The champion entered the ring, his trainer whispering last-minute instructions. I was in the opposite corner, awaiting the championship match that would decide my place. Second best, or first claim to fame. My coach was Henry Loxard, a good man, and one of the best trainers in this profession. The greatest one, of course, was with Nick “Viper” Williams, Fangs of Steel, the current champion. Me, I was Lionel Pierce, aka The Spartan Lion. Yeah, fans will do anything to make their favorite guy sound even tougher, better, stronger. Too bad that didn’t happen to me. I was already that rough and more. The starting bell rang.
“In this corner, weighing in at 159 pounds, The Spaaartan Lion! He once endured 17 bouts in a row with five other wrestlers and finished at the top of the heap! That’s right, he’s that tough. Give it up for The Spartan Lion, folks!” As soon as the applause died down, the announcer continued, “And in that corner, weighing in at 162 pounds, Faaaangs of Steel! This strong guy’s deadly finisher, Grater Fang, has made dozens suffer from major head injuries. As a result, he’s champion! That’s correct, folks, Viper’s teeth is his signature weapon. Now let me hear some noise!” The crowd was pumped up, I was ready to go, and Viper just grinned a killer’s smile at me.
“Now, don’t let him psyche you out. You are good, and everybody here knows it. Watch out for his teeth and left fist. Get out there, and make me proud!” Wiping my shiny forehead with a towel, Henry stuffed the plastic teeth brace into my moist mouth, and shoved me into the center of the bright lights. The bell rang again.
“Now, I want to see clean fighting, you understand? Now, go!” The referee jogged away, leaving us two on the red mat.
We circled slowly, like two sharks around a helpless dolphin- in this case, the championship belt. As I threw out a right hook, Viper dodged, attempting a fancy European uppercut that glanced off my jaw. Blocking the next blow, I slapped his ear, then elbow-dropped his abs into Painville. Somebody in the front row passed me up a metal folding chair, the kind that makes people bleed if you strike them nice and hard with it. You know, that kind of chair.
Despite dealing the devastating blow to my opponent’s chest, he somehow summoned up the strength to stand up and fight, giving me the old one-two, then spun off another left uppercut, this time to my nose. Viper knew that I was slightly woozy, and pressed that position into his signature move.
“Oh, what’s this? Viper looks like he’s going to use his finisher, Grater Fang, on the Lion! The Spartan Lion is being pinned down!” Excitedly, the announcers shouted into their mikes, giving a rapid-fire commentary on the championship, reporting hit by hit, strike by strike.
Holding me down with a roll-up pin, Viper reared his ugly head (literally) and slammed his chin down to where my head was supposed to be. Except it wasn’t there, as I had dodged and rolled away and was now mounting old “Steel Fangs” on my back. I fell. Backwards, I mean, crushing Viper with my one of my trademarks, a modified Samoan Drop. Man, did I crush him. Following up with a light lariat, I pursued my advantage as Viper fell out of the ring. I tagged along, looking for a suitable table I could slam his face on as the referee slowly counted to ten.
Recovering quickly, Viper gripped me, trying to body slam me on the ring stepladders. Grappling with him, I forced his face down on the stepladder as I clambered back into the ring in the nick of time.
“Nine! Ten!” Viper is disqualified from the match! The Spartan Lion wins!” the referee called out. Still panting, I made my way back to my corner where awaiting me was the broad and beaming face of my trainer, a small Ziploc bag of ice, and a glorious dry towel monogrammed with my own initials. The formal award ceremony was later today. For now I rested, sitting down…only to stand up again to receive the coveted black and golden belt of champions.
In the other corner, Viper scowled deeply, his features a mask for the smile that lay hidden. “You may have won this time, Lionel,” he snarled, the whole crowd falling silent, “but remember this. Disqualification holds no honor for the victor. I have lost nothing! You forget wrestling is a gentlemanly sport! I knew and I played it like so. You have won nothing but shame!” With that loud outburst, Viper gestured to his crew and stalked out of the ring.
For a few minutes, the spectators were hushed, whispering among themselves as the shock wore off. I relaxed, knowing that all of what Viper had said was untrue. He was just sticking to the script, plus disqualification was something of a disgrace in the wrestling world, but only for the loser, as it was very rare for any professional wrestler to be caught off guard out of the ring during a match…especially championships.
