Short Bus Hero (19 page)

32. Eisoptrophobia /
ī-sō-trō-fōˈbē-ə
/
fear of mirrors

“I
don’t care
who you have to cut, just write me that goddamn storyline!” Drake Murray screams at his creative staff the morning after the VNO’s Pittsburgh debut. He had watched the match on television and it made him sick with envy. In fact, he could still taste the chalky cherry Maalox that had filled in for his usual vodka and Red Bull. Having two teenage daughters, he is very aware of the country being absolutely overrun with vampire fanatics and, therefore, sees the VNO as an extremely profitable venture.

He’s pissed that a retard is outdoing him at his own game.

Serves him right. Call it poetic justice.

The WWC Vegas conference room is silent after Murray’s outburst. The writers sneak glances at one another, widening their eyes and raising their eyebrows when the boss isn’t looking. No one knows what to say. Or whether they should even say anything. Finally, someone has the audacity to speak.

“Uh,” one particularly mousy looking writer squeaks, pushing his nerd glasses up the bridge of his nose. Murray’s eyes shoot to the man’s face and stare him down. The poor stick man clears his throat and pokes a finger under the knot of his tie. His face flushes hot pink. “Um, Mr. Murray, it might not be a good idea.”

Murray slams his fat fist on the table, utters some unintelligible guttural growl, and glares at the mouse.

“Sir,” the mouse continues, looking uncomfortable, “it’s just that…um, well, it’s not…you know…politically correct.” He slides down in his chair, trying to disappear before the shit storm descends. I hope someone gives this poor soul an umbrella.

“I know it’s not politically correct, you goddamned ignoramus! When the hell has that ever stopped me before? It’s been hotter than a bakery in Hell in my office plenty of times because I am not P.C.! I don’t give a goddamn! I want a fucking Short Bus storyline! If you won’t write it, then get the hell down to the unemployment office.” Murray is the same caustic person in and out of the ring. He’s about as deep as a square of single-ply toilet paper.

Murray’s lawyer taps his pen on the table and coughs. “Hey, Drake, I think Dave’s got a point. There could be a lawsuit in your future if you pursue a storyline that portrays the developmentally challenged in a negative light. They do represent a significant portion of your fan base and the NAACP loves them.”

Not that lawsuits are anything new around the WWC. Two years ago, Murray had been sued by an eighty-two-year-old woman whom he had pitted against his own mother in the highly publicized, but largely ignored, Geriatric Judgment Day. His mother had planted an expert donkey kick right to this other woman’s left hip and, of course, it broke. The woman had signed a waiver and everything, but it still cost Murray two million in an ugly out-of-court settlement. And then there were all the sexual harassment suits, some of which are still pending. Suffice it to say, Murray and his lawyers are on a first-name basis with judges on both coasts (and quite a few places in between). Lawsuits do not scare Murray. He views them as free publicity.

“I don’t plan to portray them in a negative light. I love the fucking retards, people. Let’s draw ‘em in with Short Bus and shake the change out of their ever-loving pockets!” Murray slaps his thigh and gives an unsettling chuckle. He’ll be damned if he is going to let a retard outdo him at the wrestling game. He’s been playing it far too long. His plan is to bring Ally, aka Short Bus, into the WWC, take over the VNO, and dump the rich little troll out on her doughy ass. Someone like that doesn’t belong in wrestling. It’s ludicrous.

Yeah, and women shouldn’t vote.

Everyone stares at him as if they can read his thoughts.

“What?” he says, feeling naked and exposed (but not ashamed).

Murray spends the rest of the day in his office, drinking and throwing things.

33. Ereuthrophobia /
ə-rith·rə′-fō-bē-ə
/
fear of blushing

“T
hese guys are the real deal,”
Stryker says to Ally, Lois, and their lawyer, Tony Clifton, in the back of the limo. Ally, dressed in a flashy metallic gold Armani pants suit, rummages through the exotic soft drink inventory in the car’s mini-fridge.

