Post by Prophet of Ash on Sept 5, 2017 13:11:58 GMT -5
“This is the first one of these I've ever seen, why are you selling it?”
“I could use the money. And it doesn't mean a whole lot to me any more.”
I've found myself in the world famous Gold & Silver Pawn Shop in Las Vegas. You know, from Pawn Stars. Rick is no where to be found though. Neither is Cory, The Old Man, or Chum Lee. Just this fellow. Think he said his name was Randy or Ricky or Rich or something. I wasn't really paying attention.[/color]
“What's it for?”
“It's a Hall of Fame ring. For wrestling.”
He's looking over my WFWF Hall of Fame ring with a microscopic glass.
“Pay fine attention to the inscription. Percy the Panhandler, Los Hobos. It's a one of a kind.”
“You're Percy the Panhandler?”
“I was, in another life.”
“I've got a few Superbowl rings in my cabinet, a couple of Pro Bowl rings. Some celebratory rings from the NBA, NHL.. But this is the first wrestling ring I've ever seen. Don't they usually give out championship belts?”
“Those are mostly a TV prop. I've got a WFWF Tag Team title belt somewhere though. It's a one of a kind too. New ones were made after my tag team partner hit his belt with a sledgehammer. If I find it in a box of stuff in my closet, I'll Fed Ex it to you.”
“Well the problem I'm having with this is, I don't even know what to offer for something like this. Superbowl rings, I have a benchmark. I know what they're worth, I know what they'll sell for, even for a third string benchwarmer. For a wrestling ring? I'm really not sure. Were you a popular wrestler?”
“Semi-popular.”
“What was Los Hobos?”
A mistake
“We were mostly a comedy tag team. Two guys, sometimes three. We had two female managers. I think there's four Los Hobos Hall of Fame rings out there. Mine, Thunder's, Ashley's..
Which has probably already been pawned or traded for crack.
“And my partner, Phillip Schneider's.”
“Can't say I know him.”
That's unusual. I was expecting this to be an interlude 'Oh, Schneider, he's the one that has been going around saying all those things about Ante Whitner, right?' Guess the cliches aren't always the way things play out.
“I can do $350 on this today.”
“$350.. That's three hundred and fifty dollars?”
“Yes. Cash money.”
“That's my life's work you have in your hand.”
“And it'll sit in my cabinet for god knows how long. I'll be lucky to get $700 for it. That's a push.”
“Are you being serious right now?”
“It's not even real gold through and through. It's brass with gold plating.”
“It's a Hall of Fame ring.”
“Look, if it's sentimental, then you should hold on to it. But $350 is my offer.”
He extends the ring back to me. I place it back on my finger and begin wheeling myself out of here. This chair that came as a byproduct of the ring is worth more than $350..
The wrestling business can be a dark and lonely place. Most people find a few travel buddies to pair off with, people they find similar interests and personalities with. Because while most jobs are forty hours a week, you live the life of a wrestler six days a week, sometimes seven. You’ll have a day off to go home, do laundry, check your mail and handle anything at home once a week but the rest of the time, you’re on the road with these people. And the unfortunate fact is, for a young wrestler, the option of traveling and rooming alone is simply not an option.
As independent contractors, we do cover our own expenses a lot of times, which includes room and board on the road. The easiest way to make do on this is splitting expenses with someone else. The average hotel room comes with two beds. This means two adults can sleep comfortably, four adults can sleep uncomfortably. When I was starting out with Los Hobos, we were doing everything we could to save money, so often times, that meant Percy, myself, Ashley, Thunder, and occasionally another lower card personality to a two bed room, who’s name I will spare in this retrospective for the sake of anonymity. We’d split it four (or five) ways. This meant that the $80 hotel room would now be just $20 (or $15) a night. Bare in mind, Percy and myself were the WFWF Tag Team Champions at the time, and we were checking into hotels and then literally sneaking Thunder and Ashley into the hotel room.
These are the dues you pay early in a career. The elaborate rockstar lifestyle is a farce. Or rockstar life was heading to Kentucky Fried Chicken after a show and buying two family dinner meals to feed the four (or five) adults and at times, one child, rooming in these hotel rooms across the country. When Los Hobos integrated carrying a bucket of chicken into our routine, it wasn’t for comedic value. It was because that meant less money out of our pockets to buy the bucket of chicken!
You do everything you can to pocket every penny you can, so you can do this for as little time as possible. When I started with the WFWF thirteen years ago in 2003, it was never with the idea that in 2017, I’d be preparing for a no rope flaming barbed wire death match. It was with the idea that by 2006, I would have saved enough money that I could make a few key investments and live comfortably for the rest of my life, perhaps with personal appearances and indie dates to keep me afloat. This is without considering I’d have a several month reign as International champion in 2006, several month long reign as World Heavyweight champion in 2007, and would become the longest reigning WFWF Heavyweight Champion of all time, until Drakz broke that record. With those accolades, you’d think my short career plan would’ve panned out exactly as expected, with enough money banked back that I’d never be lacing these boots ever again.
Alas, you’d be wrong.
“I really don’t know how you can keep going, man”
The voice in the shadows boomed. The mysterious comradery of pro wrestling makes it perfectly normal for two dudes to be talking naked in a locker room. I was not naked, only opting to wipe down and change shirts and apply deodorant here. My companion, however, wrestled on this evening’s show in Canada and is fully nude, the hot steamy water blasting away his and his opponent’s spam. This doesn’t stop him from resuming our conversation though.
“I was in elementary school when I first saw you. Elementary school. And now we’re sharing the locker room. What drives you to continue to do this, man? I mean, what, twelve years now?”
“Fourteen, but who’s counting?”
“That’s a lifetime in this business man. I don’t think I’ll be here in fourteen years, at least I hope not.”
“I never hoped to be here fourteen years ago, though.”
“But you’re an icon, man. You’re a two time Hall of Famer. I know a lot of people around here fear you and you carry a certain reputation, but everyone respects you. Not just because you cut people and smash people with weapons, but because you’ve made a career out of this. Week in and week out, you have been there, lacing your boots *gurgle* and going out there to entertain.”
He just rinsed his hair mid sentence.
“But those Hall of Fame rings don’t put food on the table. I don’t want to be here any more. I want to go home and just enjoy what I’ve got. My kid’s 18 now. She’s an adult now. I thought wrestling here would pay for her private school.. Now here I am looking into paying for her college.”
“But you’ve been working for so many years. Shouldn’t be too hard, right?”
“I’ve got an ex wife who took half, a baby momma who took half of what remains, and I’ve raised a daughter as a single parent. How much money do you truthfully think I have banked bank? I live in a 3 bedroom apartment in downtown Chicago. Rent is $1300 a month, but it is rent. I’m 34 years old. I’ve been a worldwide entertainer for fourteen years. I should have my own home.”
“Look, it’s tough. I live with two college kids. They only keep ramen noodles in the house and eat anything I don’t put under lock and key.”
He’s turned the shower off. There’s a brief pause and he emerges from the shower, dripping wet and clad only in a towel. This will never not be weird. I avert my eyes, though the conversation continues.
“These days, you pretty much have to work your entire life. My Dad is 67 years old, still working forty hours a week manual labor. And here, there’s no retirement fund. No stock options.”
“Just two Hall of Fame rings and the scars to show for a lifetime of misery.”
“Pretty much.”
“I think I’m going to go light Ante Whitner’s face on fire.”
“Alright man. ……wait, what?”
Grabbing my bag with flash paper and microlighter, I make my way out of the locker room and towards the main arena, leaving my dripping college to dry himself in privacy.
“What’s he going to school for again?”
“I’m not sure, something in data entry. Analytics maybe? He works with numbers a lot.”
“He’s a lot like his brother. His brother writes instructional manuals for a living.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, like if you make a new gizmo or do-dad, and you need someone to write up the instructional manual, you go to James. James writes instructional manuals.”
“And Tommy’s going to school in Arizona you said?”
“That’s right, Arizona.”
“That’s so far away, and there’s really nothing out in Arizona, is there? What’s he going all the way out there for school for?”
These two squawking birds have been going back and forth like this for the last hour, meaningless small talk. Samantha thinks we both need to become more acquainted with our extended family, so today, I’ve brought her to visit my mother. Unfortunately, my brother’s wife is also here. I’ve come to learn that my brother’s wife is almost ALWAYS here, the two creating a sort of Real Housewives of Chicago inside of this living room, with ritualistic viewings of The Price is Right, drinking of flavored coffees from a Keurig, a spinner proudly displaying the different flavors they’ve yet to consume, and creating various homemade items for later giving as gifts. Currently, they’re knitting hats, which Samantha finds fascinating and has immediately engulfed herself in. I’m just zoning out. My knees shake uncomfortably as I sit in this rigid wooden chair, the compact padding smelling of old cigarettes providing little in the way of comfort. Every so often, one of them gets up, making their way into the kitchen and offering me a cup of coffee or a cookie. When I deny those advances, they dig deeper into the cabinets, offering peanuts, granola bars, Combo pretzel crackers, a bologna sandwich, and whatever else they can produce. The smothering mothering around here is sickening and they haven’t yet grasped that this is a token display of appearance. I’m here because my daughter thinks this is the right thing for her growth, not because I particularly care to be at all.
“Samantha, what school are you planning on attending? You graduate this year, right?”
“Actually Grandma, I graduated this past Spring, in May.”
“Why didn’t you invite me to your graduation ceremony, dear? I would’ve loved to watch you walk the stage in cap and gown!”
“I didn’t walk”
“Why not? You only graduate high school once, dear.”
“Dad was out of town for work and Mom is Mom. None of my friends were going to be there so it just seemed like a big waste of time. I got my diploma. Core40 with Honors. That’s what’s important.”
“With honors? Goodness, I’m so proud of you. I always knew you were so smart! What are your honors in?”
“I took classes in French and Spanish, maintained a high GPA, and have mathematical honors as well.”
“That’s fantastic, Samantha.”
My brother’s wife is eyeballing me as the two converse. In a judgmental, “How dare you not attend her graduation, you sicken me” sort of way. I’ve never particularly cared for this woman. She’s been married to my brother for a few years and when I didn’t attend their wedding, it permanently marked me with a scarlet letter in her eyes. It was a matter of attending a WFWF booking or making an appearance at her wedding and personally, the money from my WFWF appearance outweighed an awkward social gathering.
