One.
Summer was staying late in Peyton County and not a skerrick of breeze found its way into the large, gloomy gymnasium that Tuesday afternoon. Chief Commissioner and senior scuzz-bucket J.W. Simms was sitting three seats in front of me, smoking like a chimney and scrawling obscenites onto the ragged edge of his yellow legal pad when he was supposed to be making notes. It was audition day for Continental Championship Wrestling and things were not going well.
"Fucken losers," he muttered as two enormous men in dirty blue overalls lumbered around the ring in front of us. The entry on his pad read "Tag team #7 -- Uncle Bart & Cousin Clem: The Ozark Killbillies". Each man was as big as the mountain that bred them and Simms was scoring thick black lines through their names on the page.
"The truth is, if we don't get some talent inno this outfit soon you ken all pack yer bags and go home," Simms had told a meeting of the wrestlers just three days before. "We're almost broke and none `o your ugly pusses is pulling in the mugs. What we need here is a show."
The truth was, the only time Simms wasn't crying poor as a rat was when he was trying to pick up one of the trailer-trash girls who hung around the dressing room door after a fight -- girls so ugly not even Clinton would fuck them. But somehow this time we thought he might not just be spinning us a line -- Mad Dog Donovan had already been poached by a rival promotion and even our ring announcer was so poor he was coming home sober two nights out of ten.
"Why don't you just sack pussy-boy here?" my tag-partner Aaron had said that day, smacking me hard on the shoulder. Teenagers a year apart, we'd been a good draw for CCW for nine months. But depsite clean blond looks which made us seem like brothers, we'd gotten so we couldn't stand the sight of each other. Aaron had been madder than a snake after I won the Cruiserwight Title and I'd promised myself now I had the gold around my waist, our next tag match would be the last.
"Shaddup, shit-fer-brains," Simms had said. "What I called you here to tell you is that we're holding talent auditions for athletes on Tuesday, and I'm gonna test some o your sorry asses against the new guys in the next show. If you girls' wanna stay in this flea-bag promotion, you'd better start earning your keep."
After that little talk the other guys had dispersed, with Aaron storming out of the room first and slamming the door to underline his point. He'd accused Simms of favouritism toward me on account of giving me the title shot, and it just seemed to confirm his suspicion when Simms asked me to stay on after the meeting.
"Look, Chad," he said, "I want you to help me on Tuesday. You got an eye for talent, you know what looks good in the ring. I want you to give me your opinion."
So here I was , sweltering away in an iron sweatbox, watching two rednecks with cholesterol levels higher than the combined IQs of their entire family sparring unsuccessfully with a pair of the dumbest jobbers in CCW.
"They suck," I said, as the two clambered clumsily out through the ring ropes. The jobbers looked pleased to see them go, smeared as they were in the sweat from the Killbillies' bodies.
"I know," said Simms, who'd stopped crossing out their names. But suddenly he drew a big circle around the whole inky mess and added: "But they're in, `cos they'll work for less'n any other idiots I know."
Two. I knew it was pointless to argue with him and was just about to excuse myself for a Coke when Simms called the next candidate. I was already on my feet and turned for the door when I saw a 5' 11" silhouette appear in the sharp light from outside. He cast a heavy shadow and as the stranger walked forward the supple darkness seemed to stick to him, resolving itself into the cocoa-coloured skin of a young Pacific islander. "Lanai?" Barked Simms, looking at his pad. "Kyle Lanai!"
As Lanai came out of the glare I could see the boy looked about my age, 19, but where I was blond and fair he had the smoothest, oak-coloured skin and hair I had ever seen. His hair was cropped close and squared off at the top which accentuated his small, turned-up nose and deep dimples. He looked like one of a series of erotic colour drawings of Hawaiian boys I had once seen in a magazine.
"Lanai?" Simms barked again, fumbling simultaneously with a cigarette and a box of matches. "What're you waiting for, boy? Get in the ring and show us what you got."
