Ugly As Sin

by James Newman

  Nick thought about it for maybe half a second, then shot the old man in the chest.

  Balfour arched his back as if he were merely straining to let out a dusty old-man fart. Then his body went slack. His chin touched his chest. He died without another sound.

  Sophie wrapped her arms around Nick from behind. He flinched.

  Nick held her in one arm, while his other hand went to his thigh. Blood spurted out of the wound, through his fingers. He staggered, crashed into the wall, but somehow stayed on his feet.

  “Are you okay?” she asked him.

  “I’ll be okay,” he said, although he wasn’t entirely sure yet. “Do you know your way around this place?”

  “A little,” she replied. “But it’s really big. They hardly ever let me out of my room.”

  “That’s fine. I don’t even know where we are.” He nodded toward Jeremy’s corpse. “He has a cellphone in his jacket. I’m gonna use it to call 911. They’ll be able to find us.”

  He limped over to the dead man, started searching for the phone. Sophie held onto his shirttail the whole way, as if she would never let him out of her sight.

  “By the way,” she said, “it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Grandpa.”

  In spite of the pain in his thigh, a crooked grin stretched across Nick’s disfigured face.

  “Better late than never, right? It’s a pleasure to meet you too, sweetheart.”

  One month later...

  After it was over, and the Polk County Sheriff’s Department had concluded its investigation, the funeral home placed notices in several newspapers, searching for family to claim Leon Purdy’s remains. Their efforts were futile. He would soon be cremated, and his ashes buried in a local Potter’s Field.

  That didn’t sit well with the man once known as the Widowmaker. His number one fan deserved better.

  †

  He closed out all of his bank accounts, which proved more depressing than anything. But every little bit would help.

  When that was done, he headed across town to the auto shop where his Bronco had been sitting since its release from police custody.

  †

  The mechanic was a broad-shouldered fellow in his mid-sixties with a purple birthmark over half his face. EZRA, read the name on his filthy coveralls.

  “You’re the wrestler, ain’tcha? Me and my wife, God rest her soul, we used to watch you all the time. What can I do you for, Mr. Bullman?”

  “I’m here for the Bronco,” said Nick. “What’s the damage?”

  “Afraid it’s gonna cost you more to fix her up than she’s worth. You’re lookin’ at a whole new engine block, for starters.”

  “Shit,” said Nick.

  “You got other options.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I could buy her off of you, for parts. Few hundred bucks is all I could do. But it’s better than nothin’.”

  “What the hell. Let’s do it.”

  †

  “How may I help you today?” asked the funeral director, a chubby young man with fiery red hair.

  “I’m here for Leon Purdy. I’d like to buy him a plot. And a nice stone.”

  “I can certainly take care of that for you. Let’s talk about what you would like engraved upon his marker. This will serve your friend’s memory well, sir.”

  “Great,” said Nick.

  He pulled out his wallet.

  When that was done, he took a few minutes to visit Melissa’s mama’s grave. He laid down the bouquet of daffodils he had brought, but he didn’t say anything. He just stood there in solemn meditation, leaning on his cane, in the cool late-summer drizzle.

  †

  Nick shook Sheriff Mackey’s hand, thanked him for the ride. The two men had actually started to become good friends these last few weeks.

  He dabbed at his leaking right eye, adjusted his sunglasses before carefully climbing out of the patrol car.

  The sheriff pulled away from the curb with a brief bloop-whoop of his siren.

  Thirty seconds later, they caught him walking through the front door of the Polk County Rec Center, attacked Nick Bullman before the door had closed all the way behind him...

  †

  Like vultures descending upon carrion prey, they surrounded him. Their numbers overwhelmed him.

  They thrust their Sharpies at him along with dog-eared copies of old wrestling zines, faded pin-ups, and out-of-print VHS covers. The group consisted of four boys no older than ten or eleven; a lanky teenage guy with terrible acne, and an obese middle-aged couple wearing matching THE WIDOWMAKER ATE MY SOUL!!! T-shirts.

