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“Tonight, I’m going to make my mark,” he said, walking up to the diner.
The Kimim Diner was on the northern side of the arena. Chris had to navigate several closed streets where the pavement had fallen into sinkholes on his way to the unlit parking lot where the diner slouched against a row of dried bushes and trees that were only just getting their leaves back.
The inside of the diner was illuminated by flickering phosphorescent lights that barely brightened the aging, brown, leathery seats and cast the kitchen area, staffed by one cook, in a greenish-gray glow. Chris Thompson placed his order at the counter and then sat down across from a man who couldn’t hide his muscles no matter how big his trench coat was.
There were no other guests. This had to be the source. Of course he is, Chris thought as he leaned in to shake the man’s hand, knowing the beady-eyed, sweating, short-haired man already.
“Kit Iverson.”
“Chris Thompson. Sure you wanna use your stage name here?”
“It’s probably how you know me. I reckon you’re a journalist?”
“Yeah, I work for the Stamford Dispatch. I got your message about some of the real shit going on behind the scenes at the arena.”
“I’ve got plenty for you. Get you a perfect insider scoop,” Kit said, grinning a little bit.
This is at best a trap and at worst a waste of my time, Chris thought. The man was on the Hero Ticket. He was a winner and that meant that he was not going to be upfront or transparent about the rumors coming out of the MWF. The protagonists were never badly hurt and never disappeared for months after some of the brawls.
As dusty as the restaurant was, and as much as everything smelled like grease, there was a lack of flies and mosquitoes for this time of year that made it unlike any other diner at this time of night. The leathery texture of the cushion beneath him was not supposed to be actual leather, but it felt like skin anyway. The diner’s cook wasn’t cooking anything, just moving around the counter in a busy-looking way--in the reflection of one of the windows, the cook’s face was fixed in a mournful, silent wail, very different from the friendly smile shown when Chris had placed his order.
They’re not even planning on feeding me before the trap. No problem with being direct at least, until he spills his secrets, Chris thought, before taking out a notepad.
“I want to know everything about what happens backstage and off-camera at the arena. I’ve heard stories about the abuses of some the characters. Are they true?”
“Absolutely not. I can tell you first-hand that everyone is treated very well.”
“If you can forgive me, I find it hard to believe that a guy like you could speak for the experiences of the Villains, since you are on the Hero Ticket.”
“Oh, that’s all just pretending!” the man across the table said, chuckling. “We all have to work our way up from the Villain Ticket.” He grinned wider, revealing a second and third row of square teeth tucked away where his gums should have been.
------
As a child, Chris heard growls coming from beneath his bed, like all other children.
So scary. Scary. His dad would tell him that maybe the growls weren’t from a monster that wanted to hurt people. Maybe the monster was alone and scared too.
Every night, there were more growls. Eventually the growls seemed more like whimpers, until one night Chris laid on his belly while craning his neck towards the floor to look at the sad, lonely monster.
“Are you alright?” Chris said, and the monster shook its head.
------
Chris Thomas crossed his arms, unimpressed. Of course, they would hire a monster to talk about how the abuses of monsters are not really a problem.
“I remember hearing that line. Who is leading the Hero Ticket now, again? Who is top rank?”
“Clyde Nelson, ‘The Thunder,’ is the ranked champion. You know that much, right?” the multi-grinning creature said, narrowing his grin back to one row of teeth.
“Is he a monster?”
“Nah. Pure-blooded man.”
“When he put Orgax the Crabinator in a brainbuster last year, Orgax didn’t die, right?”
“No, Orgax is fine.”
“Where is Orgax now? No one’s seen an eight-foot tall crab man since he was carried away on a stretcher last year.”
“That’s part of the game. We keep them away so that you can think that something terrible has happened,” Kit laughed, “and then we bring ‘em back later.”
“I’d buy that argument if they ever came back.”
“How about the Banshee? We made a big deal about her coming back after she was banished to the spectral plane with a Northern Lariat followed by a Big Splash. She was completely dusted.”
“Everyone knows it wasn’t the same Banshee. Is grabbing a different ancient keening spirit and trying to pass her off as a brand new one pretty common in your profession?”
“I’m telling you she was the same.”
“I interviewed them both,” the journalist said, pulling out the transcripts of the interviews. “They swore that they were different people back when they were living, and where did the second Banshee wind up going?”
This man knows a lot more about professional monster wrestling than he lets on, Kit thought, a bead of sweat rolling down the hot, tight skin suit he’d chosen to wear for this interview.
