Chapter 1: The Blizzard of '98

“What do I know, anyway?”

A question like this had once arisen on the heels of some well intentioned, yet ultimately frothy advice, and for my lack of any true acuity, the question had only left my mind’s-eye stirring an ineffectual wooden spoon into the iron walls of an emptied simmering pot. There was no real medley inside, no satisfying sounds of a boil, and certainly no subsequent fragrance to enjoy. Only more wrought. More flinty iron, or maybe easier; something like a heavy black lid covering a side to something I’d never gaze upon. Kind of a bleak rabbit hole to trudge, isn’t it?

But “What did I know?”

Maybe that’s a different story, and sparing myself any hopeless solipsism, I'd like to just think that maybe I knew everything rather than know anything. Like mine and a bestfriends initials we had etched next to one another into a slab of concrete near my old home in Nazareth, Kentucky. I knew they were there once, and I remember recently feeling a sweaty and compelling desperation to lay my eyes on them again, only now I don’t know whatever happened to them. They’re gone. Those initials are a part of a place that no longer exists. But it’s a place, nonetheless, I still knew enough about to share with you a few stories.

Who knows? Maybe they’ll be helpful.

Back in the winter of ‘98 I had found myself barreling into the sunset of my “wonder years” because by that coming summer I would from thereon have two digits tied to my age, and that’s got to be some sort of highlight, right? Rarely does anyone ever reach that third digit. Anyway, my cultural interests were beginning to develop, or, to shift. Old toys were being retired to a collection shelf, opinions were forming, girls were looking differently, oh, and the television where I saw most of those "different" girls? It was soma.

Everything from MTV, to the ‘Monday Night Wars, to our “hometown” Kentucky Wildcats dominating the collegiate basketball world, the television was an escape into my maturing, yet lively and imaginative tastes, and my Dad was beginning to take notice.

During this time, I was living with my Dad and his best friend, Glenn (who I just referred to as Uncle Glenn) out in one of the county townships of Nazareth called Bridgeport.

Referring to Bridgeport as “Small Town U.S.A” served it no justice. The thirty or so homes that made up this quaint little neck of the woods were surrounded by the hilly shoulders of endless cattle farms. Every doorstep and stoop was adorned with a moth-eaten polish of the Dixieland formula, and from every doorstep was no more than a five minute walk to Bridgeport Elementary and it’s charming and fruitful playground and baseball field.

My Dad, was an old Hoosier from up North. He used to share this playful lament between swallows of Budweiser and Brandy with Uncle Glenn, who was an American Swede from Chicago, about the Southern nostalgia that was in abundance in Nazareth:

“They need us down here Glenn. Who else is going to remind these hicks that they lost the war?”

He said, with a drunk and jolly laugh, a chewed up end of a Hoffman cigar dangling from his mouth as he reached between my slender knees to shift the gear stick of his white Chevy S10.

Uncle Glenn, as he was always, sitting to my right in the passenger seat simply raised his bottle of Paul Masson to his yellowing lips and with his oddly charming and out of place accent replied, “And an ah-man to that, Brady!

Dad was driving us into town to the American Legion where he and Glenn were both card-carrying members and frequented regularly. Dad would always boisterously point out to his fellow comrades that he carried his card: “Right here’s my card!” pointing to his collarbone, “Where I ate that AK round!”

Now going to the Legion with Dad and Uncle Glenn wasn’t an unusual thing at all, the two of them were fairly renown and talented concrete men around Nazareth, and would always finish a hard day’s work at either the Legion, or the Elks Club or their absolute favorite go-to dive: Chester Schnelling’s, a dusty and dim drinkinghole right near the railroad tracks downtown. What was different about this night though was that we were actually leaving Bridgeport to go back into Nazareth, because more often than not, once we were home, we were home.

Now, as I had said: Dad was beginning to take notice in my televised soma doses, and instead of writing it off as his son being infatuated by having basic cable for the first time in his life, I do believe Dad was earnest in thinking he needed to expose me to more live episodes of this-or-that.

“Son, I know you love those wrestling shows you watch.”

“Mhmm”

I replied as we walked our way across the surprisingly full parking lot while Uncle Glenn remained in the truck, his face buried beneath the bill of his ballcap,

Dad picked up on a slight chatter in my teeth and pressed me close under his arm. I remember the chill in the wind that night being particularly biting and almost as intense as the tang of dried concrete and brandy permeating from Dad.

“Tonight you’re going to see some REAL wrestling, Reggie. Not that old fake shit on the T.V.!”

My eyes lit up as I was overcome with a sudden sense of a warming excitement. That rigid breeze was nowhere to be found, nor were any words that I could express beyond the eager smile frozen on my face.