The boy was already dressed for the audition in a pair of white speedo tights with a yellow band at the waist and frond-like filigree patterns reaching down from it, like the design of a Versace swimsuit. The pattern was picked out in black and the only other thing on his body was a blue, drug-store-bought ankle brace around his left foot. The foam brace had a hole for his heel and another for his toes, and while there was no trace of a limp its mere presence gave his youthful body a vulnerable quality unlike any other wrestler I'd ever seen.
Simms seemed oblivious to anything about the boy and lit his cigarette as Kyle faced one of the jobbers in the ring. I returned to my seat and took another look at his incredible, slender but strong body. It seemed to have a lot in common with mine: big, square-cut pectorals and solid biceps which tapered quickly and smoothly into a narrow waist or a slender forearm. His abs, like mine, were in good shape but still a little boyish to look at, while Kyle's slimness and his islander colouring gave his figure an almost Asian appearance. His face, however, was almost impossible to describe. He had almond-shaped eyes which were elongated but full, as if he may have had one Caucasian parent. His chin was square and when he looked at you straight on the little spikes of his hair-cut and that button nose made him seem far younger than his years.
The jobber he was sparring against was in no great shape and already exhausted from an afternoon in the ring. The biggest beating the guy had received was from the first try-outs, a tag team of humourless, well-built Canadians who'd failed to make it at professional ice hockey. But even against this unimpressive foe Kyle shone, showing an incredible agility and a preference for aerial moves that could have won him a job in any show in Mexico.
After about five minutes the jobber had been pushed around, knocked over and tripped up; never really hurt or on the receiving end of any big blows, but sufficiently frustrated and humiliated to look thoroughly pissed off. Simms ordered an end to the demonstration and Kyle left the gymnasium, barely having worked up a sweat.
"That kid's incredible," I said when he'd gone.
"Naah," said Simms. "Too flashy, too young. And what the fuck was with those faggy trunks? He'd be beaten up by the audience before he ever got inno the ring."
I noticed that my own dick was stiff as a board in my jeans and I leant forward a long way rather than stand up to talk.
"Look, Simms. Why not give the kid a chance? I could, you know " I didn't want to sound too eager here and blow the whole thring " I could go up against him myself, you know, on Saturday. In singles. Just to check him out for you. You know."
"That's real generous of you Chad, it really is. But I got other ideas for this Saturday. I want you and Aaron to go up against those two Canadians."
Three.
On Saturday Aaron and I were getting dressed just before the match. We had to share a dressing room with other wrestlers in the show on account of all the new blood, whose appearance had added three extra bouts to our usual card.
The mood in the locker room was tense and Aaron and I did not speak as we slipped on our matching yellow boots and speedos. I noticed Aaron's tight little body had definitely been getting mroe muscular over the last two months and wondered idly whether he'd been using steroids. Some guy claming to be a sports therapist had been handing them out to some of the other wrestlers and if Simms knew anything about it, he wasn't complaining. I figured steroids might account for Aaron's extra obnoxious moods lately -- and anyway, I'd made up my mind that I was going to dissolve our tag partnership as of this match. I'd tell him after the bout.
Aaron sneered visibly at me as I took my gold Cruiserweight belt out of the bag and snapped it around my waist. He had never had a title and I paused for a moment to examine myself in the mirror -- I was convinced the round metal plate in the middle made my dick look bigger as it sat just over my crotch in the speedos.
"Enjoy it, pussy-boy," was all Aaron would say before we walked into the auditorium, "enjoy it while you can."
We jogged up the three stairs into the main stadium and the good-sized crowd let out a cheer. I'd come to know a good number of the regulars and even though Aaron was an evil little fuck in real life, to the mugs these two blond-haired, all-American teenagers were the good guys.
