Face Mask

Stop me if you’ve heard this one.



Lady wrestler. As deadly as she is hot, but in a classy way, zero-percent thot. And get this? A combination of bootstrapping her way into the biz(that’s what we call the business), yet simultaneously a legacy. Destined for greatness, the future of a once prestigious but now decaying bloodline resting upon her shoulders. Her ring attire even leaves a single shoulder bare as a wink-wink to all the shoulder fetishists out there. This gal knows her audience. Put a green skull mask on every horny simp wrestling fan and soon enough the crowd will turn to a viridian sea. The sickness spreads. The vaccine was a lie. You’re probably infected already. Cough, cough.



So many contradictions, you might think I’m dishonest, but c’mon. I wouldn’t bullshit you. We’re homeys. Having a moment. See? This is us having a moment right now.



Half-a-year-plus in PWE and a winless record. Seems unimpressive, I get it. If I saw someone had been here the better part of a year with a big fat goose egg in their victory column, I’d be tempted to underestimate them. Even write them off completely. This person, this competitor must suck absolute shit. That’s what any reasonable person would think.



And if I started running down my qualifications, the ones off-camera, the ones I can’t prove, the ones that for all intents and purposes you would just have to take my word on - you would probably think I’m lying. Who wouldn’t, am I right? Does a Rudo Cup even exist, and if it does and I won it, how bad was the rest of the field? Look at you, putting two and two together, my precious little brainy baby. Get over here so I can muss your hair, then move so I can go wash my hands.



But hey, this probably all sounds insincere. Double-talk, someone trying to convince you that the things you saw with your own eyes are wrong, that there’s no way they could’ve happened, that everything you think is a lie. You were mistaken. We both know this isn’t the first time that you made a mistake, that what you thought happened isn’t what actually happened. No hard feelings, happens to everybody.



We’re cool. Totally.

💚

Dad likes to wear the green skull mask when we talk wrestling. His is green and black with a dash of pink, sugar skull swirls that get a little hypnotic if you look too long, eyes blackened with mesh to make him look even more inhuman. Except when he pulls the bottom up to shove another French fry in his mouth. The Salty Room’s burgers are mediocre at best, but the fries are like greasy ambrosia. Zeus himself would ride a bolt of lightning all the way from Mount Olympus to Monterey Park for them.



Dad’s also a big fan of having our meetings in the deepest bowls of Rudo U, with the Aztec theming and the torchlit corridors, like something out of a 90’s cable fantasy show with a microbudget, that has to let charm do the heavy lifting before getting canceled after one season. The training room with the half-a-dozen rings and the actual arena feel like they’re miles away. But the creepy blackwood table, with the red vein embellishments and the Aztec sacrificial altar vibe is all too close, sitting right between us. If my heart is about to be cut from my body, then there’s no harm in clogging it up a little first. I nosh on my own fries. Better not put my feet on the table either. That would make me look disdainful. If you’re gonna be that way, it’s best not to actually look it.



“Got a good feeling about this show,” I say, my mouth full. Who could blame me for stress eating? “Two opponents, classic three-way strategy. Let the dipshits work each other over, pick my moments, wait for one of them to dispatch the other, then blindside them and take the win. I don’t see an abundance of brains on their end being a problem.”



I can practically hear his teeth grinding, the mask still pushed up, leaving his mouth exposed. Nothing to hide the lips pursed in irritation. “Practical,” he says, leading with the support before moving onto the criticism. “I just have to wonder why, if you’re so good at strategizing, it’s never paid off before.”



“It has,” I say, starting the argument without taking the time to mentally collect my counterpoint.



And he’s aware that I have no counterpoint. “Zero wins, Rylee. Is there an excuse, an explanation, a reason why someone with your training hasn’t been able to scrape up one win in over a year?”



The next fry finds its way between my middle and index fingers, like I’m holding a greasy cigarette. If a conversation makes me uncomfortable, it always helps to have a prop. “You know me, Pop. The anxiety of all that attention can be crippling. Enough to mentally shut me down. I’m your classic overthinker. Training well and carrying that training over into an arena full of people can be… overwhelming. I’m not sure if you would understand.”



“I’m wearing a goddamn lucha libre mask while talking to my own daughter,” he says.



“In a creepy weird sacrifice room,” I point out. “I get the theming, demonically evil is the brand, we got a plague theme going on.”



He raises a hand, and I can’t help but roll my eyes. Hopefully that doesn’t make me look too immature, but I hate to be cut off when I’m rambling out my nervousness. “I also know a thing or two about weird coping mechanisms. This mask is literally the only reason I can wrestle in front of people.”



“Aw, you’re being vulnerable,” I snark, payback for the hand raise. “How are the fries?”



He eats another one. “Fantastic. How are your chances?”



“Even better,” I say, scarfing a fry of my own.



A slight nod. Dad likes the confidence but doesn’t totally buy it. “So,” he says. “When you go out there… Mask or no mask?”



“Seriously?” I ask, my smirk so wicked I almost hate the idea of hiding it. “Mask.”



He finishes his last fry, then slides his own mask back into place. His voice should sound muffled, but is somehow perfectly clear. “That’s my girl.”

💚

The upside to training in a wrestling school themed around Aztec sacrificial rituals is that you always have an ominous looking spot to cut a promo. We even have a wall of skulls(most of them fake, I’m told) which is great if you’re trying to balance your passive-aggressive snark with a dash of deathcult-edgelord.



“Chels, Mons, how are you guys? I’m saying that to be polite. It’s not that I don’t care, it’s just that I have a lot going on right now and I’m really trying to focus on me, y’know?”



My lean is casual. As casual as one can possibly lean against a wall of skulls. My arm spasms when my elbow finds its way into an eye socket.



“Fair to say my PWE run has been unimpressive thus far, and I know what you’re thinking. Easy win, wipe the floor, another X in Maladi’s loss column, one of you scoring a super-jump off my head as you move onto bigger things. I mean… Chandler, Monica… How crazy would it be if that didn’t happen? Can you imagine how dumb and shitty and absolutely worthless the two of you would look if I won?”



“Truly, I would hate that for you. But maybe things will work out. Maybe one of you will win, be it the Death Metal Horse or… um… Monica, Moniker, sorry. One of my best friends in second grade was a Monica. See how I could get confused. But an easy mnemonic device is that Moniker is the one I kick in the head. Easy-peasy. As for you, Chels, I haven’t listened to your band, but I’m sure it’s great. Death metal definitely isn’t pure shit as a genre, I firmly believe that.”



My fingers stretch and riff on a guitar that doesn’t exist. Somehow it sounds better than death metal.



“Fortunately, I won’t have a problem sticking my foot into any of your well-traveled orifices, and I can always throw away my boots afterwards. Not slut-shaming, obviously, just being sanitary. I would absolutely hate for you to be back on set and suddenly one of your coworkers bottoms out and hits boot. That would be embarrassing for both of us, wouldn’t it?”



“So let’s keep the embarrassment to a minimum. Maybe, and hear me out here, I win. Smash your head together with Moniker’s, score a perfectly arching roundhouse that rings both your bells at once, your heads clonking off each other like a Newton’s cradle, emptiness echoing before you’re both stacked up and one-two-three’d. Crazier things have happened, am I right?”



“And if it makes you feel any better, I won’t even rub it in after. Totally. Honestly. You have my word.”



“Promise.”