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Charlie Nickles · (08-17-2020)

The phone continued to ring as Charlie rewatched highlights of his greatest victories with a film projector casting against a concrete wall. The night was dark, but eerily quiet. Charlie sat on the ground, dirtying his ripped blue jeans...but that probably won’t be a problem for him. His plaid jacket and black shirt were blood-stained. A large bandage was taped to his head, just above his right eye. He stroked the hair on his chin while fixating on the projection.

The half-capacity crowd gathered in Watertown, South Dakota’s high school gym roared in approval as Charlie landed a devastating scoop powerslam against his opponent. The man cried out in agony as the hundreds of thumbtacks that he had spread across the ring penetrated the flesh of his own uncovered back! Charlie hooked the hardcore wrestler’s leg and pressed against his chest, seeing the opportunity before him. The ref jumped to the ground, bringing his gloved right hand down with thunderous force as he began the count.

ONE

TWO

KICK OUT!

Charlie slams the mat in frustration as he turns over onto his knees. His gaze naturally drifts between the ropes, settling on the fans in the front row. Connie is hooting and hollering, her brunette hair bouncing off of her shoulders as she cheers for her man in the ring. The two lock eyes, sharing a loving smile with each other for a moment.

Charlie steps up to his feet, dusting his hands off on his knees as he readies himself for his next attack. Charlie looks to be about forty pounds lighter than he is today, with a burgeoning four pack of abs. His face is completely smooth and his nose is perfectly symmetrical. His crimson wrestling tights are well-fitted, but the bulky black lettering running down the side becomes nearly illegible when the tights constrict.

Charlie reaches down and grabs his injured opponent by the hair, pulling him up to his knees. Charlie reaches underneath the man’s armpits before bringing his arms up the man's back and clasping his hands around his opponent’s shoulder blades. From this position, Charlie lifts the man up to his feet. Charlie surveys the crowd for a moment as he supports his opponent’s dead weight. A greedy grin stretches across his lips as he winks at the crowd. He kicks his opponent’s limp feet out from under him and slams the man’s head down onto the thumbtacks below. Charlie turns his opponent over as he goes for the pinfall.

ONE

TWO

THREE

The bell rings as Charlie rests on the body of his fallen opponent. The man’s face is bleeding profusely as dozens of thumbtacks buried themselves into his skin. Charlie’s breathing grows heavier as he catches a glance of the man’s face. His drenching sweat drips onto the other man’s beaten body for several seconds before Charlie stands up. He immediately turns his gaze away from the fallen man, looking back at the audience in search of his loving Connie.

The projector cuts out as it runs out of film to spin. Charlie’s phone begins ringing once again, buzzing on the ground as a distorted melody plays out from the busted speaker. Charlie grabs the phone and takes a glance at the caller ID.

‘Doc Avalon’

Charlie hits the red decline button on his phone as his gaze turns back to the now, once again, nondescript concrete wall.

"What. A. Match.

Compelling twists and turns, a thumbtack finish.

Nothing like my match tonight. That match tonight was horseshit. Fanny and Sissy got shown up as the amateurs they are. That commie bastard couldn't stand toe to toe with me.

My greatest match, and my debut match. Miles apart in quality. Miles apart in difficulty. The two matches couldn't be more dissimilar. But at the end of they day, they both have one thing in common:

Neither one meant shit.

No one cared that I pinned Dave "The Brave" Warhawk. My biggest accomplishment. My biggest win. Meant nothing to anyone. I didn't get a single call from a promoter, didn't get a single contract offer. Nothing. Changed. Shit, I didn't even sell a single piece of god damn merch that night!

My win tonight won't move the needle either. Opening match? Half the audience tuned in too late to see it. Another ten percent will fast forward through it on their DVR to "get to the good stuff". Meltzer won't give this 5 stars. Meltzer won't even give it a blip of a mention on his little fucking podcast.

Truth is, no one has ever given a damn about what I do in between those bells.

All that anyone ever cared about, what got me here, was what I did to people before and after those bells. Win or lose, didn’t matter. They loved the show I put on. Chairs, kendo sticks, barbed wire: those bloodthirsty savages couldn’t get enough. But somehow I’m the bad guy?

