It was depressing, to understate. I was a sad
pro wrestler, past my prime a la
Jake "the Snake" Roberts, desperately wanting out of the biz but not having enough to retire and with
no other marketable skills to get a job doing anything else.
And I was wrestling a giant man with a shaved head who had once been a Joe, a piping contractor or house painter or something like that and he was now a WRESTLER, and it was what he wanted to be more than anything in the world
and because he reminded me of my shattered dreams I was trying to destroy him more than anything else, piledrivers and backbreakers but the moves weren't working; the ropes were too springy, the floor too bouncy, myself incapable of bringing myself to inflict real pain on anything, I lowered his torso to my knee rather than slamming it down.
Though he had passion for his craft, because I was a named performer, I won the match, holding my fist up in triumph for the packed stadium.
Then I went backstage and threw up so hard the convulsions caused me to shit my spangled wrestler underwear, waking up with dry heaves.
in our last episode... | p_i-logs | and then, all of a sudden...