Blood Red Turns Dollar Green, no. 1

by Paul O'Brien

  This is where most of the greenhorns got their asses whooped in the beginning. It doesn't matter if you've just left your fellow wrestlers in the hotel lobby; you walk into that dressing room full of those same people and you shake everyone's hand like you haven't seen them since Christmas.

  That was the way the old-timers did it, so, that's the way it stayed.

  The Floridian wrestlers didn't know if protocol was appropriate here. They were being paid by New York to fuck over their boss, but they didn't have to be assholes doing it.

  There was a general, unspoken feeling amongst the natives; there would be no handshakes here today. It was the principle of the thing.

  The guests from New York weren't happy about that at all.

  “Hey you, skidmark,” Wild Ted Berry called across the room. “You and I doing business tonight?” The big, stubble-covered Texan awaited a reply.

  “Me?” Flawless Franco asked in reply.

  “Yeah.” Ted stood up to reveal his pre-match ritual of nudity, chewing tobacco, and cowboy boots. “You and me.”

  Franco nodded as he unlaced his dress shoes. “Sure.”

  “Okay. Let's go out there and give these sunburned bitches a hell of a match. What's your name, sweetheart?”

  Franco stopped suddenly with his shoe in his hand. “Sweetheart?”

  “Yeah, something wrong with that?”

  Franco stood up and fell many inches short of his new partner. “Don't disrespect me in my own locker room, man.”

  All the New York wrestlers on Wild Ted's side of the locker room stood, which made all the Floridian wrestlers on Franco's side of the room stand too.

  “Did anyone tell all you marks that this is a fucking work in here? Relax ladies,” Wild Ted said, dismissively turning his back on Franco and his gang.

  “It's a work out there,” Franco replied, thumbing their attention toward the arena. “Back here it's nothing but real.”

  Ted tried to be respectful, but just couldn't. “Back here it's nothing but real?” Ted and his crew began to laugh. “That's terrible.”

  “What?” Franco wanted to know. “What?”

  The New York crew continued to laugh.

  “Fuck you,” Franco fired across the room.

  “Is this guy not letting this go, or is it just me?” Ted asked Oscar Dewsbury, who was getting ready beside him.

  “I think he's making something of nothing,” Oscar answered. “He's a bit rude, I think.”

  Ted walked to the middle of the locker room. “Yeah, me too.”

  At the end of the hall, Danno watched Ricky write out all the night’s matches in 'the book' from his makeshift office. “You been to that program yet?” Danno asked.

  Ricky wasn't comfortable with Danno's persistence. He certainly wasn't comfortable being questioned in front of Lenny.

  Danno leaned forward into Ricky's eye-line. “Hello?”

  “I made an appointment. Going soon,” he mumbled.

  “Do you need to make an appointment to go to one of those meetings nowadays?” Danno asked, looking for Lenny to weigh in.

  “I'll go and let the Boys know what they're doing,” Ricky said as he stood and left the room.

  Danno lit a cigar and unsuccessfully attempted to throw his leg onto the corner of his table.

  Fuck.

  Danno knew Lenny saw him miss. Now they were both embarrassed.

  Danno quickly tried again and fell short again.

  “Fucking bitch.” Danno stood and tossed over the table. “I have this new underwear restricting my legs from doing things they are used to,” Danno said, bouncing his cigar off the fallen table in anger.

  The cigar rolled to a stop under the changing room benches.

  Danno thought about kneeling, but he wasn't sure his knees could take him back up in good enough time. Lenny wanted to help but was still pretending that he hadn't seen anything in the last minute or two.

  Danno angrily swallowed his pride. “Can you get me that?”

  Lenny hurried over and retrieved Danno's cigar from the floor. He prayed that act would kill the uncomfortable feeling in the room. He was wrong.

  “I've gotten a little bigger since we got the belt,” Danno said, biting the wet end from the cigar.

  Lenny just wanted to jump out the fucking window in response. “You're just eh... heavy set, boss. Manly.”

  Danno spit the bite of cigar in the bin. “I can't fucking tie my shoes no more, Lenny.”