  Nick felt a twinge of claustrophobia as they invaded his personal space. But he signed what they shoved in front of him. He asked the teenager with bad acne where in the world had he found an unopened, mint-condition ’Maker action figure (the original one with the inverted-cross makeup that had quickly been discontinued). The youth stuttered something about “sniping on ebay.” Nick didn’t have a clue what that meant, but he was humbled nonetheless.

  He remembered a time when he had loved every second of this. Realized he still dug it quite a bit. It had been years since anyone wanted to approach him, or since he wanted to be approached.

  He thanked them all for coming out. Promised he would chat some more with every single one of them, once he got settled in.

  He hobbled toward the gymnasium, where a number of folding tables and chairs had been set up for today’s event. A giant banner hung along one wall, featuring a sloppy photo collage of five sweaty wrestlers flexing and snarling in colorful spandex. Each was a performer that had been at the top of the wrestling hierarchy once upon a time. But, whether thanks to the fickleness of fans eternally obsessed with the “next big thing” or due to their own bad decisions, most of them had not appeared on TV for the better part of a decade.

  TODAY ONLY: MEET YOUR FAVORITE WRESTLING LEGENDS!

  BIG JIM BROGAN, JR.

  NICK “THE WIDOWMACKER” BULLMEN

  PAUL “BLACK SAMSON” SHERMAN

  TEDDY “THE BEAR” GORGINO

  SLICK RICK MONAVIE

  4:30–6:30 PM

  (* see celebs for pricing/merchandise *)

  Nick didn’t mind that they had grossly misspelled his name. He barely even noticed, in fact.

  He bent to clear the doorway, and as he entered the gym he removed his dark glasses, searching for the two people who had recently stolen his heart.

  He spotted them on the opposite side of the gym, standing beneath a folded-up basketball goal. Melissa and Sophie waved at him. The teen hopped up and down like a child half her age, as if she couldn’t wait to throw her arms around him. She wore black track-pants that matched his own and a purple T-shirt sporting the Widowmaker’s old logo. Nick smiled crookedly. He was glad to see that she had put on a few pounds over the last few days, and gained some color back in her face. Soon she would look no different from any normal fourteen-year-old, one who hadn’t recently suffered a terrifying ordeal.

  He made his way through the crowd. Embraced them both.

  “How are my two favorite ladies? Love the shirt, Soph.”

  His granddaughter beamed up at him.

  “You look a little nervous,” said Melissa.

  “I didn’t think that was possible. I make other people nervous, remember?” He bared his teeth, growled like a B-movie monster.

  His daughter slapped him lightly on the arm.

  “Been a long time since I’ve done something like this,” he said. “But it’s cool.”

  “It’s very cool,” said Sophie, unable to take her eyes off of him.

  “What about you, kiddo? How are you holding up?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “It gets easier every day.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “It does.”

  He pulled her close, kissed the top of her head.

  They had spent a lot of time together in the weeks since Nick rescued his granddaughter from Hiram Balfour’s insanity. He had lea
rned so much about her, and he couldn’t wait to learn even more. Perhaps the thing that blew his mind the most was when Sophie told him that she had tried to contact him on more than one occasion over the last couple of years. She had used his old e-mail address as well as a “snail mail addy” she’d found when she “Googled” him, but eventually she had given up when her letters bounced back as undeliverable or she got no response at all. She told him over a picnic lunch in Washington Park that she wanted to be a journalist, and it was her dream to one day write a book about the Global Wrestling Association’s most infamous monster heel.

  She loved cheesy horror movies, the poetry of Carl Sandburg, coffee ice cream, Family Guy, Minecraft, and loud rock n’ roll (not to mention “some of those classic blues guys,” which made her granddad adore her even more). And lasagna. The kid really loved lasagna.

