Chuck always ends up waxing poetic around his trainees.
About how professional wrestling is a dance—a violent choreography of chokeholds and suplexes, timed to the tune of their bookers' plotlines. How each beautiful sequence could lead them to immortality, but a single misstep could mean expulsion, or a broken spine.
It was a turbulent tango, and it only took one to ruin it.
Which that damn kid Bruno was trying his best to do. On his very first match on live television, too.
"Jump!" Chuck hissed at the rookie tucked between his legs, too heavy for him to lift. "We're doing a powerbomb, damnit. Jump!"
Bruno, the inevitable star of the night—and of the business—refused to jump.
He's acting the part already, Chuck thought, filling with disdain.
The kid did have it all, though: the look, the walk, the talk. Most of all, he was an Olympian, and in a sport thirsting for mainstream attention, everyone had already crowned him "The Hope."
And Chuck, among the oldest and the very best, had been given the honor of doing his job as Bruno's very first victim.
The kid was aware of that, of course, hence his refusal to be powerbombed, suplexed, or even just to go along with anything that would make him look any less of a star.
Chuck gritted his teeth. Fine.
"Back body drop," he relented. "Then clothesline."
That got the rookie moving. Chuck helped out with a slight hop, then found himself way up high in the air and tossed backward like an unwanted blanket.
He crashed into the mat and screamed in pain.
"Oh my god!"
"Wow!"
"How did he do that?!"
"This is awesome!"
Chuck always relished those first few seconds of the crowd's amazement, before reminding himself that they were not marveling at him. His graceful flight, the booming impact, his riveting agony — they were the constant brilliance of whoever he faced, and tonight, that happened to be Bruno.
Chuck was the blood of the industry, but never its face.
Groggily, he stood back up, anticipating the clothesline he'd called for. Bruno charged with it — full speed, stiff arm, and ill intent.
A whack on the jaw and Chuck immediately passed out.
Not his first time, of course. When you worked with beginners, you worked with botches. And jobbers tended to get beaten up by both.
He stirred back to life slumped atop Bruno's massive shoulders. The audience howled their approval from every direction, cheering for the young stud.
"What are we doing now?" Chuck whispered.
"My finisher," Bruno whispered back. "You botched and fainted, so the ref said we gotta end the match soon."
The next blow hurt much worse.
Earlier, they'd promised Chuck ten minutes of defiance as a proud veteran of the ring, culminating in an honorable loss to the hope of the industry. But now he was just going to get squashed like a bug by someone who already thought of him as such.
Then he would be looking up at the bright lights—flat on his back and feigning defeat—drowning in the fanfare for the newest star he guided to impressively put him down there.
Just another night in the career of the best jobber in the business.
Chuck sighed . . . and dug his fingers into the rookie's eyes.
Bruno yelped in pain as Chuck slithered out of his grasp, knocking him to the canvas. The referee turned pale in horror at their unrehearsed dance.
Chuck didn't wait. He snatched one of Bruno's ankles and bent it out of shape.
Violently.
The rookie screamed like a goat for a full second before desperately tapping the mat.
Gasps echoed throughout the arena. It was a squash.
The referee hurried to disentangle the prized rookie from the veteran's clutches—the same veteran whose arm he should have been raising in victory.
Chuck didn't mind. He climbed one corner of the ring and did it himself, basking in his own glory. Some in the audience cheered for him back, but most sat still—stunned that the biggest loser on the roster had finally won a big match so decisively.
It would be his last win, Chuck knew. He'd ruined the tango, and as soon as he returned backstage, he expected to be fired.
He roared at the bright lights he knew he might never see again.
Tonight at least, it was worth it.
###