Ugly As Sin (2 page)

“We
got
you,” One-Arm said. “Fucker.”

Without warning, Rebel Yell reared back and slugged Nick in the mouth.

Nick hadn’t noticed the guy’s glove before now. It was one of those steel-lined SAP jobs. Often used by law enforcement, designed to inflict maximum damage.

His busted lip leaked blood down his chin. He spat out a tooth.

Still, he couldn’t help the chuckle that slipped out of him. “Stupid marks. You don’t even deserve to wash my cup.”

“Look,” said Rebel Yell, as if trying to reason with the wrestler before things
really
got out of hand, “When Black Samson killed you in that ‘Loser Leaves Life’ match at
New Year’s Evil IX
, what’d you do?”

Nick decided to play along. Why not. He had nowhere else to be. “I didn’t
do
anything, right? I was
dead
.”

“Big Bubba carried you backstage, told the crowd he was gonna do what was right since you two used to be close. Said he was gonna talk Father Ivan Ruffstuff into givin’ you a proper Christian burial.”

“But then you sold your soul to Moloch so you could live forever! A week later, on
Thursday Night Hardcore
, how did you repay Big Bubba?”

“Don’t recall. But I’m sure you’ll refresh my memory.”

“You slammed him through the entrance ramp, you asshole! You teamed up with the guy who slit your throat, helped that nigger throw Bubba
fifteen feet
onto the concrete floor. You broke his back!”

When Rebel Yell was done, he looked like he might start crying.

Truth told, Nick had always liked Big Bubba—this past 4th of July, in fact, their families had gotten together for a barbecue in Mr. Bad-Ass’s (real name: Eric Aubrey) backyard, Nick pushing Aubrey’s giggling eleven-year-old on her swing-set, harmlessly flirting with Mrs. Bubba as he was wont to do—though things appeared quite the opposite inside the squared circle.

In the ring, their ongoing feud kept the fans screaming for blood. Usually the Widowmaker’s.

After all, Nick Bullman was the GWA’s top heel. All that sacrilege, cartoonish crap about ’Maker being the SON OF ETERNAL DARKNESS—it never failed to get the marks going good.

“Actually,” said Nick, “Eric had some vacation time to burn, took Renee to the Bahamas for their anniversary...”

He trailed off. Knew it was like trying to argue with a couple of ring-posts.

“Sure. We messed Big Bubba up good. Put his ass in ICU.”

“You’re
evil
, Mr. Widowmaker,” said Rebel Yell. “You’ve bullied your way through the Global Wrestling Association long enough.”

He pronounced it
rasslin’
. Naturally.

“You’re worse than Leviathan!” said One-Arm. “At least he’s a big dumb monster, can’t help doin’ the things he does.”

Nick shook his head. This had to be some surreal steroid dream. But then, he hadn’t touched the juice for the better part of three decades.

“You dildos are crazier than my third wife,” he said. “And trust me, that’s pretty fucking crazy.”

Rebel Yell reached into his ref shirt. Gripped something hidden between his pants and the small of his back. He brought it out.

The knife was one of those big mean sons-a-bitches with a serrated blade, spiked knuckle guard. Kinda piece made you feel like you should start bleeding somewhere tender just for looking at it. It reminded Nick of a weapon from some post-apocalyptic B-movie, something with leather-clad road warriors and mutants running amok.

“You do it,” Rebel Yell told One-Arm. “I’ll hold him.”

His companion nodded, let loose with another birdlike giggle as if he had waited his whole life for this moment. Rebel Yell scrabbled like a spider atop the ring-post to which Nick was cuffed.

A thick rope looped tight around the wrestler’s neck, pulling his head back against the turnbuckle.

“You wanna reveal a man’s true colors, you gotta dig deep,” Rebel Yell whispered into Nick’s ear. “Get to the skull beneath the skin.”

One-Arm began to cut.

†

Later. Impossible to tell how
much
later, as time—reality—had become a nonsensical joke that was anything but funny.

A cacophony of wailing sirens, doors being kicked in, the staccato clicking of numerous gun-hammers.

“Drop the knife, dirtbag!” someone shouted.

Another voice: “Step away from him! Both of you!
Now!
”

In the center of the chaos: the body of a sweat-soaked muscleman transformed into a bug-eyed Halloween decoration.