Since 2004, I haven’t attended many weddings. I’ve missed them all, in fact. My own wedding renewals to Ashley were done in a Vegas drive thru chapel with an Elvis look a like. I’ve missed most of Samantha’s school functionings, either because they were on nights of live events, they were on nights of house shows, or I was traveling back and forth between work and home. The one day off a week I’ve had for the better part of the last fifteen years rarely lined up with the dates of Samantha’s gatherings. But it’s not just her I’ve missed. I’ve missed funerals too. I was unable to attend the funeral of Doctor Baldwin, not even knowing he passed until months later. More frustrating, I missed the funeral of my father. I would’ve liked to urinate into his casket before they let the maggots eat his flesh. But that opportunity has passed and now the only gratification I can get is vandalizing his final resting place from time to time.
Life on the road has it’s hindrances. For most of my adult life, I’ve lived on the road. I’ve road from state to state in rented vans, bought my clothing from consignment shops and resale stores on the road with the idea of not putting much money into a wardrobe because it’s more convenient to throw clothes away than to wash them on the road. I’ve slept more nights on uncomfortable stained hotel beds than I have in my own bed, and I’ve spent more of those nights with the girlfriend of the town than I have with my own wife. My marriage failed because of this. Ashley knew what the wrestler life was like. It was her life before her life became my life too. She knew what she was getting herself into. But my transgressions still stung and when they became too vast, we broke the knot. We tried to rekindle our old flame several times to various degrees of success, but ultimately we were too much alike. And I still lived on the road.
The miles I’ve put on my body will live with me forever. The long drives, the early morning flights, the boat rides to remote locations. I’ve rented cars in 47 of the 50 states in the US. I’ve wrestled in 49 of 50 states, only needing an appearance in Alaska to have hit all 50 states. Mexico, Japan, Sweden, The Netherlands, Australia, Germany, China.. They’re all ticked boxes for me. And they’re all miles I’ve traveled. Most people consider a 45 minute commute to work a grueling schedule. My typical commute is a full day, sometimes two. An overseas trip can see three days of travel time. And all this travel time has been time away from my family. Away from my wife. Away from my kids. This sort of time with the traveling rouge band of carnies and misfits has been time I could’ve spent with my family. So that meetings like today aren’t awkward ones.
“Samantha, where are you planning on going to school?”
“I wasn’t, really.”
“No college?”
“I don’t think it’s for me, Grandma”
“Why would you say that? You’re a bright young lady with a huge future ahead of her.”
“Because I don’t know what I want to do. I don’t know what I’d do with a degree.”
“Didn’t you want to go to medical school? And become a doctor? Sports medicine, I believe it was. So you could fix all of your father’s injuries.”
There’s a bit of dark sarcasm in my mother’s voice as she says this.
“Yeah but Grandma, everyone has little kid dreams. That was just a little kid dream to me.”
“Some people never grow out of their little kid dreams, Samantha.”
Again, dark sarcasm directed towards me.
“What about boys? Do you have a boyfriend, Samantha?”
“….no”
“I’m sure it’s just a matter of finding the right boy though. A beautiful young lady like you, I’m sure all the boys at your school were crazy about you.”
“I’m sure they were too, Grams.”
“But you need the perfect boy, one who’s just right for you, who has a bright future and will take care of you, so you can be a stay at home mother and raise a bunch of kids. Make your Dad a proud Grandpa.”
“Uh huh.. Yeah…”
“Give him a whole flock of grandkids, so maybe he can realize this wrestling stuff needs to go. That his family is where his legacy lies, not this fighting nonsense.”
I’ve heard enough.
“This ‘fighting nonsense’ is what paid for my house, mother. Need I remind you that it was a Superbrawl payday that paid off this house? And your car?”
“Oh boo hoo, poor Mr. Superstar, having to take care of his mother. You’re rich. What’s it matter.”
The evil sister in law from the corner pipes in, throwing her two cents in on this situation when it wasn’t requested nor merited.
“You have enough money to support your whole family, so why’s paying for your mother’s house that big of a deal? It’s the least you can do after she raised your kids, you self absorbed prick.”
“I like girls”
Samantha cuts off this insane tirade from my sister in law with her signature bluntness.
“I like girls, Grandma. I don’t want a nice boyfriend. I don’t want a husband to take care of me. I like girls. I’ve had boyfriends. And I’ve had sex with boys. But boys, and men, aren’t what I want, I want a girlfriend. I want to come home every night to a pretty girl who cooks and cleans. I don’t want to do “woman’s work”. I’d rather go work on a construction site.”
“Oh Samantha, that is now work for a lady”
“My name is Sam. S-a-m. I have never liked being called Samantha Grandma, and you know this. And who cares if it’s ‘work for a lady’. I’m not willing to let my life be tied down to ‘work for a lady’. I’m not a lady. I’m just Sam. You need to learn to accept that.”
“Oh Samantha, what have they done to you? What have they done to my little girl?”
“I’m not a little girl any more, Grams. I’m a grown ass woman. And I know what I want. If you can’t accept that, you won’t be in my life any more. Just like you pushed yourself out of Dad’s life.”
“What are you saying Samantha?”
“I’m saying some people can change. But most don’t. You haven’t and probably never will. Enjoy your Price is Right and coffee. I’m going to live my life.”
“But Samantha”
“It's Sam. F**k off, Grams”
“Because I want you there Percy, that’s why”
I hadn’t seen Phil since I left the arena in Canada several weeks ago. I effectively walked off the job that night, but perhaps more importantly, I left my friend behind. I know a lot of people see me as a sort of moral shaman for Phillip Schneider, someone to guide him between right and wrong. If Los Hobos were the spirits on your shoulder, I’d be the angel in most people’s eyes and Phil would be the devil. But unfortunately it’s not nearly that cut and dry. And our relationship isn’t either.
Beyond coming to ringside, throwing him a chair when he needs it or setting up a barbed wire board for someone to go crashing through, activities that I’ll be the first to admit I’ve been unable to do since the botched surgery left me in this chair, I also handle a lot of the business side of the Phillip Schneider Brand. If you’ve ever sent something to the P.O. Box in Chicago, it’s likely been picked up by your’s truly, if not handled entirely by me. Fan mail, autograph requests, requests for personal appearances, and personal merchandise processing has always been handled by me. There was a time when Phillip Schneider’s personal t-shirt company’s revenue nearly trumped the revenue he was bringing in from the WFWF, and each and every one of those t-shirts was packed up by either me or an employee named David, who Phil fired when he refused to work on his daughter’s birthday.
WFWF wrestlers are independent contractors, in the loosest definition of the word. The WFWF tells them who they’re going to be wrestling, what they need to wear, what cities to be in and what time to be there and issues fines if they aren’t there on time. But through the independent contractor loophole, the WFWF also doesn’t pay a majority of the wrestlers travel expenses (and when they do, it’s through re-imbursement rather than direct payment, aside from flights internationally). This leaves most wrestlers responsible for things like booking and returning rental cars, checking in and out of hotels, eating on the road, and most importantly, managing this mountain of receipts. It’s gotten easier in this digital age than it was when we started almost fifteen years ago, but the book keeping for a professional wrestler’s income and expenses is still an astronomical undertaking, one that most active pro wrestlers cannot handle themselves. I’ve always been good with numbers and even as an active wrestler, I handled most of the book keeping for the Los Hobos tag team. It only made sense to handle Phil’s book keeping too. We were splitting rental cars, splitting hotels.. If we got new gear made up, it was in sets of two rather than one. Everything was as a duo, so my expenses were also his and his mine. When Ashley was on the road with us, our trio’s expenses were as a collective unit rather than individuals.
When my time in the ring came to an end, I still managed Phil’s expense reports. Until he returned at the turn of the decade, it was primarily just filing taxes at the end of the year. But with his return came a hands on management roll with the Phillip Schneider brand. I was his manager in the ring and out. At times I was like a babysitter, rangling him to and from hotels when he really didn’t want to be, ensuring he was face to face with the people he needed to be even when it didn’t suit him. This has been my roll, up to the point I went home from Canada.
I know this is the roll that Phil’s wanting me back in. And I know that there’s a month or so of unorganized expense reports, hotel receipts, rental car receipts, and the added headache of it all being in Canadian currency waiting for me.
“So you want me to come handle all of your paperwork, more or less?”
“No Percy, I want you at my side. I want my buddy there for me. Listen, I don’t know how many more of these rodeos I’ve got in me and when the time comes that it is my last match, I want you there.”
“Thought you already had your last match? Against Drakz?”
He glares at me. The retirement subject has been a sore one for Phil ever since this newest return. He was defeated soundly by Drakz, with the pre-match stipulation that if he wasn’t victorious and didn’t capture the WFWF Heavyweight championship, that he’d retire. Unfortunately due to some clerical errors in the WFWF offices, the contract stated that he’d never wrestle for Trace Demon’s WFWF regime again, not that he wouldn’t wrestle for the WFWF. The megalomaniacal owner Trace Demon had inserted his own name in almost every contract and thus, when the Demon left, it opened the doors for Schneider to go back to work.
I can’t say I blame my friend for wanting to go back to work. This profession has been his only job for the last fifteen years and the WFWF is the biggest league around to do this in. But a deal’s a deal and he’s broken his agreement with Drakz. And now thanks to another megalomaniac, Michael Kyzer, Drakz isn’t even around the enforce the prematch stipulations that Phil isn’t upholding.
“I’m not that old, Percy. Truthfully I’m in my physical prime. I’ve got a lot left in the tank and some of my best matches are still ahead of me. I’ve been throwing around this idea for a two out of three falls match, three separate matches in one night. Not like the hokey two out of three falls of yesteryear either, where one fall is settled in a flash to give the heel an advantage. I want to wrestle three matches in one night.”
“If you’re so spry that you want to wrestle three times in one night, what do you need me for?”
“You’re my travel buddy, Percy. You keep me entertained on long car rides. Plus you’re good with dealing with people, the people in the airports. The people in the hotels, the types that I really don’t want to deal with. You’re good at dealing with them and getting what we need from them.”
“What you need.”
“Huh?”
“You said ‘what we need’. I don’t need anything. I’m perfectly happy with sitting at home, watching movies in my comfy pants, and relaxing. I don’t need the stress from travel. I don’t need the miles on my body. I know it’s easy for you, but do you have any idea how taxing it is on me to fly now? The pressure changes reek havoc on my spinal cord. Getting in and out of airplanes is hell. Booking a handicap accessible rental car? Hah, that’s a joke, even in the major cities.”
“Percy, I want you there in case something goes wrong. This is no rope flaming barbed wire. They’re going to light the ring on fire. I’m nervous.”