The quartet flew down to Charlotte, North Carolina to meet with Harvey Belcanto, owner of the Wrestling for World Punishment (WWP) promotion. This is the opportunity Ally has been waiting for, a national organization with a solid fan-base, that she can use as a platform to re-launch Stryker’s career. (He never wanted to be part of the VNO; he said it was stupid. After the debut, though, he thought it was a very good investment and might reconsider.) The WWP is a publicly traded company, with assets totaling two-hundred million dollars, a healthy net income, and an impressive roster of promising young talent. It is a solid organization and one that will sell quickly. Stryker has been given first dibs on making an offer because he wrestled for Belcanto early in his career and the man was fond of him and of what Ally had done with the VNO in such a short time. Belcanto is retiring and moving to Sicily (don’t ask), and he’s looking for a quick deal.

They enter the Bank of America Corporate Center and ride the elevator to an impossible height. The WWP offices are pristine, modern, and very chic. Lois feels dowdy in her worn jeans and Steelers sweatshirt, but Ally looks right at home, taking a seat at the head of the conference room table.

“So, where is this guy?” Ally asks, pushing her Gucci shades to the top of her head. “I’ve…g-got pe-pe-people to see, places to—” Stuck. “be!” She smiles at her own little diva joke and snaps her fingers. “I…am large and…in charge.”

“Ally, please,” Tony reminds her, “let’s not be too gung-ho, okay?” Sure, she’s got money, but this is no rinky-dink regional operation. This is big time stuff. Tony’s starting to sweat. He wonders when Lois will wise up and hire a big law firm to take over. Call it his irrational fear.

“P-p-play it cool, gotcha,” she says, winking at her mom, her mouth a lopsided “O.” Tony looks at Lois and puffs up his cheeks as he straightens his tie.

A few minutes later, a squat bald man walks into the room, followed by a young woman and a middle-aged man with horn-rimmed glasses. The bald man grins at Stryker and grabs him in a bear hug.

“Stryker, how in the hell are ya?”

Stryker struggles free from the embrace and takes a seat next to Lois. “Good, sir. How are you? Long time, no see, huh?” He barely recognizes Belcanto with his spongy midsection and absence of hair.

“Long time, yeah. You done good, kid, you know that? I read all about that whole Vegas fiasco. That Drake Murray.” Belcanto shakes his head. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing, not taking on a gem like you.”

Stryker grimaces. He’s still embarrassed by the entire episode. He feels Lois’s eyes burning into him at the ordeal’s mention, too. “Thanks, Mr. Belcanto. Hey, I want you to meet my friend Ally Forman.” Belcanto shakes Ally’s hand. “And her mother, Lois.” He kisses her hand. “And, their trusty lawyer, Mr. Tony Clifton.” Belcanto walks around the table to greet Clifton.

“Tony Clifton?” Belcanto squints at the young lawyer. “You know that old nutso comedian Andy Kaufman used to go around pretending he was some fat old lounge singer named Tony Clifton, dontcha?” He takes a seat next to Clifton, on Ally’s immediate left. “Fricking crazy, that guy. I loved him. I wonder if he’s really dead. You ain’t him, are ya?”

Everyone glances around and chuckles politely as they settle into their high-backed leather chairs. Ally has no idea who Andy Kaufman is. She just wants to buy the WWP. Right now.

“Anyway,” Belcanto continues, “that’s my assistant over there, Susan something—she’s new.” The young woman gives a wave with her pen, humorless smile stapled to her face. “And, that’s my contract assassin there, Gabe Ellis.” Ellis nods and flips open his leather portfolio on the table with a smack. “We hear you’re interested in taking over the shop here,” Belcanto says to Ally.

Ally nods and grins. “Yeah, I…I…I…” She gets stuck again, eyelids fluttering. “I really li-like some of your wrestlers,” she says, glancing at Lois. She can’t believe Lois is letting her do this. She knows her mother likes Stryker a little bit less than she used to, before he stole that money. Ally’s surprised that Lois is even letting this deal get this far; she expects her to pull the plug at any minute.