It didn’t matter how much I trained in the gym, how many hours I put in, how many moves I perfected. It was only about one thing for the leeches in this industry: how much hell I put my opponent through.

So a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. When in Rome, one must act as the Romans do. When you’re at the bottom of a murky lake, you gotta swim with the leeches. And that’s just what I did! I put the food on the table, I provided. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t fancy, but I made it happen!

But Connie just can’t accept that. I turned the ship around! We were in some stormy waters and that bitch jumped ship, but I steered us through the storm! And the coast is in sight. I corrected the course and I moved up the ranks. I did it all on my own, with no help from anyone. No promoter, no manager, no little club had to help me get here. Like Moses, I parted the seas and I led my family to the promised land.

And that's why I had to do what I had to do to Sissy Boy Marshall. I had to make a statement! Had to stand out! The fans, well, the fans love that shit. Eat it up like hotcakes. But they always want more. More, more, more. And to make it big, I got to deliver!

Connie will grow to love me again. How could she not? I am everything you could want in a man. I am a genius, I work hard, I am successful! I am the next MVP of Warfare, I mean, come on! What more could you want? Soon that bank account is going to hit six digits and life is going to get a whole lot brighter. Even Connie can’t remain blind to these bright lights.

It’ll be just like the good old days, with the wife and kids beside me. On the road, traveling from show to show. But I’ll be raking in the dough this time. Living the life.

And you think you’re going to stand in my way, Kris? You think I will allow some preppy tool to block my path, and prevent me from achieving everything I ever dreamed of? Fat chance.

I've been preparing for this moment for 23 years. I have honed my craft. Between those ropes I'm as versatile and unpredictable as they come! But you, Jack? You're a one trick pony.

But hey man, I get it. When all you know how to do is swing a hammer, every problem looks like a nail. And a hammer will get you through most situations, don’t get me wrong. It’s a button and not a nail? A hammer will do just fine. It’s a screw and not a nail? Shit, if you swing hard enough you might just be able to make do. But if it’s a claymore mine that you’re pulling back to swing on, oh boy, that hammer ain’t going to get you through, Jack! When you hit that claymore with the head of that hammer that mine will explode in a righteous fire and burn you alive, boy.

See I may be cute but I’m no button. I may be a bit off my rocker but I’m no screw! See boy I’m a claymore mine. And Smokey Bob just planted me beneath your feet! Now when you’re standing on a claymore mine you don’t got many options. And you can bring that hammer down, and Jack I know you will, but it ain’t gonna be a nail that you’re slamming, and boy you’re in for a nasty surprise when it blows up in your face!

See I’ve fallen on nails dozens of times before. They don’t do nothing to me. Try that hammer out, it won’t fare any different. You can smash my skull with it, rip my eyeballs out of my socket with it, smash it against my kneecaps, you can do it all! You may bloody my face, you may shatter some bones, but you won’t keep my shoulders against the mat for three seconds. I promise you that, Jack! That’s got the Char-lie guaran-tee.

But Jack, you don’t just use a hammer, do ye’? You say you ARE The Hammer. Now, what is a hammer? Well at the end of the day a hammer is just a tool. Nothing special, nothing fancy, just a tool. Every Steve, Chuck, and Harry can pick up a hammer. Chimpanzees have been seen using makeshift hammers in the wild. Even small children are given plastic hammers, simple toys for toddlers.

And you’re nothing but a hammer, Jack. A simple tool. A hammer fits in well on the tool belt. A hammer and a screwdriver go together like cheese and whine. And I’ll show you my finest screwdriver, hammer boy. Designed, manufactured, and perfected in Steubenville!

Hammers are tools, and all tools have an owner. I own the Steubenville Screwdriver. ACE Hardware owns the tools in their store. A man owns the tools in his garage. And we all know who owns you, hammer boy.

Misfit my ass. You fit perfectly well in the palm of Mastermind’s hand. And even though you are interchangeable with Melanie and Scarlet to him, you’re all perfectly shaped to fit snugly in the palm of his hand. He has you whipped, dominated, totally submissive. He owns you like a man owns the hammer in his garage. Like a man owns the dummy in his gym. You’re not your own man. You’re a tool on Mastermind’s belt.