“Nervous? You’re Phillip Schneider, the Prophet of Ash, the Bringer of the Plague, the King of Gore, Your Heretic Hero, the Rated X Superstar, God Himself, what’s a little fire to you. You’re indestructible. You’re this mythical monster of mayhem. You’re going to go in there and rape Ante Whitner and not have a scratch on you. Or at least that’s what you’re going to say in your interviews, isn’t that right? You’re going to put on this façade that you’re not scared, that you’ve got this, when deep down inside you’re just as afraid as everyone else. Deep down inside you know your blood is the same color as everyone else’s and that it flows the same way. You know that regardless of what you say, pain registers with you the exact same way it does everyone else and you know you’ve got yourself in a world of hurt. That’s what scares you, Phil. It scares you that you know you’re screwed. You know he’s got your number. Even if you come out on top, you know you’re going to get messed up. You’re scared to death and you’re clinging on to whatever you can grasp. Phil, I’m going to say this in plain English. It’s the same thing I told you up in Canada.
off. And politely see yourself out of my home.”
Phil stands up and walks out, without saying a single word.
I should feel bad about what I did to The Dog Who Eats Cheeseburgers. After all, he was just a young wrestler looking to make a name for himself by doing something unique and weird. It certainly made him stand out from the pack, differentiating him from the random name generator field of grapplers that fills our locker room every week. He didn’t do anything to me personally to validate the beating he received. He didn’t deserve to get cut. He didn’t deserve to get burned.
Except that he did.
He deserved what he got. If I could’ve chased him down once they put him out and light him ablaze again, I would’ve. If I could’ve taken a knife and slit his wrists, I would’ve gleefully watched him bleed out. He didn’t do anything to me personally, no. But he did take money out of my pocket. Because people saw him as a joke. Those people took me less seriously, and took my business less seriously. When I went out there and harmed him, I proved I’m not a joke. Do people think I’m playing around? Do people think this is all a big hah hah funny show?
I would’ve thought the demonstration I presented with Hugh Jass would’ve been enough to show people: Do not make a mockery of my business. You wanna do something funny? You better bust your ass ten times harder than everyone else on the roster to not only do something funny but do something memorable. Work harder than everyone else to show you aren’t here for the shortcuts to the top.
The Dog That Eats Cheeseburgers did not do that.
The Dog That Eats Cheeseburgers was willing to live off of this comical idea that he’s a funny man and a silly character. His matches, or lack there of, are forgettable and he will not be missed. By physically terminating him, I did the WFWF a favor by eliminating a plague before it spreads. And if The Dog That Eats Cheeseburgers has an issue with what I did, he can walk his happy jolly jovial gimmick ass down the ramp and call me out. I’m not a hard man to find. And I don’t think the beating is going to be any different the next time.
I’m sick to death of these gimmicky nonsense characters making a joke of MY profession. The Dog That Eats Cheeseburgers reminds me of the sick stupid stunt that piece of crap Johnny Michaels pulled when he wasn’t able to show his face in the WFWF for pure and utter shame. Still calling you out, Johnny. I’ll be your huckleberry, any time, any place. Show your face around here again and I’ll ensure no one ever recognizes it again.
Ante, I placed the blame for the slaughter of The Dog that Eats Cheeseburgers on you. I blame you for it, because you’re the one who’s made me angry. And I relate you to The Dog That Eats Cheeseburgers. Because you don’t know what’s in front of you, either. You don’t understand the opportunities that you’ve had and the opportunities that you’ve wasted. You walk around and call yourself the holder of the Golden Opportunity, but the fact is, you’ve already surpassed that. I’d put you at the main event level. I’d put you at the level of the top of this federation. But unfortunately, you’ve shown yourself as not quite the top of the top, the ultimate peak. You’ve shown yourself as probably just a mid card player. So you can go ahead and cash in that Golden Opportunity, and you can win the International title. And you can be satisfied. Because you’ve let me down, kid. I thought you were better than that, but you’ve shown me that you’re probably not.
That’s why I relate you to The Dog That Eats Cheeseburgers.
He was too stupid to know what he was doing too. He was too stupid to realize the mistakes he was making too. He was too stupid to realize he was in harm’s way. He was too dumb to realize he was already dead. I hope you realize Ante, you’re already dead.
Ante, I’m going to beat the holy piss out of you. I’m going to hurt you worse than I’ve ever hurt someone in a professional wrestling ring. The Dog That Eats Cheeseburgers is in recent memory, but he’s simply my most recent casualty. I have made a reputation for myself on the careers of others. A long string of forgettable characters of similar statue of The Dog That Eats Cheeseburgers have fallen to my hands, their careers ended and they’re never seen again. I’ve made people famous simply from stepping in the ring with me. Benja Hart. Lionhart. Everyone’s favorite trucker Lincoln Dina. These are names that’d be completely forgotten to time if it wasn’t me that ended them. Hutton Brown was a lot like you. He was scrappy and he thought he was going to be the one to break my curse. And he beat me. He climbed a ladder and retrieved a championship belt and that made him the victor in our first confrontation. But when the second confrontation came about.. I beat the ever loving piss out of him, I dropped him on his head and broke his neck and he was never heard from again.
How about Mak Cross? How about Cam Nitta? The newest generation of the WFWF. They were never the same after the Psycho Circus. And now they’re lost to time. Alexis Chavente? I beat, humbled, and sexually assaulted her to prove a point. When we step into the ring Ante, I’m going to make you a submissive little bitch the likes Alexis Chavente could only dream of.
Ante, I ended my best friend’s career. In a professional wrestling ring, I disfigured my best friend in a life altering way, ending his professional wrestling career and requiring him to have a surgery that has left him in a wheel chair. I ended Hugh Jass’ career and beat him within an inch of his life, simply because I didn’t like his name.
Everything I’ve done to opponents in the past will pale in comparison to what I do to you Ante. I will take you to depths of depravity that the WFWF has never seen. What I’m going to do to you will be sold online as a snuff video, Ante. This isn’t going to be a professional wrestling match. This is going to be a slaughter and career assassination. Ante Whitner, talk to your friends. Make good with your family. Ante, this blazing inferno is a reasonable facsimile of the seventh circle of Hell. Welcome to purgatory.
As much as I like to complain about the rigors of traveling, there’s a certain relaxation about being on the interstate. It’s knowing once you’re on that on ramp, you’re going to be driving in a mostly straight line with no red lights and almost never slowed or stopped traffic. Growing up in the perpetual construction of the Midwest, this became one of my favorite parts of traveling.
Today’s drive to Ft. Lauderdale is one I’m needing to make a couple of days before hand, because it is an almost twenty hour drive. I’ll be making a stop in Tennessee for the night, just after leaving Kentucky, and likely one at the edge of Georgia for a meal. Tennessee is actually a morning autograph session booked through a talent agency I’ve become involved with. From 9 AM to noon, I’ll be signing Funko Pop figures. When Funko approached me about being in their WFWF Pop line, I was all too thrilled. When I seen the concept art, including a bloody variant for Hot Topic, I was elated. On Tuesday morning, I’ll be at a Hot Topic in Tennessee signing those Pop figures.
Usually my travel partner for these long trips is my partner Percy, but with him declining, I’ve found my travel companion to be my eighteen year old daughter Samantha. Samantha does have her driver’s license and is a competent driver, so it’ll be good to rely on her to do some of the driving on this trip. Samantha is no stranger to WFWF events, more or less growing up in and around the locker room. A 2006 documentary about the WFWF remains one of my favorite pieces of home movie footage, as Samantha has a short profile on it. Her youthful innocence is on full display and she stole the hearts of many. Now she’s grown into the adult I always knew she would be.
Sam has had her own inner turmoil as of late, one I unfortunately cannot relate to. Her struggle with gender identity drew public and media attention when she brought it to her private blog, a blog that’s gained some notoriety because of her being my daughter. She’s explained how the LGBT community has been extremely supportive, though the wrestling fans have not been as much. For me, receiving hateful and often just dumb tweets on every tweet I send on Twitter is nothing new. I’ve done social experiments just to amuse The Deville while on the road, posting inane objects with no context and watching the hate speech flow in. On a trip from New York to Oregon, every time we’d stop at a gas station, our rouge posse, at the time consisting of the entire Decaying Society of myself, Joe the Hobo, New Kylie, The Deville, and Percy would take a group selfie with a pack of gum. This went on for the entire trip, four days and around sixty pictures of us mugging about with a pack of gum. And for the hours between the gum snapshots, we’d be in hysterics as people told us they hoped we choked to death on the gum, take the penises out of our mouth before chewing the gum, and to just kill ourselves. This wasn’t bad guy wrestling character, it was just hate speech. I’ve grown a thick skin about it, and so has Samantha over the years, but the accumulative pressure can become too much if you’re not particularly egging it on.
For Sam, her social media experiences have mostly been soured by wrestling fans, a profession she’s not even involved with. A social media account that she created for her dance crew and simply linked as Sam, dropping her surname entirely for hopes of anonymity, was vandalized to the point of non repair within twenty four hours of posting. Her team mates have suffered this collateral damage as well, the anonymous internet wrestling community lashing out at them for their six degrees of Phillip Schneider separation from me.
These poor interactions are why it comes as a surprise that Sam would even want to come on this journey across the country with me. In the last four years, Samantha’s trips on the road with me have been limited, her high school education taking precedence over trips to wrestling shows. An elderly friend three houses down named Barbara has taken a sort of den mother roll over Samantha through her high school career, filling in as a surrogate parent whenever I am not around. Barbara looks at me like her son, her real son estranging from her around thirty years ago, so she was more than happy to take on the grandmother roll with Samantha. But for the last two years, Sam has had financial independence and has mostly taken care of herself, a credit card with a five hundred dollar spending limit providing her clothing, food, and other essentials, while I maintain the monthly household bills from the road. For a senior in high school, she essentially was already living the bachelorette lifestyle.
On this trip, she’s found herself immersed in study materials, a guide to Ethernet protocols currently holding her attention. Sam has always been a smart kid, from an early age insisting she was going to be a doctor. Now with her high school career finished, she’s finding that a career in information technology may be a better fit. The memorization of the protocol numbers and standards has come naturally to Sam, though physically cutting and crimping cords and lining up the wires has been a bit more of a problem. Every forty minutes or so, the music playing through her phone via Bluetooth in the car is replaced by Professor Messer, explaining the newest standards Samantha is learning about. It’s a bit jarring for a song to stop midway through and our new friend Professor Messer to join us on the journey, but he’s been a welcomed digital acquaintance for the long car ride.
As we travel down i65 south in Indiana, it’s been mostly quiet, until Sam breaks the silence.
“So Dad, how much longer do you think you’ll wrestle for?”
She asks with a certain certainty in her voice, placing her bookmark in her learning materials and shutting them, placing them into her bag as we prepare for this conversation.
“I’m not sure, Sam. As long as the money is there for me, I suppose.”
“Is it just about the money now?”
“It is Sam.”
“Why don’t you do something else for a living, Dad?”
