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Tulsa, 1968. I’m standing in the ring as the announcer comes over the PA to introduce the referee, Brassy Bob Keegan. Donnie stands in his corner, decked out in a blue satin robe, posing for his fans. At the back of my mind there’s the nagging paranoia that he’s going to screw me again, that he’s going to make another mess for me to clean up. But I keep it in line and think professionally. I know all his tricks. I’ve already talked to Bob. Donnie’s even reassured me that we’re in for a solid match. We’ll see.
The promoter here has me wearing a hood. It’s all part of the stipulations my bosses in Ohio laid out for the match. The guys here want a clean win for Donnie, and the bosses back home don’t want my name to lose any prestige. The only way they’ll let me lose a match is if nobody knows it’s me. And everybody figures Donnie won’t come up with any dumb schemes as long as he is allowed to beat me.
It’s supposed to be a mystery who I am, even though any guy in the coliseum worth his salt will identify me merely by my girth. I hate hoods, at least in this country. Mexico has it all different, guys in masks are the biggest names. North of the border, people don’t care. I mean, they really don’t care. Kids buy into the mystique, but for the most part, you become an anonymous punching bag in the ring when you’re stuck in a mask. I don’t get it. Probably never will. I remember a couple of years ago they made a pal of mine run around the ring in a Batman getup. “Kids are into this whole Batmania craze,” the promoter said. Yeah, they hated him. The guy’s spent the last two years hitting the bottle and doing midget matches in Tijuana because of it.
They’ve got me fighting under the moniker of “The Masked Massacre,” which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense as far as names go. I’m no grammar major, but I fail to see how a person is a “massacre.” I could see calling the match that, especially if Donnie’s win came about through some serious brutality. I guess they knew how obvious it was that I’m the one under the hood and decided to be clever by finding a name that will allude to my “murderous” tendency in the ring. But who am I to argue? Pin me and pay me.
I know how the match ends. Donnie knows how it ends. Everything should be square.
Old Bob goes through the motions, telling us about what’s legal and what’s not. He does the ol’ “search the wrestler” bit for the crowd, feeling up our kneepads, boots and such for foreign objects. He motions to the timekeeper at ringside and the bell rings. That’s pretty much when a paper cup filled with beer hits me in the back of the head. At least the crowd already knows who to root for, I guess.
What pisses me off is that the cup of beer screws up how I planned to start the match. I had planned to hit Donnie with a cheap shot before the bell rang to build some heat with the crowd. I’m supposed to be the bad guy here, after all. But maybe the angry fan that threw the beer did me a favor and established some heat already. We’ll see.
I charge at Donnie and attempt a chop to his jaw, which he blocks and turns into a headlock on me. Push him off and into the ropes, and he bounces back with a leaping clothesline, which sends me to the mat. That allows him the opportunity to drop an elbow on my chest. After the impact, my body bounces up a couple of inches and I roll over onto my knees so I can get up.
Donnie is mugging for the crowd, now, and the cheers are roaring. I sneak up behind him and connect with a forearm to the back of his head, which sends him into the corner. I run up behind him, grab his head, and send it face-first into the top turnbuckle. He bounces back and acts like he’s in a daze, and I grab his head again and slam it a second and third time into the turnbuckle. He stumbles backwards and falls on the flat of his back. I take the moment to boastfully pose for the crowd and call some guy in the audience a pussy. This elicits deafening boos.
I then pick Donnie up off the mat so that he’s standing, grab him by the arm and swing him through the second and third ropes of the ring and onto the floor below. The crowd gets on its feet and boos even louder. Bob gets in my face and puts on the “yelling at the wrestler” act, motioning that he’ll disqualify me if I keep it up. I shove him into the corner and he flops like a rag doll, landing face down on the mat and playing dead.
I look out at the crowd and do an exaggerated belly laugh, ending it with an air kiss to the angry fans. Some more paper cups fly from the audience, some of them making it to the inside of the ring. I do another exaggerated laugh and then step through the ropes, back down to the floor where Donnie is struggling to get back up. In the time it’s taken me to rile up the crowd and immobilize the ref, Donnie’s been quietly blading his hairline to sell those headshots to the turnbuckle. Finally up on his feet and leaning on the edge of the ring, he’s got plenty of blood streaming down his face.
