Coil

I wrote this story back in January of 2011, over twelve years ago, when I was using the blog largely for storytelling. I can't remember why I didn't post it. I discovered it a few days ago by accident. I hope you enjoy it. Obviously, John Irving has nothing to worry about.

(1)

The Viper was by himself in the ring.  Fans waddled in from the parking lot with Mountain Dews in hand and the smell of cigarettes in their jackets.  Intermission should have ended five minutes ago.

The promoter Davis Castaneda and the teenage ref had their heads together next to one of the turnbuckles, talking in the low tones of people in charge of penny-ante operations everywhere.  You see them like this at flea markets, county fairs, vacation bible schools, baby beauty pageants, and district-level spelling bees, and you see them like this every tenth Friday at the America Wide Wrestling League in Altus.

Folks were busy taking flash photos of each other in their new T-shirts.  Nobody bothered The Viper for an autograph.

Scratching a thumbnail against his lower back, The Viper looked down at the toes of his boots.  He avoided eye contact.  When the house lights flickered off and the spots above the ring switched on, he would come alive, fully in character, the serpentine bad boy of the Oklahoma plains.

He was a good-looking boy, 22, pockmarked chin, a few well-placed moles on his cheeks and neck, coal-black impenetrable eyes, and what passes for a mustache among the Anadarko.  Five-foot-ten, 178 pounds.  His pecs were symmetrical and well defined, slathered in baby oil that slid down his belly, which was round but not sagging, not soft.  His black hair shorn close to the skull so that the scythe-shaped scar at the back of his head shone white.  He wore box-cut black rubber shorts that clung to his ass and thighs, a visible zipper pointing down to the bulge of his cup.

In a minute Castaneda and the teenage ref would climb into the ring, Castaneda's red peach-pit complexion shiny with sweat, and announce the first bout of the second half of tonight's card.  It was a heel versus heel match:  The Viper versus Roderick Lovecraft.

Lovecraft was a recent ORU grad, same age and same basic dimensions as The Viper.  His character was a vampire.  Sneaky, cowardly evader of sunlight and justice, known throughout this part of Oklahoma and parts of Texas for his savage assaults on his opponents in the ring.  He used to wear a white silk mask with no visible eye- or mouth-holes, pretty creepy, everybody agreed, until the Palomino Twins stripped it off him two Christmases ago.  Now he kohled his eyes and wore Manic Panic blood-red lip gloss.

The match was The Viper's idea.  Two months ago he asked Lovecraft to partner up with him.  They could call themselves Apocalypto or The Walking Dead.  He had ideas.  He knew The Viper and Lovecraft together would catch on big with fans.  He envisioned championship belts, jobs up in Chicago and Canada, magazine articles, maybe even television down the line.  Their matching bodies would be beautiful together, and he had an idea for a finishing hold called Unlucky Thirteen, on which he had not yet worked out the details.

First Lovecraft stonewalled on even talking about the idea, and then he refused to speak to The Viper at all.  Roderick Lovecraft worked solo, a lone bloodsucker, and he wasn't interested in teaming up with anybody.  That's when The Viper went to Castaneda with the heel-versus-heel idea.  The gimmick was if The Viper won, Apocalypto would happen.  But if Lovecraft won, The Viper would leave the AWWL, forever.  It would be a straight-up shoot, still bouncy and entertaining enough for the fans, who wouldn't have a clue either way, but legit.  Lovecraft signed on immediately, thinking it would be an easy enough way to get The Viper off his back for good.  And it would be fun.  A hint of calculated risk only sweetened the deal for both of them.

Castaneda and the ref climbed up, grunting, and Castaneda tapped the mike, while his daughter Liz switched off the overheads.  The crowd settled in.  The ref stood behind the promoter, legs apart, hands clutched behind his back, like a soldier at ease.  Castaneda made the usual announcements, thanked the crowd for being the best one he could remember (the trick was he never remembered any of them), and explained the rules for the next match, everything except that it would be an unscripted match, with each man attempting to overpower the other man for real.  Not even the smart marks in the house would know this.

Castaneda introduced The Viper, who bared his teeth and made a catlike hiss that rose from deep in his throat.  The fans booed and giggled.  Two or three GIs in the back applauded, sarcastically.

As agreed, Roderick Lovecraft got a big entrance.  His music, a scratched-up version of Nine Inch Nails, screeched through the speakers, and a spotlight caught him just as he slid through the curtain.  His near-albino skin, his own for real, no makeup, shimmered in the light.  His waist, slimmer than The Viper's, v-shaped, a hint of six-pack above his ridiculously tiny navel.  Shoulders and arms about one and a third the size of The Viper's.

He leapt over the top rope and glared menacingly at the kids in the front row on either side of their fat mom.  The skin at the base of his neck was lightly and prettily freckled.  His white trunks looked gauzy, so that you almost thought you could see through them, but you couldn't.  Their translucence was just a trick of the double-layered fabric.  His soapy, just-showered smell filled The Viper's nostrils.