“Because this is all I really know. I’ve been a professional wrestler for the last sixteen years of my life, and my training started before you were even born. Before that, I worked in a McDonalds and in a factory that refurbished bumpers. It’s not like I have a particularly deep resume.”
“But we’ve got money, Dad. I’ve seen your bank statements. We’ve got enough that we could make do for several years without you doing anything. And if you took autograph signings like the one at Hot Topic, worked the conventions, maybe took some acting roles? You could make do.”
“And pay for your college?”
“Who said I need you to pay for my college?”
“It’s what parents do.”
“Yeah, but you’re a single parent, Dad. And you’ve done what you can, but the fact remains you are a single parent doing the best you can. The strongest female role I’ve had in my life is Percy, for pete’s sake.”
I can’t help but smirk at her observance.
“Seriously Dad, he cooked, he cleaned, he did laundry, he signed report cards, he attended parent-teacher conferences, he made sure I was on the bus every morning.. If I was to ever become a good housewife, I’d be applying the tools I learned from Percy above everything else.”
“I’m sorry your Mom isn’t around more, Sam.”
“It’s not your fault Dad.”
“It kind of is. I’ve been an okay Dad, but I wasn’t a good husband at all.”
“I’ll make a good husband and a good housewife.”
She looks back at me with my own sly smile. There are times I look at Sam and see her mother’s beauty. Then there’s times like this that I can only see a reflection of myself looking back at me. That slightly serial killer smile and socially pariah sense of humor, it’s uniquely Schneider, and unquestionably she’s taken that from me.
“I’ll come home every day, kick my shoes off from a hard day’s work, slap my wife on the ass and take off for the shower. Hopefully dinner’s cooked and on the table before I get out or else.”
“Or else what, Sam?”
“I haven’t got that far yet.”
“This liking girls thing..”
“Yeah Dad?”
“Where’d it come from?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve had boyfriends in the past. Remember the whole condom-gate?”
“I’ve never actually slept with a boy though Dad.”
“You’ve slept with girls?”
“Ummm…. Noooo, not me, nooo, never.”
That sly Schneider smirk greets me again to accompany this answer, along with a certain degree of blush. Her face turns even more red as the cheeky grin grows.
“Are you happy, Sam?”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you found someone who makes you happy? That’s what’s important. Male or female, I don’t really care. Just find someone that makes you happy. Find someone who smiles when you talk to them and someone who makes you smile. Who whenever something good happens, they’re the first person you want to share it with. Find someone who is comfort whenever bad things happen. Someone you know is going to be there to celebrate your victories in life and assist in your defeats.”
The faint clicking of my left turn indicator is the punctuation on this statement as I merge to the left in preparation for the toll road at the Louisville bridge in a few miles.
“Hey Sam, can you reach into the glove box and grab my toll road box? I think it’s eight dollars at the Louisville bridge, but grab ten just in case.”
She fumbles in the glove compartment momentarily before producing the small steel lock box I keep in there. It’s a small box, just larger than a dollar bill, that I keep petty cash in for toll roads and other road related expenses. I usually put fifty dollars in small bills in it before starting any trip, an expense I make sure to mark on all expense reports. It’s so routine that the people at my bank know exactly how I want my fifty dollar withdraw, a twenty, two tens, ten ones. Almost weekly, sometimes twice a week, to the teller window to get my toll road money. Sam produces this week’s ten and places the box back in the glove department.
“She does. I mean, I think she does. It’s hard to know. We argue sometimes but never a lot. She wanted to come on this trip but I told her no.”
“She could’ve come.”
“I wanted this to be just us though, Dad. Like it was back in the day.”
“You used to sit in the back seat of my Kia and color for hours. We’d get you a new box of crayons on every trip and you’d color so much the tips would be worn off by the time we got to the arena. I used to have a box of 64 Crayola crayons as part of my rider list.”
“I know. Pretty sure I still have a box of all the weird colors that you never used from those boxes, somewhere. ……are you worried about the match?”
“Not really, no.”
“It’s a pretty big deal though. You’ve never faced Ante before, or been in a fire…”
Samantha trails off as we reach the window, the attendant asking for eight dollars. Sam hands me the $10, I pass it off to the attendant, two one dollar bills later and the toll arm raises, and we’re back in the road.
“You were saying?”
“Nothing Dad. Just, be careful?”
“Always am. Calculated risks. It’s the key to survival in this sport.”
“I’ll remind you of that at 2 AM on Friday in the Fort Lauderdale ER…”
I don’t sleep much any more. The dark is supposed to be a quiet, relaxing time when your body recharges and refreshes itself for the next day ahead. My body is at war when I attempt to sleep. My body rejects the relaxation and as a result, slumbers are spent violently thrashing about in and underneath covers, unable to find a comfortable position to keep myself in for deep relaxation.
I’ve tried a variety of medications to assist with sleep. Nyquil and it’s non-cough equal Z-Quil, over the counter sleep aids from the highest brand name to the lowest store name, melatonin, and more. I’ve tried prescription drugs, because the medical industry is as baffled by my non-sleep as I am, my adaptation to function on two or three hours of sleep every two nights a medical marvel.
The nights come a time of peace for me though, because generally speaking the social aspects of life come to a halt as the world slumbers. My social media accounts come to a silence apart from the overseas fan or the odd insomniac like myself. Important business emails don’t come until the brink of dawn, often well past the break of dawn. No phone calls are needing to be returned and no paperwork is needing to be signed. In that aspect, the overnights are a time of rest.
For me, the overnights are a time to watch movies or TV shows I’ve missed on the road. They present the opportunity to catch up on some of my favorite classic horror movies and reflect upon them. There was a time when I had just three movies in my collection, George A Romero’s Dawn of the Dead, Nightmare on Elm Street 3, and Friday the 13th Part 4. I’d watch these movie ad nauseam, relentlessly rewinding and fast forwarding these brick VHS tapes until the film grain became unbearable. I had an automatic rewinding VCR, which meant when the movie finished, after about two minutes of rewinding, it’d be playing again from the start. Countless nights were spent with the end of Friday the 13th seamlessly melting into the beginning as my lack of slumber sent me into a state of deliriousness. Now I’ve amassed a collection of films in the tens of thousands, my home library resembling that of a real library, the collection of gory films and grotesque violence lining my walls in an oak bookshelf. Titles like The Driller Killer, I Spit on Your Grave, Love Camp 7, and Cannibal Holocaust now line my shelves, proudly and prominently displayed for all to see. Rather than a perpetually deteriorating VHS on a clunky tube television, I have my movies blasted upon the wall on an 80 inch projection screen.
Watching these movies gives me solace. I assume I achieve the same level of relaxation and rest that most people do by getting eight hours of sleep from watching several movies in a night. But these moments also provide me with reflection time. They provide me with an introspective opportunity and they chance to look forward at what I am going to be doing. Perhaps the fear of these future wars and encounters is mellowed by these introspective nights. Perhaps I’m put to ease knowing what I’ve survived in the past has prepared me for what’s to come in the future. Tonight is no different. While I lie in the darkness, the only light being a blue hue emanating from the wall as the sounds of The Dead Hate the Living fills my room, I look forward into the imminent match with Ante Whitner. I look into this match knowing the dangers of no rope barbed wire. Having participated in the first one in WFWF history, as well as being the only person in the WFWF to have been in two of these gruesome encounters, I know all too well the dangers that await me with the barbed wire. I know what the tearing barbed wire, with it’s barbs every ten centimeters feels like, violating and penetrating the flesh. I’m more adequately prepared than anyone for the barbed wire aspect. The fact that it’s going to be on fire, while obviously amplifying the dangers of the match at hand, serve more as a cosmetic and dramatization than an actual hindrance or danger. I do fear fire, because fire is unpredictable. It’s hard to say exactly how hot the flames will be burning, how hot the barbed wire will heat up to be, and how the rags soaked in starter fluid will flake and burn. It’s completely impossible to know how these rags will burn without personally assembling the set up and controlling variables like the environment, which will be an unknown variable in the open air arena.
But it’s not the fire that keeps me up. Nor is it the idea of the added implements that are sure to come into the match. The chairs, tables, fluorescent light bulb tubes, gusset plates and more are of little concern to me, the wounds they open merely superficial. No, at this point the most worrying aspect of the match for me is a rarity for me, it’s a worry about my opponent himself, Ante Whitner. When I look at Ante, I see a lot of myself. I see the young Phillip Schneider, hungry and ready to destroy the world and leave destruction in his wake. I see the angry Phillip Schneider, looking to prove himself and establish his legacy. I realize that when I step into that twenty by twenty combat surface, the ramp may as well be adorned with the phrase Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate, because I’m entering Dante’s Inferno. I’m walking into the inferno to face the scariest thing I can think of. I’m facing a direction reflection of myself.
Through the trials and tribulations that Ante and myself have faced, the comparison has come up a number of times, how Ante Whitner is like an alternate universe Phillip Schneider. I’d be lying if I didn’t confirm this theory. I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t the exact reason I initially scouted Ante. In him, I see all of the redeeming qualities I see in myself, the hunger, the anger, the lack of compassion. I see in him the same negative traits as well, the self destructive tendencies that have brought me to career zeniths more often than not. I wanted to guide Ante. I wanted to latch onto him as he prepared for his championship climax and I wanted to guide the war machine through a path of destruction never before seen in the WFWF. If Phillip Schneider’s mind and body could dominate the WFWF the way I have, my mind guiding someone bigger, stronger, faster, and younger than me could’ve reached previously unseen heights. The edge I have on Ante Whitner is what I would’ve lent to make him the total package; experience. I’ve been to the dance. I’ve seen and done and conquered. Championship matches don’t intimidate me. Neither do main events. “Big Match Phil” isn’t just a cute nickname, it’s a reality. When I’m pushed against a wall, I come out swinging and swinging in a way that no one before or since me has been able to replicate.
Stepping into this blazing inferno to do battle with my shadow has given me the introspective insight that I am prepared for war. I am prepared for the challenge that lies ahead of me in a fortnight. I’m more prepared for Ante Whitner than I have been for any previous match because I come into this match healthy, in the right head space for combat, focused, and prepared to do battle. The lingering thoughts and feelings of inadequacy in my head are squashed when I remember, I am Phillip Schneider, and he’s not. No matter how much he attempts to replicate my act, he’ll never be able to walk a mile in my shoes. Ante Whitner isn’t Phillip Schneider. To gain immortality, Ante Whitner must first face his own mortality, as contradictory as that may seem. Stepping into this warzone, Ante must be prepared to make the sacrifices that I am willing to make. He must be willing to devote himself completely to this warfare. I walk into every match with the understanding it may be my last and that’s a realization that Ante Whitner will need to come to as well.
But most importantly, Ante will need to realize while he is Ante Whitner. He’ll never be Phillip Schneider.