“There’s a long list,” Chris continued, “of monsters that didn’t spend a lot of time on the Villain Ticket before they stopped participating in any MWF matches at all. Tuskator the Minotaur, Gravytrain the Grave-Trained Ghoul, Dragon Man, The Lich Kang, Wendigo Wendy, Murmur Momo--”
“Momo had to retire after his loss against The Viking. He did get hurt and got back pay for it. This is old news,” Kit replied.
“That was never said on TV or in an article,” the reporter said. “He got hurt because every match he showed up with one less toe or finger than he’d previously had, until he was fighting with no toes or fingers. How did he lose them?”
At this, the reporter pulled out a binder with photos that showed how, over time, Momo had indeed lost body parts.
“He, uh, he’s the only one these kinds of things are happening to!” Kit stammered. Kit had known about Momo’s treatment backstage when he wasn’t faking his punches the way he needed to, but to see all of those treatments in one progression of photos rattled him.
“How about you, Doppelgangupper?” the reporter asked. How does he know my original stage name? the skin wearer wondered.
“What about me? I’ve been treated well by the MWF. Been with them, I guess you know, for thirty years.”
“You wear new skins well, for having been through what you’ve been through, but I’ve seen you flinch when you step into the ring. Never really recovered from the Hamfist’s Hammerthrow move, did you?”
Just thinking about the way he’d been flung from his skin suit like a rock from a sling into the concrete wall of the stadium, he shivered. And then he remembered what he was supposed to be doing.
“You need to go. This line of questioning is over.”
“I’m not ready to leave yet. I know you’ve been hurt and mistreated before, and that no insurance covered the costs of repairing the muscle that was torn by that throw. They won’t let you have any insurance, and they barely give you any place to live or any money.”
“This interview is over.”
“How do you do it? How do you stump for the MWF when they’re actively treating you this way? How many other times have you or other monsters like you been hurt only to have to pretend that you don’t hurt at all? If you help me write this article, we can expose what you’re having to deal with everyday. We can end your abuse.”
Kit shuffled out of his chair and tried to walk to the door, but almost as if summoned by the reporter, his singular muscle that let him slip into a skin throbbed with the old spasms. He contorted and fell with his hand catching on the table, stopping himself from slamming against the floor.
"You don't have to live like this," Chris said, warmly offering to help him up. "I can help you have a job away from this wrestling circus, where you can do what you want instead of always fighting. But only if you help me help other monsters reveal this corruption."
The monster took Chris' hand and stood up. In response, the diner growled.
"Oh no. Oh no!" Kit screamed, trying to break away and run, but as the diner itself jolted away from the asphalt and stood up on four legs that jutted out where unlit lamp posts used to be, lifting the two men upwards so fast that they both toppled to the floor, it was already too late.
Chris could see the windows all around the restaurant bow outwards before popping like spit bubbles outside, while parts of the walls collapsed in waves on the empty space. A pair of lips had formed on the exterior with Chris and Kit inside.
Chairs and tables toppled over just so that, if someone hadn't known it was a diner a moment ago, it would have looked like a row of teeth. The man working as a cook was standing on the wall, body perpendicular to the floor, and his torso flopped around wildly as he turned red and glistened with saliva.
Chris knew it right away, though apparently Kit had only just realized the creature was there. The diner was about to dine.
------
The troll boy under the bed was sweet and a good friend. Chris read him stories every night so that the troll could relax since he hadn't seen his troll parents in a month.
His father was gone and he didn't know where. His mother worked for the Monday-Wednesday-Friday society, a human run group that forced monsters into labor for human pleasure, often times using monsters against monsters. Wrestling was the group's primary moneymaker because no one expected wrestling to be real and no one believed a monster when they cried about being hurt or lonely.
"I'll take care of you. I'll take care of all monsters," Chris promised.
The troll boy started to read him books about monsters. How to talk to them, become friends with them, what kinds of monsters existed--Chris became fascinated by the world he had not seen, even though everyone had monsters under their beds.
And then one day the troll boy vanished. He left no trace except for a stack of books he'd taken from his mom's own collection.
"I'll take care of you."
------
By the time Chris had talked the mimic into spitting her prey onto the asphalt, the mimic and Chris were fast friends. Chris had told the mimic about how her family out East was doing and how much they missed her, even pulling one of her shapeshifting baby teeth out of his back pocket just to show her that he'd talked to them.
Although Kit was deeply rattled by nearly having been eaten when he thought he was sitting in a normal diner from the beginning, he told Chris everything he knew about the treatment of monsters by the MWF.
Whistling on his way home, even though he was completely drenched with mimic slobber which had a semi-corrosive effect on his car upholstery, Chris knew that his new friends would be very helpful in attacking the MWF when the time came. He would write a piece that would blow open the industry with his new info combined with everything else he had previously uncovered.
Thinking of his friend from his childhood, Chris smiled. "I'll take care of all monsters," he swore. Finally, he had a chance to prove it.
