God Damn You All For Putting Me In a Match Where I Feel Obligated to (Sort Of) Try: The Roleplay

Hello, yes!

It is I, Doctor Zeke D. Badguy, Esq., professional wrestling’s foremost lawyer-doctor, here with a message for Stefon Lummox! If you are not Stefon, please pause this audiocassette recording and deliver the tape to Stefon post-haste.

That means very fast. I would recommend a reliable transport mechanism, such as a bike messenger, carrier pigeon, or your own personal, pocket Einstein-Rosen bridge. If you do not have an Einstein-Rosen bridge, simply open your refrigerator, shout “PLOT HOLE!” as loud as you can, and throw the cassette recording inside.

Go ahead, I’ll wait.

…

Stefon, do you ha-

#

He didn’t wait for the cassette to finish before clicking his thumb on the Walkman’s “stop” button. Steve drew a few looks from the staff as he’d stepped out of his office and power-walked his way through the kitchen, legs stiff, elbows out, and arms swaying. This was the same way he walked when he really, really needed to use the restroom, but Steve didn’t have any time to wonder what the crew was thinking as he moved past them and out into the alley behind LeMoo’s Fine Sandwiches, barely coming to a stop before throwing the Walkman at the dumpster parked there.

Of course, he also didn’t take time to look before he threw, which is why the cassette player bonked lightly off the ribbed plastic roof, closed to prevent any unwanted animals from getting inside and turning the alley into a mess.

Steve retrieved the Walkman from the ground, barely scratched from his first throw. With his free hand he lifted the lead and lobbed the tape player towards the opening. It bounced harmlessly off the dumpster’s steel lip and fell to the ground a second time.

“Oh, beans!” Steve said. He arms went stiff against his body, and he offered the ground a singular dramatic stomp. This was the closest he was likely to come to expressing genuine anger - innocent curses and a childish tantrum - but it was all he had to offer.

It had been little over a month since his family’s legacy had been tarnished when Big Ian Salt had arrived at the restaurant and made a mess of both the building and his friend, Oliver. But instead of spending the time since trying to rebuild, Steve had been dragged from one circus to the next by Dr. Badguy, and each insane expedition had been heralded by the arrival of a Sony Walkman and an audio cassette. Where Dr. Badguy kept finding these, Steve had no idea, but he’d be darned if he was going to listen to another one.

Yes, even Steve’s inner monologue refused to curse.

The first tape had been found only after he’d been given a dose of horse tranquilizers and taken across the ocean to hunt a beast of myth. And when that was finished, just as Steve was starting to get his bearings and begin reaching out to contractors about the repair work the shop needed, he was sent another tape and given the assignment of going to an AirBNB rented by Ivan Stanislav. If Team “Arthur Crown” had been successful, then Steve would be spending every week away from home, far from the duty he had to both family and employees alike.

Though his desire to fit in wouldn’t ever allow him to admit this, being eliminated had been a blessing. It meant that he could come home and focus on the things that mattered. It meant he wouldn’t have to ask Dr. Badguy why he insisted on calling Coral Avalon “Arthur Crown,” nor would he have to spend any of his own brainpower thinking of the answer for himself.

Or, at least, that was what he hoped.

But the tapes kept arriving, and with them came a mounting sense of frustration.

The fact that he was now being outsmarted by a dumpster didn’t help.

He picked up the cassette player once more, eager to finally be rid of it. To be rid of this one, anyway. He was sure there was a warehouse somewhere full of the things, each one kept in storage since 1987 for this specific purpose. It was only a matter of time before the next one came. That one he’d throw in the river, he decided.

But this one needed to be dealt with, and quickly. It had already taken up too much time from his day. Time he could have spent communicating with vendors, adjusting the seasonal menu, or arguing with his insurance company over whether the damage to his restaurant would be covered, and just what clause of his policy dealt with wrestling-related disasters.

Steve used his left hand to toss the lid of the dumpster up, windmilling down with his right arm as he jumped to get an extra few inches and any momentum that the universe could spare. But the universe is a cruel mistress, cold and devoid of feeling, so it gave gravity a nudge. Gravity, taking the hint, used her powers over literally everything to bring the hood of the dumpster back into place.

The walkman once again dinked off the plastic.