“I could use the money. And it doesn't mean a whole lot to me any more.”
I've found myself in the world famous Gold & Silver Pawn Shop in Las Vegas. You know, from Pawn Stars. Rick is no where to be found though. Neither is Cory, The Old Man, or Chum Lee. Just this fellow. Think he said his name was Randy or Ricky or Rich or something. I wasn't really paying attention.[/color]
“What's it for?”
“It's a Hall of Fame ring. For wrestling.”
He's looking over my WFWF Hall of Fame ring with a microscopic glass.
“Pay fine attention to the inscription. Percy the Panhandler, Los Hobos. It's a one of a kind.”
“You're Percy the Panhandler?”
“I was, in another life.”
“I've got a few Superbowl rings in my cabinet, a couple of Pro Bowl rings. Some celebratory rings from the NBA, NHL.. But this is the first wrestling ring I've ever seen. Don't they usually give out championship belts?”
“Those are mostly a TV prop. I've got a WFWF Tag Team title belt somewhere though. It's a one of a kind too. New ones were made after my tag team partner hit his belt with a sledgehammer. If I find it in a box of stuff in my closet, I'll Fed Ex it to you.”
“Well the problem I'm having with this is, I don't even know what to offer for something like this. Superbowl rings, I have a benchmark. I know what they're worth, I know what they'll sell for, even for a third string benchwarmer. For a wrestling ring? I'm really not sure. Were you a popular wrestler?”
“Semi-popular.”
“What was Los Hobos?”
A mistake
“We were mostly a comedy tag team. Two guys, sometimes three. We had two female managers. I think there's four Los Hobos Hall of Fame rings out there. Mine, Thunder's, Ashley's..
Which has probably already been pawned or traded for crack.
“And my partner, Phillip Schneider's.”
“Can't say I know him.”
That's unusual. I was expecting this to be an interlude 'Oh, Schneider, he's the one that has been going around saying all those things about Ante Whitner, right?' Guess the cliches aren't always the way things play out.
“I can do $350 on this today.”
“$350.. That's three hundred and fifty dollars?”
“Yes. Cash money.”
“That's my life's work you have in your hand.”
“And it'll sit in my cabinet for god knows how long. I'll be lucky to get $700 for it. That's a push.”
“Are you being serious right now?”
“It's not even real gold through and through. It's brass with gold plating.”
“It's a Hall of Fame ring.”
“Look, if it's sentimental, then you should hold on to it. But $350 is my offer.”
He extends the ring back to me. I place it back on my finger and begin wheeling myself out of here. This chair that came as a byproduct of the ring is worth more than $350..
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The wrestling business can be a dark and lonely place. Most people find a few travel buddies to pair off with, people they find similar interests and personalities with. Because while most jobs are forty hours a week, you live the life of a wrestler six days a week, sometimes seven. You’ll have a day off to go home, do laundry, check your mail and handle anything at home once a week but the rest of the time, you’re on the road with these people. And the unfortunate fact is, for a young wrestler, the option of traveling and rooming alone is simply not an option.
As independent contractors, we do cover our own expenses a lot of times, which includes room and board on the road. The easiest way to make do on this is splitting expenses with someone else. The average hotel room comes with two beds. This means two adults can sleep comfortably, four adults can sleep uncomfortably. When I was starting out with Los Hobos, we were doing everything we could to save money, so often times, that meant Percy, myself, Ashley, Thunder, and occasionally another lower card personality to a two bed room, who’s name I will spare in this retrospective for the sake of anonymity. We’d split it four (or five) ways. This meant that the $80 hotel room would now be just $20 (or $15) a night. Bare in mind, Percy and myself were the WFWF Tag Team Champions at the time, and we were checking into hotels and then literally sneaking Thunder and Ashley into the hotel room.
These are the dues you pay early in a career. The elaborate rockstar lifestyle is a farce. Or rockstar life was heading to Kentucky Fried Chicken after a show and buying two family dinner meals to feed the four (or five) adults and at times, one child, rooming in these hotel rooms across the country. When Los Hobos integrated carrying a bucket of chicken into our routine, it wasn’t for comedic value. It was because that meant less money out of our pockets to buy the bucket of chicken!
You do everything you can to pocket every penny you can, so you can do this for as little time as possible. When I started with the WFWF thirteen years ago in 2003, it was never with the idea that in 2017, I’d be preparing for a no rope flaming barbed wire death match. It was with the idea that by 2006, I would have saved enough money that I could make a few key investments and live comfortably for the rest of my life, perhaps with personal appearances and indie dates to keep me afloat. This is without considering I’d have a several month reign as International champion in 2006, several month long reign as World Heavyweight champion in 2007, and would become the longest reigning WFWF Heavyweight Champion of all time, until Drakz broke that record. With those accolades, you’d think my short career plan would’ve panned out exactly as expected, with enough money banked back that I’d never be lacing these boots ever again.
Alas, you’d be wrong.
“I really don’t know how you can keep going, man”
The voice in the shadows boomed. The mysterious comradery of pro wrestling makes it perfectly normal for two dudes to be talking naked in a locker room. I was not naked, only opting to wipe down and change shirts and apply deodorant here. My companion, however, wrestled on this evening’s show in Canada and is fully nude, the hot steamy water blasting away his and his opponent’s spam. This doesn’t stop him from resuming our conversation though.
“I was in elementary school when I first saw you. Elementary school. And now we’re sharing the locker room. What drives you to continue to do this, man? I mean, what, twelve years now?”
“Fourteen, but who’s counting?”
“That’s a lifetime in this business man. I don’t think I’ll be here in fourteen years, at least I hope not.”
“I never hoped to be here fourteen years ago, though.”
“But you’re an icon, man. You’re a two time Hall of Famer. I know a lot of people around here fear you and you carry a certain reputation, but everyone respects you. Not just because you cut people and smash people with weapons, but because you’ve made a career out of this. Week in and week out, you have been there, lacing your boots *gurgle* and going out there to entertain.”
He just rinsed his hair mid sentence.
“But those Hall of Fame rings don’t put food on the table. I don’t want to be here any more. I want to go home and just enjoy what I’ve got. My kid’s 18 now. She’s an adult now. I thought wrestling here would pay for her private school.. Now here I am looking into paying for her college.”
“But you’ve been working for so many years. Shouldn’t be too hard, right?”
“I’ve got an ex wife who took half, a baby momma who took half of what remains, and I’ve raised a daughter as a single parent. How much money do you truthfully think I have banked bank? I live in a 3 bedroom apartment in downtown Chicago. Rent is $1300 a month, but it is rent. I’m 34 years old. I’ve been a worldwide entertainer for fourteen years. I should have my own home.”
“Look, it’s tough. I live with two college kids. They only keep ramen noodles in the house and eat anything I don’t put under lock and key.”
He’s turned the shower off. There’s a brief pause and he emerges from the shower, dripping wet and clad only in a towel. This will never not be weird. I avert my eyes, though the conversation continues.
“These days, you pretty much have to work your entire life. My Dad is 67 years old, still working forty hours a week manual labor. And here, there’s no retirement fund. No stock options.”
“Just two Hall of Fame rings and the scars to show for a lifetime of misery.”
“Pretty much.”
“I think I’m going to go light Ante Whitner’s face on fire.”
“Alright man. ……wait, what?”
Grabbing my bag with flash paper and microlighter, I make my way out of the locker room and towards the main arena, leaving my dripping college to dry himself in privacy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
“What’s he going to school for again?”
“I’m not sure, something in data entry. Analytics maybe? He works with numbers a lot.”
“He’s a lot like his brother. His brother writes instructional manuals for a living.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, like if you make a new gizmo or do-dad, and you need someone to write up the instructional manual, you go to James. James writes instructional manuals.”
“And Tommy’s going to school in Arizona you said?”
“That’s right, Arizona.”
“That’s so far away, and there’s really nothing out in Arizona, is there? What’s he going all the way out there for school for?”
These two squawking birds have been going back and forth like this for the last hour, meaningless small talk. Samantha thinks we both need to become more acquainted with our extended family, so today, I’ve brought her to visit my mother. Unfortunately, my brother’s wife is also here. I’ve come to learn that my brother’s wife is almost ALWAYS here, the two creating a sort of Real Housewives of Chicago inside of this living room, with ritualistic viewings of The Price is Right, drinking of flavored coffees from a Keurig, a spinner proudly displaying the different flavors they’ve yet to consume, and creating various homemade items for later giving as gifts. Currently, they’re knitting hats, which Samantha finds fascinating and has immediately engulfed herself in. I’m just zoning out. My knees shake uncomfortably as I sit in this rigid wooden chair, the compact padding smelling of old cigarettes providing little in the way of comfort. Every so often, one of them gets up, making their way into the kitchen and offering me a cup of coffee or a cookie. When I deny those advances, they dig deeper into the cabinets, offering peanuts, granola bars, Combo pretzel crackers, a bologna sandwich, and whatever else they can produce. The smothering mothering around here is sickening and they haven’t yet grasped that this is a token display of appearance. I’m here because my daughter thinks this is the right thing for her growth, not because I particularly care to be at all.
“Samantha, what school are you planning on attending? You graduate this year, right?”
“Actually Grandma, I graduated this past Spring, in May.”
“Why didn’t you invite me to your graduation ceremony, dear? I would’ve loved to watch you walk the stage in cap and gown!”
“I didn’t walk”
“Why not? You only graduate high school once, dear.”
“Dad was out of town for work and Mom is Mom. None of my friends were going to be there so it just seemed like a big waste of time. I got my diploma. Core40 with Honors. That’s what’s important.”
“With honors? Goodness, I’m so proud of you. I always knew you were so smart! What are your honors in?”
“I took classes in French and Spanish, maintained a high GPA, and have mathematical honors as well.”
“That’s fantastic, Samantha.”
My brother’s wife is eyeballing me as the two converse. In a judgmental, “How dare you not attend her graduation, you sicken me” sort of way. I’ve never particularly cared for this woman. She’s been married to my brother for a few years and when I didn’t attend their wedding, it permanently marked me with a scarlet letter in her eyes. It was a matter of attending a WFWF booking or making an appearance at her wedding and personally, the money from my WFWF appearance outweighed an awkward social gathering.
Since 2004, I haven’t attended many weddings. I’ve missed them all, in fact. My own wedding renewals to Ashley were done in a Vegas drive thru chapel with an Elvis look a like. I’ve missed most of Samantha’s school functionings, either because they were on nights of live events, they were on nights of house shows, or I was traveling back and forth between work and home. The one day off a week I’ve had for the better part of the last fifteen years rarely lined up with the dates of Samantha’s gatherings. But it’s not just her I’ve missed. I’ve missed funerals too. I was unable to attend the funeral of Doctor Baldwin, not even knowing he passed until months later. More frustrating, I missed the funeral of my father. I would’ve liked to urinate into his casket before they let the maggots eat his flesh. But that opportunity has passed and now the only gratification I can get is vandalizing his final resting place from time to time.