The Kimim Diner was on the northern side of the arena. Chris had to navigate several closed streets where the pavement had fallen into sinkholes on his way to the unlit parking lot where the diner slouched against a row of dried bushes and trees that were only just getting their leaves back.
The inside of the diner was illuminated by flickering phosphorescent lights that barely brightened the aging, brown, leathery seats and cast the kitchen area, staffed by one cook, in a greenish-gray glow. Chris Thompson placed his order at the counter and then sat down across from a man who couldn’t hide his muscles no matter how big his trench coat was.
There were no other guests. This had to be the source. Of course he is, Chris thought as he leaned in to shake the man’s hand, knowing the beady-eyed, sweating, short-haired man already.
“Kit Iverson.”
“Chris Thompson. Sure you wanna use your stage name here?”
“It’s probably how you know me. I reckon you’re a journalist?”
“Yeah, I work for the Stamford Dispatch. I got your message about some of the real shit going on behind the scenes at the arena.”
“I’ve got plenty for you. Get you a perfect insider scoop,” Kit said, grinning a little bit.
This is at best a trap and at worst a waste of my time, Chris thought. The man was on the Hero Ticket. He was a winner and that meant that he was not going to be upfront or transparent about the rumors coming out of the MWF. The protagonists were never badly hurt and never disappeared for months after some of the brawls.
As dusty as the restaurant was, and as much as everything smelled like grease, there was a lack of flies and mosquitoes for this time of year that made it unlike any other diner at this time of night. The leathery texture of the cushion beneath him was not supposed to be actual leather, but it felt like skin anyway. The diner’s cook wasn’t cooking anything, just moving around the counter in a busy-looking way--in the reflection of one of the windows, the cook’s face was fixed in a mournful, silent wail, very different from the friendly smile shown when Chris had placed his order.
They’re not even planning on feeding me before the trap. No problem with being direct at least, until he spills his secrets, Chris thought, before taking out a notepad.
“I want to know everything about what happens backstage and off-camera at the arena. I’ve heard stories about the abuses of some the characters. Are they true?”
“Absolutely not. I can tell you first-hand that everyone is treated very well.”
“If you can forgive me, I find it hard to believe that a guy like you could speak for the experiences of the Villains, since you are on the Hero Ticket.”
“Oh, that’s all just pretending!” the man across the table said, chuckling. “We all have to work our way up from the Villain Ticket.” He grinned wider, revealing a second and third row of square teeth tucked away where his gums should have been.
------
As a child, Chris heard growls coming from beneath his bed, like all other children.
So scary. Scary. His dad would tell him that maybe the growls weren’t from a monster that wanted to hurt people. Maybe the monster was alone and scared too.
Every night, there were more growls. Eventually the growls seemed more like whimpers, until one night Chris laid on his belly while craning his neck towards the floor to look at the sad, lonely monster.
“Are you alright?” Chris said, and the monster shook its head.
------
Chris Thomas crossed his arms, unimpressed. Of course, they would hire a monster to talk about how the abuses of monsters are not really a problem.
“I remember hearing that line. Who is leading the Hero Ticket now, again? Who is top rank?”
“Clyde Nelson, ‘The Thunder,’ is the ranked champion. You know that much, right?” the multi-grinning creature said, narrowing his grin back to one row of teeth.
“Is he a monster?”
“Nah. Pure-blooded man.”
“When he put Orgax the Crabinator in a brainbuster last year, Orgax didn’t die, right?”
“No, Orgax is fine.”
“Where is Orgax now? No one’s seen an eight-foot tall crab man since he was carried away on a stretcher last year.”
“That’s part of the game. We keep them away so that you can think that something terrible has happened,” Kit laughed, “and then we bring ‘em back later.”
“I’d buy that argument if they ever came back.”
“How about the Banshee? We made a big deal about her coming back after she was banished to the spectral plane with a Northern Lariat followed by a Big Splash. She was completely dusted.”
“Everyone knows it wasn’t the same Banshee. Is grabbing a different ancient keening spirit and trying to pass her off as a brand new one pretty common in your profession?”
“I’m telling you she was the same.”
“I interviewed them both,” the journalist said, pulling out the transcripts of the interviews. “They swore that they were different people back when they were living, and where did the second Banshee wind up going?”
This man knows a lot more about professional monster wrestling than he lets on, Kit thought, a bead of sweat rolling down the hot, tight skin suit he’d chosen to wear for this interview.
“There’s a long list,” Chris continued, “of monsters that didn’t spend a lot of time on the Villain Ticket before they stopped participating in any MWF matches at all. Tuskator the Minotaur, Gravytrain the Grave-Trained Ghoul, Dragon Man, The Lich Kang, Wendigo Wendy, Murmur Momo--”
“Momo had to retire after his loss against The Viking. He did get hurt and got back pay for it. This is old news,” Kit replied.
