Fancy Ketchups

Even through the mask, Steve could tell that Zeke was smiling. The relationship between the two men was complex. On one hand, there was Dale Henderson, a kind, aging superhero fan who used the sport of professional wrestling to live out his comic book fantasies under the guise of a supervillainous alter-ego. On the other, there was Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq., a man who proclaimed himself professional wrestling's only lawyer-doctor, and who would at best qualify as a D-tier Batman villain.

When things got serious, Steve found himself dealing and interacting with Dale. But when there was A Plan to be hatched? Full Zeke, baby. All gas, no brakes, let's fuckin' go.

And then there was Steve Lemieux - or Stefon Lummox, depending on which of Dale's personas was talking to him at the time; a sandwich maker with no athletic talent who still, despite months of having his ass handed to him every other week by very big, very muscle-y people, believed this all to be an elaborate form of performance art. One wherein none of the other performers wanted to rehearse with him.

And today? Today was a Zeke day.

"I have an idea!" Zeke said. Steve had come to dread these words almost as much as he feared running out of ketchup during a weekend rush.

Steve stared wide-eyed behind a large pair of glasses, the kind that were the only style available in the 1980s only to become trendy again with the current generation. Glasses that, were they on anyone else, would look far less than goofy.

"Okay," he said.

"Tell me, Stefon," Zeke said as his sidled up next to Steve and slid an arm over his shoulders. His other hand held a cane, which he waved through the air like an artist wields a brush. "Would you like to visit a world of wonder and fantasy? One where the bounds between what is real and what is fiction start to blend? A place of pixies, faeries, many, many wizarding schools, and at least one very famous Victorian-era murder man?"

For a moment, Steve was almost sold. But very few people get excited at the prospect of murder men, even if they are Victorian. Even if the era means getting to wear cool steampunk goggles, a trench coat that has a bunch of gears on it for reasons, and ride a bicycle with one tiny wheel and one big-ass kinghell-sized wheel.

"Wh-what?" came his stammered reply.

"Yes, well, I can see you're not convinced. Very well. Allow me to paint you a word picture. Pretend I am your very own Bill Russell for a moment."

"Do you mean Bob Ross?"

"No."

Steve tried to respond but the sound died in his throat. He searched his brain for anything that might link legendary PBS painter Bob Ross with legendary NBA player Bill Russell, but came up a happy little airball.

“Let’s try a different approach,” Zeke said. “What do you know about your next opponent, Stefon?”

“Mister Lawn Man?”

“Mister Lawn Man the Third,” Zeke countered. “This is something I learned recently from our esteemed champion of the universe. It is very important to respect the lineage in the noble houses of lawn men, you know. Lest they get cranky. And you would not like it when they get cranky, because their bodies house many engines that go BRMMMM brr brrr brrrrr brr brrrr. And sometimes they go HR-ANGK ch’chuck and then stop making noise for a while. I am fluent in many languages, Stefon, but I have not yet mastered the dialect of the lawn men. Still, I believe these sounds to be a declaration that many bathroom issues are about to unfold.”

Steve nodded slowly as his mind worked to unravel any of what Zeke just said.

“Okay,” he said at last. “I know that Mister Lawn Man the Third went to a party only he wasn’t supposed to be at the party he just kind of showed up and then he drank all of the adult sodas at the party and then people gave him the drugs. Did I get that right?”

The response caught Zeke off guard. Normally Steve wasn’t one to pay much attention to what was unfolding around him, which is why he seemed to still believe that professional wrestling was a stage play. That, or perhaps the many undiagnosed concussions Steve had no doubt suffered during his brief career in the graps.

“Actually, yes,” Zeke said.

“Is he going to shout at me the same way he shouted at Mister Quinn Junior?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well after Mister Lawn Man the Third had finished eating and drinking all of the bad things he said scary words. Is he going to tell me that my buns are grass and he is the lawnmower and then is he going to pause and say ‘Man Three’ a few seconds later?”

“Uhhh, maybe?”

“Oh, beans. I do not want my buns to be mowed, Mister Doctor Badguy. I need my buns for sitting down. They help keep me safe on the potty when my tummy rumbles and I have to rush to make boom-boom.”

Behind his mask, which was in turn behind an oversized pair of sunglasses, Zeke blinked.

“Well…”

But Steve wasn’t done, not by a longshot.

“Everybody at New Work seems to get very angry once they are on the squared stage, and then they try to beat me up, and then they succeed in beating me up, and Mister Lawn Man the Third seems like someone who will try to beat me up, and I don’t want him to beat me up…”

“Stefon.”

“If he beats me up and mows my buns away then I might fall in the next time I have to go. Maybe I can offer him things so that he does not beat me up.”

“Stefon.”