Life on the road has it’s hindrances. For most of my adult life, I’ve lived on the road. I’ve road from state to state in rented vans, bought my clothing from consignment shops and resale stores on the road with the idea of not putting much money into a wardrobe because it’s more convenient to throw clothes away than to wash them on the road. I’ve slept more nights on uncomfortable stained hotel beds than I have in my own bed, and I’ve spent more of those nights with the girlfriend of the town than I have with my own wife. My marriage failed because of this. Ashley knew what the wrestler life was like. It was her life before her life became my life too. She knew what she was getting herself into. But my transgressions still stung and when they became too vast, we broke the knot. We tried to rekindle our old flame several times to various degrees of success, but ultimately we were too much alike. And I still lived on the road.
The miles I’ve put on my body will live with me forever. The long drives, the early morning flights, the boat rides to remote locations. I’ve rented cars in 47 of the 50 states in the US. I’ve wrestled in 49 of 50 states, only needing an appearance in Alaska to have hit all 50 states. Mexico, Japan, Sweden, The Netherlands, Australia, Germany, China.. They’re all ticked boxes for me. And they’re all miles I’ve traveled. Most people consider a 45 minute commute to work a grueling schedule. My typical commute is a full day, sometimes two. An overseas trip can see three days of travel time. And all this travel time has been time away from my family. Away from my wife. Away from my kids. This sort of time with the traveling rouge band of carnies and misfits has been time I could’ve spent with my family. So that meetings like today aren’t awkward ones.
“Samantha, where are you planning on going to school?”
“I wasn’t, really.”
“No college?”
“I don’t think it’s for me, Grandma”
“Why would you say that? You’re a bright young lady with a huge future ahead of her.”
“Because I don’t know what I want to do. I don’t know what I’d do with a degree.”
“Didn’t you want to go to medical school? And become a doctor? Sports medicine, I believe it was. So you could fix all of your father’s injuries.”
There’s a bit of dark sarcasm in my mother’s voice as she says this.
“Yeah but Grandma, everyone has little kid dreams. That was just a little kid dream to me.”
“Some people never grow out of their little kid dreams, Samantha.”
Again, dark sarcasm directed towards me.
“What about boys? Do you have a boyfriend, Samantha?”
“….no”
“I’m sure it’s just a matter of finding the right boy though. A beautiful young lady like you, I’m sure all the boys at your school were crazy about you.”
“I’m sure they were too, Grams.”
“But you need the perfect boy, one who’s just right for you, who has a bright future and will take care of you, so you can be a stay at home mother and raise a bunch of kids. Make your Dad a proud Grandpa.”
“Uh huh.. Yeah…”
“Give him a whole flock of grandkids, so maybe he can realize this wrestling stuff needs to go. That his family is where his legacy lies, not this fighting nonsense.”
I’ve heard enough.
“This ‘fighting nonsense’ is what paid for my house, mother. Need I remind you that it was a Superbrawl payday that paid off this house? And your car?”
“Oh boo hoo, poor Mr. Superstar, having to take care of his mother. You’re rich. What’s it matter.”
The evil sister in law from the corner pipes in, throwing her two cents in on this situation when it wasn’t requested nor merited.
“You have enough money to support your whole family, so why’s paying for your mother’s house that big of a deal? It’s the least you can do after she raised your kids, you self absorbed prick.”
“I like girls”
Samantha cuts off this insane tirade from my sister in law with her signature bluntness.
“I like girls, Grandma. I don’t want a nice boyfriend. I don’t want a husband to take care of me. I like girls. I’ve had boyfriends. And I’ve had sex with boys. But boys, and men, aren’t what I want, I want a girlfriend. I want to come home every night to a pretty girl who cooks and cleans. I don’t want to do “woman’s work”. I’d rather go work on a construction site.”
“Oh Samantha, that is now work for a lady”
“My name is Sam. S-a-m. I have never liked being called Samantha Grandma, and you know this. And who cares if it’s ‘work for a lady’. I’m not willing to let my life be tied down to ‘work for a lady’. I’m not a lady. I’m just Sam. You need to learn to accept that.”
“Oh Samantha, what have they done to you? What have they done to my little girl?”
“I’m not a little girl any more, Grams. I’m a grown ass woman. And I know what I want. If you can’t accept that, you won’t be in my life any more. Just like you pushed yourself out of Dad’s life.”
“What are you saying Samantha?”
“I’m saying some people can change. But most don’t. You haven’t and probably never will. Enjoy your Price is Right and coffee. I’m going to live my life.”
“But Samantha”
“It's Sam. F**k off, Grams”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Because I want you there Percy, that’s why”
I hadn’t seen Phil since I left the arena in Canada several weeks ago. I effectively walked off the job that night, but perhaps more importantly, I left my friend behind. I know a lot of people see me as a sort of moral shaman for Phillip Schneider, someone to guide him between right and wrong. If Los Hobos were the spirits on your shoulder, I’d be the angel in most people’s eyes and Phil would be the devil. But unfortunately it’s not nearly that cut and dry. And our relationship isn’t either.
Beyond coming to ringside, throwing him a chair when he needs it or setting up a barbed wire board for someone to go crashing through, activities that I’ll be the first to admit I’ve been unable to do since the botched surgery left me in this chair, I also handle a lot of the business side of the Phillip Schneider Brand. If you’ve ever sent something to the P.O. Box in Chicago, it’s likely been picked up by your’s truly, if not handled entirely by me. Fan mail, autograph requests, requests for personal appearances, and personal merchandise processing has always been handled by me. There was a time when Phillip Schneider’s personal t-shirt company’s revenue nearly trumped the revenue he was bringing in from the WFWF, and each and every one of those t-shirts was packed up by either me or an employee named David, who Phil fired when he refused to work on his daughter’s birthday.
WFWF wrestlers are independent contractors, in the loosest definition of the word. The WFWF tells them who they’re going to be wrestling, what they need to wear, what cities to be in and what time to be there and issues fines if they aren’t there on time. But through the independent contractor loophole, the WFWF also doesn’t pay a majority of the wrestlers travel expenses (and when they do, it’s through re-imbursement rather than direct payment, aside from flights internationally). This leaves most wrestlers responsible for things like booking and returning rental cars, checking in and out of hotels, eating on the road, and most importantly, managing this mountain of receipts. It’s gotten easier in this digital age than it was when we started almost fifteen years ago, but the book keeping for a professional wrestler’s income and expenses is still an astronomical undertaking, one that most active pro wrestlers cannot handle themselves. I’ve always been good with numbers and even as an active wrestler, I handled most of the book keeping for the Los Hobos tag team. It only made sense to handle Phil’s book keeping too. We were splitting rental cars, splitting hotels.. If we got new gear made up, it was in sets of two rather than one. Everything was as a duo, so my expenses were also his and his mine. When Ashley was on the road with us, our trio’s expenses were as a collective unit rather than individuals.
When my time in the ring came to an end, I still managed Phil’s expense reports. Until he returned at the turn of the decade, it was primarily just filing taxes at the end of the year. But with his return came a hands on management roll with the Phillip Schneider brand. I was his manager in the ring and out. At times I was like a babysitter, rangling him to and from hotels when he really didn’t want to be, ensuring he was face to face with the people he needed to be even when it didn’t suit him. This has been my roll, up to the point I went home from Canada.
I know this is the roll that Phil’s wanting me back in. And I know that there’s a month or so of unorganized expense reports, hotel receipts, rental car receipts, and the added headache of it all being in Canadian currency waiting for me.
“So you want me to come handle all of your paperwork, more or less?”
“No Percy, I want you at my side. I want my buddy there for me. Listen, I don’t know how many more of these rodeos I’ve got in me and when the time comes that it is my last match, I want you there.”
“Thought you already had your last match? Against Drakz?”
He glares at me. The retirement subject has been a sore one for Phil ever since this newest return. He was defeated soundly by Drakz, with the pre-match stipulation that if he wasn’t victorious and didn’t capture the WFWF Heavyweight championship, that he’d retire. Unfortunately due to some clerical errors in the WFWF offices, the contract stated that he’d never wrestle for Trace Demon’s WFWF regime again, not that he wouldn’t wrestle for the WFWF. The megalomaniacal owner Trace Demon had inserted his own name in almost every contract and thus, when the Demon left, it opened the doors for Schneider to go back to work.
I can’t say I blame my friend for wanting to go back to work. This profession has been his only job for the last fifteen years and the WFWF is the biggest league around to do this in. But a deal’s a deal and he’s broken his agreement with Drakz. And now thanks to another megalomaniac, Michael Kyzer, Drakz isn’t even around the enforce the prematch stipulations that Phil isn’t upholding.
“I’m not that old, Percy. Truthfully I’m in my physical prime. I’ve got a lot left in the tank and some of my best matches are still ahead of me. I’ve been throwing around this idea for a two out of three falls match, three separate matches in one night. Not like the hokey two out of three falls of yesteryear either, where one fall is settled in a flash to give the heel an advantage. I want to wrestle three matches in one night.”
“If you’re so spry that you want to wrestle three times in one night, what do you need me for?”
“You’re my travel buddy, Percy. You keep me entertained on long car rides. Plus you’re good with dealing with people, the people in the airports. The people in the hotels, the types that I really don’t want to deal with. You’re good at dealing with them and getting what we need from them.”
“What you need.”
“Huh?”
“You said ‘what we need’. I don’t need anything. I’m perfectly happy with sitting at home, watching movies in my comfy pants, and relaxing. I don’t need the stress from travel. I don’t need the miles on my body. I know it’s easy for you, but do you have any idea how taxing it is on me to fly now? The pressure changes reek havoc on my spinal cord. Getting in and out of airplanes is hell. Booking a handicap accessible rental car? Hah, that’s a joke, even in the major cities.”
“Percy, I want you there in case something goes wrong. This is no rope flaming barbed wire. They’re going to light the ring on fire. I’m nervous.”