  Lenny liked Danno. He thought he was great at his job, nice to work for. A mentor. What he liked most was Danno's pride and manhood. Both of which jumped out the window before Lenny could.

  “Mrs. Garland got me a fucking stick thing with a slope... it goes on your ankle. Under it. Slides your foot in to the shoe.”

  “You just need a few back stretches. It's not ‘cause you're fat or anything,” Lenny said. “It's stress.”

  Danno knew somewhere that was bullshit, still, he wanted to believe it. “You think it's just stiffness in my back?”

  Lenny found himself getting disappointed in Danno. Lenny hated frailty in people. Especially those he wanted to emulate.

  “I feel strong, you know. In general,” Danno said, tucking his shirt tight into his trousers and holding in his stomach.

  “Muscle comes in different shapes. It's probably your big shoulders that are stopping you from getting down there quicker. You should stretch them, too.”

  Danno slowly rotated his shoulder in practice. “Yeah, fuck it. Just cause you're a big man doesn't mean you're unhealthy.”

  Ricky walked in. “We should take some time to...” Ricky waited for Danno to follow him.

  “Lenny, wait in the car,” Danno said.

  Lenny found it hard to hide his frustration. “I know what's going on.”

  Both Danno and Ricky turned to Lenny with intent.

  “Yeah?” Ricky asked. “What's that?”

  Lenny looked to Danno to step in and speak up for him. He didn't. “You're going over 'the book' to see who...”

  “Who what?” Ricky asked.

  “Who... goes over,” Lenny replied. “Who wins.”

  Ricky walked to Lenny and lit up his face with an open handed slap that knocked him off his feet and into a metal locker. “What did you say?”

  “Danno?” Lenny pleaded from the floor. “Tell him I...”

  Danno closed his 'office' door. Ricky stooped over Lenny with a closed fist. “What did you say, I asked you?”

  Lenny tried to pull himself inside the locker. “Nothing.”

  Ricky walloped Lenny again. “What?”

  Lenny tried to cover up. “Nothing. I don't know nothing.”

  Ricky pulled Lenny from the wall by his hair and dragged him to the door. He struggled and kicked, but Ricky was too strong to resist.

  “You think this isn't real?” Ricky calmly said.

  “Enough,” Danno said.

  Ricky shot Danno a look of pure disappointment.

  “Gimme a minute,” Danno said to Ricky. “You go and sort out the business and I'll find you in a second.”

  “Boss?”

  “Do it, Ricky.”

  Ricky reluctantly let go of a terrified Lenny. “You better not talk about nothing when you leave here, Lenny,” Ricky warned as he left the office.

  Lenny was physically shaking. “What the fuck was his...”

  Danno cut Lenny off immediately. “You're lucky he didn't break some bones.”

  “What...”

  “Shut up and listen, Lenny.”

  Lenny swallowed his next five sentences and wiped his eyes. Danno pulled up a seat and perched himself on the edge. “You don't know fucking anything about anything around here. I promise you that.”

  “I won't say anything.”

  Danno could feel himself getting annoyed. “There's nothing to say. Things around here and in this business are in a very tight spot at the moment...”

  “I know, boss.”

  “No, you
fucking don't. Did you learn anything in here? You're a driver. You worry about the car. That's it.”

  Lenny's silent disappointment in Danno from earlier was starting to karma its way back already.

  “I want you to go home.” Danno grabbed his jacket and forced his arms into the sleeves.

  “You're firing me?”

  “You don't smarten yourself up to this business, Lenny. You have to be broken in by someone who's inside already. That's the way things work.”

  Danno left the office.

  November 13th 1970. Florida.

  Ginny Ortiz stood at the curtain and took in the crowd noise. He wasn't happy that Danno had paid these strangers more than he was getting. All the years he worked for Danno and his father and some fucking jabroni loser was getting more than him on their first night in.

  He also wasn't confident that he could make it through the ropes. But he never missed a match in his twenty-five years. Never missed a match and never injured anyone he was working with.

  That was about to change.

