Goon

by Edward Lee

  “Feds?”

  “Federations. Think of them as the biggest and most profitable pro wrestling organizations. These guys wrestle five or six nights a week, and are frequently on national television. They make lots of money given the exposure. But Goon doesn’t wrestle for either of the big feds. He wrestles for DSWC—that’s the Deep South Wrestling Conference. It’s a regional conference, small-time compared to WWF and WCW. Think of it as the difference between the minor leagues and the major league. It’s a much smaller draw, but it’s still very consistent.”

  Straker pretended to be listening, looking at those plush spread thighs laying in the driver’s seat, the elegant hands holding the wheel, the plenteous bosom riding in the sheer white floral-print blouse. “So I guess this guy Goon is a light-weight,” Straker managed. He grit his teeth imperceptibly, feeling the flare of another erection.

  “Quite the contrary. Goon is the best wrestler in the world.”

  Straker blinked. “If he’s so good, then how come he’s not working for the ‘big feds’?”

  “Because he doesn’t want to. In fact, his manager had turned down repeated contracts with WWF and WCW for many times the amount of money that Goon’s making now. Kind of like a small-town cop turning down repeated offers with state and/or county PDs.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Straker pointed out, feeling his gorged corona now nudging the bottom of his hiding hand. He felt tempted to give it a squeeze. “Nobody turns down bigger money.”

  “Goon does,” she said. “And I’ll tell you why. In a fed as small as DSWC, Goon isn’t subject to the widespread exposure of television and nation-wide cards.”

  “Cards?”

  “A card, Captain, is an ensemble of wrestling matches. And another thing of note is this: Goon’s got the ultimate gimmick.”

  “Gimmick?”

  “You can think of a ‘gimmick’ as a ‘set’ in a movie or a persona. A ‘work’ is the script. The conclusion of each match is predetermined by the promoters. The ‘bookers’ are essentially the people who create and maintain the characterization of the fed. Who’s rivaling who, who’s turning bad, who’s turning good, etc. It’s a storyline, which the fans follow as diligently as Star Trek fans follow Voyager and Deep Space Nine and all that. And Goon’s the ultimate heel.”

  Straker grit his teeth again. Just looking at those luscious legs made him want to come in his pants. “Heel?” he questioned.

  “Professional nomenclature. Heels are bad guys, faces are good guys. And pro wrestling perpetuates via the proliferation of the ongoing rivalries that exist between faces and heels. Same as the rivalry, for instance, between the Redskins and the Cowboys, or, more appropriately, the rivalry between the Roman gladiators and the armed slaves in the arena. That’s all wrestling is, Captain. They’re the Gladiators of modern civilization.”

  Straker knew that if he so much as brushed his crotch with his hand, he’d come, envisioning her. He’d mess his pants, indeed, like a torqued-up teen eyeing the hot biology teacher or one of the cheerleaders jumping up like a flying human wishbone on the sidelines. I need to come again, he dismally thought. I can’t fucking stand this!

  “But the Gladiators were real,” he finally was able to get back on track. “Wrestling isn’t. Everyone knows it’s fake.”

  “It’s not as fake as you think, Captain,” she said, and then unconsciously brushed her hand flat against her right thigh. Straker nearly creamed his shorts, nearly groaned at the image.

  “It’s true, most of these guys are athletes who weren’t good enough to make it in legitimate professional sports. Leon Black, aka Big Dan Tater, got cut from the L.A. Rams, Leapin’ Leonard got cut from the Bengals, Don Clemmens got cut from the Lions. Derrick Lotts was a college football quarterback, a starter, who got kicked out of pro camp on the second day, and Venom tried out with four minor league baseball teams and never got a hit. So, yes, these guys are what pro sports spat out, but they’re still unique athletes in their own way. You say wrestling’s fake? Well, in a sense, it is, but when a wrestler jumps off the top rope, launches himself ten feet into the air, and lands on his opponent, it is indeed a prearranged work, but that man is still leaping ten feet into the air and landing on a human being. These guys piledrive each other’s heads on the cement ring curtain, but if you don’t know what you’re doing, you wind up with a broken neck, and that instance has happened to several wrestlers. Several wrestlers have had their ears shorn off by a make involves getting their heads stuck in the ring ropes. Pro wrestlers blow out their knees at a much higher rate than pro running backs. Concussions abound, Achilles tendons snap like drawstrings, and wrestlers have suffered more broken bones than the athletes of any other professional sport. It’s something to consider before you scoff completely at wrestling as a joke. These men are high-tuned athletes—they have to be in order to circumvent serious injury any given night of the week. Which leads us back to Goon.”

