WHTC Recording Studio
Newark, New Jersey,
October, 1985

"Good evening, Mongoloids, this is the one and only Terry 'The Talk' Takowski, and I'm standing here with the man, the myth, the living legend himself, 'Handsome' Jack Ransome!"

"Ohhhhh baby, pinch yourself all you want, you ain't dreamin'! Handsome Jack is here!"

"Now, Mr. Ransome-- Jack, if I may-- I understand you're going to be taking some time off due to an unexpected injury. For those of you just tuning in, the leader of the Fortunate Four and the self-proclaimed Dirtiest Mind in the Business was attacked by a quartet of ex-Marines outside a night club in Atlantic City this past weekend, resulting in a torn quadricep."

"That's right, daddy, but you should've seen what I did to them! Now, Handsome Jack is gonna be on the bench for some time, and I can already hear the buzzards circling overhead, CAW-CAWWW! Every low-life, every Johnny-come-lately, every two-bit wannabe in the WWA locker room is already jockeying for position, trying to take my spot at the top of the heap. Everyone thinks that now that the Big Man is on the bench, they're gonna step up and replace me. But like every woman I've ever been with knows after going back to their low-class, work-a-day husbands: there ain't no replacing this smile, no replacing my style! I'm putting everyone in the Dubya-Dubya-A on notice: fight for the throne all you want, you're just keeping the seat warm for me, baby!"

"There you have it, Mongoloids, Handsome Jack may be down, but the King of Rings isn't out! In the meantime, who's going to step up to try and fill the void? Find out on the next episode of Monday Night Mayhem, coming to you live from the Brendan Byrne Arena, part of the Meadowlands Sports Complex in East Rutherford! Tickets available now, call the number at the bottom of your screen, and don't forget to tell 'em that Terry The Talk sent ya!"

"Aaaaaaand we're out."

"....we're clear?"

"Yeah, Sonny, we're clear."

*CRASSSSHHHHH!*

The sound of the small aluminum trash can being hurled against the wall resounded through the cramped studio, garbage flying out and spilling onto the floor.

"God damn it!" Sal 'Sonny' D'Angelo shouted, fuming as he paced across the room. "How the fuck are we supposed to fill up the Garden without our star act?"

"Look, Sonny, I'm real sorry about--"

"Shut the fuck up, Jack, I don't even wanna look at you right now," Sonny cut him off. "We've got ten weeks til Slam-A-Rama, ten weeks until the biggest card in the history of wrestling. And now I don't have a main event! And why is that? Because someone got high off their ass and tried to jump off the roof of their house, and got snagged on a railing on the way down! You're lucky I came up with that 'ambushed by a bunch of ex-Marines' shit; if people knew what really happened, you wouldn't be able to draw a dime again."

'Handsome' Jack Ransome, his body chiseled like a Michelangelo sculpture, dressed in an opulent rhinestone-and-sequined robe, his hair perfectly feathered platinum blonde, seemed all of three feet tall as the pudgy balding man berated him. Still holding the camera, his production assistant Seymour Schmidt did everything he could to blend into the background; he knew that when Sonny got into these moods, it was more than likely he would take out his anger on him.

"And Seymour!" Sonny turned, glaring at his scrawny cohort, "Would it kill you to hold the goddamn camera still?! We're shooting a wrestling show here, not filming the goddamn Sasquatch."

Seymour nodded meekly, avoiding eye contact to avoid invoking Sonny's wrath even further.

"Useless," He muttered, grumbling to himself and fumbling around his pockets for his cigarettes as he stormed out of the room.

Leaving a trail of cigarette smoke and obscenities behind him, Sonny D'Angelo marched with terrible purpose from the recording studio to the green room, where a dozen or so hulking brutes in colorful spandex costumes were waiting for him. In the back of his head, Sonny heard one of his older brothers cracking wise, saying this was the sort of thing he'd fantasize about, then dismissed it. His brothers were all scum, gangsters and killers.

Sonny? He was a showman. And as always, the show must go on.

"Gentlemen," he said, gesturing grandly and making a poor attempt to cover his seething anger, "Do you hear that?"

