Independent house shows are the backbone of the wrestling industry. They serve as Last Chance Saloons, pitstops, places where the aspiring wrestler can drop by, meet the fans and make a quick buck for a night's work. Its evils are many. Opportunistic wrestling promoters flash easy grins and double or triple-cross the people who have sweated and bled to put the money in their pockets. There is always the danger of running into the rowdy fan who's drunk out of his mind and just won't stop insulting your mother. The subtle threats are no less dangerous. The groupies who hang around arenas, less common in these times but still prevalent, are a challenge for any young man who has a tenuous grip over his own ego.
Despite it all, wrestlers continue to work the independents. It is too deeply ingrained into the culture for it to be ever truly eradicated, no matter how big or how domineering the moneyed promotions may become. Fans retell myths of the Hardcore Legend, who toiled in the independents in the days right before a championship match in a pay-per-view, solely for making a few extra dollars. Or of the Straight-Edge Superstar, who weaved epics using only his body and a God-given gift for speaking to forge a path with his iron belief in his own principles.
In the dark confines of a high school hall or a convention centre, the men and women who dedicate their lives to the art put on a show that often rivals the best efforts of the national promotions. But in one such arena, the fans who turned up for this particular independent show were shocked to see a card that featured, among others, former UWA champion Red Solomon in a one night only, take-on-all-comers match.
"Can it be true? Is Red really here? This has gotta be a scam."
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Red sits in one corner of a small hall. Various other wrestlers have lugged their belongings into the same space, and their talk and laughter reverberate around the room. They have been contracted for tonight's show and many of them are happy to take what they can get. A heavily muscled young man is flirting with a girl in green spandex and red hair. Another wrestler is icing down his joints, having recently completed a match. Four more guys are psyching themselves up by the entrance. They're up for a tag-team match next.
All of them, however, cannot help but glance over every few seconds to the slim Asian man sitting on a plastic fold-out chair in the corner. He wears ragged trackpants that have seen better days, bandages and tape cover his fists and feet, and a red headband keeps his long black hair out of his face. His upper body is bare. Red has a solitary gym bag beside his feet and little else.
Red sits with his elbows on his knees, clasped hands supporting his chin. He's staring into the distance, apparently lost in thought. A few wrestlers earlier attempted to strike up a conversation with the Bangkok Brawler. Red was polite, but it was clear he wasn't in the mood to talk. After a while they left him to his silent deliberations.
The promoter suddenly strides into the room. A loud, brash man in a cheap white suit, he is known and feared in the independent circles as a man who will not only screw you over whenever he feels like it, but also for his uncanny ability to set up the biggest, most well-run shows around. The wrestlers often have little choice but to grit their teeth and shake hands with the man.
The promoter schmoozes around with a few of the wrestlers before zeroing into the former UWA champion, who continues to sit silently in his chair. Putting his hands on his hips, the promoter smiles down at Red.
"How are you feelin', champ?"
Red comes out of his reverie and stares up at the promoter.
"Don't call me that. I'm not the champion of anything. Not anymore."
"Goddamn, what a mistake to make, eh? Since you are, in fact, no longer the champion of the UWA, the bigwigs decided your cut for the night should take a small cut...say, 20%? If it was me, of course, I'd let you have all we agreed on, but my hands are tied here, see?"
Red drops his gaze again.
"Fine. Whatever. As long as I have a match tonight, I don't really care."
"Music to mine ears, buddy! I'll just go and tell them you're perfectly all right with the 30% cut. Oh yeah, your match is next. Bonesaw McGraw got a little too animated and shattered the Human Spider's kneecap, so you're up early."
Red Solomon slowly stands up, and without a word or a backward glance at the promoter, walks out of the hall to begin his match.
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The crowd is small, but hot. Having spent the entire night consuming cheap beer and heckling every single wrestler performing tonight, they are just about ready for the main event to begin. The ring announcer, a small guy in a baseball cap, is brimming with glee as he prepares to do the honours.
