A lot of folks wonder how a guy like me got into wrestling.

I’ll tell you the truth, it wasn’t on purpose. About a year and a half ago I was hauling some carnival equipment down in Alabama. When I got to the final stop and got my money, the customer asked if I’d be heading towards Kentucky. When I told him I’d be heading whichever way I was getting paid to go, he offered me a few hundred bucks to carry less than a quarter of my bed’s capacity up to Pikeville and said I was welcome to run whatever other jobs I wanted in the meantime as long as the equipment got to Kentucky in a week’s time.

Now, any long haul trucker will tell you that’s a deal. With clear roads I could get from Miami to Seattle in a week, so I knew I’d have plenty of time and plenty of space to make more jobs by the time required. I made it seem like it was a little out of my way, but the customer knew I was full of shit and stuck to his initial offer. I accepted as soon as I seen my negotiating tactics wasn’t getting me nowhere. Together we loaded up what turned out to be a broken down wrestling ring, complete with ropes, buckles, steps and even the metal railings to go along the outside. Not too surprising that it was headed to Kentucky, since it’s the heart of hillbilly country and nothing makes bible thumping, homophobic hillfolk happier than watching oiled up men in their underpants slapping each other.

Anyway. I stopped somewhere along the way between Alabama and Kentucky – might have been Mississippi, I don’t recall – and I picked up a bunch of goats for some farmer and brought them across the state. Easy job, half a day really, and I made a hundred bucks plus fuel. Simple. If every day in the trucking business was that easy then everyone would do it. Then I headed out to Pikeville, and when I got there is when I seen what had happened. One of the damn goats chewed through a ring rope. There was no denying what the damage was from once we got the gear unloaded and we all seen the tattered and chewed rope, so I did what I had to do to save the sale. I pulled out my kit and I mended that rope up good with tape and twine and glue. Nothing permanent, mind you, but they said them things get worn out often enough that just making sure it lasted through the weekends shows was good enough.

They were impressed. They liked the way I stuck to it and I guess they must have also liked my size and my look, because next thing you know they gone and talked me into getting’ into that ring and takin’ a few bumps to see how I did. Needless to say, being a former standout athlete after all, I picked up on it real quick. Turns out I’m a little bit of a natural, though they told me I was kind of stiff for the littler guys and that I might want to watch the number of potatoes I was throwing if I didn’t want to catch a few right back. They didn’t realize, I guess, that catching a fist to the face don’t piss me off none, it just gets me in the zone.

I started stopping by when I was in the area passing through, and eventually they offered to book me, and the rest is history as they say. It was a part time way to put a little extra cash in my pocket while getting to hurt people. There was no way for me to turn that down. I guess I done better than they thought I would because sooner than later they was trying to book me more and more, puttin’ my face on posters and whatnot, asking me to sign autographs and shit. Not really my style, but the guys had given me a break so I gave them one too. Well, right up until one of them tried to steal my cut. See, like I told you before, the country is gone to hell with meth heads and drug addicts and assholes. They fuck everything up for hard working, red blooded, Christian Americans like myself.

After I put the asshole in the ER and took back my cash, I didn’t wrestle in Pikeville no more, but it wasn’t long after that that someone from the XWF got ahold of me and said they was looking for someone new.

So here I am.

Get used to it.






The rain was hitting the cab heavy, it sounded like a Jamaican’s steel drum. I’m the kind of guy that always keeps new wipers on his rig, though, so the bullets of water were swept off to the side easily enough, and my tires had plenty of tread. I didn’t have to slow down through the rainstorm at all, even though other drivers on the CB were talkin’ about calling it a day on account of possible tornadoes. I ain’t afraid of a little nasty weather.

I looked over at the little hippie looking girl - Charity, she said her name was a couple hundred back – and I seen she was getting a little restless. Antsy. She was doing that shit where she couldn’t keep her legs still and kept crossing them back and forth over each other again and again. Annoying shit. Then she rolled the window down and she tossed the empty pack of smokes I was nice enough to buy her once we crossed into Missouri.

I don’t expect much from people these days, I really don’t. But one thing I can’t stand is when some asshole decides he’s gonna throw his god damn trash all over the place like a filthy fuckin’ animal and just let the rest of us deal with it like we’re all living in his own personal trash can.