We climbed through the ring ropes to our entrance music and Perry the announcer bellowed out our fake names to the crowd. We waved, and there was an extra cheer as I took my belt off and handed it to a ring-assistant for safe-keeping. In another moment the lights dimmed, signalling the arrival of our opponents. I hadn't seen the pair since their audition on Tuesday and had not paid as close attention to them then as I should have.
Suddenly there was a screeching sound in the auditorium, like someone dropping the needle on a record, and after a noisy pause `O Canada' started blaring out of the speakers. It was a bad recording of a dreadful song and there, in the distance, two figures appeard.
The first one was Todd Morgan, a clean-cut college-looking athlete with broad shoulders and tall, powerful legs. He had tight black hair which had just a slight tendency to curl, and was wearing a white floor-length robe with a red maple leaf sparkling on his back. Despite his powerful, healthy frame, Todd's skin was extremely pale and he had a red tinge to his face like a Scot or a Britisher.
His partner was a dusty blond, with a brown complexion that gave the impression his skin and his hair were all the same colour. Alexandre Guillot had thick, straight-combed hair which came out to a ducktail at the rear and revealed a darker growth underneath. He too was college-looking, 24 maybe or 25, with a rower's build and long black tights which disappeared into heavy black boots. The boots looked a lot nastier than regulations permited and as soon as he entered the ring he dropped his black robe to reveal a powerful upper-body with a strong chest and large, milk-chocolate coloured nipples.
Morgan also dropped his robe to reveal surprisingly small white speedo tights with thick red stripes on either side and another red maple leaf directly over his crotch. His pale colouring made his body look less impressive than his partner's, but it was sinewy and strong and every bit as muscular. He has small, pink, angry-looking nipples which glared at me from across the ring.
Perry did his announcing and Aaron said to me he'd take the ring first, which was unusual.
Four.
When Aaron approached Guillot I got a sense of just how much smaller than the Canadian he was. Aaron was about an inch shorter than me at 6' but the blond northerner was a good two to three inches taller, and his partner was the same. But I knew the boy didn't scare easily and as they circled each other I could see Aaron staring the bigger man out.
My partner opened with a classic feint -- he stretched his left arm out and clutched his hand open and closed, as if inviting a lock-up.
Guillot's attention naturally follwed the hand and as he was deciding whether or not to take up the challenge, Aaron landed a kick to the man's thigh with his right boot.
Guillot was immediately staggered and Aaron followed it up with a boot to his abs. Guillot had a great stomach with a prominent `outy' navel and Aaron had great pleasure in landing another, even nastier kick as the Canadian leant into the ropes for support. Guillot had doubled over now and Aaron held his neck down with one hand and landed a powerful forearm with the other.
The ropes bounced with the force of the blow and the crowd roared. Guillot was hunched over, bent at the knees but still standing, as Aaron landed two more heavy forearms on his neck. The Canadian's arms grabbed weakly at Aaron's waist but he seemed to be too dazed to do anything more. Then, just as Aaron raised one arm to acknowledge the crowd, his oponent tightened his grip and threw Aaron over his shoulder and over the top rope.
I could see the look of surprise and terror on Aaron's face as the slender teenager sailed through the air, arms flailing until he hit the ground. He managed just to miss the top of the metal railing but his head landed hard against its bottom, and now it was Guillot's turn to acknowledge the approval of the crowd.
If the Canadian had been seriously hurt in the first attack there was no evidence of it as he leapt over the rope after my partner. Aaron had lifted himself up to all fours just as Guillot landed next to him and kicked him solidly in the ribs with his biker's boot. The railing clanked loudly as Aaron bounced into it, and as he fell forward onto his stomach I could see thick red marks on his back where he'd connected with the metal bars.
Guillot grabbed Aaron by his hair and lifted him into a press. The crowd roared as the big man displayed the teenager for a moment, then dropped his limp body so his throat connected with the top of the railing.