“Nervous? You’re Phillip Schneider, the Prophet of Ash, the Bringer of the Plague, the King of Gore, Your Heretic Hero, the Rated X Superstar, God Himself, what’s a little fire to you. You’re indestructible. You’re this mythical monster of mayhem. You’re going to go in there and rape Ante Whitner and not have a scratch on you. Or at least that’s what you’re going to say in your interviews, isn’t that right? You’re going to put on this façade that you’re not scared, that you’ve got this, when deep down inside you’re just as afraid as everyone else. Deep down inside you know your blood is the same color as everyone else’s and that it flows the same way. You know that regardless of what you say, pain registers with you the exact same way it does everyone else and you know you’ve got yourself in a world of hurt. That’s what scares you, Phil. It scares you that you know you’re screwed. You know he’s got your number. Even if you come out on top, you know you’re going to get messed up. You’re scared to death and you’re clinging on to whatever you can grasp. Phil, I’m going to say this in plain English. It’s the same thing I told you up in Canada.
off. And politely see yourself out of my home.”Phil stands up and walks out, without saying a single word.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
In Memorium
The Dog Who Eats Cheeseburgers
2017-2017
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The Dog Who Eats Cheeseburgers
2017-2017
I should feel bad about what I did to The Dog Who Eats Cheeseburgers. After all, he was just a young wrestler looking to make a name for himself by doing something unique and weird. It certainly made him stand out from the pack, differentiating him from the random name generator field of grapplers that fills our locker room every week. He didn’t do anything to me personally to validate the beating he received. He didn’t deserve to get cut. He didn’t deserve to get burned.
Except that he did.
He deserved what he got. If I could’ve chased him down once they put him out and light him ablaze again, I would’ve. If I could’ve taken a knife and slit his wrists, I would’ve gleefully watched him bleed out. He didn’t do anything to me personally, no. But he did take money out of my pocket. Because people saw him as a joke. Those people took me less seriously, and took my business less seriously. When I went out there and harmed him, I proved I’m not a joke. Do people think I’m playing around? Do people think this is all a big hah hah funny show?
I would’ve thought the demonstration I presented with Hugh Jass would’ve been enough to show people: Do not make a mockery of my business. You wanna do something funny? You better bust your ass ten times harder than everyone else on the roster to not only do something funny but do something memorable. Work harder than everyone else to show you aren’t here for the shortcuts to the top.
The Dog That Eats Cheeseburgers did not do that.
The Dog That Eats Cheeseburgers was willing to live off of this comical idea that he’s a funny man and a silly character. His matches, or lack there of, are forgettable and he will not be missed. By physically terminating him, I did the WFWF a favor by eliminating a plague before it spreads. And if The Dog That Eats Cheeseburgers has an issue with what I did, he can walk his happy jolly jovial gimmick ass down the ramp and call me out. I’m not a hard man to find. And I don’t think the beating is going to be any different the next time.
I’m sick to death of these gimmicky nonsense characters making a joke of MY profession. The Dog That Eats Cheeseburgers reminds me of the sick stupid stunt that piece of crap Johnny Michaels pulled when he wasn’t able to show his face in the WFWF for pure and utter shame. Still calling you out, Johnny. I’ll be your huckleberry, any time, any place. Show your face around here again and I’ll ensure no one ever recognizes it again.
Ante, I placed the blame for the slaughter of The Dog that Eats Cheeseburgers on you. I blame you for it, because you’re the one who’s made me angry. And I relate you to The Dog That Eats Cheeseburgers. Because you don’t know what’s in front of you, either. You don’t understand the opportunities that you’ve had and the opportunities that you’ve wasted. You walk around and call yourself the holder of the Golden Opportunity, but the fact is, you’ve already surpassed that. I’d put you at the main event level. I’d put you at the level of the top of this federation. But unfortunately, you’ve shown yourself as not quite the top of the top, the ultimate peak. You’ve shown yourself as probably just a mid card player. So you can go ahead and cash in that Golden Opportunity, and you can win the International title. And you can be satisfied. Because you’ve let me down, kid. I thought you were better than that, but you’ve shown me that you’re probably not.
That’s why I relate you to The Dog That Eats Cheeseburgers.
He was too stupid to know what he was doing too. He was too stupid to realize the mistakes he was making too. He was too stupid to realize he was in harm’s way. He was too dumb to realize he was already dead. I hope you realize Ante, you’re already dead.
Ante, I’m going to beat the holy piss out of you. I’m going to hurt you worse than I’ve ever hurt someone in a professional wrestling ring. The Dog That Eats Cheeseburgers is in recent memory, but he’s simply my most recent casualty. I have made a reputation for myself on the careers of others. A long string of forgettable characters of similar statue of The Dog That Eats Cheeseburgers have fallen to my hands, their careers ended and they’re never seen again. I’ve made people famous simply from stepping in the ring with me. Benja Hart. Lionhart. Everyone’s favorite trucker Lincoln Dina. These are names that’d be completely forgotten to time if it wasn’t me that ended them. Hutton Brown was a lot like you. He was scrappy and he thought he was going to be the one to break my curse. And he beat me. He climbed a ladder and retrieved a championship belt and that made him the victor in our first confrontation. But when the second confrontation came about.. I beat the ever loving piss out of him, I dropped him on his head and broke his neck and he was never heard from again.
How about Mak Cross? How about Cam Nitta? The newest generation of the WFWF. They were never the same after the Psycho Circus. And now they’re lost to time. Alexis Chavente? I beat, humbled, and sexually assaulted her to prove a point. When we step into the ring Ante, I’m going to make you a submissive little bitch the likes Alexis Chavente could only dream of.
Ante, I ended my best friend’s career. In a professional wrestling ring, I disfigured my best friend in a life altering way, ending his professional wrestling career and requiring him to have a surgery that has left him in a wheel chair. I ended Hugh Jass’ career and beat him within an inch of his life, simply because I didn’t like his name.
Everything I’ve done to opponents in the past will pale in comparison to what I do to you Ante. I will take you to depths of depravity that the WFWF has never seen. What I’m going to do to you will be sold online as a snuff video, Ante. This isn’t going to be a professional wrestling match. This is going to be a slaughter and career assassination. Ante Whitner, talk to your friends. Make good with your family. Ante, this blazing inferno is a reasonable facsimile of the seventh circle of Hell. Welcome to purgatory.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
As much as I like to complain about the rigors of traveling, there’s a certain relaxation about being on the interstate. It’s knowing once you’re on that on ramp, you’re going to be driving in a mostly straight line with no red lights and almost never slowed or stopped traffic. Growing up in the perpetual construction of the Midwest, this became one of my favorite parts of traveling.
Today’s drive to Ft. Lauderdale is one I’m needing to make a couple of days before hand, because it is an almost twenty hour drive. I’ll be making a stop in Tennessee for the night, just after leaving Kentucky, and likely one at the edge of Georgia for a meal. Tennessee is actually a morning autograph session booked through a talent agency I’ve become involved with. From 9 AM to noon, I’ll be signing Funko Pop figures. When Funko approached me about being in their WFWF Pop line, I was all too thrilled. When I seen the concept art, including a bloody variant for Hot Topic, I was elated. On Tuesday morning, I’ll be at a Hot Topic in Tennessee signing those Pop figures.
Usually my travel partner for these long trips is my partner Percy, but with him declining, I’ve found my travel companion to be my eighteen year old daughter Samantha. Samantha does have her driver’s license and is a competent driver, so it’ll be good to rely on her to do some of the driving on this trip. Samantha is no stranger to WFWF events, more or less growing up in and around the locker room. A 2006 documentary about the WFWF remains one of my favorite pieces of home movie footage, as Samantha has a short profile on it. Her youthful innocence is on full display and she stole the hearts of many. Now she’s grown into the adult I always knew she would be.
Sam has had her own inner turmoil as of late, one I unfortunately cannot relate to. Her struggle with gender identity drew public and media attention when she brought it to her private blog, a blog that’s gained some notoriety because of her being my daughter. She’s explained how the LGBT community has been extremely supportive, though the wrestling fans have not been as much. For me, receiving hateful and often just dumb tweets on every tweet I send on Twitter is nothing new. I’ve done social experiments just to amuse The Deville while on the road, posting inane objects with no context and watching the hate speech flow in. On a trip from New York to Oregon, every time we’d stop at a gas station, our rouge posse, at the time consisting of the entire Decaying Society of myself, Joe the Hobo, New Kylie, The Deville, and Percy would take a group selfie with a pack of gum. This went on for the entire trip, four days and around sixty pictures of us mugging about with a pack of gum. And for the hours between the gum snapshots, we’d be in hysterics as people told us they hoped we choked to death on the gum, take the penises out of our mouth before chewing the gum, and to just kill ourselves. This wasn’t bad guy wrestling character, it was just hate speech. I’ve grown a thick skin about it, and so has Samantha over the years, but the accumulative pressure can become too much if you’re not particularly egging it on.
For Sam, her social media experiences have mostly been soured by wrestling fans, a profession she’s not even involved with. A social media account that she created for her dance crew and simply linked as Sam, dropping her surname entirely for hopes of anonymity, was vandalized to the point of non repair within twenty four hours of posting. Her team mates have suffered this collateral damage as well, the anonymous internet wrestling community lashing out at them for their six degrees of Phillip Schneider separation from me.
These poor interactions are why it comes as a surprise that Sam would even want to come on this journey across the country with me. In the last four years, Samantha’s trips on the road with me have been limited, her high school education taking precedence over trips to wrestling shows. An elderly friend three houses down named Barbara has taken a sort of den mother roll over Samantha through her high school career, filling in as a surrogate parent whenever I am not around. Barbara looks at me like her son, her real son estranging from her around thirty years ago, so she was more than happy to take on the grandmother roll with Samantha. But for the last two years, Sam has had financial independence and has mostly taken care of herself, a credit card with a five hundred dollar spending limit providing her clothing, food, and other essentials, while I maintain the monthly household bills from the road. For a senior in high school, she essentially was already living the bachelorette lifestyle.
On this trip, she’s found herself immersed in study materials, a guide to Ethernet protocols currently holding her attention. Sam has always been a smart kid, from an early age insisting she was going to be a doctor. Now with her high school career finished, she’s finding that a career in information technology may be a better fit. The memorization of the protocol numbers and standards has come naturally to Sam, though physically cutting and crimping cords and lining up the wires has been a bit more of a problem. Every forty minutes or so, the music playing through her phone via Bluetooth in the car is replaced by Professor Messer, explaining the newest standards Samantha is learning about. It’s a bit jarring for a song to stop midway through and our new friend Professor Messer to join us on the journey, but he’s been a welcomed digital acquaintance for the long car ride.
As we travel down i65 south in Indiana, it’s been mostly quiet, until Sam breaks the silence.
“So Dad, how much longer do you think you’ll wrestle for?”
She asks with a certain certainty in her voice, placing her bookmark in her learning materials and shutting them, placing them into her bag as we prepare for this conversation.
“I’m not sure, Sam. As long as the money is there for me, I suppose.”
“Is it just about the money now?”
“It is Sam.”
“Why don’t you do something else for a living, Dad?”