  The previous weekend they had gone to see the new Batman flick, and Nick couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun. But today, here at the rec center, marked the first time he had seen Melissa or Sophie since their trip to the movies. He had been very busy the past few days. Not in the same way he had been “too busy” for his daughter when she was growing up—this time, the things that preoccupied Nick were investments in their future. A future together...

  For the first time in over thirty years, Nick was once again a citizen of Midnight, North Carolina. He had signed a twelve-month lease on a doublewide in a quiet mobile home park not far from Melissa’s apartment. He had even found a job here. Turned out one of his favorite places in the world when he was a kid, Annie’s Country Diner, was in dire need of a third-shift short-order cook. He was slow right now, hobbling around on his cane, but so was business at that time of night. He didn’t need to run races, his employer assured him, as long as he could whip up a mean double cheeseburger with a side of chili-and-cheese fries.

  More fans were filing into the rec center now, although the event wasn’t scheduled to begin for another forty minutes. It was here, Sheriff Mackey had informed Nick, that hundreds of volunteers had set up a temporary call-center in the first few days following Sophie’s disappearance. As he walked through the gym, Nick passed an old MISSING poster taped to the wall. He tore it down, crumpled it into a ball and tossed it at a nearby wastebasket. It felt good, even though he missed by a mile.

  Beyond the throng Nick glimpsed a group of muscle-bound men entering the building, towering over everyone else. He recognized their faces right away even though he hadn’t seen them in years. One, a Native American fellow Nick had known since he was Melissa’s age, threw up a giant hand when their eyes met across the gym. Nick returned the gesture. Soon they would all exchange hugs and firm handshakes. He looked forward to catching up with his old friends, maybe trading a few war stories.

  Most importantly, he looked forward to introducing them to his family. It had been a long time coming.

  A lady in a loud yellow pantsuit hurried into the gym then, her heels click-clacking on the hardwood floor. A frazzled-looking cameraman followed in her wake, nearly tripping over his own feet as he tried to keep up with her. NEWS 13, read the logo on the side of his camera.

  They made a beeline for Nick.

  “Here we go again,” said Sophie. “My granddad, the rock star...”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Nick. “They probably want to talk to you.”

  But then he closed his eyes, tilted his head back, played a few furious licks on his cane as if it were an electric guitar.

  Sophie’s giggles echoed through the gym.

  He could feel everyone in the room staring at him. Just like always.

  But these days Nick Bullman didn’t mind at all.

  JAMES NEWMAN is the author of the novels Midnight Rain, The Wicked, and Animosity, the short-story collection People Are Strange, and the novellas The Forum, Revenge Flick! and Olden. He lives in the mountains of North Carolina with his wife and their two sons.

  Catch up with James online at http://www.james-newman.com.

  WARNING!

  The following Q&A contains major spoilers for Ugly As Sin. If you skipped to this part before reading the novel, the author strongly suggests you turn back now. So does the interviewee...and you wouldn’t want to argue with the Widowmaker, would you?

  Once upon a time, he was the skull-faced fiend everyone loved to hate. As the Global Wrestling Association’s reviled “Widowmaker,” he inflicted maximum pain upon his opponents just because he liked hurting others. Even death could not keep him down; he fought the Grim Reaper and won (in fact, die-hard fans will recall that the Reaper suffered not only broken bones but humiliation in front of millions following the encounter, when he was disrobed on live television). His legendary feuds with Big Bubba Bad-Ass brought ratings to the GWA the likes of which the franchise had never seen before. He is a six-time Hardcore Champion, a six-time International Champion, and a six-time World Heavyweight Champion (put those numbers together, and they make perfect sense...after all, we are talking about the self-proclaimed “Son of Eternal Darkness”, who once sold his soul to keep winning matches).

  But what about the real Nick Bullman?

