Nightmare Carnival

“Yinz don’t understand,” Johnny the Plant said. “I’m from Wilkes- Barre!” He said it right, and the hecklers quieted down. “I seen what this man can do! He hurt my paw and my best friend last night, and I followed him on down here to Scranton. I’m going to give him a licking!”

“Go on home and lick yer mama!” someone — probably Gordon throwing his voice — shouted. Chattopadhyay, now the Black Raja in every sinew and muscle, put his hands on his hips and laughed a bellyful at that. Ha ha ha ha ha!

“Ring the bell!” Johnny the Plant shouted, and he slipped between the ropes. Gordon grabbed a ball-peen hammer and plunked the old school bell twice and Johnny the Plant walked right into the Black Raja’s boot and doubled over. He geeked himself then, nice and light to start the bleeding. The Black Raja wrapped his thick brown arms around Johnny the Plant’s torso, slammed his boots against the canvas, and gut-wrenched Johnny the Plant onto his back. Johnny the Plant bounced off the apron and howled and grabbed at his own ass like his tailbone had been shattered. He shook enough that his geek opened up and he started bleeding from the forehead.

Behind Johnny the Plant the Black Raja picked himself up and held out his arms, fingers splayed wide. He moved in for the kill. The Black Raja planted a knee between Johnny the Plant’s shoulder blades, wrapped his thick arms around Johnny the Plant’s neck, and clamped down.

“Go niyazuts,” he muttered to Johnny the Plant. Johnny the Plant went nuts, arms swinging, legs thumping off the canvas, tongue out, drool and spit flying. The Raja stood, bringing Johnny the Plant with him, then dropped him back to the canvas with an extra-loud thump, landing on top in a pinning position. The ring announcer counted aloud, “One, two, three!” and then rang the bell himself.

The Black Raja stood up, dragged Johnny the Plant up with him, and then reared back and punched Johnny the Plant right in the chops, punctuating the strike with a stomp to the canvas. The crowd booed again, and Gordon hammered a beat on his bell.

Now it was time for the finisher. The Raja grabbed Johnny the Plant’s left foot, placed his leg against the back of Johnny the Plant’s knee, and then twisted Johnny the Plant’s leg. Johnny the Plant howled and begged. Raja stepped over and cranked Johnny the Plant’s foot, then got back into position, and did it again, and again. The townies erupted at the sight of the spinning toehold, and finally Johnny the Plant screamed, “Uncle! Uncle!” When the rage of the crowd finally drowned out the bell, the Raja dropped the leg, stepped up to the audience, and took a graceful low bow. Johnny the Plant crawled to the apron and rolled out of the ring, favoring his tortured leg.

Most nights, that was the first act of the show. Despite the All-Comers name, it was a rare gilly that would get between the ropes after witnessing the beating Johnny the Plant took. Normally, Black Raja retires, and the still-bleeding plant stalks the midway, pounding his palm with his fist and working up his courage for a rematch loudly and publicly. An hour later, Johnny the Plant brings a new tip back to the ring and manages to get a few licks in on the champ before the Raja takes him down and hooks him with yet another crowd-pleasing spinning toehold.

Tonight though, when Jeff Gordon said, “Just barely a minute! A spirited effort by the young lad who saw what the Raja had to offer and followed us down the trail forty miles, but he leaves no richer. but infinitely wiser. Would anyone else like to test his mettle against the Black Raaaa—” He was interrupted.

“Jah!” said a huge white man that even Chattopadhyay hadn’t previously spotted. He must have joined the tip during the match, and thanks to his friends in the Klan, he had gotten all the way up to the ring apron. They’d set themselves up and then parted like the Red Sea for him. The big man pulled himself up onto the lip of the ring, his strong arm bending the ring rope as he gained his footing. “I’ll fight this Hindoo! This. Black Negro!” he declared, and the crowd roared.

Gordon shot Chattopadhyay a look. Chattopadhyay nodded, then turned and focused on his opponent. The big man wasn’t one; he was a big kid. Maybe a college boy, corn fed and on a football scholarship, with a familiar face.

He looked just like the cop, but huge. Everyone in the tip seemed to know him. The kid took off his shirt to reveal a blacksmith’s physique — a huge barrel chest and cannonball biceps.

Here’s something to know about wrestling. It’s all about leverage, and angles, and being game. Every hold has a counter, and all else being equal the man who keeps his wits about him wins.

Here’s something else to know about wrestling. A good big man beats a good little man, almost every single time. College boy was big enough that he didn’t even have to be all that good. The cop had been a normal-sized man, half a head shorter than Chattopadhyay.