“Because this is all I really know. I’ve been a professional wrestler for the last sixteen years of my life, and my training started before you were even born. Before that, I worked in a McDonalds and in a factory that refurbished bumpers. It’s not like I have a particularly deep resume.”
“But we’ve got money, Dad. I’ve seen your bank statements. We’ve got enough that we could make do for several years without you doing anything. And if you took autograph signings like the one at Hot Topic, worked the conventions, maybe took some acting roles? You could make do.”
“And pay for your college?”
“Who said I need you to pay for my college?”
“It’s what parents do.”
“Yeah, but you’re a single parent, Dad. And you’ve done what you can, but the fact remains you are a single parent doing the best you can. The strongest female role I’ve had in my life is Percy, for pete’s sake.”
I can’t help but smirk at her observance.
“Seriously Dad, he cooked, he cleaned, he did laundry, he signed report cards, he attended parent-teacher conferences, he made sure I was on the bus every morning.. If I was to ever become a good housewife, I’d be applying the tools I learned from Percy above everything else.”
“I’m sorry your Mom isn’t around more, Sam.”
“It’s not your fault Dad.”
“It kind of is. I’ve been an okay Dad, but I wasn’t a good husband at all.”
“I’ll make a good husband and a good housewife.”
She looks back at me with my own sly smile. There are times I look at Sam and see her mother’s beauty. Then there’s times like this that I can only see a reflection of myself looking back at me. That slightly serial killer smile and socially pariah sense of humor, it’s uniquely Schneider, and unquestionably she’s taken that from me.
“I’ll come home every day, kick my shoes off from a hard day’s work, slap my wife on the ass and take off for the shower. Hopefully dinner’s cooked and on the table before I get out or else.”
“Or else what, Sam?”
“I haven’t got that far yet.”
“This liking girls thing..”
“Yeah Dad?”
“Where’d it come from?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve had boyfriends in the past. Remember the whole condom-gate?”
“I’ve never actually slept with a boy though Dad.”
“You’ve slept with girls?”
“Ummm…. Noooo, not me, nooo, never.”
That sly Schneider smirk greets me again to accompany this answer, along with a certain degree of blush. Her face turns even more red as the cheeky grin grows.
“Are you happy, Sam?”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you found someone who makes you happy? That’s what’s important. Male or female, I don’t really care. Just find someone that makes you happy. Find someone who smiles when you talk to them and someone who makes you smile. Who whenever something good happens, they’re the first person you want to share it with. Find someone who is comfort whenever bad things happen. Someone you know is going to be there to celebrate your victories in life and assist in your defeats.”
The faint clicking of my left turn indicator is the punctuation on this statement as I merge to the left in preparation for the toll road at the Louisville bridge in a few miles.
“Hey Sam, can you reach into the glove box and grab my toll road box? I think it’s eight dollars at the Louisville bridge, but grab ten just in case.”
She fumbles in the glove compartment momentarily before producing the small steel lock box I keep in there. It’s a small box, just larger than a dollar bill, that I keep petty cash in for toll roads and other road related expenses. I usually put fifty dollars in small bills in it before starting any trip, an expense I make sure to mark on all expense reports. It’s so routine that the people at my bank know exactly how I want my fifty dollar withdraw, a twenty, two tens, ten ones. Almost weekly, sometimes twice a week, to the teller window to get my toll road money. Sam produces this week’s ten and places the box back in the glove department.
“She does. I mean, I think she does. It’s hard to know. We argue sometimes but never a lot. She wanted to come on this trip but I told her no.”
“She could’ve come.”
“I wanted this to be just us though, Dad. Like it was back in the day.”
“You used to sit in the back seat of my Kia and color for hours. We’d get you a new box of crayons on every trip and you’d color so much the tips would be worn off by the time we got to the arena. I used to have a box of 64 Crayola crayons as part of my rider list.”
“I know. Pretty sure I still have a box of all the weird colors that you never used from those boxes, somewhere. ……are you worried about the match?”
“Not really, no.”
“It’s a pretty big deal though. You’ve never faced Ante before, or been in a fire…”
Samantha trails off as we reach the window, the attendant asking for eight dollars. Sam hands me the $10, I pass it off to the attendant, two one dollar bills later and the toll arm raises, and we’re back in the road.
“You were saying?”
“Nothing Dad. Just, be careful?”
“Always am. Calculated risks. It’s the key to survival in this sport.”
“I’ll remind you of that at 2 AM on Friday in the Fort Lauderdale ER…”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I don’t sleep much any more. The dark is supposed to be a quiet, relaxing time when your body recharges and refreshes itself for the next day ahead. My body is at war when I attempt to sleep. My body rejects the relaxation and as a result, slumbers are spent violently thrashing about in and underneath covers, unable to find a comfortable position to keep myself in for deep relaxation.
I’ve tried a variety of medications to assist with sleep. Nyquil and it’s non-cough equal Z-Quil, over the counter sleep aids from the highest brand name to the lowest store name, melatonin, and more. I’ve tried prescription drugs, because the medical industry is as baffled by my non-sleep as I am, my adaptation to function on two or three hours of sleep every two nights a medical marvel.
The nights come a time of peace for me though, because generally speaking the social aspects of life come to a halt as the world slumbers. My social media accounts come to a silence apart from the overseas fan or the odd insomniac like myself. Important business emails don’t come until the brink of dawn, often well past the break of dawn. No phone calls are needing to be returned and no paperwork is needing to be signed. In that aspect, the overnights are a time of rest.
For me, the overnights are a time to watch movies or TV shows I’ve missed on the road. They present the opportunity to catch up on some of my favorite classic horror movies and reflect upon them. There was a time when I had just three movies in my collection, George A Romero’s Dawn of the Dead, Nightmare on Elm Street 3, and Friday the 13th Part 4. I’d watch these movie ad nauseam, relentlessly rewinding and fast forwarding these brick VHS tapes until the film grain became unbearable. I had an automatic rewinding VCR, which meant when the movie finished, after about two minutes of rewinding, it’d be playing again from the start. Countless nights were spent with the end of Friday the 13th seamlessly melting into the beginning as my lack of slumber sent me into a state of deliriousness. Now I’ve amassed a collection of films in the tens of thousands, my home library resembling that of a real library, the collection of gory films and grotesque violence lining my walls in an oak bookshelf. Titles like The Driller Killer, I Spit on Your Grave, Love Camp 7, and Cannibal Holocaust now line my shelves, proudly and prominently displayed for all to see. Rather than a perpetually deteriorating VHS on a clunky tube television, I have my movies blasted upon the wall on an 80 inch projection screen.
Watching these movies gives me solace. I assume I achieve the same level of relaxation and rest that most people do by getting eight hours of sleep from watching several movies in a night. But these moments also provide me with reflection time. They provide me with an introspective opportunity and they chance to look forward at what I am going to be doing. Perhaps the fear of these future wars and encounters is mellowed by these introspective nights. Perhaps I’m put to ease knowing what I’ve survived in the past has prepared me for what’s to come in the future. Tonight is no different. While I lie in the darkness, the only light being a blue hue emanating from the wall as the sounds of The Dead Hate the Living fills my room, I look forward into the imminent match with Ante Whitner. I look into this match knowing the dangers of no rope barbed wire. Having participated in the first one in WFWF history, as well as being the only person in the WFWF to have been in two of these gruesome encounters, I know all too well the dangers that await me with the barbed wire. I know what the tearing barbed wire, with it’s barbs every ten centimeters feels like, violating and penetrating the flesh. I’m more adequately prepared than anyone for the barbed wire aspect. The fact that it’s going to be on fire, while obviously amplifying the dangers of the match at hand, serve more as a cosmetic and dramatization than an actual hindrance or danger. I do fear fire, because fire is unpredictable. It’s hard to say exactly how hot the flames will be burning, how hot the barbed wire will heat up to be, and how the rags soaked in starter fluid will flake and burn. It’s completely impossible to know how these rags will burn without personally assembling the set up and controlling variables like the environment, which will be an unknown variable in the open air arena.
But it’s not the fire that keeps me up. Nor is it the idea of the added implements that are sure to come into the match. The chairs, tables, fluorescent light bulb tubes, gusset plates and more are of little concern to me, the wounds they open merely superficial. No, at this point the most worrying aspect of the match for me is a rarity for me, it’s a worry about my opponent himself, Ante Whitner. When I look at Ante, I see a lot of myself. I see the young Phillip Schneider, hungry and ready to destroy the world and leave destruction in his wake. I see the angry Phillip Schneider, looking to prove himself and establish his legacy. I realize that when I step into that twenty by twenty combat surface, the ramp may as well be adorned with the phrase Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate, because I’m entering Dante’s Inferno. I’m walking into the inferno to face the scariest thing I can think of. I’m facing a direction reflection of myself.
Through the trials and tribulations that Ante and myself have faced, the comparison has come up a number of times, how Ante Whitner is like an alternate universe Phillip Schneider. I’d be lying if I didn’t confirm this theory. I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t the exact reason I initially scouted Ante. In him, I see all of the redeeming qualities I see in myself, the hunger, the anger, the lack of compassion. I see in him the same negative traits as well, the self destructive tendencies that have brought me to career zeniths more often than not. I wanted to guide Ante. I wanted to latch onto him as he prepared for his championship climax and I wanted to guide the war machine through a path of destruction never before seen in the WFWF. If Phillip Schneider’s mind and body could dominate the WFWF the way I have, my mind guiding someone bigger, stronger, faster, and younger than me could’ve reached previously unseen heights. The edge I have on Ante Whitner is what I would’ve lent to make him the total package; experience. I’ve been to the dance. I’ve seen and done and conquered. Championship matches don’t intimidate me. Neither do main events. “Big Match Phil” isn’t just a cute nickname, it’s a reality. When I’m pushed against a wall, I come out swinging and swinging in a way that no one before or since me has been able to replicate.
Stepping into this blazing inferno to do battle with my shadow has given me the introspective insight that I am prepared for war. I am prepared for the challenge that lies ahead of me in a fortnight. I’m more prepared for Ante Whitner than I have been for any previous match because I come into this match healthy, in the right head space for combat, focused, and prepared to do battle. The lingering thoughts and feelings of inadequacy in my head are squashed when I remember, I am Phillip Schneider, and he’s not. No matter how much he attempts to replicate my act, he’ll never be able to walk a mile in my shoes. Ante Whitner isn’t Phillip Schneider. To gain immortality, Ante Whitner must first face his own mortality, as contradictory as that may seem. Stepping into this warzone, Ante must be prepared to make the sacrifices that I am willing to make. He must be willing to devote himself completely to this warfare. I walk into every match with the understanding it may be my last and that’s a realization that Ante Whitner will need to come to as well.
But most importantly, Ante will need to realize while he is Ante Whitner. He’ll never be Phillip Schneider.