Aaron yelled in pain and rolled violently away from where he'd landed, clutching his neck in agony. All of a sudden Guillot was on him again, this time raking his nails deep across Aaron's back. The boy screamed and reached up to grab the railings, desperate to get back to his feet. I watched as Guillot took the opportunity to land two bone-crushing boots to the small of his back and then, as Aaron crumbled, Guillot grabbed his head from behind and dragged his face along the bars of the railing like a cup against a cell in a prison movie.
I had never seen one wrestler do that to another and Aaron seemed almost insensible with shock and pain. He had begun to bleed from his nose and lips and his yellow boots and tights were flithy from where they had dragged through the grime. Even the normally blood-thirsty front row of the audience seemed stunned by the violence of what they had just seen -- the ref had only just appeard at the ropes to begin counting both wrestlers out and Guillot was grinning from ear to ear as he climbed back into the ring.
Aaron was on his feet now, but blind with pain and staggering wildly over the padded mats. I dropped to the ground and took him back to our corner, where I helped him slowly back onto the canvas. Large drops of blood were staining the downy hair on his boyish chest and his eyes had rolled back into his head. Looking up, I saw that Guillot had returned to his own corner and tagged Morgan, who just leant on the turnbuckles, waiting. Taking my cue I rolled Aaron onto the ring apron and tagged in immediately.
I climbed into the ring and eyed Morgan suspiciously. The dark-haired man was still leaning casually in his own corner, hips cocked just a little aside in a strangely sensual, coquettish stance. He seemed to be evaluating me.
I moved into the centre of the ring but would go no closer. Morgan stayed still for another moment, his expression appraising, but spontaneously a bored clap rose from the crowd. They were beginning to judge him a coward.
Morgan didn't respond to the audience but sauntered slowly over to me. All the time looking me straight in the eye, he lifted both biceps into a flex. Now the crowd screamed their approcal and Moragns' gaze seemed to me mocking me, daring me to compete against his physique. My body was a lot more slender but still reasonably muscular for a 19-year-old, and it was my home turf. So I, too, lifted my arms into a flex.
Now it was me who had been suckered. No sooner had I exposed my body than a big white boot pounded toe-first into my gut, sending needles of pain down into my legs and up into my chest. I took an involuntary step backwards and Morgan pounced, twisting my arm and extending it, trapping me the next instant in a wrist lock.
The pain forced me to bend my knees and I could feel my face screwing up in agony. Morgan looked extremely pleased with himself and walked me around the ring in a circle, ending up in his corner. With my head bent down I looked up too late to see Guillot waiting for me, standing on the top rope and poised for an elbow drop.
Down he came and connected almost exactly with my own exposed elbow. I yelled, while the blow forced Morgan to let go and I crumpled to the mat, nursing my throbbing arm under my doubled-over body. I was aware of the ref's shoes and an order for Guillot to get out of the ring, which he did. But there was Todd Morgan's hand on my shoulder, dragging me up and once more taking hold of my aching arm.
Morgan dragged me quickly toward the centre of the ring and then into an Irish whip. I spun towards the ring ropes, connected against them with my shoulders and flew back into a drop-kick into my face. Both boots exploded into my left cheek and I landed hard on my shoulders and the back of my head. No sooner had I hit the canvas than there he was, dragging me once more to my feet.
I felt a riot of pain as he went back to my injured left arm and again sent me shooting into the ropes. This time, despite the agony, I managed to hook both my elbows over the top rope and stop myself from flying back into his kick.
For Morgan it was too late. He was already in the air, and as I bounced back and forth on the elasticity of the ropes he kicked into nothing and landed hard on the mat.
He must have landed on the small of his back because he bridged and reached his arm into that area, wincing. I was dazed and sick-feeling from my beating but I quickly launched myself at him, aiming an elbow at the highest point of his stomach.
I hit and the Canadian came down hard on the tenderest part of his back; I could tell by the way he yelped that he was winded. Taking advantage of his disorientation I manoeuvred behind him, grabbed and twisted his own arms and planted my boot between his shoulder-blades. The surfboard was clamped on quickly and standing, I had all the leverage I needed to force his seated figure closer and clsoer to the mat, wringing every last molecule of oxygen out of his lungs.
