Matt Posner's Blog: You've Been Schooled - Posts Tagged "squared-circle-blues"

Sneak Preview of Squared Circle Blues
by Matt Posner
coming September 2015 (I hope)


Becky had to pound on the door of Billy’s room for a long time before he opened it. He leaned against the wall just inside the door as she came in. He was wearing his boxers and not much else. His hair was tousled. His chest was covered with broken blood vessels. He stank. Becky pushed him into the shower, turned on the water, and left him to bathe. She opened his luggage and pulled out clean underwear, clean socks, jeans and a t-shirt. She opened the hotel window the crack it would open, lit one of his cigarettes, smoked out the window. Billy came out naked and dressed in the clothes she had laid out for him.

“Let’s go to the diner,” she said when he was dressed. “You’re paying.”

Hestia’s Olympic Diner was a block from the hotel. After the shower, Billy was able to walk there. He staggered a little. He hadn’t shaken off the previous night’s hurts. Billy was a well-trained, skilled wrestler who could take a beating, but Fighting Eagle was both clumsy and stiff.

While they were having their eggs, toast, and coffee, Dora Gutierrez arrived and slid in next to Becky. Her heavy features and broad shoulders belied her tall, thin frame. She wore a linen blouse and dark skirt and a hair ribbon whose girliness didn’t match her mannish face.

“I got to get me my own car,” Billy said.

“You’d just wreck it,” said Dora. “The usual,” she called to a waitress. Dora’s voice was a low croak. She didn’t smoke anymore, but had acquired a permanent huskiness from her smoking days.

“I ain’t never wrecked a car,” said Billy.

“Why don’t you start paying me for gas money?” Becky suggested.
“Since I got to drive you everywhere. Instead of all this bullshit about saving for a car you ain’t safe to drive.”

The waitress brought Dora oatmeal with raisins.

“You should eat more,” said Becky.

“Aah, what’s it matter?” said Dora.

“You’re getting skinny.”

“I give a fuck?” asked Dora.

“You get any skinnier, your tits’ll be hanging off your back.”

“Aah.” Dora took a tiny bite of oatmeal. “I got no appetite.”
She turned her attention to Billy. “Gash ain’t gonna say it, so I will. If you’re getting hurt as bad as last night, just get out of the ring. Roll on the floor, get counted out. Morgenheim’s too stupid to put you back in the ring if you don’t help.”

“I can take it,” Billy said. “Got to have a good match for the crowd, right?”

“Got to make your next shot,” Dora countered. “If you can’t get out of bed the next day, or your ass is in the hospital, then what?"

Here's another sneak peak at my upcoming pro wrestling novel, Squared Circle Blues. This scene presents the opening moments of a typical card at Maryland Championship Wrestling.


Promoter Matt Gash went into the locker room and asked his lieutenant, Peter Gutierrez, if Billy Bonfire was sober for his match later.

“Yeah, he smells like weed but he seems pretty clear-headed. Hey, Gash, Wes ain’t got a ref shirt.”

“Put him in yours.”

“Mine’s big on him.”

“Tell him to rip off the sleeves and tear out the sides, so it looks like some kind of muscle outfit. Shit, I have to think of everything?”

As usual, everyone was in place and ready to go by ten minutes after starting time, so finally Gash sent out the ring announcer, Angel, a skinny old man with a big voice and a big blue vein in his nose.

“Welcome to Baltimore’s most famous professional wrestling venue, bringing you the highest grade of professional wrestling action since 1951. My name is Leonard “Angel” Rosenblatt, and I’ll be your ring announcer for this evening. Please stand for the singing of the National Anthem.”

People stood up. They munched popcorn as “The Star Spangled Banner” played on the tinny PA system. The midgets came to ringside largely unnoticed.

“You may be seated. And now, welcome, welcome, weeeeeelllllllcommmme to Maryland Proooooooo Wressssssstling! Our first contest this evening is set for one fall with a fifteen minute time limit.” The midgets climbed the steps and entered the ring, lifting their stubby legs above the bottom rope.

“Introducing first, from Massapequa, Long Island, New York, weighing in at ninety-seven pounds, here is Little Kevin!”

Little Kevin rushed to the center of the ring, ran his hands through his dyed-blonde buzzcut, and did the “speak with his hands” karate strike against an imaginary opponent, then raised his hand in anticipation of victory. A few fans cheered a little. Little Kevin fell back to the corner.

“And his opponent, from Seattle, Washington, weighing in at seventy-nine pounds, here is Knee High Frye!”

Frye stepped just slightly out of the corner and raised a fist. He was booed. Frye had never won a match in Maryland. He had short legs and a big ass and didn’t look as athletic as Little Kevin. He scowled.

“Your special referee for tonight, from New Jersey, here is Maryland Pro Wrestling’s up-and-coming star, Wes Chico!”

Seated a few rows back from ringside, Peter Gutierrez watched his son enter wearing the shredded ref shirt, and made a small comment in his spiral notebook to remind Angel of the proper name of the promotion.

The midgets had a shtick they did every night, including chasing each other around the ring, running between the referee’s legs, and biting him on the ass. They then settled into rest holds interrupted by more of the same nonsense, and then Little Kevin did a cartwheel past a charging Frye, who crashed into Wes, bounced off, got up slowly, and turned just in time to be hit with the “speak with his hands” maneuver. Little Kevin crashed down on top of his chest and weakly grabbed one leg. One-two-three.

Peter wrote in his notebook that the act was stale and that they should freshen it up if they were ever again to have a run in Maryland.