The fans screamed at Lovecraft at full volume.  Castaneda tapped the mike again to quieten them, and he introduced the vampire, who stood back against the turnbuckle, broad shoulders hunched, his eyebrows knit together, menacingly.

The teenage ref was a slim guy, and he looked worried, even more so after the bell sounded.  You could see in his eyes that his Plan A was to stay the hell out of the way and probably Plan B was to run for the exit, fuck this job.  As agreed, also, Lovecraft and The Viper began with five minutes of show--the usual dog-and-pony the fans expect:  Irish whip, collar and elbow, an arm bar, a reverse arm bar, and then the signal.  The signal was that Lovecraft would slap The Viper across the face, hard.  They had tossed a coin in the locker room to decide who slapped whom.

Lovecraft slapped like he meant it, and The Viper didn't waste a second in slapping him back.  So fast, in fact, that Lovecraft recoiled involuntarily.  The two of them fumbled with each other, arms slipping around ribs, squeezing, jerking.  The two tied themselves into a knot and staggered against the ropes.  Lovecraft's foot was through the ropes, and the ref tapped The Viper on the back and called for the break.  The Viper backed up, warily, the palm of one hand sliding across the baby oil on his chest.  Lovecraft stayed where he was, pantomiming fear, part of his character.  He was doing it for the fans, but his eyes were sharp and hungry, ready to get it on, full throttle.  The Viper called him in.

The two men held their places for a good five seconds, just glaring into each other's eyes.  Then Lovecraft charged into The Viper, who met him with a stinging backhand across the jaw.  Lovecraft grabbed him by the head and shoulder and dragged him clumsily down to the mat, digging his sharp chin between The Viper's shoulder blades.  The Viper groaned and shot short jabs to Lovecraft's midsection.  Lovecraft tried to twist The Viper over onto his back, but The Viper dug his knees into the canvas mat and would not budge.  He felt Lovecraft's firm stomach heave in and out against the side of his head.  Every muscle in his neck strained against the deathly pale immovable mass.  Lovecraft's arms felt like they were reinforced with steel.  The Viper twisted, but Lovecraft pushed in, unintentionally scooting his opponent to the ring apron, where one leg hooked over the bottom rope.

(2)

The Viper scooted under the rope and landed on his feet on the concrete floor.  He paced back and forth as the teenage ref pushed Lovecraft back away from the ropes, both hands on the pale wrestler's chest.  Obligatorily, The Viper hissed at the kids in the front row, who chanted, "YOU SUCK," over and over.  Some fans on Lovecraft's side of the ring countered with "YOU SUCK TOO," alternating with a jauntier rhythm, "YOU SUCK JUST AS MUCH."  The GIs in the back of the room were standing, banging their metal chairs on the floor.

The teen in the vertical stripes looked nervous, but he began the ten count.  At eight, The Viper rolled stiffly back in under the ropes and squared off against Lovecraft.  Lovecraft threw a sloppy punch at The Viper's face and missed.  The Viper tripped him and he collapsed on the ropes.  Lovecraft clung to the middle rope as The Viper drove his knee again and again to the side of his head.  Lovecraft's eye makeup rolled down his cheek in three sooty tears.  Only it was sweat, not tears.  The ref tried to push The Viper off of Lovecraft, but The Viper pushed him aside, remembering to hiss and grimace for the crowd, remembering to throw enough make-believe into the fight to keep it entertaining for the ticket holders.

The Viper fell down on one knee next to Lovecraft and started to pound his fist to the vampire's left ear.  Lovecraft sputtered, "C-c-cocksucker," in a dry hoarse whisper.  There was blood in his ear.  "Still think you're too good for me?" The Viper hissed.

The ref grabbed the back of The Viper's black rubber gear with both hands and dragged him off Lovecraft.  The Viper did not resist, but he made the skinny ref earn his pay by not helping, hunkering down as dead weight, his boot heels skidding on the mat.  He felt his pulse in his neck, and the skin of his face was on fire.

The Viper's eyes met Castaneda's at ringside.  Castaneda looked pissed.  His eyes said, "Lighten up."  His eyes said, "Don't lose any of my money tonight."  His eyes pleaded, "This is just a fucking work, for Christ's sake."  Remembering again the show-biz part, The Viper leapt to his feet.  He jiggled his shoulders and spine in a slithery approximation of reptilian motion, half a dance, half territory marking.

The ref bent over Lovecraft to see if he was okay, and Lovecraft testily pushed him away.  A seam of his gauzy trunks was ripped at the hip.  The glimmer of white skin underneath was as pale as the fabric.  Looking down at Lovecraft, who rubbed his ear and looked at the red stain on his palm, The Viper felt a pure jolt of energy rising from his groin.  He could win this.  He knew it.  More than this, he felt it in his muscles, a strong compulsion to beat up this vampire punk, this ex-Pentecostal freak who thought he was too good to be partners with The Viper.