Even now, you can’t keep him out of your mouth. There you are, in the middle of the gym with your manager behind you, cutting a so-so promo on yours truly. Hyping up your match, trying to get the audience on your side, trying to make yourself sound cool and tough to help move the merchandise and boost the ratings. Even then, you can’t keep Mastermind out of your mouth. He's not on the card, he’s not in the scene. He won’t be on Warfare because he’s hiding, licking his wounds, the final minutes of his match with The Wizard running through his mind while beads of sweat trickle down his face. The embarrassment, the failure. To be beaten into submission to such a point that your manager is forced to throw in the towel. To be so broken and beaten that you can’t even speak the magic words. Pathetic.

Even now, while Mastermind contemplates suicide with the gun in his hand and the bullet in the chamber, even now you can’t get him out of your mouth! You say he’s a great father? You say he devotes himself to his whore wife and his mutant kids? Well maybe if he devoted half that much time to professional wrestling he could win a pay per view match! Maybe, after all these years, he could start winning title belts!

But I don’t think so. And he doesn’t either. That’s why he’s gripping that Smith and Wesson, clutching it against his chest while breathing becomes harder and harder, while sweat drips from his chin onto the carpet of his bedroom floor. And you worship this man! You are nothing more than a hammer in his sweaty hand. He doesn't really care about you, your future, your career. You're nothing to him.

Truth be told, only one man even wants you to win our match on Warfare. Only one man wants to see you move on to compete for the M.V.P. shield.

Can you guess who it is, hammer boy?

It’s not me. I want to put you down like the little shelter puppy you are.

No one in that little cult of yours wants you to win. They don’t want you to upstage Mastermind, it would be bad for the brand. It might just be the hammer that breaks the camel’s back. The little push that makes Mastermind pull the trigger.

So Kris, tell me, who do you think wants you to win?

No, you’re lying to yourself. It’s not you. You don’t want to win, you don’t want to get past me and fight for that shield. You know you can’t handle the pressure, the high-stakes in a match for the MVP. You know you would fold, be exposed for the cheap imitation you are. In just 5 seconds Robbie threw your ass over the ropes and out of the battle royal. What do you think he’d do to you with a full length match? You would rather sit back in the obscurity of Mastermind’s fading shadow than face those kinds of odds.

So tell me, Kris, who wants you to win?

The only person on this green earth cheering for you this Wednesday is Robbie Bourbon. He wants an easy cakewalk. A surefire victory. A nice three minute squash match to retain the shield, and you’re the perfect tool for the job.

Robbie doesn't want to see me between those ropes. He got a glimpse of it tonight, and it terrified him. We all saw it. The way he held Reggie in front of him as a human shield! The steel stairs, covered in my blood, were flying at him! And he didn't want it! He held little Reggie there, made him eat that shot! The cruel, cruel bastard Bourbon. I saw the look on his face. And he saw the blood on mine.

He doesn't want a full length match with me. He doesn't know what I will do to him when I get my hands on him. And that terrifies him. The unpredictability, the insatiable drive, the unending motor. The bastard Bourbon knows his limits. He knows how far he can go, he knows how much damage he can deal. He knows what move to do to you, when to do it, and exactly how much it will fuck you up!

But little ol' Charlie? The little boy from Steubenville?

No one knows just how far he will go. Just what he brings to the table. What exactly, is going on in that busted mind of his!

There's only one way to find out, and it's along the highway of pain. And little ol' Robbie, well, little ol' Robbie is frantically searching for the last exit on the path! And Kris, he found it in you! See, you do always have a place in the industry. A perfect fit.

You see Kris there's one exit on Robbie's path before he drives full speed into the highway of pain. It's a few days away, and across the pond! And you're the only one who can take him there. He's handing you the keys, and begging you to just make it through the night.

But I can't let that happen Kris. You said it best yourself: you don't have a family, don't have a woman to look after. So you don't need the payday. You're not a man, you're just a little tool on a belt. I'm a real man, hammer boy. I have responsibilities. Obligations. A duty to Tyler, Emily, Connie. I have never been this close to the bank before. To the big payday. To the MVP shield, but further, that sweet, sweet victory bonus. And all the merchandise sales, licensing deals, and meet and greets that come with it.

I'm going over you, hammer boy. And there is nothing you can do about it. You're just a tool in my hand. I will use you to build my future. Your broken body, your fractured bones...will be the building blocks of my legacy."

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