After a few seconds of silence, he made a fist and rapped hit three times, slowly and deliberately, against the green room door.

"That," he began, "is the sound of Opportunity knocking. As you all know, Handsome Jack got himself hurt. That means our top act is going to miss the super-card in the Garden. That means one of you is gonna be our new top act! We've got ten weeks to put on the biggest goddamn show the world's ever seen, and I'm keeping my eye out for our new star. So! Mayhem, this Monday in the Meadowlands. Here's what I'm thinking......."

D'Angelo charged over to the chalkboard displaying the station's recording schedule for the day, and hastily wiped it all away with his hand. Grabbing a piece of chalk, he started to scrawl out the card for the upcoming show:



"The studio's open the rest of the day to cut promos, so work it out amongst yourselves for camera-time. We're also gonna be runnin' some house shows in the Catskills this week to promote the show, so make sure you stay nice an' limber and don't do nothin' stupid to get yourselves hurt. If you don't see your name on the card, gimme somethin' on the mic or in the ring that makes me wanna add you to the show. Now have at it; I'm gonna go have another smoke."

With that, Sonny flicked the butt of his cigarette into a waste bin in the corner, then immediately produced a new one and lit it as he left the room.

Instantly delighted, Billy had to lean back in his chair and touch his fist to his mouth, biting down hard to suppress the shit-eating grin that was threatening to earn him the ire of his boss. This was an opportunity that had just fallen into their laps on a silver platter. How often did the main event of Madison Square get tossed up in the air and get declared a free-for-all? He knew of one or two back on the indie circuit who would have literally killed for this kind of opportunity. Both were Mexican luchas. That wasn't racist, right? Some of his best friends were luchadors.

When the door closed at last, the lazy-eyed rocker glanced to his left at the big Irishman. "Damn, Red... this is gonna be too easy. You want the main event too?"

"Who doesn't?" Reddy had always gotten along well with Billy, they'd worked some great matches in the past. Standing, they both waved to the rest of the wrestlers and exited, heading for Billy's favorite brainstorming spot, the bleachers above the practice ring. Sitting down with a grunt, they both surveyed their kingdom in contented silence for a minute before getting down to business.

"Ok, so we've got ten weeks," Billy began. "You're one of the best heels on the roster, storywise. Everyone likes seeing Ivan lose the big one. But you're a hundred pounds bigger than me, so you're going to have no problem kicking me around. Honestly? As it stands, I want to start something now that will take us all ten weeks to the Garden. You and me, East versus West, it'll be gold."

The Irishman nodded. "I'd like to see that too. Ok, we aim big. What's the worst that can happen? Sonny pulls the plug and we've just wasted three weeks, regardless of what we've done up till then."

"That's the spirit," Billy grinned. "I need to hide a mini-fridge up here. Beer is always good for the brain."

Putting his feet up, Reddy considered the ring. "Mmmm.... how do you want to do this? Reckon I should kick a flag or something?"

Billy grimaced, and shook his head. "Too soon, man, too soon. We have to build up to it. No, and here's the thing... I think I should win his one. Wait, wait, hear me out. See, we want to make it personal, yeah? Generic USA vs. Russia has been done a thousand times. I want you to have a better reason to hate on me than just 'me big fat Russian, squash American!'. If I beat you in the first match, we give Sonny a sneak peek of the Garden match, and we give you a reason to hate on me."

"Can't we just wrestle?" Reddy half-joked. He'd never been one for the storylines, Billy remembered. "They'll cheer regardless of the complex shit. I cheap shot you for the win, then someone comes out of the back and clobbers me. I look dirty, you look strong, everyone's happy."

"You got no soul, man," Billy chided. "You got everyone else's soul rattling around in there and none of your own, you soul-snatching sonofa--"

"That's gingers!" Red shoved him, laughing. "I ain't ginger, I'm Black Irish!"

