Copyright © 2018
Chapter 1 – Rogue Kingdom
Spearhead Wrestling Presents: Fight for NY
Live TV taping EP 25
Doors open 7:30pm / Bell time 8pm
The finishing touches from ring crew wrapped up for tonight’s performance in the Manhattan Center. Chairs neatly lined in their designated areas; Spearhead banners hanging around the fixtures and even clothed the barricades; quick sound system testing, and ring crew member Matt Stanley ran the ropes to check for efficiency. The Manhattan Center aged nicely, but still a pain-in-the-ass assembling the ring.
Zemi DeMarx lingered near the ring, stretching while taking in the beautiful ballroom arena that housed them. The Hammerstein Ballroom held history in New York City. Tonight, the boys of Spearhead Wrestling will show the world their business as top competitors on the east coast.
The clicking of heels announced a tall woman walking onto the stage and down the ramp. She played her school-corporate-business woman well. Short plaid skirt with cheeky undies that matched, a white button down blouse that knotted at her back, her dark brown hair tied in a messy ponytail while making sure to leave straight long pieces out from the rest, and she allowed her cat-frame glasses to rest on the bridge of her nose. She also held the clipboard with important papers with pride. After all she inherited Spearhead Wrestling from her late husband. Therefore, Mrs. Jen Walters became promoter of Spearhead Wrestling.
She tapped the pen on the clipboard, “Fans will be seated soon,” raising her voice. Everyone slowly walked to the back.
Zemi DeMarx knew she had more to say. She stood next to his arm. Her eyes focused on the other bodies that still gathered small things, swept stuff up, and organized important wrestling materials. Didn’t even look him in the eye, “I’m having you wrestle Brewster Baggins.”
“That’s not new. Am I losing?” Zemi DeMarx responded.
“I haven’t thought about the outcome,” Jen Walters said, turning to Zemi. She pushed up her glasses. “I booked the match for a Manhattan Street Fight, and it’s the opener.”
“The opener? Have you not watched my talent for the past six months?” Zemi started, anger rising in his voice, “I deserve at least midcard or main event.”
Jen smiled at him, her voice about to sound motherly yet condescending. “That’s sweet, my rookie. I’ll think about it. Now, please go find Brewster and talk.”
Chad Murphy, dressed in his best suit, walked on the stage and down the ramp. He was met with cheers from the Manhattan crowd. They felt it; sensed it; love it. He entered the ring, fiddled with the microphone. Taking a deep breath, he announced, “We are live in 5…4…3…2…1!”
The arena erupted in deaf-reckoning noise. The crowd cheered loud, slammed open palm hands against the clothed Spearhead Wrestling barricades that surrounded the ring and entrance way. The theme of Spearhead Wrestling flowed through the speakers which consisted of heavy guitar riffs, drums, bass, and a tinge of violin. The lights flashed up in the middle of the ring.
“Welcome to Spearhead Wrestling,” Chad Murphy said. “The following Manhattan Street Fight is scheduled for one fall!”
“ONE FALL,” the crowd chanted in unison. Such marks.
Brewster Baggins heavy party-rock song flowed from the speakers. He walked onto the stage. Standing in admiration of the chants, words and sounds spillings from the fans.
“Entering at 200 pounds, and hailing from Cincinnati, Ohio, this is Brewster Baggins!”
Brewster walked down the ramp. A black singlet clothed his body. His midsection rounder than the rest of his body. He raised his balled up fists in the air followed by a war cry. He reminded fans of King Kong Bundy. After getting in the ring, his entrance theme of Dirty Bastard by Grave Stalkers faded.
“And his opponent,” Chad Murphy paused. The lights went out for a few moments. A lone spotlight then appeared on stage. Zemi DeMarx knelt on center stage, with his body leaning to a side, arms up and bent with popping biceps. Black spandex underwear with black knee pads, kick pads, and boots clothed him.
Adonis by Forest Capture blared through the speakers. The shouting of a choir for the song opened with, “AAADDDOOOONNNIIISSSS!!!!!! AAADDDOOOONNNIIISSS!!!!!” Zemi DeMarx managed to create a stunning greek god physique. His routine consisted of natural workout reps with lots of cardio and some pumping of iron. The spotlight created a white sheen over his normally cream flesh. The body oil didn’t help. Zemi kept his hair short and layered, despite becoming unwanted by Jen Walters. He wasn’t a heel yet. He remained babyface. He finally raised from center stage, looked out into the crowd before proceeding.
“Hailing from Manhattan, New York and weighing in at a 190 pounds, this is Zemi “Rookie” DeMarx!” Chad Murphy said and then exited the ring.
Zemi shook his head while on the apron. The cameraman below him angled the camera up. “I’m no rookie!” Zemi said into the camera. “Tonight, the fans will know, and so will little miss vixen Jen Walters.” Zemi finally entered the ring, allowing referee Kerry Bonds signaling for the bell.
Brewster Baggins rushed like a charging rhino at Zemi. Zemi slightly froze and tumbled back into the ropes.
“Get him back!” yelled Zemi, held up in the ropes.
Referee Kerry came over but Brewster stopped him with his arm.