Roderick Lovecraft rose to his feet, holding the ropes for support.  The Viper repeated to himself that he must win, but he couldn't maim Lovecraft either, or else what was the point of teaming up, and then what of Apocalypto?  And he had to put on a show for the fans, too.  He could not slow the bout down with the kinds of protracted holds that would most effectively wear his opponent down.

The two men circled each other.  Instinctively, they switched back to kayfabe to persuade everybody that this was still a wrestling show.  So Lovecraft whipped The Viper into the ropes and dropkicked him on the rebound.  The Viper bounced on the mat and rolled up on his feet, rubbing his right shoulder, pretending the impact hurt it.

The Viper hurled himself at Lovecraft, who hooked the sore arm and fell backwards, flipping The Viper over his head and flat on his back on the mat.  The Viper grunted as Lovecraft locked the same arm under his armpit and twisted.  Twisted hard.  Not just enough to make it look real but enough to cause some real damage.  Pain shot through The Viper's body, and his skin felt clammy.  He thrashed in pain and got a boot on top of the bottom rope.  The teenage ref broke the hold.

The Viper rubbed his arm, for real this time.  Lovecraft fidgeted with the waistband of his tights.  A nervous gesture.  The Viper moved in close, so close he could feel the damp heat radiate off Lovecraft's body.  They traded attempts at grabbing each other's arms, slapping away the other guy's hands while trying to lock their hands on the other guy's upper arms.  Freestyling it, Lovecraft's and The Viper's foreheads bumped.  Their hot breaths blasted each other's face.  The flat-handed blows echoed over the heads of the fans.

Lovecraft latched on to one of The Viper's legs, pulling up.  The Viper hopped backwards on one leg, trying not to fall.  Lovecraft would not let go.  The Viper clenched Lovecraft's head in his armpit and twisted, and the two men collapsed onto the mat together.  The Viper kicked out of Lovecraft's hold but maintained control of Lovecraft's head.  He rolled the vampire to his back, noticing that the tear at the side of Lovecraft's gear had widened, exposing more unblemished white skin.  The ref bent low to check Lovecraft's shoulders.  Lovecraft arched, then bucked, to no avail.  Controlling his opponent like this made The Viper hard.  He licked his lips and steadied his breathing.  He caught sight of Castaneda, who looked worried.  The action was slowing down.  The Viper ad-libbed a bold boast, in character:  "He's submitting!  Check him, ref!"  Gamely, Lovecraft groaned, loudly--hard to say how much of that groan was real or how much for show.

The Viper grabbed the vampire's groin. Lovecraft screamed like a fourteen-year-old girl. He rolled to his knees and cupped both hands over his bulge. Dazed, he rose and staggered towards the ropes. The Viper leaped and slammed both heels between Lovecraft's shoulder blades. The vampire's body crashed into the turnbuckle. Now, Castaneda looked more worried. Suddenly he had a "shooting match" on his hands, a real fight, anything could happen. The young ref was out of his depth. He shot a panicky glance at Castaneda, whose mouth was agape, with both hands on either side of his face. The young ref had half a mind to run for the exit.

The Viper grabbed Lovecraft by the back of the neck. With his left hand he punched the vampire in the mouth six maybe seven times. The vampire had real blood on his lips. The Viper leaned in close and whispered hoarsely into Lovecraft's ear: "Still think you're better than me? Still think you're too cool to partner with me?" Lovecraft shoved him away, his shiny pale skin was streaked red. His lips swelled rather attractively. He reached back to grab the top ropes and mule-kicked The Viper's chest. The fans were standing, some of them cheering, some of them in a state of shock. 

The Viper and the vampire exchanged punches. It felt like both their faces were swelling. Nobody, not even Castaneda, noticed the bulges at both wrestlers' groins. Lovecraft got The Viper in a tight side headlock. He ground the guy's ear against his ribs. Soon all of the noise in the room sounded like it was underwater. The Viper grabbed Lovecraft's thigh and pulled it chest high. With his shoulder, he shoved Lovecraft to the padded canvas. Their bodies rolled as knuckles and knee caps slammed into their ribs and jaws. The noise of the crowd faded away, replaced with a high-pitched whir in The Viper's ears.

The fight ended with a knockout. The crowd felt the difference between the hard punch and kayfabe. There was a spontaneous gasp. In the center of the ring, The Viper was kneeling on Roderick Lovecraft's pale but buff pecs. Lovecraft was not unconscious. Yet. He stared up into The Viper's coal-black eyes. The Viper grinned, baring his teeth. Sweat cascaded down his chest. "See you at the gym ... PARTNER." His fist crashed into Roderick's heretofore unblemished face. The vampire was out cold. The Viper felt his cock swell to twice its usual girth.

The crowd was split between cheering and booing. The teenage ref raised The Viper's arm in victory. Nobody in the folding chairs knew the deal The Viper and Lovecraft had agreed to. But the next time they would see them together in the ring, they would be Apocalypto.