"Ginger on the inside," Billy cackled, shoving back and only succeeding in scooting his own ass further along the bench. "Ok, ok. So hear me out. I put you over, but I still win, see. You beat me like a pinata, I only win because of a clever reversal. You get mad, 'stupid tricky Americans take advantage of poor fat Russian', and spend the next ten weeks chasing me around the arena, sneak attacking me, interfering in my matches, all that good shit. Maybe I challenge you to a couple of straight fights and you win by cheating. Then it all comes to a head at the Garden."

Red mused on that. Ten weeks of TV time was nothing to sneeze at. This could be his big break, and they both knew it.

"All right," he said finally. "All right. So how do you want to do it?"

"We tape a couple of promos for Sonny," Billy said. "We work separate matches at the local venues, build each of us up separately. Make people curious to see who's gonna put the big fat Russian down. Then when the show starts, I'm the first one out, leading the people in the Pledge of Allegiance. You interrupt me, call me a few generic insults. I offer to kick you so hard the Motherland will feel it, you laugh and walk off. Then the first match starts. After that, we play a taped promo, me calling you out for your insult to the Pledge of Allegiance. I'll challenge you to a good old American Showdown. Another match, then we play the second promo, you accepting the challenge and threatening to make me your Gulag Girl."

"Reckon Sonny will let me say that on TV?"

"Worst that happens is we re-record that promo," Billy shrugged. "Then we have our match, but you're over-confident. We go back and forth, you build some great heat, then stop and start trying to lead the crowd in 'Oh Russia, the Motherland I'd Like To Fuck'. While your back is turned, I get up, tap you on the shoulder. You turn around and surprise, bitch! For America and apple pie!"

"I like apple pie."

"I don't. Clean win, I strut out of there. When I get to the top of the ramp, you grab a microphone and threaten me, tell me to watch my back."

Red considered that some more. "Sounds complicated. Reckon Sonny will go for it?"

"All we have to do is put the two promos together. The wrestling will take care of itself. Just show him the two promos, and tell him that I win clean. Short and sweet."

A doleful eye from the huge Irishman. "You came up with that awfully fast."

"I think fast." Which was partially true. Billy liked to think while he worked out, and pitching various storylines with people in the locker room was a great way to occupy his mind while pushing through sets. Billy had several such plots including a tag team partner already picked and a romantic triangle that was only coincidentally starring the finest two girls in the locker room.

"I still think we should just wrestle," Red stood up with a groan. "But fuck it, I'll give this a shot. I'll go write a couple of promos."

Giving him a thumbs-up, Billy sat back, quite pleased. Yeah. He could make this good.

Justin smiled as he looked at the camera, Owen standing behind him, looking like a terrifying bodyguard. “You know, our grandfather used to talk about Jersey. He would talk about how great the place was, how much he loved working there, and how he wanted to retire there.” Justin said, then blinked and chuckled. “Oh wait, that was New York. What did grandpa say about Jersey? That’s right, he didn’t talk about Jersey. Guess it didn’t leave much of an impression on him.” Justin looked at Owen, who shrugged.

“Kinda like the so-called Wrecking Crew. I’ve been told that I’ve watched a some of their matches, but for the life of me, I can’t think of anything they’ve done. Guess they don’t leave much of an impression either.” Justin said, looking back at the camera. “But hey, there is a bright side to this Brad and Stan. People are going to remember you, after my brother and I leave you in the middle of the ring, asking yourselves what god you angered for them to make you cross paths with us. Better start praying for forgiveness boys, we are closing in on you.” Justin said, moving for Owen, who stepped forward.

“There are only three things certain in life. Death, taxes, and the Wrecking Crew getting the worse beating of their lives.” Owen said.

“Remember, life never favored weakness.” Justin said, appearing on camera again. “Welcome to the Pride!” He said, standing there with his arms out, holding a pose for the camera.

————————————-

Justin knew the hand single for when the camera was off but Owen didn’t. Owen was waiting for Justin to give some clue that they could move again. The camera crew knew what Justin was doing, and didn’t say a word.

After a moment, Justin raised his arm to cover Owen’s face, blocking it from the camera. That’s when it dawned on Owen what was going on, and gave his brother a push.

“How long have we been standing here like idiots?” Owen asked.

