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TBS · (11-25-2019)

It’s the same nightmare I’ve been having for six weeks now. I’m standing on the ring apron reaching for a tag, but my partner can’t reach me. He’s close, so close, but we ultimately come up short. I watch my partner, Kris Von the BonTon shopping store beaten again and again. The referee falls to the mat and his hand hits the mat the three required times. Each time the music from ‘The Sound of Music’ getting louder and louder in the background.

1…

‘The hills are alive with the Sound of Music’

2…

‘Supercalifragilistiexpialidociois’. Wrong musical. Same annoyance.

3…

The crowd explodes with laughter around us as the referee reaches the end of the match. I’ve lost, I’ve embarrassed myself, what was I thinking trying to enter a contest where I would have to rely on other people? What was I…

December 1st, 2019 – Johannesburg, South Africa. Day of XWF Lethal Lottery Finals and Pay-Per-View

It’s happening again. Unlike most, I’m usually keenly aware of when I’m dreaming versus when I’m awake. Regardless, knowledge isn’t power in this instance, as I’m still held captive by my dreams right now. Lotta good that wisdom is doing me now.

I used to sleep like a baby. Nothing phased me; more importantly I sure as shit wasn’t phased by anything as stupid as a wrestling match. And yet, here I am now losing sleep to stupid nightmares like a child. Six weeks of this bullshit. And with today being that I had worked hard for already, the timing couldn’t be worse. I was hoping getting out of the country, getting out of my routine might break this cycle for me, but it’s unfortunately it’s new continent, same shit for me.

I look at the alarm clock and see it blinking ‘4 AM,’ which means I’ve slept about four hours. By my present standard of sleep I’ve been getting this feels like an eternity. I know this routine though, and I know I have two options. I can roll over and keep rolling over for the next four hours, hoping to fall back asleep only to be haunted by the same dreams of helplessness. Or I can go down to the gym and get a workout in. Considering I hate burpees as much as I hate these goddamned nightmares it’s pretty clear they’re both shitty options.

I swear, it never used to be like this…

August 9th, 2009 – Los Angeles, California Day of ‘X’ the 10 Year Anniversary Blow-Out of the XWF

“Dustin, wake up you jackass.”

Even when she’s waking me up she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I roll over and see the sun catch the side of my wife’s face as she’s lying in bed next to me.

“If you don’t get up and get dressed you’re going to miss all of that media today that Jonathyn wanted you to do.”

“Jonathyn’s leaving the company tomorrow, honey. Who gives a shit what he wants? FuZz doesn’t give a fuck about that stuff, and neither do I.”

I pull a pillow over my face, trying to shield my eyes from the light. Profanity notwithstanding, everything I just said was correct. Tonight was ‘X’, the ten year Anniversary XWF show. Tonight is the night I get my first ever Universal Title shot. But more than that, tonight was Jonathyn Brown’s last night with the company he founded and nurtured for a decade. The dude was going to get through tonight and then he was off to try and make it big in the ‘DJ World.’ Or whatever the fuck that means.

“Personally, I see his glass ceiling kicking in emceeing the New Years Eve celebration in Tijuana called ‘Feliz Ano Nuevo, it’s a dog and pony show.”

“Never heard of it, it’s that fancy?

“Sorry, I meant donkey show. It’s a dancing donkey show. You know in Mexico that usually means…”

FuZz had already purchased the company, the paperwork was all legal and approved. This was a new beginning for the XWF. Funny how big anniversaries can be feel like both a celebration and a funeral.

She shuts me up by pulling the pillow away from my face. I look at the clock blinking ’11 AM’ which means I’ve already missed at least three morning radio appearances. Sad as it my seem, I’m sure they were able to make fart noises on the air without me. Morning FM radio is the bane of…

My wife, Desiree, jumps out of bed and immediately makes it her business to pick whatever monkey suit I’ll be wearing today for whatever appearances I can still make. She’s not wearing a bra, so naturally I lose all focus regarding whatever dumb thing I was thinking about before.

“This one. I like this one.”

She holds the navy sport coat and obnoxiously bright red tie up to me, as if she didn’t have this all obnoxiously planned out for days.

“This is what my husband is going to wear when he becomes the XWF Universal Champion.”

This means a lot to her, and because of that it means a lot to me. She has always believed in me, so it makes going out there night after night and doing what I must do in the ring a hell of a lot easier. I had what I needed at home, everything else was pretty much just background noise. Still, hearing ‘XWF Universal Champion’ wasn’t the worst thing in the world. I think I could get used to it. Too bad Ranma fucking Saotome was in my way…

Present Day

“Seventy-four.”

I bark out loud, hitting the cold gym floor before pulling myself up, jumping with my arms overhead, and completing my seventy-fourth burpee. That’s right, I’m a bad ass, I work out.