Todd Morgan had powerful arms and wrists but I managed to control him. He was wincing with pain and half grunting, half whimpering as I increased the pressure.
"Submit!" I said.
"Fuck you," he cried through clenched teeth, degenerating into a cry of pain as I twisted harder.
From where I was standing I could see Aaron, who did not seem to have recovered well. I was just trying to make eye-contact with him when for an instant the word went black.
Five.
I opened my eyes to find myself lying on my side on the canvas, and there was Alexandre Guillot's black boot right in front of me. I was too late to stop it plowing into my stomach.
The blond Canadian had axe-handled me from behind, and his dark-haired partner was already recovering. I could see Morgan supporting himself on the ropes, taking one deep breath after another, but then Guillot's boot hit home again and when I rolled over to protect myself, he kicked me harder in the back.
The ref was again on the periphery, yelling at Guillot to get out of the ring. I was dimly aware of Aaron, staying right where he was when I badly needed a save. By now I was on my back again and just as I caught a glimpse of the ref forcing Guillot back into his corner, Morgan's elbow crashed hard against my chest.
Now it was me who was winded, although Morgan himself was sluggish and slow to get up from next to me. I managed to rock forward into a sitting position, but then another sharp pain to the head, this time from Morgan's boot. My only chance was to grab the ropes and hope the ref could get the big man to back off.
I crawled painfully forward on my elbows, dragging my lower body limply behind me. Just as I reached out for the lowest rope I felt a hand gripping my fringe and yanking me hard by may hair. The next moment I was unsteadily on my feet, then I felt my neck being cranked backwards and cradled on Morgan's shoulder. Before I could react the nightmare struck: DDT.
For one instant I was on the inside of a thunder-clap and then I was rolling groggily this way and that, unaware if I were just being rocked by momentum or if my own body were dumbly trying to move me somewhere. For that one moment all physical sensations were replaced with pain: the roar of the crowd, the glare of the lights and even the distant feeling of boots and tights pressing against my skin were all for one instant a single, searing agony.
Suddenly I felt the mat falling away from me and in the next second I realised it was not the canvas that was falling, but me. I hit the padded mats on the outside of the ring and tried to open my eyes against the painful light. Slowly the sound of the crowd resolved itself into recognisible noise and I lay there, covered in sweat and breathing shallowly, trying to recover from the crippling move.
I have no idea how many seconds I lay there, but all too soon I caught sight of a pair of thick black boots and powerful calves clad in black spandex. I tensed myself for the inevitable kick but it never came -- instead Guillot just lifted me to my feet and threw me roughly back into the ring.
I tumbled two, three times into the centre of the ring, but I couldn't see Morgan. For an instant I panicked, sure that he must be about to fall on me from the top of the turnbuckles -- but then I saw him. He was leaning back in his corner, that same insolent, appraising look tinged this time with an air of smug superiority.
I was not close to Aaron but I struggled to my feet and tried desperately to get into my own corner. He was still looking pretty bruised form his beating, but I figured at this point he was doing a whole lot better than me.
I was heavy on my feet and as I limped toward my partner I was aware of Morgan approaching me from behind. Aaron was not so much standing on the ring apron as draped against the turnbuckle, but I made one more lunge toward him and managed to reach out before Morgan had me.
To my horror, as I stretched my hand to Aaron he pulled away. I was in the corner now, touching the turnbuckle, but Aaron pulled away further. He wouldn't meet my eye but I had no longer to ponder the situation because Morgan landed a double axe-handle between my shoulder blades. I collapsed into the turnbuckles, turning as I fell so I hit the corner hard with my back. Morgan stood in front of me for a moment, and I seemed to notice movement behind the bright red maple leaf on his trunks. But then he unloaded two huge rights and a left onto my chin, snapping my head back in time with the blows. My jaw felt like it was going to shatter and my knees weakened as Morgan hit me two, three times more again.