My hand swung out and caught her across her lip before that cigarette pack even hit the road. I knew from the wet sound of it that I busted her open. She didn’t cry out or even look afraid. Her reaction to getting backhanded across the face was as practiced and reflexive as my reaching out and popping her in the first place.

“I’m sorry about that. I wasn’t thinking.”

She said it quiet, and her apology was real, not a self-defense tactic. Believe me, I know the difference. When people are in a bad way they’ll say whatever they think you want to hear in order to keep breathing. This one was sincere though. I tossed her a paper towel I had laying around and she dabbed the blood from her lower lip as casually as she would have turned a page in a book. In a way, I guess she did.

“Listen, I’ve got to piss. It’s been hours. And I’m actually pretty tired. Any chance I can get in the back and lie down?”

Now, it hadn’t really been all that long since we’d gotten back on the road after the last pit stop, but she was maybe a little more shook up by the roughing up I given her than maybe I’d thought. The road was mostly empty on account of the rain so I slipped over to the shoulder and stopped the truck, then hopped down and let her out. I even held her little hand while she stepped down from the cab and onto the grass, like the gentleman I was raised to be. She walked off into some shrubs and squatted down and I kept an eye on her. Not to watch her piss like some kind of fuckin’ freak but because I didn’t need her running off and causing me any trouble.

She did her business and was smart enough to keep that paper towel I’d given her to clean up with, too. She came back to the truck and I held out a plastic baggie for her to toss it into. E learned her lesson about littering. I told you she was smart.

“Thanks,” she said without looking at me, then walked to the back of the truck, “can I just get in here for a while?”

The thunder rolled overhead as I walked over to the trailer doors. The sky was getting darker by the second. It would probably be easier to focus on the road without her sitting in the cab with me, so I figured she could go ahead and get back there. She didn’t know about my sleep quarters, I guess, and she n’ really need to know. The trailer was mostly empty and actually did have a couple of loose cushions in there, plus whatever she had in her bag. She’d be fine.

She climbed in and I shut her up inside, latching the doors up. She wasn’t getting out of there without my help, that’s for sure. I could relax a little better this way. I got back in the driver’s seat and pulled the rig back out onto the highway, turning up the CB volume and keeping one eye on the GPS.

Everything would be fine as long as she didn’t start poking around back there and looking under the tarps.

I got two miles down the road when I heard her start to scream.

“God damn it.”






So this here’s the XWF, huh?

And I guess this ‘Thunderbolt X’ is either the welcoming party or the sacrificial lamb. Well guess what, little birdy? It looks like your momma went and pushed you out of the nest before you were ready. Now all’s you’re gonna end up with is a quick fall to the ground and a broken wing courtesy of yours truly.

Now I don’t know you. You seem like the type that’s gonna sit there and tell me you got heart and you got fighting spirit, and son, maybe you do. But your heart and your spirit ain’t gonna save you from over 300 pounds of 100% USDA ass-kicking, you understand that? You can leave the motivational speeches for someone else, kiddo, because that shit ain’t getting’ you nowhere once you’re stuck in the ring with Ruckus Rollins.

I almost feel bad for you, boy. You went and drew the short straw this week. You can’t seem to open your mouth around here without someone else shuttin’ it for you, and this time around ain’t gonna be no different so don’t get your hopes up.

I’ll give you a little bit of credit before I go into the ring and do my damndest to end your pathetic little career, Thunderbolt. You picked a fitting name for yourself in this business. You got yourself a moniker that’s big and loud, just like you. And temporary. Just like you. Like a flash of lightning and a roll of thunder, you’ll be here and then you’ll be gone. Faded away like a bad memory.

Me though? I’m a rock. I’m a mountain. I’m fear. I’m war. I’m always gonna be here, son, and you or anyone else in the XWF ain’t gonna do a damn thing about it, because the Ruckus has been brought.

Now go ahead and make yourself a reservation at the local hospital, Thunderbolt, because when I’m done with you you’re gonna need a team of specialists to put that face of yours back together the way your maker did.

But make no mistake about it… there’s gonna be scars.