Suddenly, movement near the hall entrance catches everyone's attention. It's
Willie Moleman, complete with a microphone and a couple of beefy UWA security personnel in dark shirts. He strides purposefully to the ring, ignoring the loud jeers and one or two flung beers. Willie climbs the stairs and enters the ring. He remontrates angrily with Baseball Cap, who figures its not his problem and exits the ring quickly. Willie then holds up his microphone and addresses the crowd.
Willie Moleman: Ladies and gentlemen, I apologise but the show cannot continue. The wrestler known as Red Solomon is a contracted employee and as such is forbidden from performing in independent shows, as decreed by the Chair of the UWA Board, Ms. Alexia Valentine.
The boos are really getting intense now. Dust is being shaken loose from the rafters.
Willie Moleman: This show must now end immediately. Red Solomon cannot compete here tonight. I- (A box of popcorn hits Willie in the back of the head) Hey, that hurt, you bastards! Go to hell!
The crowd roars with laughter, but a few have taken offence and some of them appear to be be ready to attack the Voice of the UWA.
The atmosphere is so hot, few people notice the small man in the hood who walks quietly into the arena and up the entranceway. He manages to get all the way up to the ring before the fans realise who is it that has come out to join Willie Moleman in the ring.
"RED! IT'S RED SOLOMON! HELL YEAH!"
Willie Moleman gestures wildly at Red Solomon, his two bodyguards looming implacably behind him. Red holds out his hands for calm, saying little. Eventually Moleman gives up and calls his two goons to leave the ring. Before he goes, Red asks Willie for the mic. Before he could get hit by yet another flying popcorn box, Willie hands it over and leaves hurriedly.
Red sits down in a corner of the ring, Jake "The Snake" Roberts style, and begins speaking. He does it so softly however, the crowd are forced to calm down and stop yelling before they can hear him.
Red: Hey. I...well, most of you know what happened on the last Warzone. To sum it up, I was beaten. I was beaten by the man you know as The Grand Mystique.
Huge cheers for GM. Some wave their GM-imitation masks in the air.
Red: Whether by suplex or crystal ball, the truth of the matter is, I was defeated. And that's not something I've ever gotten used to, to tell the truth.
Crowd quiets down again.
Red: This has not been the best couple of weeks for me. I lost my belt and wind up with glass shards in my hair and having to spend a couple of nights in hospital. I turn on the tv, and the first thing I see on CNN are hundreds of raving idiots barricading themselves in the Bangkok International Hotel. I wish I was back home so I could go bash their heads in and save the police the trouble.
So why am I here, at this show? I should be resting up at home or something. I should be training. I should be calling Jessica Swift again. But I'm not. Instead, I'm here.
(Red stands up)
Apparently I'm not getting my title rematch next week. To top it off, I have to ally myself with the man who beat me against my friend and a legend of this business, the Masked Grappler. Along with another legend of the business, the showman Dan McCloud. To win, I have to hurt them. I suppose this is Ms. Valentine's idea of a joke. I can't do anything about that, Mr. Moleman. So instead, I did the next best thing. I came here. Not because I needed the pitiful amount of money the asshole promoter offered. I am here because I have to be here.
You see, I have to be here. I have to be here because I got beat and it hurt and I bloody well don't want to get beat again. I need to get myself out of this rut. I need to know what it feels like to win again. You might think I'm crazy. It's just one loss. But one loss, is one too many.
(Red grabs the ring rope)
Take on all comers match! Anybody in the back or in the crowd who wants to take a shot, get into this ring right now! One at a time or all at once, I don't give a damn. Come on! I WILL DEFEAT YOU, RIGHT HERE AND RIGHT NOW!
Red screams and flings away the microphone as the crowd goes mad. A few wrestlers appear from the back, a few fans are climbing over the guardrails. The promoter is screaming at security, security are screaming at everybody.
Red stands in the middle in a fighting stance, ready. The first wrestler rolls into the ring and charges at him.
Red smiles as he feels alive for the first time in quite some time. Then he goes to work.
