Читать книгу Deadly Burial - Jon Richter - Страница 10

Excerpt II: The End Of The End

Ten years ago it was 1998, and the Monday Night Wars were really heating up. The biggest two wrestling companies in the world were directly competing for TV ratings – it was a real boom period for our business, and stars like Stone Cold Steve Austin and The Rock were becoming household names. Both companies were resorting to more and more controversial storylines to try to win the ratings battle, and the kid-friendly, all-American, comic-book product of the eighties had been replaced with something darker and more adult.

The SWA was always an also-ran, but we’d been gaining a lot of publicity for some of our edgier stuff, and I think Lance was angling for a big money buy-out by one of the big two. We’d had in-ring crucifixions; a story where one of our guys had put another’s mom in the hospital; we even had one wrestler who was supposed to be an insane dentist who was pulling people’s teeth out at the end of every match, with fake blood spraying everywhere. It was getting pretty out of hand. I’d been loyal to the place for over a decade, I’d been their champion twice, but Lance thought my character was getting stale, that people didn’t want a Kiss rip-off any more, that I needed to ‘add more layers’.

I think that got to me the most. The idea that I was outdated, past my prime, no longer relevant. The fact that he also told me I was getting fat and out of shape and that people were laughing at me honestly didn’t really bother me. He was right. I was a fucking mess. I was popping about thirty Vicodin a day by that point. I would run out long before I could get a doctor to write me a new prescription, so I was having to buy them from drug dealers. If I dropped one of them I would get down on my hands and knees and root around for it on the floor. And I was chasing them all with beer, or whiskey, or vodka, so most of the time I was pretty out of it. Some of the other guys had tried to persuade me to go into rehab, but I honestly thought I had it all under control, and Lance couldn’t fuck with me too much because I was still one of his biggest draws, because the others all kept getting poached by the bigger promotions. It was all fairly clear to me at the time. I was in a ton of pain because of my job, so I was taking the pills to help deal with it. The booze was because of my wife stressing me out, or my kids, or my divorce, or my second wife. You see what I mean – it was always some external factor, never my fault, or at least that’s what I believed back then. And anyways, I was special, I was Vic fucking Valiant, and yeah everyone else had to be sober for the show, but there were special rules for people like me, the real stars.

We were doing this stupid story where I’d been paralysed by the Brutaliser, Butch Buzzcut, and I was supposed to get pushed out to the ring in a wheelchair, and do this big speech where I broke down about my deteriorating mental state and how he’d ruined my life and how I was going to recover and make this big comeback and kick his ass. Maybe it was a bit too close to home, or maybe I just didn’t believe in the stupid bullshit story that the writers had cooked up. Vince Russell was the head script writer, and I never did like him, he always had it in for me like I was some big star and he wanted to bring me down a peg or two. That was probably all in my head too, or maybe I was just too fucking wasted to think straight, but anyways I decided I was just going to ruin it all.

It wasn’t planned or anything, I wasn’t thinking days beforehand that I was going to turn up to work stinking drunk and throw my career away. It just sort of happened. Marv and I were in some bar sinking shots about half an hour before showtime. I vaguely remember arriving at the MECCA Arena and Lance screaming at me and making me drink coffee before we went out, like that was going to help. He should never have let me go out there at all. But out I went, wheeled out like an invalid, which I pretty much was at that point. Then they gave me a mic, and I just let rip.

Some star. I finally made myself watch the video, a few months back. Up until then I think I’d always thought there was still something honourable in it, like I was trying to stick it to the man, man. The reality was just this overweight wrestler with his makeup smeared all over his face who was swearing and crying in front of a load of strangers. I told them how hard it was being famous, and how no one cared about the real Vic Valiant, the man under the makeup, and how even though I had tons of money and women my life was oh so hard and my kids didn’t speak to me no more and it was all everybody else’s fault.

When I stood up, even though I was supposed to be crippled, the crowd just started laughing, and throwing beer cans and popcorn and other trash at me, and so I turned on them too. I’d pissed myself by that point and you could see this big stain on the front of my silver tights, and I’m there ranting and calling them all fucking losers and assholes and then I fall back into the wheelchair and it tips over backwards and Chuck, who was supposed to be my assistant pushing me out to ringside, just stands there staring like he doesn’t know what to do. Lance finally sends Butch out there to talk and pretend like it’s all part of the act, that I’m having a breakdown because of the injuries he’s inflicted on me, but I’m still talking and interrupting him even though I’m lying on the floor covered in my own piss. Eventually they cut my mic and I just carried on ranting away regardless, and didn’t move or get up, until they just gave up trying to cover it up and a bunch of the other wrestlers came and dragged me into the back. Suddenly I was having a second wind and kept pulling away from them, and the crowd were lapping it up by this point, egging me on while I tried to run away. Then I got in the ring, dropped my pants and exposed myself. Sure, it was an adult show, but there were kids in that crowd.

Eventually they got me in the back, and Lance fired me on the spot. Then he fired me again the next day when I woke up and didn’t fucking remember it happening.