“Son, you’re in a street fight!” Brewster grabbed Zemi by the short hair.
Zemi grunted but kicked Brewster in response. He left the ropes, pushing Brewster back to have space to slide outside the ring. Zemi quickly looked for a weapon. Zemi found a trash can lid. The crowd cheered. Brewster already grabbed a trash can. Maybe the lid belonged to that trash can. Zemi surveyed the area. He took a chance. He ran around the ring, hopping on the small steel steps and flying in the air like the stunts in Asian flicks. Zemi reared his arms back, fingers still firmly grasping the trash lid. He battle cried and swung with force down upon the shielding trash can that protected Brewster. At the same time, metal clashing metal, Brewster pushed his arms further up and the trash can connected with Zemi’s face along with the lid. Zemi fell from the fall with a grunt all while the trash lid wheeled away. For him, the lights seemed brighter than before and breathed heavy. Brewster grabbed him, picked him up and slammed him on the mat. His back thudded and all the breath left his body again. He rolled onto his side trying to force air into his lungs.
Brewster rummaged for another weapon. Brewster held a chair, walked over, and ready his attack. Zemi now rested on his forearms, and reared his leg back and kicked Brewster in his knee. The action stunned Brewster with a shit escaping his lips. The chair he held fell from his hand. Zemi quickly grabbed and swung the object like a baseball bat, connecting to Brewster’s head.
Zemi didn’t stop just yet. The crowd gasped, divided into yells, bloodthirsty cheers, and boos. Zemi threw the chair aside. He battled cried to the crowd. Zemi raised his arms reminding the crowd of his physique. Brewster finally fell to the mat. Eyes glazed over, breathing ragged, and his head rung. A trail of drool dripped from the side of Brewster’s mouth. Zemi went for a cover.
Referee Kerry slapped his hand down, “One! Two!”
Brewster managed to kick out, raising a tired arm. Referee confirmed the two count to Zemi. Zemi shook his head. He picked up Brewster, but Brewster threw a couple of fists out of instinct. Zemi blocked, picking up his hands, and being forced to retreat. Brewster then grabbed Zemi’s head and threw him into the ring post before sending him into the guardrail. Zemi cried in pain, the ringing in his ears staggered his balance. Brewster pulled a table from under the ring. The joyous cheer of the New York crowd became deafening. Brewster set up the table, walked over to Zemi with closed fists and attacked his back and ribs. Zemi cringed at the enveloping pain. Brewster gave Zemi one closed fist to his head. A lingering ringing; a lingering thumping. Brewster stepped away from Zemi. Something sliver caught Brewster’s eyes. He pulled out a food gater and crowd loved the site of it. Brewster banged the object against the post, firing up the crowd with each ringing of the metal. Then he curved swung the food grater which ‘clinked’ against Zemi’s head. Zemi slid down, still against the guardrail, and sunk his head in his arms. Brewster tossed the food grater, hosited Zemi upon his shoulder, ran, and launched Zemi at angle through the table. The table crumbled, air expelled from Zemi’s lungs, his eyes closing and body falling limped. Brewster covered him. Referee Kerry counted, “One! Two! Three!” He signaled for the bell. The crowd cheered.
“And the winner of the Manhattan Street Fight…Brewster Baggins!” Chad Murphy announced. Referee Kerry raised Brewster Baggins hand in victory. Brewster yelled to the crowd as victor. He then picked up the food grater. He lifted Zemi up, his body tired and dead. Zemi breathed heavy, sweat clung to his whole body, and his eyes still closed. Brewster called for the camera man.
“You see this,” he said, shaking the food grater in his hand. “And you see him?” Brewster tilted his head towards Zemi. “He’s nicknamed “Rookie” in this federation, and it suits him well. This is his initiation into the big boy league!” Brewster then sliced the food grater across Zemi’s forehead, above his right eyebrow. It cut clean, blood leaking from the gash. Zemi screamed in agony. He twisted and turned to avoid anymore burning pain. Brewster laughed, threw away the food grater, and walked out. Referee Kerry quickly grabbed a towel, brought it to Zemi’s face, and held it against the gash to stop the bleeding. Medics rushed to Zemi’s side. Blood coated his cheek despite the towel soaking up much of it. Medics walked with Zemi to the back.
Zemi rested on the medical bed ever so still someone would’ve thought he died. The doctor leaned over Zemi with needle in hand stitching up the gash. No wincing; no flinching; just single slow streams of tears. His heart hung heavy in his chest. He clenched his fists. The doctor tidied the knot of the stitch, placed down the needle, and placed a bandage over the closed gash.
“I’m done,” the doctor said.
“Thanks,” Zemi said with a lump in his throat. He sat up, swinging his legs over, and wiped away the dried tears.
A knock sounded. Both men looked at the doorway. “Hey, doc, can you give us a moment,” a familiar woman said. The doctor left the room. She slightly closed the door.
“Lexi, I don’t want you to see me like this,” Zemi started.
“See you frustrated? Humiliated?” she answered. She wrapped her arms around his neck, bringing him close for a deep hug. Her hands trailed down his smooth back and muscles. Zemi hugged her tighter.