“Flippity heck!” said Steve, who chose to punt the device underneath the dumpster instead of being denied a fourth time. Retrieving it would be a problem for Future Steve. Present Steve would rather be in his office getting things done.

#

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq. liked to describe his hideout as a secret underground lair that is definitely not just a basement. This was true. The space was carpeted, had its own heating zone, and contained a few sofas, a television, a desk covered in superhero memorabilia, and a small bar built into one of the walls, backed by artificial wood paneling that would have been very chic in the early 1970s.

But it was most certainly a basement.

There was also a whiteboard. It was one of the fancier models, with four caster wheels so that it could be transported between rooms in an office building. This was intent with which it was likely designed, and not the purpose that it currently served - a brainstorming session between a would-be-supervillain, his nephew, and the sex pest his nephew kept as his tag team partner. At least that wasn’t how the Staples in Keizer, Oregon had advertised it.

“Seriously? Again?” said Oliver Cade, nephew of the masked lawyer-slash-doctor who stood ready with the black Expo marker. “This is always the plan.”

“Because it always works,” offered Rick Hardbody.

The men were involved in a planning session of sorts, the goal of which was to give the missing fourth member of their ragtag crew - Steve Lemieux - a fighting chance at winning his next match. To Cade’s point, the plans never worked, but that didn’t stop the group from holding these sessions.

Today’s list of options had started when Dr. Zeke insisted that Kerry Kuroyama’s “deadly marsupial menace” had to be neutralized. Only he didn’t refer to Kuroyama by his proper name, but rather shouted “DRINKS!” instead. Cade thought it both uninspired and insulting, but as he couldn’t convince his uncle to call him anything other than Johnny Wombat these past few months, he didn’t bother to try and convince him otherwise.

Naturally, this led to the good doctor insisting that they needed a marsupial of their own, at which point he suggested kidnapping and training a kangaroo. Dr. Zeke had then rejected every attempt made to call it a “kangamieux,” instead insisting that he didn’t know any Lemieuxs, and Cade should focus on helping Stefon Lummox instead of inventing people.

The current topic of conversation, and the piece that the group now debated, was a single line that read, “Rick hits everyone in the penis as hard as he can.”

Rick loved this plan. He always loved this plan. If he advocated for anything even half as hard as he fought to interfere in other people’s matches, Cade thought, then Rick might find great success in any other line of business. Used car sales, for example.

“Name one time that it’s been successful,” Cade countered.

Rick began counting off on his fingers, his face that of a man lost in thought and in desperate need of a park ranger to get him back on the trail.

“Okay, so it hasn’t,” Rick said at last.

“See?”

“Yet.”

“Oh, come on, Rick. Every time there’s a match you argue that this is the way to go, and every time it fails. When are you going to give up and try something else? Something like not trying to sterilize every wrestler that’s not you.”

“I’m playing the odds, kid,” Rick said. He brushed aside his bright feather boa and rested his elbows on his knees. “One of these days is gonna be the one. And this? This is it. I can feel it, Cade. It’s like I’ve got an intuition for these things.”

“For hitting people in the crotch.”

“Some artists sculpt with marble,” Rick started, “others paint with…” He trailed off.

Cade quirked an eyebrow. “Go ahead. Finish the thought.”

“I think I’ve made my point.”

“You really haven’t.”

“Look, just because you don’t understand, doesn’t mean-”

“You were going to say paint, weren’t you?”

“N-no. You don’t know.”

“Well, at least you wouldn’t be wrong about that,” Cade snapped. “Some artists do paint.” He paused, just long enough for Rick to watch the grin spread across his face. “With paint.”

“Yeah? Well we’re lookin’ for one of those pouch critters, right?”

“A marsupial.”

“Whatever,” Rick said, throwing up his hands. “Well maybe that should be the plan. Maybe you should handle this one.” A very punchable smirk bloomed on Rick’s already very punchable face. “Whattayasay, Wombat?”

“Nope.”

“Yes!” Zeke exclaimed, suddenly animated and re-engaged in the conversation.

Cade ignored him, keeping all of his attention on Rick. “And why the hell are you so invested in this?”

“We can finally use the Wombat costume that I had made,” Zeke continued to no one in particular, which was just fine, as the rest of the room had tuned him out. “I’ll bring the Wombatarangs!”

“Invested? Buddy, I’m about as invested in this as I would be a wart on my ass. Which means just enough to get it gone.”