“Took you long enough,” s
aid the thing in the ring, to the boys in blue standing over it.

More stunned gasps from his saviors, a chorus of disbelief exhaled on breaths that stank of coffee and doughnuts.

Until he spoke, none of them had known he was alive. His massive chest rose and fell so slowly it barely moved at all.

And the blood...so much blood, everywhere they looked...

One tall cop with a 70s-porn-flick moustache slipped on something as he stepped into the ring. He pirouetted gracelessly but caught himself just in time, gripping the top rope with one hand to regain his balance.

A self-conscious glance at his companions. He bent, lifted something pink and dripping from beneath his shiny black shoe.

“Holy Mother of God. Is this what I think—”

He dropped it. It hit the canvas with a sick
plop
.

The policeman looked ready to lose his supper. All of them did.

Nick Bullman stared at the gory pile too. And when some helpful soul finally got around to uncuffing his hands, he reached for it. Wept for it. As if he could just slide it back into place and everything would be A-OK.

Three years later...

He still dreams about it now and then, but more often than not he dreams of what happened after it was over. The repercussions of that night he spent with two men he would always think of—despite having learned their real names in the days following his ordeal—as “Rebel Yell” and “One-Arm.”

He dreams of what came
later
. After his tormentors were convicted and sent away. After the surgeons had done their best to fix him.

He dreams of all he has lost.

And strangely enough, he often wakes up smiling...

†

In his dreams, it is that fateful day in late August. He’s visiting corporate headquarters in Wilmington, North Carolina for the first (and last) time since Doc Saldutti gave him the OK to return to work. He has already made his rounds, thanking everyone for their awkward
welcome backs
and
good to see yas
. Now his well-wishers have returned to their pencil-pushing and their keyboard-tapping, and Nick finds himself alone at last. He stands at the far end of the hall from the executive hustle and bustle, head down, waiting for the elevator. He doesn’t know that, in the coming months, his loneliness will drown him in a sea of black depression. So he welcomes this moment of introspection after playing the role of circus freak surrounded by the gawking masses, folks who pretend to pity him while rejoicing inside:
Poor bastard, sure glad that ain’t me
.

Now he’s approached by Veronica Townsend, the administrative assistant with the horn-rimmed glasses and the perfect bronze legs that stretch into infinity. Nick turns to her with a distracted frown. Of course, these days he always looks like he’s frowning.

When their eyes meet, Ronnie quickly glances down at her clipboard. There’s a hitch in her voice, as if she ate some bad fish for lunch: “The, uh, boss wants to see you in his office. ASAP.”

Message relayed, she makes her escape. The trail of expensive perfume she leaves in her wake tickles the Widowmaker’s nose.

He stomps down the hall to McDougal’s office.

As he goes, he pulls out an old yellow handkerchief he keeps in the ass pocket of his jeans. He dabs at the wetness that constantly trickles from his right eye, a result of permanent damage to his tear ducts.

Once the rag is back in his pocket, his huge fist knocks three times on the boss’s door, rattling the gold nameplate there: LANCE K. MCDOUGAL III, C.E.O.

He waits, careful not to look at his reflection in the nameplate.

He’s preparing to knock again when the boss calls out: “Come in!”

Nick pushes the door open. Stoops to clear the threshold.

It’s an icebox in here. AC’s cranked to full-blast. The room smells like pine-scented Lysol.

The boss is on the phone. Arguing with somebody about how he owns the trademark to every name on the roster so you bet your ass he expects fifty percent of the cut, assuming this piece-of-shit movie gets a green-light in the first place.

When McDougal finally hangs up the phone, Nick wastes no time asking, “You wanted to see me, boss?”

“Nick Bullman.” The CEO’s teeth are impossibly white. A used car salesman’s grin on the face of a filthy rich entertainment mogul. “Take a seat. Please.”

Nick eases his six-foot-nine bulk into the chair opposite his employer’s mahogany desk. The vinyl cushion is as soft as a boulder beneath his ass. Nick has always wondered if guys like Lance McDougal intentionally stock their offices with furniture only slightly more comfortable than instruments of torture. Just so there’s no mistake who has the best seat in the room.