  “Goon,” Straker said, as if to seem as though he were being attentive. His only real attentiveness, however, was sighted on Melinda Pierce’s 38D breasts. In his mind, he saw his face buried between them, his eyes crossed in bliss.

  “Even in DSWC, Goon has refused major heel slots that would earn him two or three times the money he makes now. He’s the hottest property in the fed. Goon works as the ultimate hardcore, whenever he wrestles the fans know they’re going to see someone do heavy juice. Felander books all the finishes and no one objects. Why? Because he can take punishment like no other. Chairs, tables, two-by-fours, etc. have all been broken over Goon’s head more times than you’ve taken that shirt to the cleaners.”

  I’m gonna have to take these shorts to the cleaners in about one minute, Straker thought. “Juice? Aren’t the chairs, tables, and two-by-fours all fake?”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Captain. That stuff’s all the real McCoy—it has to be because it’s all in proximity to fans. Juice is real blood, not the capsules that actors use; some wrestlers carry little razor blades to open up cuts above the hairline, Goon does what they call ‘hardway juice,’ he actually has the other wrestler bust him open with something. Quite regularly, you’ll see Goon jump off the top rope, do a somersault, and land on his back on the cement ring skirt. I suppose you’re going to tell me it’s phony cement?”

  Straker shrugged. His balls felt large as Roma tomatoes now, filling up with enough sperm cells to populate entire planets. “I don’t know. I probably know as much about professional wrestling as you know about the Battle of Hastings.”

  “October 14th, A.D. 1066, King Harold Godwin attempted to defend the island of Angle-land against the forces of William of Normandy on a coastal rise called Senlac Hill, otherwise known as Hastings. Three Norman assaults failed but a fourth succeeded after Harold was killed by a stray Norman arrow which hit him in the eye, but that’s beside the point, Captain. The fact remains, these men, professional wrestlers, must remain in extraordinary condition in order to do what they do night after night without crippling or killing themselves. And Goon is the best of the best. You’ll see, Captain. You’ll see tonight.”

  Jesus Christ I’ve got to come, Straker thought. His dick felt like a yard hose about to split from too much pressure. I can’t even be in the same car with this piece of work without wanting to spew all over myself.

  His thoughts drifted back. “What? What do you mean, tonight?”

  “We’re going to a wrestling match tonight,” she said. “And you and I are both going undercover.”

  ««—»»

  Her keys jingled at the end of a silver judo stick when she let them into the motel.

  “I need to use your bathroom,” Straker said.

  “Sure. Right in there.”

  Straker traipsed away, closed the door behind him. Two seconds later, his erect penis was out, and he was shucking it like an ear of corn. Aw, fuck! There’s just something about her, he thought. I just…can’t… help it… About ten jerks did the trick, and
out it came, his forth orgasm of the day and another piece of vermicelli relegated to the toilet. They just kept getting better, thinking about her, and that’s what he didn’t get. Straker had long since dismissed his sex drive as fairly dead once he’d reached thirty. He didn’t give a shit anymore, and that was fine—he had better things to occupy his mind than sex. Additionally, he saw attractive women all the time, and didn’t flinch…

  But Melinda Pierce was quite a bit more than merely attractive.

  She was the woman of his dreams. She was sex incarnate. She was a vision equal to that which launched a thousand ships in the Trojan War. Straker sighed, rubbing the last drop of semen with his index finger against the cringing glans. The sensation drove him to his tiptoes, and when he imagined Melinda Pierce doing the same, only with her tongue, and he was half hard again even before he got it back into his pants.