Aaron was looking at me now, from the position he had taken up a few feet away. Somehow I choked some air back into my lungs and said: "Aaron -- for fuck's sake. Help me!"
But there was something different about him -- for the first time I had ever seen, there seemed to be fear in his eyes. He had stopped bleeding but his body was badly marked from the earlier beating and he just shook his head. The crowd went silent with anticipation.
Morgan seemed to understand what was happening and he laughed. With one powerful swoop, like an executioner's axe coming down, he grabbed Aaron by the back of the head and rolled him over the top rope into the ring. I didn't yet understand what was happening but Morgan then approached me, hanging limply in the corner, and put me into a full nelson.
He turned me toward Aaron and in a thick Canadian accent said: "Go on kid. Go to town."
Six.
I couldn't believe what was happening, and in front of me Aaron paused, confused. Then in an instant Guillot was behind Aaron and had clamped on an identical full nelson, both taller opponents punishing us fiercely with their leverage.
With a heavy French-Canadian twang Guillot said: "Do it, boy. Do it or you'll get worse." Then he released him.
Aaron dropped to the canvas and looked up at me, his face a mask of fear. Another moment passed and Guillot kicked him hard in the ribs. "Do it!" yelled the Canadian. "Hit your friend or I'll break every bone in your fucking body!"
I watched as Aaron's face passed from pain to confusion to anger, and then to hatred. It was the same look I had seen after I won the Cruiserweight Title; the same look whenever I executed a move that gained the approval of the crowd. Aaron slowly got to his feet and approached me as Todd Morgan tightened his grip. When Aaron was standing lees than one foot away from me, he fixed his gaze onto mine and then spat in my face. The audience went wild.
The next thing I knew Aaron was beating me in my stomach, lefts and rights, then lifting his blows so they fell on my chest. At first I was too startled to react, but in seconds I was yelling in pain.
"No!" I cried, "No, Aaron! Don't! Please!"
But at the sound of my voice Aaron seemed to get more viscious. After fifteen or twenty blows to my gut and chest he aimed for my face, but by now he was almost delerious, and Morgan seemed to think there was a risk the boy would miss and hit him.
The darker Canadian released me and I fell like a ton of bricks to the canvas, surrounded by three pairs of boots. The ref was dancing around us like a crazed secretary bird, and from my obscured vantage point I can only assume Guillot pushed him hard to the other side of the ring. I saw the ref stumble over and then, with a look of fear similar to the one I had just seen on Aaron's face, he slithered out of the ring like a snake and ran toward the locker rooms.
The bell rang to end the match but it was useless -- I was alone with the two Canadians and my treacherous partner. The two big men each took an arm and dragged me, stomach down, to centre of the ring. But instead of dropping me they both started to twist, and I screamed with pain. Aaron walked around in front of me, picked my head up by the hair and started landing blows to my forehead as the other two stretched and twisted. My head snapped back and forth until finally they dropped me. By that time I could do nothing on the canvas, not even roll over. So I lay face down as Morgan crouched on top of my back, knees pinning my upper arms and used his grip on my hair to pound my face repeatedly into the mat. The attacks on my head had shaken my brain and I began to lose track of time, but I was distantly aware of Guillot leaving the ring and wresting my Cruiserweight belt from its place on the time-keeper's table. Back into the ring he came with it and Morgan shifted his pin on me into a camel clutch. Again Aaron held my head up by the hair as Guillot gripped the gold metal belt where I could see it. He smashed it hard into my face.
I felt my nose crack and a bright red slash of blood ran down my neck and collar bone, onto the canvas. Aaron seemed to particularly like this, and Guillot allowed him to take the belt and continue the assault on my nose, forehead and cheekbones. As the little shit laid into me with increasing violence, I could see the dick getting harder and harder in his yellow trunks.
