I'll come right out and admit it: I was never a professional wrestling fan. It always just seemed a little gaudy and comic-bookish to me. And honestly, sometimes, the little of it I did see, seemed to be appealing to--I know its cliche, but I'm going to say it--the lowest common denominator. And there was this whole fascist element to it that I found downright disturbing; the way some steroid-abusing mammoth would galvanize the crowd into mindless "USA! USA!" chants prior to beating some hapless foreigner half to death or worse, I always got the distinct feeling those same fans could just as easily be persuaded by nationalism and violence to join a lynch mob or something.

So, yeah, my latest assignment from Ultimate Blackbelt Training magazine, well, it wasn't one that I would've taken if I had a choice, lets just say that. But you know, you wanna break into real journalism from this crap, well, you do what you gotta do.

They wanted the scoop on what became of the latest open-weight ADCC world champion--the so-called 'KnightMask'--after he'd been stripped off his title following the discovery of PED's in his system. I figured, we already knew enough. The guy was a masked, juiced-up freak who got banned from the sport after people found out how juiced up he was and then he went to the favorite home of all masked juiced-up freaks, professional wrestling. What more do you need to know?

(Apparently the guy he beat in the finals was excommunicated from the jiu jitsu community for the disgrace of losing to a guy who was essentially a cos-playing nut who read too many comics; and honestly, he's a guy I'd much rather do a story on. I mean, he works his butt off and this guy comes in with his steroids and goes and steals what's rightfully his and then ends actually stealing his livelihood as well.

But hey, I don't pick my stories.)

Well, anyway, the editors had their minds made up that KnightMask was worth an article in their mag and guess who got picked to follow that gem of a story?

Yup. You guessed it. Yours truly.

Of course, things brightened up a little bit when I found I was going to get an all-expenses paid trip to Singapore as part of my assignment--I guess lowbrow culture goes across cultures--but that's another story. Singapore was beautiful and the women--at least the ones that tourists like me get to see--were absolutely lovely.

But the XWF, oh my word.

The "contests", if you could really call them that, featured people getting shoved into toilets filled with excrement--hopefully fake--and people getting beaten and thrown into the Marina Bay (talk about polluting the waters with trash). I mean, this stuff really made dog-fighting look sophisticated.

My subject, KnightMask, wasn't actually on the card, which I figured was actually a good thing, because it meant I didn't have to pay to close attention to the event. I looked around for him backstage, but those that actually knew who he was--there weren't too many--didn't know where he was or if he'd even made the flight to Singapore. I was ready to get going and see if I could somehow get into the Pangaea when KnightMask finally did appear. This kid had gotten beaten down and thrown into the Marina Bay--like I said, there was a lot of that going on that night--and KnightMask, I guess it was him because he's probably the only one stupid enough to play superhero dress-up, he comes in right before another 'wrestler', and I use that term in the loosest possible sense, could, bare with me hear, throw a speaker onto him as he was trying to swim back to shore.

Filled with the power of self-righteousness, he takes the speaker from this guy, Capra, I guess his name was, and ends up giving him trading punches with him until the boys from security ended up dragging both of them away. I figured that was my chance and it was also a "get out of jail free" card, as it freed me from having to watch the rest of that...well, I really don't know what I was watching. A harbinger of the end of civilization, maybe? Anyways, press pass in tow, I tailed it to the back, eager to get my interview over and done with so I could get to more important things (like figuring out how to get into the Pangaea).

With visions of beautiful Asian women dancing in my head, I trailed after the security boys as they pushed KnightMask along. What came next was definitely a sucker-punch, or sucker-slap, but I give her credit; that Liz Weinberg chick has got some power in her arms. Before I could recover, she was up in my face, chewing me out about how I was in her territory and to heck with my press pass, interviews with the XWF boys was her gig and nobody else's. Suddenly, she's shredding my press pass apart in her hands and a bunch of big, mean-looking Neanderthal throwbacks in black t-shirts come out and she's telling them to get rid of me...telling them the Singapore government officials will take care of the details!

Next thing I know, I’m shoved into some back room, staring at my reflection in the blade of a foot-long knife and reflecting on the fact that I’m going to die essentially next door to the world’s most exclusive night club, at a professional wrestling event. Just when I think things couldn’t get worse, the door explodes off the hinges and none other than KnightMask is standing in the entrance. If there’s anything more humiliating than having to cover a professional wrestling event, its getting saved by a frigging professional wrestler. This, I decide, is not going into the story.

"You guys...you're no different than Neil Capra...tough, strong...maybe even brave...but you can't just going running rampant over other people's lives just because your fire burns brighter!"

One of the thugs charges at him and KnightMask basically flies to meet him, nailing him with a flying scissor takedown. They both crash to the ground and suddenly the thug is howling in pain and clutching his knee, while KnightMask is already back up on his feet.

"Guys like you and Capra might think its none of my business, but this isn't about you and me...its about the Law, man! The Law that God wrote on the hearts of men, the one we all bear witness to, like it or not! As much as I might admire and respect you guys, Neil and all the rest as fellow warriors...when you trample over that law, someone's gotta stop you!"

Another one of the Neanderthals makes a run at him and that one gets a flying armbar for his troubles. There’s a popping sound and then he’s writhing around on the ground, screaming that his arm is broken. The guy with the knife, he hung back, saying the best for last, I guess. When he sees what happened to his bodies, he decides his luck my be better, charges and KnightMask somersaults over him and somehow is actually slamming the punk at the same time as he’s landing on the ground. I assume he’s going to help me up like a good little hero, but then another one of the thugs bursts into the room and suddenly the two of them are tussling into the hallway.

"Don't worry about Capra!" the thug growled, "You ain't getting by me, Lancelot!"

There was a part of me that figured to chase after KnightMask and the bruiser, after all whither the cos-playing juice monkey (nothing racial intended, KnightMask's stupidity has nothing to do with his skin color), whither goes my story. But a better part of me was thinking that my salary was in no way high enough to justify subjecting myself to further abuse.

I was all set to get the heck out Dodge when I found myself staring straight into KnightMask's red vizor.

"Cooooome with meee ifffff you want to livvvvvve...."

The way he hissed out the words was certainly a bit odd, but then again, this was a black guy who had competed in no-gi grappling tournaments dressed like a Mexican wrestler. I didn't notice it earlier, I guess I was too busy fearing for my life, but the guy really, really stank. I mean, we're talking sewage-stink. He led me down one corridor after another, till finally we were in what seemed to be a boiler room. Panting, I finally took a good look at my interviewee/rescuer.

And yes, I'm man enough to admit, I gasped.

Other than the Power Rangers-wannabe helmet, he looked nothing like KnightMask. This guy was white, for one thing, and he was dressed head to toe in moldy, tattered rags, like he was some homeless bum suffering from hygiene apathy. He was maybe 150 soaking wet, scrawny as heck.

"Y-you're not KnightMask!"

Before another word could escape my lips, the imposter KnightMask had shoved a dead rat down my throat.

"Get 'em Bob!"

As I began to go black, I could faintly hear my attacker, my killer...ranting...

"You journalists have hurt my friend KnightMask enough! You'll never hurt him again...not if Ratboy has anything to say about!!! This is the same fate that Neil Capra, the Frenchman, Agony, World-1 International and all the rest will sssssuffer if they interfffffffere with my fffffriends!"

And yeah, I guess that makes me a ghost. Which also means I get in to Pangaea for free. Eat your heart out boys, physical bodies are overrated.