  He rushed back out, collecting himself. She’d rented a cheap motel room off Route 154, with Observer funds no doubt. “Here are the tickets,” she said when he emerged and nearly hit the floor. She’d kicked her shoes off, extending her long legs across the couch, and she’d removed her blouse to reveal the exorbitant breasts satcheled perfectly in a tan-lace bra.

  “What’s the matter? You’ve never seen a woman in a bra before?”

  “I—” And that was all Straker could manage. Her hand reached out, holding tickets. Straker’s cock thumped to something close to full hardness again when he took them. Idly, and nearly dizzy, he read:

  SALLEE COUNTY CIVIC CENTER,

  7:00 P.M., OPEN SEATING

  DEEP SOUTH WRESTLING CONFERENCE

  REGIONAL SUMMER RUMBLE

  “Great,” Straker said dully. “I can’t wait.”

  “Goon’s on the card, grappling against Slick Dare.”

  “Great.” I would pay anything, he thought. I would sell my soul just to rub my dick against one of those tits for one second. Then I could die, and I’d be fulfilled. The image of those bra’d breasts socked him in the eyes. The sleek lounging legs stretched out to the arm of the couch. Age-old high school cliche’s came to mind: I’d gargle with her piss…and ask for more. I’d eat a mile of her shit just to see where it came from. If she was fucking dead, I’d dig her up and marry her…

  “Are you all right?”

  Straker’s eyes snapped open. He’d been musing again, about her. “Yeah, uh, sure. I’m fine.”

  “You were standing there kind of fidgeting your hips.”

  That’s because my dick’s hard again, and it got stuck in the trapdoor of my shorts. “Just a…cold chill.”

  She inclined up, then rose and grabbed a bag off the motel desk. “Put these on, you need to look the part.”

  Straker peered into the bag: jeans, sneakers, a black t-shirt with the Armageddon Riders logo. “The part for what?”

  “Tonight we’re going to this card. I’m going as a ringrat, and you’re going as a fan. You can’t expect to gain any credibility going to a wrestling match dressed in a suit that makes you look like Jack Webb.”

  Straker recoiled. “There’s nothing wrong with this suit. It cost two hundred bucks.”

  “Wow. Big spender. I’ll bet Ward’s loves you. Listen, Captain, you can’t walk into a wrestling match wearing a suit. You’ll stick out like a sore thumb. So why don’t you get dressed now, and I’ll go take a quick shower before I get into my ringrat gear.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  She sashayed off into the bathroom, pushed the door shut behind her. Then he heard the hiss of the shower crank on and almost lost it. It was the image…

  Her.

  In there.

  Taking her clothes off and stepping into the shower, all shiny and perfect and nude.

  Straker couldn’t help it. He whipped it out and began masturbating over the plastic, bag-lined wastebasket.

  Aw, fuck, aw, fuck— His climax spasmed; he nearly fell down. If Collier could see me now, he thought, wringing out his cock over the garbage can. His sperm plopped to the bottom. Then he sluggishly disrobed and put on the clothes in the bag.

  I look like a horse’s ass, he thought, appraising himself in the motel mirror. Brand-new dark-denim Lee jeans fit so tight he couldn’t even fasten the brass button. He pulled the black t-shirt out over his waist and frowned more deeply. The shirt read ARMAGEDDON RIDERS! KICKIN’ ASS AND NOT TAKIN’ NAMES! On the front with the DSWC logo on the back. Just what some ignorant cracker would wear on a Saturday night out, basic attire for hard-liquor and handgun night. Hard as he may have been trying to quit, he sat down on the couch, and listlessly lit a cigarette. I’m undercover with the woman of my dreams, and I’m wearing a fuckin’ wrestling shirt. If any of his ex-girlfriends could see this, they’d laugh to wake the dead.

  “Close your eyes,” came her muffled voice.

  Stifled, Straker closed them. “All right.”

  He heard her come out of the bathroom, bringing with her a scent of herbal soap. Then he heard clothes sliding against skin, and imagined her dressing; an unconscious reflex nearly caused him to squeeze his crotch, but he repressed the impulse. Jesus, he thought. If she knew I’ve jerked off three times since meeting her—twice right in this motel room—I’d have to kill myself.

  “Okay. Open.”