I grab him and throw him into the ringside steps. He connects with his shoulder and practically flies into the lap of a lady in the front row. She lets out a horrible scream and her old man stands up and gets in my face as I approach. I ignore him, pick Donnie up off the cement, and land a punch to his face that sends him back towards the ring. I turn around to face the angry boyfriend and puff my chest out, tossing my hands outwards like “So what?” Another batch of howls from the fans. I then turn to the screaming chick and blow another air kiss before walking back in Donnie’s direction. That’s when he surprises me with a low blow to the crotch. I double over and ham it up and the crowd loses its mind. Donnie pushes me back up into the ring and follows behind to the cheers of the house.
Donnie climbs the turnbuckle and poses, flexing his arms. Another pop from the crowd. He’s loving it. He then gets back down and pins me on the mat. No count. Donnie gets up and looks around, pretending to be confused before spotting the referee out cold. He tends to the ref, trying to wake him up with some taps and shakes. Meanwhile, I slowly make my way back onto my feet. I roll out of the ring, walk to the timekeeper’s table and steal the bell, yelling a couple of colorful obscenities at some audience members along the way. I get back into the ring, bell in hand, and hold it up in the air for all to see. People are on their feet again.
The ref, however, is not, as we had planned out beforehand. I stand around gloating about having the bell, when Donnie hits me in the back of the head, sending the bell out of my hands and onto the mat. He kicks the bell out of the ring and then goes to work on me, tossing me into the ropes and landing a series of textbook punches to my hooded mug.
Unfortunately for him and his fans, I block the last punch with my forearm and pull a reversal, putting his back against the ropes. Then I clothesline him, attempting to send him over the top rope. But his arms get wrapped in the ropes, and as he flips backwards, his neck gets caught between the second and third lines. His feet dangling off the side of the ring, he motions that he’s choking. The bad news for me is my hand is caught in the ropes with his neck. I feel the circulation getting cut off in my fingers and tug as hard as I can to get them loose. Talk about botching a spot. I give one more tug while at the same time aping a punch to Donnie’s face, and my fingers are finally free. I shake them as I walk back outside the ring and pick up the bell.
Bell in hand once more, I roll back into the ring and hold up the bell again. I take a few steps back from Donnie, charge at him and swing the bell into his forehead.
BONGK!
He grimaces in pain and more garbage ends up in the ring. I hear a group of kids in the third row start chanting Donnie’s name. Just a few more shots with the bell and the crowd will really be on their feet, I think. Donnie will get his second wind, turn the tide, and it’s smooth sailing from there. I raise the bell again and—
When I wake up, the first thing I feel are needles in my arm. Then I feel an ache in my chest. I sit up but a hand comes out and holds me back. A big meaty paw belonging to Eddie “Headbuster” Honda.
“Easy, Train,” he says. “You’re not goin’ anywhere, brother.”
I’m in a hospital bed. The needles in my arm are connected to IVs and machines and such. It’s a private room with a big window. The blinds are open, so I can see the buildings, the traffic and the sandy beaches. I must be pretty high up.
“What happened?” I ask.
“You had a heart attack. The doc performed emergency surgery. Lucky for you he’s my cousin.”
Family, family, family. I notice the sling on Eddie’s arm.
“How long have I been out?”
“You been in and out for a coupla days, man.”
“So what else happened?”
Eddie sits down on a stool and recounts everything he knows. Kim’s guys made short work of the Japs and sent them packing. Only one of Donnie’s goons survived, some ex-gunner or something. Made off with half of the money that Donnie had stashed in the safe house. I didn’t even think about raiding it for money. Shows how smart I am.
Mitchell stuck around the crime scene afterwards and called in some of his men. He took credit for the operation and got a commendation for shutting down Chin’s syndicate, as well as thwarting a Yakuza takeover. Pretty impressive to the pencil pushers back in Virginia.