“That was never said on TV or in an article,” the reporter said. “He got hurt because every match he showed up with one less toe or finger than he’d previously had, until he was fighting with no toes or fingers. How did he lose them?”
At this, the reporter pulled out a binder with photos that showed how, over time, Momo had indeed lost body parts.
“He, uh, he’s the only one these kinds of things are happening to!” Kit stammered. Kit had known about Momo’s treatment backstage when he wasn’t faking his punches the way he needed to, but to see all of those treatments in one progression of photos rattled him.
“How about you, Doppelgangupper?” the reporter asked. How does he know my original stage name? the skin wearer wondered.
“What about me? I’ve been treated well by the MWF. Been with them, I guess you know, for thirty years.”
“You wear new skins well, for having been through what you’ve been through, but I’ve seen you flinch when you step into the ring. Never really recovered from the Hamfist’s Hammerthrow move, did you?”
Just thinking about the way he’d been flung from his skin suit like a rock from a sling into the concrete wall of the stadium, he shivered. And then he remembered what he was supposed to be doing.
“You need to go. This line of questioning is over.”
“I’m not ready to leave yet. I know you’ve been hurt and mistreated before, and that no insurance covered the costs of repairing the muscle that was torn by that throw. They won’t let you have any insurance, and they barely give you any place to live or any money.”
“This interview is over.”
“How do you do it? How do you stump for the MWF when they’re actively treating you this way? How many other times have you or other monsters like you been hurt only to have to pretend that you don’t hurt at all? If you help me write this article, we can expose what you’re having to deal with everyday. We can end your abuse.”
Kit shuffled out of his chair and tried to walk to the door, but almost as if summoned by the reporter, his singular muscle that let him slip into a skin throbbed with the old spasms. He contorted and fell with his hand catching on the table, stopping himself from slamming against the floor.
"You don't have to live like this," Chris said, warmly offering to help him up. "I can help you have a job away from this wrestling circus, where you can do what you want instead of always fighting. But only if you help me help other monsters reveal this corruption."
The monster took Chris' hand and stood up. In response, the diner growled.
"Oh no. Oh no!" Kit screamed, trying to break away and run, but as the diner itself jolted away from the asphalt and stood up on four legs that jutted out where unlit lamp posts used to be, lifting the two men upwards so fast that they both toppled to the floor, it was already too late.
Chris could see the windows all around the restaurant bow outwards before popping like spit bubbles outside, while parts of the walls collapsed in waves on the empty space. A pair of lips had formed on the exterior with Chris and Kit inside.
Chairs and tables toppled over just so that, if someone hadn't known it was a diner a moment ago, it would have looked like a row of teeth. The man working as a cook was standing on the wall, body perpendicular to the floor, and his torso flopped around wildly as he turned red and glistened with saliva.
Chris knew it right away, though apparently Kit had only just realized the creature was there. The diner was about to dine.
------
The troll boy under the bed was sweet and a good friend. Chris read him stories every night so that the troll could relax since he hadn't seen his troll parents in a month.
His father was gone and he didn't know where. His mother worked for the Monday-Wednesday-Friday society, a human run group that forced monsters into labor for human pleasure, often times using monsters against monsters. Wrestling was the group's primary moneymaker because no one expected wrestling to be real and no one believed a monster when they cried about being hurt or lonely.
"I'll take care of you. I'll take care of all monsters," Chris promised.
The troll boy started to read him books about monsters. How to talk to them, become friends with them, what kinds of monsters existed--Chris became fascinated by the world he had not seen, even though everyone had monsters under their beds.
And then one day the troll boy vanished. He left no trace except for a stack of books he'd taken from his mom's own collection.
"I'll take care of you."
------
By the time Chris had talked the mimic into spitting her prey onto the asphalt, the mimic and Chris were fast friends. Chris had told the mimic about how her family out East was doing and how much they missed her, even pulling one of her shapeshifting baby teeth out of his back pocket just to show her that he'd talked to them.
Although Kit was deeply rattled by nearly having been eaten when he thought he was sitting in a normal diner from the beginning, he told Chris everything he knew about the treatment of monsters by the MWF.
Whistling on his way home, even though he was completely drenched with mimic slobber which had a semi-corrosive effect on his car upholstery, Chris knew that his new friends would be very helpful in attacking the MWF when the time came. He would write a piece that would blow open the industry with his new info combined with everything else he had previously uncovered.
Thinking of his friend from his childhood, Chris smiled. "I'll take care of all monsters," he swore. Finally, he had a chance to prove it.
