Meteo’kar: Champion of Space II

From the moment he witnessed “Crippling” Ed Diction throw Coconut Swallows into an on-coming car outside Classy Lou’s in Fontana, John always wanted to be a pro wrestler.

One morning, thirty-seven years earlier, Johnny’s Uncle Ronnie decided they would take a little detour to a stripmall rather than to Johnny’s school. When Johnny asked if they were here for a round of bowling or pool supplies, Ronnie laughed and laughed and walked inside Classy Lou’s without another word. And while Johnny appreciated Ronnie leaving the radio on, he still couldn’t help but be a little disappointed that they weren’t here for a new pool skimmer.

Fifteen minutes later, sometime during Steve Perry’s repeated insistence that he is, in fact, still someone’s Steve Perry, Uncle Ronnie stepped back out of Classy Lou’s. At least in the sense that Mr. Diction threw Ronnie by the mustache out the door and onto the asphalt. And as he witnessed some sort of criminal act in progress, Johnny noticed Mr. Diction was a rather large man capable of hurting a man much, much smaller, fatter, and drunker than him with great ease and immense pleasure.

Sometime around his ninth birthday, Johnny thought to ask his mother if she’d heard from Uncle Ronnie recently.

“Who the shit is Uncle Ronnie?” she replied in that way when one really, really wants to know who the absolute shit is Uncle Ronnie.

And now as he stood before the holographic projection of a trio of teeny-headed, large-bellied men in oversized robes, somewhere in the middle of a large arena filled to capacity with a live crowd of thousands and trillions watching illegal streams on the space-internet, John wondered why he was thinking about the man his father allowed to sleep in their driveway on alternative Tuesday and Thursday nights for the better part of two years.

“Who the Hell do you think you are?” the teeny-headed, large-bellied man on the left gurgled.

“I think there’s been some sort of mistake,” John said.

“You’re damn right,” the teeny-headed, large-bellied man on the right jowled, banging his fist on a table that wasn’t there, yet somehow made a noise anyway. “You’ve interfered with forces beyond your comprehension.”

The third teeny-headed, large-bellied man said nothing and fiddled with something in his hands as the other two looked on, waiting.

“Yeah. Okay,” the left one eventually said. “Look. We appreciate our independent contractors taking the initiative and blah-blah-blah, we simply can’t have someone succeeding on their own merits.”

“What Book’urr means,” the right one interjected, “is that, while we love – while the fans–“

The arena roared to life, then immediately silenced.

“What the Hell?” John asked of no one, but, really, would have loved for anyone to reply with even a guess.

The right one continued as if he hadn’t just been interrupted by thousands of Flimflammians and Goozles eerily precise cheering, “love you – we simply can’t afford to abandon our plans now.”

“Plans?” John asked, this time specifically of the very strange men saying very strange things in this very strange place. 

“He knows of the plans!” Book’urr exclaimed, turning to the teeny-headed, large-bellied man on John’s right, but to his left. “Pen-sil, he knows of the plans!”

“Who are you?” Pen-sil demanded.

“Did Phil send you?” Book’urr added, fairly certain it was, in fact, Phil, that sonnovabitch.

“That asshole knows he can’t run shows here.”

“I don’t know who Phil is,” John assured them.

“Well,” Book’urr said, “who the Hell are you then?”

John considered this. “Nobody.”

Pen-cil scoffed. “You dare play games now, Boy?”

“Seriously,” John insisted. “I’m just – just some mediocre nobody who won the World Championship of freakin’ Fountain Valley.”

“Meteo’kar!” Pen-cil bellowed.

“Wait. Who?”

“I don’t care if you are your World’s Champion–“

“Of Fountain Valley,” John repeated. “I feel like it’s very important right now that I emphasize that, again, I am world champion of Fountain Valley – a city known for a bowling alley, a park, and existing. In that order.”

Pen-cil continued as if John hadn’t said a word, “insist on unraveling our handwork willy-nilly–“

“I don’t. Really, I don’t,” John interrupted, yet again. “Also, did you just say, ‘willy-nilly’?”