Alison survived, by the way. I guess that last shot Donnie fired barely grazed her. Kim’s guy got her out before the rest of the feds showed up. Since then, nobody’s seen her.
A couple days later Eddie drives me to Alison’s house. Mitchell is there waiting for us. None of his boys are with him, but when he greets us he’s in a slightly nicer suit. He must be in a higher pay grade now. Bastard.
“She’s M.I.A., Train,” he says when I see him in the front yard.
I walk in and the place is cleaned out.
“We had to seize the house since it was technically Donnie’s,” Mitchell says as I make my way to Alison’s bedroom. Her drawers are pulled out and emptied for the most part.
“She left you this,” Mitchell says, pulling out an envelope from his jacket pocket and handing it to me. “Even though my bosses wouldn’t like it, I took the liberty of not reading it. For your sake.”
“Thanks,” I say as I jab my thumb under the flap and rip the envelope open.
“I don’t need a note to tell me what she did, anyway,” he says, walking away.
I pull out the paper inside and read it.
B-
You’re probably out of the hospital by now and at my house, which means you know I’m gone. I’m sorry. No matter what, please don’t think I was using you. You’re an amazing person, and I love you. But I can’t be here anymore. Don’t look for me. When the time is right, I’ll come find you. Until then, please take care of yourself. I hope you can find peace here.
Xoxo,
A
I walk into the kitchen as I finish reading the note. Mitchell and Eddie are smoking at the table.
“She made off with only a quarter million in cash. At least, that’s going by our estimates. My guys are still trying to crack the numbers on all of Donnie’s operations,” Mitchell says with a puff of smoke.
“I need a cig,” I say. Eddie hands me one of his Pall Malls and his lighter. I put the cigarette in my mouth and light it up.
Then I put the lighter to the note and set it ablaze in the ashtray on the table.
“What now?” Eddie asks.
I walk to the kitchen counter, where the phone sits. I pick up the receiver and dial the only number I have memorized anymore. After three rings it picks up.
“Hello,” Sammy’s voice says.
“Yeah, it’s me. The job is done.”
“Glad to hear it. There’s a flight at 2:30. Be on it,” he replies.
I pause for a second and inhale from the butt on my lip.
“Save it.”
“What? What was that?”
“I’m not working for you anymore. Your boys are dead. You send any more after me, they’ll be just as dead. This rock is mine now. You step foot on it, you’re dead. You send anybody here, ever, and I’ll kill them, and then I will come find you, and I will kill you. And I will make it very painful.”
All I hear on the other end is Sammy’s breathing.
“You’ve seen what I can do. You know the stories. Hawaii is off-limits. You hear me?”
I hear the phone click. I place the receiver down. Next to the phone sit’s the urn containing Chin’s ashes. I pull out my sunglasses from my pocket and put them on. I pick up the urn, look at it, and say, “Time to move on, then.”
I’m driving up the coast on Maui. It’s been a week or so after getting out of the hospital. I’m driving a pretty nice Dart Swinger I bought used on the big island with some money from Kim. He’s been pretty gracious about how I set him up. Everything moves pretty smoothly on his end. The Japs are off licking their wounds and rethinking their Hawaii strategy, and Kim’s pretty much taken over everything Chin used to run. Now it’s just Koreans instead of Chinamen. He’s sitting pretty now. He even put me on the payroll to do pretty much whatever I want, which, right now, is nothing. I’ve been beating people senseless for most of my life, it’s time to take a vacation. After that, I’m not totally sure.
I’m still dead. Mitchell did a little extra work to mark me off the FBI’s list as deceased. It was nice of him. Must be his way of thanking me. I’ll take it. I’ll also take Donnie and Alison’s house on Oahu. Mitchell handed it over to me as part of a fake government auction or something. I don’t know if I actually want to live there, but it’s a nice spot. Maybe I’ll start a business. A business where I stay out of trouble.
Little do I know that in about a year, I’ll find a letter in my mailbox from a certain redhead.
Yeah, no breaks for the Murdertrain.
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