I keep going, doing twenty-six more for an even hundred, thinking about how far I’ve come and what the hell I’m doing in South Africa. Nobody even knows why I entered the Lethal Lottery in the first place. Well, nobody but me and James. And it’s looking like it’s almost time I let the world know. My hatred and anger propel me through the rest of the workout. Dripping with sweat, I return to my hotel room hoping I’ve burnt enough energy that I might fall back asleep for a few hours.

This is how we prepare. This is how we win. This is what must be done. This is all there is.

2009

“That, ladies and gentlemen, might have just been the greatest night in XWF history.”

Steve Sayors everybody, same prick, different decade.

“The Big Shank came in here and he did the unthinkable, he beat Ranma Saotome clean in the middle of the ring. Ending his near year-long title reign and iron grasp he held on the Universal Title. Shank, can I get a word?”

“A word, how’s “fuck off” for a word?”

Technically that’s two words, but Steve is a pro, he’ll make the most of it.

Sayors tries to grabs me as I walk through the curtain, he can fuck off though, I’m not looking for him. I shove past him, I’ve got the XWF Universal Title over my shoulder, but the only thing I’m concerned about is finding Desiree. Like a homing device we find each other and she wraps her arms around me. She’s proud of me. I’m proud of me. Fuck, I’m proud of HER. This accomplishment is just as much hers as it is mine. Together we did this. Together we beat Ranma, and now I finally get to take my turn sitting in the XWF throne. Now these peasants get to fire at me and try to take what Desiree and I earned away from us. We spent our whole career trying to get here, and now we’re going to protect what’s ours. Tomorrow we’ll sit down with FuZz and talk about what the future holds, but tonight, it’s just about us.

Her and me. And sure, this big gold belt, but mostly just her and me. Together. We prepared, we won, we did what we had to do, this is all there is.

Present Day – Backstage at the arena. Waiting for the show to start.

I walk around the locker room with my head mostly down. I told you before what a bipolar prick I could be. Today I’m not in the mood for making pop culture references. Today I’m focused on what comes next.

I rub my hand along the railing in the locker room, then put all of my weight on the end of the rail – stretching my legs out and getting ready for the most important match I’ve had in ten years. It’s just me, but in a lot of ways, that might be the best way to go. You don’t have to worry about disappointing anybody else when you take on things like this by yourself. Not in losing – because losing isn’t a fucking option, but maybe just in doing what it takes to win. Because for this match, I’m going to do whatever it goddamn takes.

09-10-2009. The day after X.

I roll over in my hotel room bed, still in Los Angeles still wearing the XWF Universal Title over my shoulder. My wife is still not wearing a bra. Life is good. The phone rings and I answer it, because I’m evidently glutton for punishment. Nah, seriously, I wonder who is calling to congratulate me.

“Shank, it’s James.”

Oh good, it’s my frenemy. Is that a word in 2009? I think it is. I’m going to use it. You shut up, I’m the champion and I get to do whatever I want.

“Shank, we can’t find FuZz. Nobody has seen him since last night and he’s not answering his calls. We think, we think he might be gone. And we have no idea what the fuck we’re going to do.”

--

And then there were six.

Honestly, I’m a little disappointed in myself – if I’d have thought this through a little better, I could have prepared some deep metaphor about ten little Indians falling down or nine little Gilmours jumping on the bed. Unfortunately, like I’ve told you repeatedly – I’m a little out of practice at this whole thing. I’m not quite as sharp as I once was, but honestly, based on what I’ve seen since I’ve back you could call me a plastic knife and I’d still be the sharpest tool in the XWF drawer.

By the way Pete, same shit different decade, right? Nice to make you fall and bump your head again. Send my regards to your boss.

I think it might be getting close to confession time. Honestly, with the exception of getting teamed up with DAS HAMMER – this whole thing has been surprisingly easy so far. The cool thing about this whole concept is every week on Saturday a new fighter (I don’t wrestle, I fight. Fight me.) gets created that only exists in the moments between the bell rings. You think Hammer Shank will ever be seen again? What about Vita and I? Think there’s a future where her and I team up like the kids from Captain Planet putting our rings together to save the planet from real pollution from cartoon baddies and air pollution from the likes of Mastermind, Ruby, Arnab Majumder and the Fuzzy one himself?

Things went pretty poorly in Vegas, I’m gonna grade that one out at a hard ‘no chance in hell.’

And now Zordon has come down from heaven (he’s my god, dammit) given me a morpher and asked me to team up with FuZz to create the Power Rangers of XWF Legends – The FuZzy Shank!

