The young man with the flowing red locks tells the crowd to shut up, because he's trying to wrestle. It's not a great attempt, but it establishes his heel-ness, and in truth, this group, still "trainees," perform some of the more impressive athletic moves of the show. Three heels fight three heroes, one of them a female and obviously popular with this crowd. She wears a superhero/beach volleyball looking outfit. Her man and kids are in the audience, cheering along. She hugs them at intermission.

A week ago Saturday, I was attending Smash Wrestling with a friend who'd come up from Detroit. I won the tickets in a charity auction, and I know one of the wrestlers. He's a librarian the rest of the time, but he plays a Canadian small town Redneck here, and he's a hit with the crowd. His American opponent, more polished than the first-rounders, tells us Canadian hicks to be quiet, with dismissive references to national stereotypes. The crowd loves it. He's the second-best villain of the night, after the self-centered Bad White Rapper wrestler.

At one point, someone asks an "official" for a rules clarification. We crack up, trying to figure out what the rules of this would be, if it actually were a legitimate athletic competition. What regulations govern continuing the fight outside the ring? Leaping from atop ropes to crush opponents' throats?

Some things don't translate well to close-up. It's painfully clear the punches are stage-punches. People occasionally get caught in the ropes when they should not be caught at all, or hover when they could attack, because they have to wait until everyone's in place for whatever acrobatic shenanigans they've planned. I don't have "The Fight Network," but I hope we got in some of the crowd footage. It was fun.

Two days later I was waking with chills and sweats.

I'm impressed by this respiratory infection. It's gone that extra mile to make me miserable with a myriad of symptoms, headache one night and tinnitus the next. I'm mostly better, but I've had to slog on through work, missing only part of Friday. I'm too busy, and I cannot take a break until next week. As it is, I had to miss the latest tribute to the late Roy McDonald, held in the park, in the rain.

My wife made it. They've held a few these last months, and a few more remain, all in places Roy frequented.

The frequent waking caused by my illness means I recall more dreams, though they usually fade by morning:

George Bernard Shaw lives in suburbia with a harried 1950s housewife, who hustles to get her house clean. To be fair, it's fallen into a shocking state of disrepair. He watches her through the cracks in the attic floor as he tries to figure out what to do with his collection of mail-order novelties. He doesn't want them discovered, but the world encroaches. There's a persistent grad student about. She's doing a thesis on "variant text and speech" in Shaw's works. She's hard to shake. And then there's the mysterious figure next door who appears only in silhouette, by whom Shaw does not want to be seen at all.

Wake up. Since I'm consuming a ridiculous amount of fluids, I have to use the washroom. Return to bed.

I'm heading down the road on a kind of semi-enclosed motorcycle that disguises both my real identity and my alternate one as a masked vigilante. I hit 70 before I see the police ahead, and have to decide what to do.

In one reality, I slow down in time.

In the other, I cruise past them. They give chase, but I press a button, which makes impossibly long (and, apparently, wooden) wings appear from the sides. I take flight and escape.

I land at a house (apparently not tracked. The dream police are idiots). The occupants include a mother of two and her eldest daughter's best friend. There may be others. Mom, who looks a little like Holly Hunter, uses the chaos of her house and cultural stereotypes of single mothers to conceal the fact that she's actually the genius head of some vast superhero-guiding organization. She's evidently about to assign me my next mission.

I had hoped to turn something into Brevity Quest every other day, but my job and my illness have slowed me down. No matter. I must remember this is an artificial fight. We set the goals and invent the rules, and the outcome is incidental, so long as we've been entertained and entertaining.

I have known a lot of mental patients in my time as I seen a lot of them up in the woods wandering around to and fro.

Recently my small business group has been taking off an raking in the profits. As you may recall, I beat the absolute living shit out of sick and elderly (linked in case you don't know what the word means which is how links were explained to me in the 1970s when America was great before) people outside of pharmacies. We resell their ill-gotten pharmaceuticals on the street for profit.

So since that is all what is called "a given" we will progress to the thrust of the article. The thrust is trust my friends. The thrust is trust.

I have been taking music lessons for the past month and I am now the most amazing guitarist (linked for your convenience) you have ever seen. I am just that good. Doubt me at your own peril liberal scum. I have barnacles larger than your testicles you blowhard. Suck this one. What I have been doing with these music lessons other than learning music and becoming greatest guitar player since Richard Benjamin is composing my own music. My first composition is entitled "My Wretched Homeboy from West Virginia" (the state not the county).

This song has a rich history. It tells the tale of a awful person who lives in West Virginia who somehow makes friends with someone who isn't liberal pond scum. As the plunger is worked up his ass he learns important lessons about humility and degredation that will teach him respect.

My wretched homeboy

From West Virginia

So wretched is my homeboy

Keeps me wretched as well

Stains me with his tobaccy

I put a gun in his mouth

Blew the wretched motherfucker away

Now, I know there are bad words used here and that is okay because of something called artistic license which was invented by Frank Sinatra. Unlike most musicians who are noted booger eaters, Old Blue Eyes was a dignified man who wouldn't be caught dead eating halibut with the poor. I wrote this song in the style of noted 1950s lip syncher Tom Waits who you may have heard of if you study music history and artistic license. You can learn much from different sources when you look into different things. It is common sense to do so but liberal to just sit in a room chewing on your socks waiting for your goddamned government check to arrive you so can buy more pathetic blocks of cheese to trade with your neighbors. Filth.

I took over my neighbor's house the other day through the use of eminient domain which allows you to go onto a neighbor's property, threaten them with a gun, and force them to leave. In doing so you take over all rights over their property and if they have any family you can use them as you please. Once the man is out of the way, the rest of the family is just cattle anyway. Only the man matters in a family.

My wretched homeboy

From down old West Virginia way

Eating honeysuckle and mountain dew

Wishing his life away

Beat some sense into him one day

With my closed fists and swollen knuckles

I am going to be playing some small venues just to get my sea legs before embarking on a multiple continent area tour where I will be playing in front of the great monarchs of Europe dating back to Catherine the Great and Ebeneser Schlossinger. Dates to be announced. Show up.

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