domination and a beautiful display of finesse.