There’s a lot of history there with FuZz, and that isn’t going to be the most fun I’ve ever had letting him fucking ride my coattails again (same shit, different decade, right Shank? Fuck ME with a pineapple.) but I think I’m ready to do whatever I have to do to get what I ultimately want. Honestly, I haven’t talked to the dude in ten years, so just to be safe let’s say I don’t want to commit to anything and be held responsible for what I do/say/ sarcastically mouth behind his back/insinuate etcetera.

And yes, I’m the White Ranger in this metaphor and FuZz is the shitty Blue Ranger that nobody ever liked but kinda needed because he could do science and shit. Don’t forget your glasses, FuZz.

It’d be really easy to zone in on FuZz, and believe me, I really fucking want to. But my reward at the end of this ride will be staring across the ring at you and finally having a conversation we were supposed to have ten years ago. Spoiler alert, it’s not scheduled to be a conversation you’re going to enjoy

Unfortunately for me, and fortunately for FuZz though, I can’t ignore everybody else. Hours before I put my foot down your throat, Fuzzy, you and I have to work together and be the support system each other needs. . It’d be easy to call these other four also-rans the putties of this metaphor, the aimless henchmen, the Star Trek red shirts, the Buffalo Bills in the 90s. By all means, please help yourself and pick your example of something that sucks. But once again, I don’t get what I want and I don’t get to just dance through this preliminary into the main event.
At least one of these teams is no fucking joke.

What Vita lacks in the bra area, she more than makes up for in spunk, talent, and the ability to yip like a goddamned puppy that belongs in a purse. I’m not going to be that troglodyte that comes out here and calls you a whore, a slut, a ring rat, or generally insinuates that because you’re a woman you couldn’t kick my ass. I know none of that is true. You’re just as tough as anybody that I’ve crossed paths with on this journey and I respect what you do.

But on Saturday, I’m going to put you down. I’m going to smack you around in a way that would embarrass my mother, who taught me never to hit a woman, and I’m going to put you over a knee in a way that will make Noah Jackson simultaneously hard AND flaccid. And yes, believe me, that is quite an accomplishment. And I will take no joy in it, but I will do it nonetheless.

But seriously, most professional wrestling women get a boob job. Would it hurt your career to have a meeting with Doctors Silli and Cone?

I will beat you, Lizzie McGuire, and your tag team partner Hannah Montana in ways that a thirteen year old Medium Big Shank could only dream about.

Hi, Ruby. Yes, you’re Hannah in this one. I’m really laying in the pop culture shit today, huh? Now look honey, may I call you honey? I’m on your side here. I am NOT trying to interrupt whatever girl power thing you have going in with Vita or whatever dumpster date you have with Sarah. But I think it’s important that I point out the fact that Vita would rather you beat Sarah than beat me and FuZz. That girl has got more daddy issues with the Anarchy title than the last twelve girls I swiped on Tinder combined. You cannot trust her. So why bother? Save your ass for the fight that matters, defend the title you worked your ass off for and let this one go. I won’t judge you. Promise.

That leaves us with Mastermind and Amjetkun Socio. And yes, if you’d told me going into this that I was going to have to learn how or pronounce Socio’s name I might have reconsidered entering this whole she-bang.

But regardless, we move on. Hello boys, we haven’t met. I’m the Goddamned Big Shank and you’re, you’re… well one of you is a walking goddamned steroid and the other is clearly overcompensating for something. I’ll let you figure out who’s who.

And yes, that should really sting coming from the guy who calls himself The Big Shank.

Socio, it only makes sense that I’d have to cross paths with someone like you along the way. I learned a long time ago that when you get in a fight, you’d better be one of three things. If you’re not the strongest, and not the fastest, you’d better be the motherfucking smartest. You’re bigger than me, congrats. Are you faster than me? We’re gonna find out? Are you smarter than me? Get the FUCK outta here. You might be a beast, but when it comes down to man versus beast, the beast always ends up chained up in the backyard licking his own balls and pissing on trees. I don’t see that being any different this time around.

And Mastermind – Christ, I can’t believe I have to even dignify your existence with a statement. Fuck everything I said about how great this Lethal Lottery thing is, this is awful.

Your thing might be that you’re smarter than everybody else. But remember what they say: the fastest

still gets eaten by the bear.

Wait, I’m pretty sure I fucked that up somehow.

I’ll figure it out before we speak again, kiddies. Because Toto blessed the goddamned rains down in Africa, and I’m not leaving this continent without what I came for. I’m going to win the Lethal Lottery, because I have nothing fucking else. I’m going to win it so decisively that every one of you is going to be left wondering why you even bothered in the first place. On Saturday, my desperation will be your devastation.

Hmm, that wasn’t half bad; maybe I should start closing this shit out with a catchphrase after all.

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