  I’ve known Nick for almost twenty years now. The first time I met him, we sat side-by-side, signing autographs at a popular horror convention in New Jersey (Nick had recently starred in the slasher flick Night of the Berzerker, and my novelization of the same was hot off the press). The thing I recall most vividly about that day is how small I felt, sitting there in his shadow, as if the big man blocked out the sun itself. His deep voice was intimidating at first, like the rumbling growl of a beast when it’s backed into a corner. But I found him to be personable, if a bit reserved.

  Back then, I was glad he wasn’t my enemy. These days, I am proud to call him my friend.

  I’m here to tell you that Nick Bullman is so much more than the sadistic persona he portrayed for three decades. He is anything but a monster (although, in his self-deprecating way, he is quick to insist that he looks like one). He is a father. A grandfather. He is a man who has known his share of pain—real pain—after an encounter with two psychotic fans left him disfigured. But in the end his trials have made him a better person.

  You’ve heard all the clichés: “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” “It’s what’s on the inside that counts.”

  Not too long ago, it would have been ground glass in the eyes of the beholder. What’s on the inside would have been outside (of his enemies’ bodies). Thanks to the Widowmaker.

  People can change, though. Nick Bullman is living proof of that.

  But don’t take my word for it...

  §

  Andrew Holland: How are you, Nick?

  Nick Bullman: I’m good, Andy.

  AH: Your granddaughter is home safe and sound, and it’s all because of you. How does that feel?

  NB: You wanna know the truth, I’m still adjusting to the news that I’m a grandfather. Even after everything that happened, I’m having a hell of a time wrapping my head around it. It doesn’t feel real, I guess ‘cause I never had time to let it sink in before things got crazy with the Charlies, Jeremy and Little Sister, and that sick old bastard Balfour.

  As for all this “hero” crap the press has been throwing around...whatever, man. I did what I had to do, when Melissa needed me. For once in my life, I decided it was time to nut up and act like a father.

  AH: How are Melissa and Sophie holding up?

  NB: Both of them are still having nightmares. Melissa says she dreams at least twice a week that Sophie’s gone missing again, and the kid keeps waking up in the middle of the night thinking she sees Little Sister standing over her, or Balfour’s face staring through her bedroom window. We’re all just taking it day by day. Sophie’s seeing a therapist. I think that’s helped her a lot.

  AH: And yourself? What are you up to these days, Nick?

  NB: I’m just trying to spend as much time with my girls as possible. Got a job flipping burgers down at Annie�
�s Country Diner. It’s boring as shit, but it pays the bills. And who says boring has to be a bad thing? Better than waking up in the middle of the night with a gun in your face, or getting a needle full of horse tranquilizer jabbed into your neck.

  AH: After thirty-plus years in show business, traveling all over the world, what’s left to do that Nick Bullman hasn’t done already?

  NB: Like I said, all I wanna do from here on out is keep learning how to be a good father. I’ve got thirty years to make up for. It won’t be easy, but I’m gonna try my best. I’m in this for the long haul, man.

  AH: What do you miss most about professional wrestling? The least?

  NB: There was nothing in the world like the roar of the crowd. Heel or babyface [ed. wrestling jargon for “bad guy” or ”good guy,” respectively], it didn’t matter. The pop [ed. emphatic audience reaction] was like a drug. I dreamed of being a superstar ever since I was a kid. I achieved that dream. I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss it now and then.

  I don’t miss what the Biz does to your body over time. You can’t put flesh and bone through hell like that, every night for thirty years, without causing permanent damage. When we’re young and dumb we think we’re invincible. On rainy days this bum knee of mine hurts so bad I wanna chop off my whole damn leg and be done with it.

  AH: I’ve heard rumors of a bio-pic. What’s up with that? And who would get your vote to play “The Widowmaker” on the silver screen?

  NB: I’ve been contacted [about it] more than once. Who knows. Call me a whore, but I wouldn’t turn them away if the money was right. I could use a new truck. The last one had to be put out of its misery.