“Enough!” Book’urr drools. “Nobody uses such language with the Promoters of the Universe!”

Pen-Cil turned to the middle teeny-headed, large-bellied man. “What say you, General Manager?”

The middle teeny-headed, large-bellied man looked up from whatever was more important than whatever this is. “For your transgression, you are to compete one-on-one with,” he dramatically paused, “the Overseller!”

The crowd roared. A man squealed with a bit too much delight. And John stood there even more confused than before, and wishing he’d canceled on Pete at the last minute like he had kinda, sorta wanted to.

“Beseech me, Contestant!” General Manager smiled.

To be continued…

Meteo’kar: Champion of Space

At twelve thirty-five one very early Sunday morning, in a Legion hall somewhere in Fountain Valley, John Joblonski defeated Tony “Two Thumbs” Pulcini via pin-fall in a Trailer Park Trash match for the World’s Championship.

Several moments earlier, somewhere on Earth’s moon, Kur’tahn J’kar defeated Buzz Aldrin via decapitation for the Moon’s Championship.

In a move that was rather obvious to the handful of viewers who could still be assed to tune-in to Sol Championship Wrestling every week, yet completely unexpected by the forty-something man in stretchy pants, Kur’tahn immediately challenged John for what was wrongly assumed to be the actual championship of the world.

Now. This is significant for approximately two reasons.

The first reason, of course, is that, at this point in history, Betty White was Earth’s reigning champion, having defeated Queen Elizabeth II sometime during The Golden Girls’ second season. And as a result of this unbelievably stupid move by Kur’tahn, what we now know as the Great Intergalactic Civil War began.

The other reason is that Kur’tahn, like much of the rest of the galaxy, incorrectly assumed that Earth was the least valuable title on SCW programming. And outside of a few notable runs by the likes of Roddy Piper, Bea Authur, and Me’am Auh’tauk of Moronika, an otherwise long-forgotten nomadic tribe whose line ended somewhere in what is now North America, it’s not too difficult to see why. For as entertaining as White’s run has been, she’s hardly been in a proper storyline for us to give a shit, has she? And why was Oscar Wilde never given a proper run, hm?

But had Kur’tahn or anyone else watched this godforsaken show, like real fans, they would know the reason why Earth’s two championships were originally relegated only to humanity: humanity’s innate genetic ability.

Ironically enough, it should be noted that much of humanity squanders this rare gift of the cosmos writing silly stories and scribbling even sillier pictures of their genitals. And only on rare occasions do the unaware and unsanctioned even make it beyond dark matches.

The second most recent of such encounters, at the time, involved the aforementioned Kur’tahn J’kar and Mr. Aldrin, deceased.

The most recent – and far from the last – involved a man who couldn’t quite as easily be described as an elderly man dead asleep in his bed before being dead on the moon. And to make the whole fiasco even more of a cosmic-level example of utterly insipid booking, John simply assumed Kur’tahn to be yet another drunken mark itching to be a part of the show. So after Kur’tahn struck John, assuming this human to easily fall like the rest, John did what he was always taught to do in these sorts of situations – he punched the other guy’s head clean off.

Now. John only intended to remove Kur’tahn’s head, more or less, in a metaphorical sense. Kur’tahn, however, most definitely intended it in a literal one. So imagine their surprise when the results came out all backwards. As Kur’tahn’s mighty claw struck John’s impressively muscled for his age and level of dedication chest, it shattered like glass on something hard, I suppose. And John, powered by the raw energy of the fifty-two or so mostly paying audience members in attendance, literally severed Kur’tahn’s head from the rest of his body with a single punch.

John looked on at the bloody devastation left in his wake and on his hands, and the children began to cry. A man in the back laughed for a moment, then stopped. And someone briefly considered calling the cops, but figured if it wasn’t part of the show, someone would have said something.

A flash of light cut through the hall, blinding the fifty-two in attendance, the dozen at home, and Doug, the moderator of the Epic Wrestling Entertainment livestream. And when their sight returned, John was gone.

To be continued…