  Straker opened his eyes and nearly shit and came in his pants simultaneously. She stood there with her back towards him, wearing nothing but a tight denim skirt whose hem barely reached the bottom of her buttocks. She was bare up top, cradling her breasts in her hands.

  “Pass me that pink halter over there, will you?”

  Straker grabbed the halter on the dresser, draped it over her shoulder. It was all he could do not to do a rebel yell when she raised her arms and slipped herself into it. Only a second, true, but in that second Straker stared at sideshots of both breasts from behind. And nearly collapsed.

  “Zip me now, okay?’

  She leaned slightly forward and Straker caught what she meant. The back of that tight denim skirt—it had a zipper in back.

  Straker’s finger’s shook like an alcoholic with the DTs; eventually he grasped the tiny metal tab, caught his breath, then pulled it up with a rasp.

  “Thanks,” she said and turned. The haltered breasts blared at him. Hard City yet again. “One more thing,” she requested. “I need you to do my toes.”

  Oblivious, Straker only fought not to stare, and didn’t do much of a job. His own jeans were so tight, his cock felt like a snake in a closing crevice. Only in the most nebulous fog did he recall what she said: I need you to do my—

  “My toes,” she repeated, pulilng up a chair to face the couch. “While I do my nails.” She placed her hands on his shoulder and pushed him down into the chair, then sat down herself.

  “I—,” he said.

  She placed her bare feet right smack dab in his lap. Zombiefied now, all he could do was look. Her nude feet flexed very close to his groin—even her feet were perfect—but when he noticed her blue-painted toenails, he could only think to say, “Your toes are already done.”

  “No they’re not. I’m posing as a ringrat. That means I’ve got to look as tacky as possible. Decals, Captain.” Then she handed him a strip of paper, adhered to which were a dozen tiny silver decals of falling stars. She held a similar strip and daintily affixed each decal to her fingernails. Straker doddered, peeled each one off and clumsily affixed them to her veneered toenails.

  “Perfect,” she appraised when they were both done. She alternately glanced first at her fingernails, then her toenails. I need to beat off again, Straker thought. Bad. Then she briskly rose, and in doing so accidentally brushed one of her heels across his crotch.

  Shit!

  “Sorry,” she said.

  One more brush like that and he’d have come again. He winced, rising, trying to hide his fifth erection of the day. “All right, I guess we can go to this wrestling match now.”

  The pause hung in the air. She looked at him forlornly, her lips pursed. �
�Listen, Captain, I can tell something’s wrong, and I think I know what it is.”

  Straker had to sort the statement; he had to struggle against his lust. “What? There’s nothing wrong.”

  “Yes, there is, Captain. It seems that you’re incredibly attracted to me.”

  “What, uh, what makes you say that?”

  “Well, for one thing,” she responded, “you’ve either had the end of a broomstick in your pants since the minute we met, or you’re carrying around a raging erection.”

  The observation jostled him. All he could do was lie. “That’s ridiculous. You don’t know what you’re talking ab—”

  “And it seems that you’re so attracted to me, you’ve had to masturbate to relive your tensions.”

  Straker gaped. “I have not!”

  She looked scoldingly at him. “Captain. When you used the bathroom, you forgot to flush the toilet. I saw your sperm floating in the water.”

  Straker’s mouth formed an O like a grouper’s, but no words came out.

  Then she glanced intermittently into the wastebasket. “And it looks like you’ve done it again right there in the garbage.”

  Straker could only stare. He could say nothing as his face turned red as a radish.

  She patted his shoulder consolingly. “Listen, Captain, I understand. I sometimes have this effect on men, and I apologize. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll go wait in the car, and you can masturbate again if you’d like.”

  Straker nearly threw up as he watched her leave the motel room. Could anything be more embarrassing than this?

  The answer was simple: No. Nothing in the world.

  Nevertheless, he whipped it out one more time, and masturbated desperately until he was able to deposit yet another string of semen into the bag-lined plastic wastebasket.

  Asshole, he thought.

  ««—»»

  She didn’t say a word when he summoned the courage to actually walk out to the car and get in. They rode in silence for at least five minutes, heading for Route 154. Finally, Straker could bare no more of it.