Excerpt: The Origin of The Pro-Wrastler Big Bad John from "My Megalomania At Midnight" © 2006, 2014
News reporter:
“Take
a look at this eye of Hurricane Katrina. If I were an artist I couldn’t draw
this any prettier.” A weatherman is very excited and it reminds me of a
barracuda on a blood trail. He’s trying hard not to smile or be amused off of
the misery of others. But hell, he can’t help but shine and why not revel in
his own moment; a moment when weather forecasters are actually taken seriously.
I see him also interviewing his peers who get to have all of the fun, right?
They can stay and play in the rain while towns’ folk are legally ordered to
evacuate. And the highways and interstates are filled up with cars moving at a
snails pace, overheating and breaking down. These roads resemble a clogged up
blood vein; industrialized city shock induced heart attack.
Excerpt: The Origin
of The Pro-Wrastler Big Bad John
Big Bad John, not to be mistaken for
the psychotic John; Big Bad John is sleeping off his aches and pains caused
from the wrastlin’ (pro-wrestling) business. His residence is a rusted out 1982
Chevrolet Van that he converted into a comfy home. Has a fold up queen sized
mattress in the back with not enough walking space around, he’s got a built in
stove, oven, microwave, and a tiny bucket he uses as a toilet. He got injured a
couple weeks ago when a power body slam went wrong it separated the muscles and
tendons in his upper shoulders. In order to save face and keep his fans
approval, his opponent The Razor and him improvised by an illegal chair shot;
therefore Big Bad John was able to retain the World Title. Yea, he could have
afforded to get a hotel room in town, or he could have recuperated at his home.
Yet, he decided to seek refuge in the back woods of Mississippi , some where off Highway 51. His
time is running short too; he’s got a wrastlin’ match in Baton Rouge Louisiana Kentucky whiskey. It’s the only thing he’s
able to do to cure his insomnia.
The
last thing in this world he needs is a skeleton coming out of his closet; an
old acquaintance asking for a favor.
The
blackness of the calm in his mind is shattered by his cellular phone tone
ringing the pro-wrestler The Macho Man Randy Savage’s “Oh Yea.” “Oh Yea.” Over
and over again “OH YEA.” His eyes open slightly as he wonders is he still
dreaming. Keeps on going over and over, “OH YEA” “OH YEA” “OH YEA” Maybe it’ll
stop. Well regardless they’ll still be on his voice mail. Probly’ some wrong
number. That’s it he’s back to slumber again with visions of the crowd chanting
his name. Such a rush, it is better than any high he’s ever had.
“OH
YEA” “OH YEA” “OH YEA” “OH YEA” This time he must be dreaming about the
wrastler Randy Savage on the microphone proclaiming of how he’s gonna’ take out
an opponent. Macho Man always gets the crowd into a frenzy by following with
body movements like pointing his fingers in a fashion that he’s leading an
orchestration “OH YEA” “OH YEA” “OH YEA” Savage with his long hair protruding
from his cow boy hat and he’s always got on the coolest outfits; like leather
jackets with countless ruffles hanging off of em’. “OH YEA” “OH YEA” “OH YEA”
over and over again. He opens his eyes slightly once again…Naw, this ain’t no
dream…It’s his cell phone. With a loud echoing belch he sits up, rubs his
injured shoulder and answers the phone, “Yea,” he answers and hastily brushes
his long greasy hair out of his eyes. The calmness is shattered by a skeleton
from his past-
-V-Chip
is calmly smoking a 120 length skinny menthol cigarette. She’s silent and
studying his reaction. Although, she knows what he’s going to do and sure
enough he does it: “Who the hell is waking me up at…at…at.” He pauses to look
at his cell phone face for the time and she knows it.
“Yea,
Rufuss this is the bitch you forgot about. I know you hoped to anyway.” She
pauses.
Damn’t
this is the last thing he needed at 1:45
a.m. What could she possibly want?
“Chip,
what’s up? It’s been a while.”
“I
need you to be at Midnight, Mississippi
in about forty one hours. You’ll know what to do.” Click…silence follows. He
knows he won’t be able to go back to sleep now. Therefore, he takes half of a
handful of the majic pills, downs three swallows of his whiskey…and before he
dozes off again he remembers of how he met Veronica. Five years ago he was
working out at a gym in a town that she was in promoting one of her man meats
(High Capper).
Fist
approached him while he was bench pressing five hundred pounds.
Asked him what he
was doing for a living. He was a free lance construction worker: doing a fix up
of a room, plumbing, house leveling, roof repair, etc. Fist invited him to meet
him at a local bar. It was a seedy biker bar. It puzzled Rufuss why he wanted
to meet in a place that didn’t take too kindly to black folk. But it was a free
beer. So what the hell, right? Of course, Fist loves a good fight, especially
against the odds. That night it was a fifteen to one scenario, at the Fallen
Angel’s Tavern. After Fist so-called accidentally bumped into a local
and caused him to spill his beer; Mr. Rednecky turned around demanding an
explanation and Fist playfully blamed it on Rufuss. And as that fellow swung a
wild right at Rufuss, Fist got in the way putting his forehead forward. Heard
the crack as his two knuckles went up into his hand. Then, of course, his
buddies joined the dance. Rufuss and Fist fought em’ off; afterwards Rufuss
just figured that Fist was a crazy ass black man. What Rufuss didn’t know was
that Fist was recruiting him to be a part of Veronica’s security staff.
Thirty minutes later, Rufuss’s life
was changed forever. Months later while he was working a well known
professional wrestling promoter approached him and the rest is…I’ll call it
Neanderthal Ballet History. When he left, Chip told him that one day she’d call
on him for a favor.http://www.amazon.com/Megalomania-Mississippi-Fantasies-Disasters-Hurricane-ebook/dp/B00CTD2NNI
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