“Well, that’s just wonderful, my dear. And what is it that makes you think you can run the place?” Belcanto smiles at her.

“S-Stryker.”

“Yep, I’m gonna help her out,” Stryker says. He knows he has a lot of atonement to catch up on. He really wants this to work out.

And, surprise. It’s not all about him anymore, either.

Ally has charmed us all, including Stryker. Everyone wants to see her take over the world.

“You’re not going to get into the ring?” Belcanto asks, startled.

“Well, yeah, I’m going to get my trunks back on, but,” Stryker says, “I’m going to help out in the office, too.” A glimpse of Stryker’s bigger plan.

“Ally will have plenty of help,” Lois chimes in. “I used to work in public relations, and I’ve got a husband and a son who I’d like to put to work.” She smiles at Belcanto.

“Well, it sounds like y’all might be able to make this work after all.” He is not the type of person who would typically use the word “y’all.” He’s been in Charlotte too long. He can’t wait to get the hell out of there. “I am very impressed with what you’ve done with the VNO operation.” He smiles at Ally. “How about a tour of the place?” Belcanto offers.

They get up from their chairs and file out into the corridor.

Twenty-four hours later, Ally buys the WWP for an undisclosed but obscene amount of money.

I jump around and whoop my head off.

This is going to be spectacular.

34. Centophobia
/ senˈ-tō-fōˈbē-ə / fear of new things or ideas

S
tryker is getting fat.
This is the topic of conversation of the day between Ally and her Barbies.

Ally watches a P90X infomercial, stuffing Cheetos in her mouth, Barbies, old and new, propped up all around her. She remembers how awesome Stryker used to look. She can see him now, from the new family room sofa. He’s outside, cleaning the pool, with his shirt off. He’s not fat or anything, but he does look a little flabby, she thinks. The people on TV are doing something called “plyometrics,” whatever that is. Ally thinks it must mean “jumping around” because that’s what these fitness nuts are doing. And it must work since they’re all in incredible shape. Most of the WWC guys look like that, buff and in shape. Ally thinks any one of them could kick Stryker’s flabby hiney, even the girls.

An idea starts to shimmer its way to the surface of her mind.

“Hey,” Diner Counter Barbie says, “why don’t you buy that X90 thing for Stryker? That oughtta light a fire under his fat ass.”

“Yeah,” Geriatric Barbie says. “That young man could use a little more exercise. He’s getting a bit heavy, isn’t he?”

Ally thinks about that for a minute. That would take care of his sagging body, but what about his less-than-sparkling personality? She knew that that stupid Drake Murray wouldn’t buy Stryker’s contract in the AWG deal because he thought Stryker was a jobber — someone who was basically neutral, someone who did not capture enough of the audience’s attention, the racing equivalent of an “also-ran.” Stryker just did not stand out enough. The AWG had tried to make him into a face, pairing him with the General, and Stryker told Ally that it had been working. And, near the end of his AWG career, Stryker moved a record amount of merchandise, drew unprecedented crowds at public appearances, and garnered lots of heat (applause, cheers, positive fan reaction). But, that wasn’t enough for Drake Murray. Stryker was only just beginning to win over the fans, and Murray wanted sure bets only when he bought out the AWG. Was he large-and-in-charge enough for Ally?

I lean over the back of the couch and whisper into her ear.

She gets an idea: she’ll make her idol into a sure bet. He’ll be a superhero.

But how?

She could start by ordering this PX90 or whatever it’s called, as Barbie suggested. Would he use it? she thinks. How can I make sure? She picks up the phone, hoping Stryker won’t come in for a few minutes. She does more than order the DVDs.

Now, what about the personality thing? Ally’s pretty sure the louder you are in pro wrestling, the more fans you get. She wishes Stryker was like some of those loud guys. How can she help that? She doesn’t know yet. She’ll have to think about it.

She’s set on finding a way to help him overcome the flab and drab. Call it determination.

Then she will throw him into competition against the evil Murray, like a Christian to the lions.

I believe in her.

Wrestling is about to get a new superhero and I am about to get excited about my job.