The Writer's Life 1/16 - Queen of Marks

My thanks to the two gentlemen who bought books on the this windy day. After going half crazy working on getting the file for Rising Star ready for publication, it’s time for some light entertainment. Here’s an excerpt from a short story, Defining Moment, available in the A Hitch in Twilight collection. In it, a wrestler is called out of retirement to replace another who has gone MIA. The setting is MSG.

   A short, frail, mustachioed, balding man was in the center of the ring, microphone in hand, announcing next month's card. Len strode forward, largely ignored. A few young males shouted insults regarding his girth and baldness. He stifled the urge to respond. A whipping boy was to do nothing to draw attention to himself, to detract from the star.
   As he neared ringside, he did a quick shuffle step away from the railing that separated the audience from the "squared circle." He'd recognized an old, sour-faced woman clutching a large handbag. He was amazed she was still alive. Then again, it seemed she hadn't aged since the first time he'd seen her 20 years ago. The wrestlers referred to her as the "Queen of Marks." It was said she carried a brick in her purse. It certainly felt like it. She'd once delivered a blow to his back following a match in which he'd accidentally inflicted a deep gash in the forehead of a rising star. Did she still remember that moment? Perhaps she'd grown so feeble-minded as to no longer be able to distinguish good guy from bad. He was glad he'd denied her opportunity.
   As he passed the broadcast table, he patted lightly at the back of a giant wearing a headset. "Hi, Gino," he mouthed, winking. Formally known as the Siberian Assassin, Gino was responsible for the periodic stiffness of the neck that Len suffered, the result of a Piledriver executed too well.
   "Entering the ring," said the announcer, "at a weight of two hundred ninety-three pounds - the Bronx Bomber."
   Only the jokers in the crowd reacted, raising a mock cheer. The perpetual buzz that characterized live events was at its lowest volume.
   Two ninety? thought Len, irked; I'm fat, but not that fat.
   "And his opponent...." Eeerie percussive music burst through the sound system.  "...weighing in at three hundred fifty-seven pounds, from parts unknown - Doctor Voooo-doooo."
   Spectators rose, necks craned, as the behemoth skulked into the arena gazing about as if he were mad. Paper balls ricocheted from his massive torso. Beverage was hurled at him. He paused and eyed several of his detractors, most of who remained defiant. Reaction was rather subdued, as the matchup was not worthy of a major card.
   Len fought to repress laughter. Having been away from the game for so long, he lacked the discipline to take it seriously. He was sweating profusely. He'd forgotten how hot it was under the lights, how hot it could get in such a place, especially in summer.
   A short Hispanic in a bow tie and light blue shirt climbed into the ring.
   "Hi, Gilly," said Len softly, hand covering his mouth. "Long time no see."
   "Lenny? I thought you retired."
   He explained.
   "Just be careful. This guy might really be crazy. Maybe it's the stuff they're all takin' to bulk up."

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Vic's Rom-Com Screenplay: http://tinyurl.com/kny5llp

Vic's Horror Screenplay: http://tinyurl.com/cyckn3f

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