The camel clutch was unbelievably painful and the beating on my head was leading me quickly toward unconsciousness. Had there been any ref, any point, I would have pleaded for a submission. But there was no hope so I resisted begging and just whimpered with the pain of the beating. One eye had bruised shut already and out of the other one I could see Guillot sliding back into the ring with a metal chair.
Seven.
I lay in Morgan's hold, waiting for the blow with the chair. But just as I was sure it was coming, there was a flash of something in front of my eyes and the chair bounced off the apron and out of the ring in front of me. In the next instant Guillot followed it over the top rope, and then Morgan released the camel clutch.
I dropped to the canvas and looked up, with no idea what to expect. The first thing I saw was a flash of yellow and white, and then a violent kick with a trace of blue at the end of it. It was Kyle Lanai from the Tuesday audition.
The big martial arts kick connected with Aaron's chin and he was thrown across the ring, coming to rest hard against the turnbuckles. His head bounced back and forth and another vessel opened in his nose, dumping blood all over him. I could tell from the angle of his neck that he had passed out.
Morgan was just getting to his feet after the blow that made him release me, but Kyle was waiting for him, landing a chop across the throat that laid him flat on his back. Guillot was getting back into the ring now, mad as hell, but before he could climb through the ropes Kyle had turned Morgan into a human missile, head-butting the blond Canadian back onto the ground.
Morgan came to rest on the second rope, arms hanging outside the ring. I was still too dazed to stand but I saw Kyle pick Morgan up by the feet and flip him over towards the audience, so his neck was tied in the top and second ropes like a wound up rubber band. He hung there like a rag doll, with his arms also pinned, and the move genuinely looked like it could strangle him.
Morgan began to panic and flail his legs wildly, trying to take the pressure off his neck. Guillot was still on the mats outside the ring, rubbing his head. With an incredible lucha libre move I had only ever seen on television, Kyle launched himself over the top rope and connected his fists with Guillot's head.
I had managed to haul myself to my feet now and supported myself on the top rope, just next to the spasming Todd Morgan. His red complexion had now taken over his whole face and upper body, and flecks of spittle were flying out of his mouth as he rasped like an asthmatic. Guillot was laid out below me, both hands clutching his forehaed and leaving his magnificent body exposed.
Kyle was recovering from his high-risk move, dragging himself up by the railing. While he got to his feet I summoned the last of my energy, aimed for Guillot's exposed `outy' and dropped a hard elbow into the middle of his gut. I enjoyed feeling his strong ab muscles go liquid under the blow, and as I hauled myself back to my feet I planted a knee into his cock for good measure.
The whole arena was in pandemonium now, and as I got up I could see CCW officials helping Morgan out of the ropes. Released, he dropped like a sack of beans not far from Guillot, barely conscious.
Kyle was on his feet now and Guillot was sitting up, clutching his belly and crotch in pain. Kyle landed a kick to the back of the Canadian's neck that I thought was going to take his head off, and it was a tribute to the big blond's flexibility that he managed to smack his head on the ground between his knees before snapping backwards and lying there on his back, out cold.
All the lights in the stadium were up and I had to support myself by leaning on the ring apron. Officials were swarming everywhere and I saw Kyle approach me with my title belt. He hooked one arm around his shoulder and helped raise my other arm in victory, at which the crowd cheered with a thousand voices.
"C'mon," he said, "let's get you to the locker room."
Even in my beaten state I was enjoying leaning on him for support, running the flat of my hand against his bare chest and nipple.
"But why," I managed to croak, "why did you help me?"
Kyle grinned. "For the recommendaton you gave me the other day," he said. "I always wanted to be a wrestler. And someone told me you might be looking for a new tag partner."
Irony works best on those who aren't bleeding out of three of the seven holes in their head, so I just smiled weakly at him, and let the muscular teenager walk me back into the locker room.