  He desperately tried to slide on his right elbow pad, but his left hand was numb and trembling. He'd been this way for the last six months. Numbness, then pins and needles up and down his arm. But he always found a room or a dark corner by the curtain to steady himself and get his head right.

  Even Ginny knew that this was more than psychological now.

  Wrestlers always had to pretend that they were hurt more than they were in the ring and less than they were in the locker room. They could never be just how they were. If you asked for time off, you'd never get your spot back again. Owners hated weakness in their talent. If you don't wrestle, you don't get paid.

  Simple.

  That's why Ginny was trying to put a fucking elbow pad on his nearly dead arm. It's the only job he was ever good at, and, at fifty-one years of age, there wasn't much else he could expect to do.

  “You let me get my shit in and then you make the comeback. Kick me in the nuts cause you're the heel. Then I'm going to give you my finish for the 1-2-3. Okay?” The Folsom Nightmare said as he walked up the raw brick hallway.

  Folsom's opponent didn't answer. Ginny turned around to see Beguiling Barry Banner walking nonchalantly behind The Nightmare.

  “You hear me?” Folsom asked.

  Barry just chewed his gum and kept pace. Ginny shook the sensation from his hand and tried, despairingly, to pull his elbow pad up before they got to him.

  Folsom stopped suddenly and turned to Barry. “You better say something to me that has the words, 'yes' and 'sir' in it, or I'm going to beat your fucking ass, homo.”

  Ginny's brow was beginning to show the effects of his held breath and the frustration of his failed attempts. He wiped away the sweat with his wrist tape and began the exasperatingly simple process again.

  Barry tried to breeze his way past, but Folsom stopped him. “You know why they call me ‘The Folsom Nightmare’?”

  “No idea.”

  The Folsom Nightmare grabbed Barry by the throat. “You want me to eat your fucking cheek meat?”

  Even Ginny took a second to shake his head and laugh at that one. Barry slapped his hand away. “That made no sense.”

  “Neither does your Mother.”

  Ginny dropped his pad and kicked it under the overly long black curtain. He tried to get something flowing by continually pumping his fist down by his side.

  “You next Ginny? I thought we were up,” Folsom asked.

  Ginny shook his head. “Sorry, I thought I was.” Ginny walked past both wrestlers.

  The Folsom Nightmare could see that his stable mate was acting kind of strange. Maybe it was the ungodly heat and humidity. “This place is such a fucking dump, huh Ginny?” Folsom shouted up the hallway.

  Ginny didn't turn around or answer. He just kept walking. Folsom turned his attention back to Barry. “You better be a good worker or I'm going to lay my hands on you pretty good.”

  “How you doing?” Ricky asked Ginny as they passed in the hallway.

  “I'm good.”

  Ricky took a quick look around and leaned into Ginny. “How's your...?”

  Ginny took a second to think about it. He knew at least there was one guy he didn't have to bullshit. “Worse.”

  “You have to tell Danno.”

  Ginny kept moving to wherever it was he was going.

  November 13th 1970. Florida.

  Danno heard the whispering. The questions. The comments made in the halls when it got out that he was running in Florida. Everyone in the office acted impressed and everyone in the locker room told him that it was a stroke of genius.

  Then he left and they really said what was on their minds.

  How could he possibly know what a crowd down there wants? They wouldn't know any of the wrestlers from New York because they didn't get our TV in Florida.

  The biggest stars in Madison Square Garden would be absolute nobodies down South. That's the way the territories and the regional TV worked.

  But Danno knew. Or at least he was willing to bet he was close.

  This crowd wanted what every crowd wants. The biggest stars in the best matches. Something new and exciting.

  What he created in Florida was something that wasn't done that often in wrestling, and certainly not on purpose – this event was a home team versus the invaders.

  Wrestling just didn't have that. An owner held the contracts of everyone that was on the card, so there was never an ‘us versus them’ situation. That's why wrestling had always gone for the good guy versus the bad guy to create conflict for the spectators to get invested in.

  That's what Ali did with Foreman, McCarthy did with the Russians, and every religion since the beginning of time did with every other religion since the beginning of time.