“I know what I’ll do! What if I offered him ketchups? Not the normal ketchups, and definitely not the Hunt’s ketchups because those are very bad and no one likes them, but fancy ketchups. I can contact my fancy ketchup supplier and see if we can get extra crates of fancy ketchup and then I can send them to Mister Lawn Man the Third in exchange for not beating me up and leaving my precious, tender buns unmowed. I can’t fall in, Mister Doctor Badguy! I just can’t!”

“Stefon!” Zeke tapped his cane on the floor, and Steve couldn’t help but think that it sounded hollow, like a prop that had been purchased from Spirit Halloween. “You do not have to worry. As I said, I have a plan.”

Steve nodded and tried to calm down. Despite Zeke’s reassurance that a plan was in place, Steve could not shake the fear that his buns were about to be shorn clean off.

“First,” Zeke said, “I have a question. Do you perhaps own or have access to a blunderbuss? Preferably one that kind of trumpets out at the end?”

“I don’t think so. I’m not even sure what that is.”

“No matter. I’m sure we can get one on the way.”

“On the way? The way to where?”

Zeke threw his arms up in frustration. “My dear Stefon, weren’t you listening earlier when I was talking about wizard schools and sex pest murderers? We’re going on a little trip to a magical, wondrous place.”

Steve did remember, but still did not find the prospect of going to be either magical or wondrous. This despite the oddly proportioned bicycles.

“Across the pond in jolly old England lies a place of mystery. There is a hedge maze, Stefon. Do you know what that is? It’s a maze made of hedges. And this is relevant to you because hedges are like if grass was a shrubbery only not really. We will go to this place, Stefon. We will go to the mansion factory where they make those delicious little Cecilwerther’s Farthingtoriginal Candies I love so much.”

“Farthington Manor?” Steve said, but Zeke paid him no attention. He was too caught up in trying to paint his word picture with a dozen clashing colors.

“There you will enter the hedge maze, Stefon. You will journey to its center like that one guy from that Greek thing. You will find the beast at its heart, and you will slay him. Then, and only then, will you be ready to battle Lawn Man the Third.”

Steve held up a single finger. “I’m sorry, did you say ‘slay the beast at the center?’”

“Yes.”

“But-but-but I could never do that. I could never hurt an animal.”

“That’s why you need the blunderbuss you’re going to bring.”

The thought froze Steve in place. He had read the myths of Theseus when he was younger, and knew all about his journey to the center of the labyrinth on Crete. It was one of his favorite stories for a while. But Steve had also watched the Jim Henson classic film Labyrinth, and it featured a gang of red weirdos called the Fireys who kept trying to take people’s heads off. More than needing his buns for sitting, Steve knew he needed his head for living. And besides, he knew what was at the center of that labyrinth. It was a David Bowie. A David Bowie who looked like an ageless elven prince with beautiful, fair features that made it look as though his face had been hand-carved from stone by an artisan. He had hair that stood proud in defiance of gravity and God's will. His costumes, majestic as they were, featured remarkably tight pants and it was only because of a brave codpiece that the audience was spared having to gawk in awe at the throbbing, bulging…

Hold on.

Sorry about that. Where were we?

“Buns and beans, I don’t want to go in the labyrinth. It’s full of goblins.”

Zeke raised a finger. “Ah, not a labyrinth. A hedge maze. Big difference. There are no goblins in the hedge maze, unless Karl Malone, Jr. is there playing the J-Golf.”

“Oh, I don’t know about this.”

“Tut tut. As professional wrestling’s first and only lawyer-doctor, it is my medical-legal advice to you to find your passport and get ready for a true coming of age tale, the feel good adventure of the fall.”

“I don’t have a passport.”

“What?”

“I don’t have a passport,” Steve repeated.

Zeke took a step back and removed his glasses. Behind his mask, Dale was bleeding through and Dale looked incredibly confused.

“But you spent three months wrestling in Canada this year,” he said. When speaking as Zeke, the man behind the mask often added a nasal affectation to his voice that sounded like a swarm of angry mosquitos on a summer day’s prowl. But now that tone was gone, replaced by his natural speaking voice.

“I know.”

“And before that you were in Japan. Do you know how many Canadas away Japan is? So many Canadas. So many.”

“I know.”

“So how do you not have a passport?”

Steve looked down and kicked at the floor with his toes.

“I forgot to renew it,” he said sheepishly.

Zeke blinked, and then slowly put the sunglasses back on.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat and trying to get back into character. “Well… shit. Just… shit. Shit. This… shit. Shit shit.”

“Do we have a plan B?” Steve said.

“Yes. Call your ketchup man, Stefon. Tell him to bring you the finest, fanciest ketchups in the land. We have a bribe to make.”