Cade stood from his spot on a musty sofa. He cleared the space in a few steps as he rounded a corner and made for the stairs.

“Whatever. You warm up your penis-punching hands,” he said. “Maybe when it’s done you can paint us a picture.”

“Hey, Cade. Eat shit and live,” Rick said.

“Wait!” Zeke said. “If you’re getting into the Wombatmobile can you stop by the post office? I have another audio cassette recording that needs to be sent to Stefon, and it cannot under any circumstances fall into the wrong hands.”

“We are the wrong hands,” Cade said, ascending the stairs.

The sound of the front door closing was heard in the basement a moment later, where Zeke still stood clutching a Walkman cassette player.

“Dickman!” he said, turning to Rick. “Wake Bertrude and Gernice. If Johnny Wombat will not deliver this, then the carrier pigeons must fly!”

#

As luck would have it, he wasn’t particularly happy in his office either.

Not long after his personal trashcan tantrum, Steve found himself listening as the rest of the kitchen staff wandered in and got set up for the day. As was usually the case, this involved going over any of the specials that had been added to the menu, making sure that any prep that needed to be added to the routine in order to accommodate them was finished.

The most recent addition, a sandwich called The Anglo Lunchable that was to be the first in a series of items named for his Survivor housemates, had been something of a surprise hit. Word had spread of the dish, a torta that contained Steve’s take on cochinita pibil, and the restaurant found themselves selling out during the midday lunch rush.

“Yo, you think he’s gonna come up with any more?” Even behind the door to his small office, Steve could recognize the voice of Paul, the restaurant’s youngest employee. Paul was, by all accounts, the whitest person currently employed LeMoo’s (its owner notwithstanding), but he took on affectation to his speech that made him sound like a YouTube rapper.

“I haven’t heard nothin’.” In the same vein, the voice of stalwart waitress Big Ang’ was unmistakable; like a rockslide with a two-pack-a-day habit and a penchant for Malort. “Why, you got somethin’ in mind?”

“Pssh, naw,” Paul said. “But maybe, like, he could start comin’ up with stuff for the people he fights, feel you?”

Big Ang did not, in fact, feel him. But Carlos, one of the line cooks easily identified by the subtle accent that still lingered in his voice, had similar thoughts to Paul.

“What, you mean like the guys he’s gonna fight this week?” he said. “I dunno, man. That don’t sound like it would make us a lotta customers.”

“You trippin’, fam,” Paul said. “No cap.”

“You wanna make a sandwich based on Nate Colton?” Carlos said.

“Who the fuck is Nate Colton?” Big Ang’ rasped.

“You base a sandwich on that guy, and ain’t no one gonna buy it, homes,” Carlos said, ignoring Angela’s question. “That would be like mayonnaise on white bread. Maybe we use ranch instead, but that guy looks like it might be too spicy.”

“We could make it a combo and give people a glass of milk with it,” Paul said in between laughs. When he realized that he’d briefly dropped the street tough facade, he quickly added, “‘Chu got for Kerry?”

The tectonic groan that escaped Big Angela’s lips sounded something like, “Kerry who? Who’s Kerry?”

Once again, Carlos ignored the question. “The vato with the dragon on his back? That’s easy, man. We just get a barrel of whisky, then we drill a little hole and add a straw.”

Steve thought about heading back out into the kitchen. Thought about telling his staff that it wasn’t very nice to make fun of people, especially two people who among the few to not treat him like a living joke. It wouldn’t be a bad conversation, he knew, because he had already used his daily allotment of harsh language on the dumpster a few minutes ago.

He was about to open the door and join the rest of the staff when he heard Paul say, “Boss-man gonna catch hands this week, ain’t he?”

“Probably,” Steve heard Carlos say. “Those boys don’t play.”

Oliver Cade had once told Steve that there were two main types of people in PRIME, and the sport as a whole. There were guys who could wrestle, who knew how to hold their own in the ring and had the skills necessary to succeed. This was most of the roster, Cade had told him, and there was no shame at all in being a guy who could wrestle. It wasn’t a bad way to live, and more than a few people found world championship leather or hall of fame gold this way.

Then there were the wrestlers, who were a different breed altogether. Of the thousands of people who made a career in the sport, very few were wrestlers. These were the men and women whose skill existed on a separate plane from everyone else, for whom professional wrestling was an artform all its own.