  Danno was tired of that set up.

  All his wrestlers who questioned his thinking, and who now watched from the back, started to think he might have been right, after all.

  This night there was absolutely no need for any of that kind of build up or storyline to explain why these two wrestlers in the ring didn't like each other. They were simply from different places.

  People always hate people who aren't their people.

  The Florida wrestlers were worshipped and the New York wrestlers were hated. Even the lower card wrestlers, who usually got no reaction week to week when they worked for Proctor, were treated as heroes when they walked through that curtain for this event.

  You could smell the money in the air.

  “Where is he?” Ricky quietly asked Danno at the curtain.

  Even though this huge gamble was paying off in every way, Danno was distant and removed.

  “Boss?”

  “Huh?”

  “Where's Lenny?”

  “I need a new driver.”

  Danno turned from the curtain and lit a cigar as he walked. People who walked the other way leaned into the wall and smiled respectfully as he passed.

  Ricky followed him. “What about Ginny?”

  Danno stopped. “Ginny?”

  “Yeah, why not?”

  “'Cause he's a wrestler. Wrestlers don't drive for a living.”

  “Ginny is about as smartened up as anyone when it comes to this business. You wouldn't have to talk in rhymes all the time when you're on your way to somewhere. You could trust him with anything he hears. He'd be perfect.”

  “Is this him talking or you, Ricky?”

  Ricky thought about his next sentence. “I know what it’s like to get older in this business.”

  “And you're coming to me ‘cause you're concerned for him?”

  Ricky nodded.

  “How nice.” Danno turned and walked away. “If both of you go to a meeting, then I'll let him drive if he wants to.”

  Back in the ring, Folsom picked Barry up by the hair. The crowd dutifully fired insults and boos in his direction. Back in his own territory, Folsom was usually the good guy. He was enjoying the hatred and taking it as a job
well done.

  He covertly leaned into his opponent's ear and called for, “a kick in the nuts.”

  Barry obliged and dropped him for real. Folsom hit the mat with just about all the pain he could take. And, like most nut shots, it only got worse in the moments after.

  “What the fuck, man,” he shouted, as Barry began to stomp on his chest in the corner.

  Barry drove a hard knee into Folsom's head.

  This was what the good trainers prepared you for before they broke you into the business. A shoot. A situation where you were going to have to be able to look after yourself for real in the ring. Unfortunately, Folsom had a terrible trainer and was just trying to figure out what was happening.

  Ricky could see it from the curtain. “What's he doing?”

  The Flawless Franco walked away from the curtain without saying a word. Something wasn't right.

  Even though Barry was laying them in, Folsom continued to do his job, which was to sell the ferocity of the moves to the audience.

  There wasn't that much acting going on.

  Barry's amateur wrestling background made him a legit badass. He wrapped himself around Folsom's neck and locked his hands. Folsom tried to breathe, but he could tell, as Barry began to apply pressure, that he was blacking out quickly.

  He was right.

  The audience rose to its feet and wildly endorsed the unconscious body in the ring.

  Barry flipped Folsom over onto his stomach and made his way down to his feet.

  Ricky knew. He hadn't seen it in years, but he knew. Barry mugged for the crowd who were demanding carnage.

  “He's going to break it,” Ricky shouted down toward the dressing room before he ran as fast as he could to the ring.

  Barry dropped his knee straight down onto Folsom's heel and snapped it in half.

  Folsom screamed in agony.

  Ricky dove under the bottom rope and only managed to half connect his fist against Barry's head. The blow took Barry through the ropes and hard against the retaining railing.

  The crowd littered the ring with their trash and booed ferociously. Ricky had just ruined the best action they had ever seen in a Floridian ring. Just vicious action. And the New York wrestler was hobbled.

  It was just magnificent.

  Folsom, disorientated and in complete shock, began to try and walk. He stumbled at his first step and fell into the bottom rope. His foot was lying almost ninety degrees from his ankle. The locker room emptied and Barry ran through the crowd and stumbled past an unkempt, former boxing talent called Mickey Jack Crisp.