“I don’t deserve this,” he whispered.
“Then what do you deserve,” Lexi asked him. “More of the rookie namesake? More of Jen treating you like shit? More of the crowd not respecting you?”
A small pause.
“You need to stop being a babyface.”
Zemi broke the hug, staring into the deep brown eyes of Lexi Lovehart. His heart fluttered. Turning heel without the crowd doing it for you? That’s everything he wanted: turning heel. Being a jerk to everyone that ever showed him disrespect.
He—did—wanted to earn the respect of the boys. Zemi’s overconfidence oozed from his charm and the flaunting of his physique that made the boys not accept him yet. Jen Walters certainly didn’t accept him. Nicknamed him rookie over a botched finish. A finish that Zemi wanted to call in the ring rather than listening to the veteran Yando pre-match. Zemi had since apologized, but nothing changed despite absorbing instructions well so present and further promotions knew his serious intention to be a professional in a sport that defined cutthroat like a knife. Since the botch, he felt his amatureness, the crowd did too; promoters too—all expect Lexi Lovehart, the backbone of his existence in professional wrestling—but he knew confidently enough that he had a burning story inside waiting to ignite.
“I want to tell my own stories,” Zemi said.
“Then let’s tell our stories together,” Lexi reaffirmed.
Zemi leaned in for a quick kiss.
Referee Erwin raised Vincent Kross hand in victory. He retained the Spearhead Heavyweight Championship. The bell rung; the crowd erupted with roaring cheers. Vincent Kross: prominent top guy, champion, and loved by all retained his Spearhead Heavyweight Championship. Referee Erwin raised Vincent Kross’ hand. His opponent, Rush Gavin, rolled out of the ring, and walked to the back. Vincent Kross stood at six feet with a muscle and lean body. He held up his belt. Paraded around the four corners of the ring. Zemi raced down to the ring like a blur, slid under the ropes, popped up and swung a forearm across the head of an unsuspecting victor. The New York crowd didn’t have time to react properly. Their feels pooled in the center of the ring. A distaste for beating up the hero could turn any babyface into a heel. Zemi threw haymakers and kicks upon a Vincent Kross. Kross tried to kick and create space between them. But Zemi avoided the small kicks and twists of the Kross’ body. Zemi hooked his arms under Kross’ legs, dragged him in the middle of the last rope. Zemi fell back, slingshotting Vincent Kross’ neck hitting the bottom rope. He coughed violently, hands instinctively going to his throat. His face turned red. Lexi finally made her way to ring, shouting and gesturing at the crowd. A sports crop top, leggings, and sneakers graced her curvy frame. For each prideful step, her bronze long ponytail swung the same. She then slapped Vincent across the face. The fans didn’t like what they saw. Officials started to surround the ring, wanted to reason with Zemi and Lexi. Lexi twirled when she could like an innocent bystander. Zemi didn’t care. He then pulled Kross back into the ring.
“Zemi! Stop this!” Jen Walter screamed into the microphone. “Don’t hurt Kross any further!”
Zemi stopped, looked cruelly at Jen. “Or what?” Zemi yelled. Kross laid at his feet, defenseless.
“You’ll be suspended!” she said.
“That’s all? Suspended,” Zemi said, walking to the ropes and leaning. “You’re such a bitch. It’s my time to be top guy. To be noticed. You’ve never helped me. Nor will you ever. I’ll take my chances.”
Zemi faced Vincent Kross, pulling him by the hair. Zemi hooked both of his arms under Kross’ while fastening a grip on the man’s legs. Vincent Kross tried squirming from the package piledriver, but it became futile. Zemi jumped off the canvas, allowing Kross’ head hitting the mat first on the way down, and next rolled away from the man.
Zemi walked around the ring like a hero despite the loud boos from the crowd. They didn’t want this. They wanted to be sent home happy. However, Zemi felt he sent them home happy. The top guy didn’t always have to win, right?
In the corner, something golden twinkled. The belt laid there unaware of it’s incapacitated master. Zemi stalked over to the belt like prey to their capture. Zemi grabbed it, feeling the weight of pure gold in his hands. A devilish smirk lined his face with a mischievous dance in his blue eyes, and a small breathy chuckle escaping his lips. He felt a demon possessing him. The power a heavyweight championship consumes well. Something he felt lusting for. The beating of his heart quicken with racing thoughts of ruling the locker room—demanding that respect—and doing it all with Lexi Lovehart by his side. Maybe they’ll take over the world, create a kingdom in his—their image—for the world to witness. Or, perhaps, play it slow and keep the burning desire to hold such power until worthy. Zemi finally raised his head—ignoring the boos—calling Lexi over. They meet in front of a hurt champion. Vincent Kross cradled himself, his eyes closed, and didn’t move. Zemi pulled Lexi closer by the waist. She instinctively wrapped her arm around him, leaving the free hand on his abs. Zemi placed his foot on Vincent Kross’ chest. He then raised the belt high above his head. That devilish smile returned. That mischievous dance prominent in his blue eyes.
Zemi mouthed: This is mine! This is ours! This is our story! Our Rogue Kingdom!