There was no doubt that Nate Colton and Kerry Kuroyama were wrestlers. They had blazed a path at the head of the modern wrestling renaissance. In the vein of Michaelangelo or Raphael, they had painted their success on canvas, proudly put on display for the world to admire.

But if Nate and Kerry were wrestlers, artisans of the craft whose stylistic flourishes were the master’s touch on a core of strong fundamentals, then Steve Lemieux was a toddler with a blunted crayon, hamfistedly dragging it along a crumpled sheet of construction paper in heavy, awkward strokes until what remained was a formless, waxy blob and a vague drawing of three stick figures in front of a house. The door would be on the roof, the child would have two heads, and the cat would very justifiably be hiding out in the tree to get away from it all. It would be the kind of picture that a parent would hang on their fridge out of obligation instead of pride, then accidentally lose before the next time guests came to the house.

There were more groups than this, Cade had told him, but these were the two that mattered.

“For real, cuz’,” Paul said, “I don’t know why he don’t just quit. Beats gettin’ embarrassed every week. Seriously, bro, like, have some self-respect.”

Steve’s hand fell away from the doorknob.

He had listened intently as Cade had told him about the difference between guys who can wrestle and wrestlers. When it was over, after he was finished taking in every word and nodding along like a good student, Steve had asked Cade what group he belonged to. He knew it wouldn’t be either of those two. After all, he spent the first few months believing professional wrestling was all make believe, so the reality of it all was still so new to him.

Cade hadn’t answered.

#

…other marsupial, Terry the Bandicoot. Johnny Wombat, despite being named for a wombat, is not an actual wombat and thus is useless to us, and so…

#

Static, then a few clicks, as if someone who had never been exposed to a cassette recorder in their life was trying to figure out how to operate one. Then, a new voice. One drowned out and muffled underneath one solid ton of rusted metal and garbage.

#

Steve.

It’s Rick.

Probably not what you were expecting.

Look, don’t tell anyone I sent you this, not even Cade. Especially Cade. I’d never hear the end of it from that little shit if word of this got out, and that’s the last thing I want or need in my life is for him to get all high and mighty on me. I swear, the “I told you so” will fly outta his mouth at, like, mach Jesus, or something.

Do.

Not.

Tell.

Him.

I’m trying to figure out how to say this without sounding like an asshole.

…

You’re pretty bad at wrestling.

Okay, so I sounded like an asshole. Let me try to explain this before you do anything though, okay?

I just mean, like, it’s clear you’re not supposed to be here.

…

Alright, so let’s just assume that this is going to sound a certain way, I guess.

What I’m trying to say is that you’ve got other responsibilities to worry about that don’t involve getting punched in the face all the goddamn time. Which you do. Get punched in the face ALL the goddamn time. Legit, it’s a miracle they haven’t had to wrap your head in one of those mummy casts.

This isn’t going so well.

Let me see if I can put this in words that will make sense.

…

…

Fuck it, I’m just gonna do me.

Point is, I was the one talking shit about Big Ian and Rose. To be clear, I did hear they were fucking, and it might not be true, but goddamn just picture that for a minute. How goddamn hilarious would that be, the two of them slappin’ at each other like greasy seals fighting over a fish. Just a great big mess of flippers and whiskers. Cracks me up, anyway.

So yeah, I talked shit, but then you were the guy who had to answer for it.

So I gotta be a man and take some responsibility, not because I wouldn’t be able to live with myself otherwise, or anything. I would. I totally would. In another week I’d probably forget all about this.

If it was just you, I probably wouldn’t feel bad, because this is just the game we’re in, my guy. Everybody who’s anybody is trying to get to the top, and that means sometimes you’ve got to step on someone else to get there.

But I didn’t know that your place was going to get trashed for it.

I know wrestling is weird about shit like that, and this sorta thing just kinda “happens,” but, like I said, a man would admit he fucked up.

So this one’s on me, Steve. They fucked up your house because I ran my mouth, and I have to own that. I hate having to own it, but it’s what I should do. What a real man would do.

Alright, there it is.

Do me a favor and smash this with a hammer, or whatever it is you do with these.

Keep it, even. I don’t give a shit.

Just don’t tell Cade.

Self-righteous little shit, I swear to god he’d just running his goddamn mouth and I would never hear the-