Lance K. McDougal III is in his late forties, just seven or eight years younger than Nick, but being born with the proverbial silver spoon in your kisser tends to slow the aging process. He could pass for thirty-something if not for his hair—it is the color of needles and razorblades, objects that will slice you to pieces if you aren’t careful with them. He wears an immaculate navy blue suit, a tie the color of freshly-spilled blood. At barely 5’ 5”, McDougal is shorter than anyone who works in his building, but thanks to the power he wields as Chief Executive Officer of the Global Wrestling Association the man is no less imposing than the sixty-plus musclemen on his payroll. He inherited the company from his father after Lance K. McDougal, Jr. succumbed to a short battle with lung cancer. The boss’s daddy had been a devout Southern Baptist; under his thumb, the Association had produced nothing so controversial as to threaten its Saturday afternoon TV time slot. Now, Lance K. McDougal III has body-slammed sports entertainment into the new millennium, with flamboyant characters and titillating scenarios that barely slip past Standards & Practices week after week.

“Good to see you, Nick,” McDougal says. “We were all worried sick for a while.”

“I appreciate that,” says Nick.

“Look at you. The doctors...they tried. I’ll give them that.”

Nick fidgets in his chair. It creaks beneath his weight. He doesn’t dig the way McDougal sits there scrutinizing his ruined features, as if they are some abstract work of art on which the boss is thinking about dropping thirty or forty grand.

“I heard some clutz cop actually
stepped on
your face? Jesus.”

Nick stares down at his snakeskin boots.

“So how are you feeling, Nick? Ready to get back to work?”

“I’m itching to get back in the ring. I miss it.”

“I’m sure the other guys are glad to have you back.”

“They seem to be.” Nick thinks it, but doesn’t say it aloud:
Although none of them can stand to look at me, as if
ugly
is contagious and they’re afraid they’ll carry the disease home to their loved ones if they get too close.

The phone rings.

McDougal punches a button. “What is it, Klarissa?”

“Your wife’s on line one, sir,” the receptionist’s voice chirps over the speakerphone. “She says it’s impor—”

“Tell her to call back in ten.” McDougal hangs up. “Sorry about that. I’ve told the silly bimbo a thousand times not to interrupt when I’m meeting with the talent. What can you do?”

Nick offers no suggestion. Everyone in the Association knows McDougal has been cheating on his wife with his receptionist for the last few years. Apparently Klarissa’s skills in the bedroom (rumors abound that the boss harbors an affinity for diaper play, but you can’t believe everything you hear) make up for her intellectual shortcomings.

“Nick,” McDougal says, “I know you’re a fellow who prefers no bullshit, so I’ll cut to the chase. Due to recent...developments...we’ve decided to rethink your role in the GWA. I’ve been talking with Creative while you were recuperating, and we agreed that it might be best to drop your current character altogether.”

“No more Widowmaker?” Nick’s already crooked features twist into something resembling a stunned expression. He had known a fresh push would be necessary once he was back to a hundred percent. Audiences are fickle, after all. But he didn’t see this coming.

“No more Widowmaker.” The boss rests his elbows on his desk, steeples his fingers together. “And no more Nick Bullman.”

“Let me get this straight. I flew all this way to find out you’re firing me?”

“Not so fast, big fella.” McDougal rises now, stands in front of the huge bay window that looks out over Wilmington, North Carolina, his hands clasped behind his back like a spoiled prince admiring his kingdom. “We’ve created a brand
new
character for you, actually. I think it’s brilliant. Of course, I came up with it, so I admit I am a tad biased. The writing team has already begun brainstorming ideas for your first angle...”

“I’m all ears,” says Nick.

“Your name will be...REVOLTO!” As he presents his idea for Nick’s new character, McDougal’s voice deepens, becomes gruffer as if he’s narrating a bad horror movie: “No one knows where the beast comes from. Perhaps he’s not even human! Some have speculated that he was sent up from the bowels of Hell by Lucifer himself to terrorize mankind. He communicates in brainless grunts and growls. He is the most dreadful animal known to man, the epitome of ugly! I mean, this friggin’ guy makes the Elephant Man look like Brad Pitt. Known alternately as the Wretched One, the Most Repulsive Creature In Existence, Revolto strikes terror in the hearts of all who dare lay eyes upon his sorry excuse for a face...”