“Well, three minutes. But you’ve been standing like an idiot for as long as I can remember.” Justin joked, the camera crew gathering their equipment. “Hey good work today. We might make you a wrestling star yet.” Justin said as they walked out into the hall.

“Thanks. But I gotta say, I hate playing a face. Heels get more fun.” Owen said.

“Don’t worry. The boss knows what he is doing. The fans are used to seeing me as a heel. So, we build you up as the big hero, and then imagine the pop from the crowd when we turn heel.” Justin said, grabbing a nearby drink.

This was when Sal had his little “moment” the sounds of yelling coming from the room he was recording in. “Oh that is not a good sound.” Justin said and Owen nodded. When Sal came out, and made his little speech, Justin was grinning from ear to ear.

“Looks like you are gonna add another championship to your record.” Owen said, but Justin shook his head.

“No, no no no. We are going for those tag titles. Plus, I hear the current Champs need to be taken down a peg.” Justin said, taking a drink. “Plus, this will give us time to build you up as a predator.” He told him.

“So, what’s the plan?” Owen asked, grabbing a drink.

“Simple, don’t start a fight, do as Sal says, and hopefully we’ll get title shots soon. Let’s focus on the Crew, and none of that stuff we did back home.” Justin said.

“Ah, but I liked using chairs.” Owen joked, putting on his best “spoiled brat” voice he could, taking a drink and grabbing some food.

When they passed by Don, Justin gave his fellow veteran a nod. “So, When is Sal gonna make you two team up as the “old men” of the locker room?” Owen asked.

“Careful boy. Being the veteran in the locker room is the best thing. You and that other kid are paying your dues. Don and I can order you to do push-ups and Sal would make it happen.” He said as they walked.

“There is no way Sal would make that happen.” Owen said.

“HEY SAL! OWEN SAYS HE IS TO GOOD TO DO TWENTY PUSHUPS!” Justin called down to the smoking area, knowing Sal was there.

The cameras roll following behind Gerald Shaw as he stalks down the halls of the WWA, a small man holding a microphone hurrying along to keep up.

"You got to put in the work baby," Shaw says in a gravelly voice to the interviewer following him, "These kids comin' up today don't know nothing 'bout that, well Ricky Razor he gonna learn all 'bout that this Monday Night on Mayhem."

Shaw pushes through the twin doors into the gym and training center, stepping past several current and aspiring talents, making a beeline to the squat rack. As he loads plates onto the bar the cameraman slowly pans over to the right and zooms in to find Ricky Razor himself exercising in a small training ring. The camera stays on Razor as he pantomimes grappling with an opponent then quickly runs into the ropes and uses the rebound to do a flying handstand elbow strike.

When the camera pans back to Shaw he is staring straight at it with a grimace spread across his face.

"What you lookin' at?" he gets in close and asks, "You lookin' at him? He ain't doing nothing."

"Hey Ricky! That ain't gonna help you Ricky!" he yells across the gym, but directly into the camera, before ducking under the bar and quickly busting out a set of 6 deep squats, all the weights on the bar ringing loudly as he propels them up and down again and again. Stepping out from the bar he rolls his shoulders and shouts out "Lightweight baby."

"Real. Easy," he mutters as he lumbers toward the training ring. The cameraman follows the interviewer as he skitters out of the way, allowing the camera man to get a shot from behind Ricky as Shaw walks all the way up to the apron.

"You can run around, you can flip and flop all you want Ricky boy, but sooner or later I'll get my hands on you. And just as soon as I do, it's over."

Razor looks over his shoulder back to the camera, smiles, winks, and throws his body into the ropes, dashing straight across the ring and toward Shaw. As Ricky Razor blitzes across the ring Shaw hunkers down and takes a few steps back preparing to throttle the young upstart the moment he clears the ropes, but at the last moment Razor leaps forward into a handstand his legs hitting the ropes and rebounding him back to a standing position in the middle of the ring.

The gym descends into a commotion as Shaw climbs the apron and grabs the ropes, wrestlers and coaches rush Razor out the back door while others work to hold Shaw back from entering the ring and form a human wall around the door Razor used. The cameras fade as Shaw pushes through the crowd and encounters the human wall at the door.