We walked into the smoky Legion hall, where there must have been at least two hundred people buzzing about, various cocktails and beer cans floating along with them. Adjacent to the bar, in the huge room where the old maids would usually play Bingo, there was a real live wrestling ring assembled, and a match already underway! The sounds of the chops, the slams and the pops roared throughout the building, I was awestruck and chewing at my thumbnail as I did my best to follow along from behind a crowd of drunk and entertained war veterans.

The next thing I remember was Dad lifting me up, and putting me on his shoulders, giving me a clear view of the action. It was right about that time that the more nimble, cleaner looking wrestler in full legging tights had slammed the bigger more burley and bald looking of the two wearing a singlet down into the center of the ring. The thud was loud, and seemed painful. The nimble looking wrestler sprinted across the ring and climbed to the top of the turnbuckle, and for a moment time was frozen as we made eye contact.

The wrestler pointed at me with a nod, and then pointed to the ceiling just before fully extending his legs and launching himself into the air. Mid Flight, he turned and stuck out his elbow towards his opponent, smashing it down with all of his force into the big man’s sternum as a geyser of blood rocketed up from his mouth.

“SEE! I TOLD YOU THIS WAS THE REAL THING!”

Dad shouted up to me while bouncing me around a bit on his shoulders to match the jovial atmosphere in the banquet hall,

It was at that moment I believed that I knew my transformation was coming full circle. My interests in something beyond the playground had materialized, and the dream had begun, though unfortunately, my doe-eyed excitement would prove to be short lived later that evening…

-to be continued-




Claude Savage?

Allow me to welcome you personally to the ThunderDome, my guy.

My name is R.L. Edgar, and under any normal set of circumstances it would most certainly be in your best interests to be debuting against an ill-experienced, overlooked, overweight, formally over-hyped schmuck such as myself, but again...

This shit ain't normal.

This is the XWF, where the "standard", and the "over-played" come to be booed at for shitting the bed in front of this fan base's niche and sophisticated chops.

Maybe you thought you were just going to barge your way into this federation, with all of your boring, seen-it-before, "ruthlessness" while dressing up grimy as glamorous and loud- kinda' like that shitty song you have listed as your entrance music.

Please, PLEASE don't tell me I'm going to have to listen to Five Finger Death Punch butcher another classic tune. I can't fucking deal with it. Matter of fact, if you make me listen to that angry MAGA teen music next Wednesday, I might just get DQed on your ass, it's that horrible, and it's that infuriating.

Look, I don't really know what a "murder horse" is but it doesn't really phase me. I just fought a werewolf princess and her since-smartened up Igor sidekick and won. Before that? I fought Jim Jimson. JIM fuckin' JIMSON, motherfucker! You think I'm going to let some fat fuck calling himself a gang banging horse intimidate me? You've got it twisted home-boy.

I'm judging by the names of your finishing moves that the whole "horse" thing isn't just some stupid shit you made up as a kid that stuck either, is it? You're from Maryland, referencing horses and the Triple Crown? Come the fuck on dude. What did you do, Claude? Did you murder some horses in a stable? Or did you go full Dalí on em?

You know that shit wouldn't fly where I'm from. People in Kentucky take horse racing WAY too seriously- I mean, not me- I think that's not only NOT a sport, but if it HAS to be considered a sport, then it HAS to be considered the stupidest fucking sport on the planet. Little Hispanic midgets in tights riding around in circles on the backs of big smelly animals.

Hey! Anyone seen Mini Morbid?

Look dude, if we're going to do this, and you're the Preakness? Then I guess that makes me the Derby, and you've already lost on spectacle, ratings and importance. Congratulations Claude! Not only do you have stupid music, but you have a stupid name, a stupid finishing move, and a stupid cult sport that you obviously find endearing.

Listen CLAUDE, I'm not going to let you gallop over my dignity!

This match will NOT be a photo finish!

I've had to sit through enough Derby parties with dumb bitches and their gigantic hats, sloppy drunk on Mint Juleps to know that the race don't last long.

The most exciting some-odd seconds in sports entertainment!

That's what they call it, I'm sure you knew that, you probably know the actual amount of seconds too. I'm going to make this match exciting. I'm going to beat the ever loving shit out of you, drop you on your neck and then crash my elbow down into your horse-filled gullet.

I don't know why you make me so angry CLAUDE, but you do. Probably because I've had to talk about horses this long now. Thanks a lot, asshole!

Former:
1x Hart Champion
1x Federweight Champion
April 2021 RP Of The Month Still Waters Run Deep