- Event: Chaos 032
APRIL 12, 2023
MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE
A nip of peaty scotch burns the back of the throat in the most satisfying way, eliciting a deep exhalation perforated by longtime smoker coughing and hacking. A sickly loogie weakly splats the bottom of a heavily used ashtray.
Trophy rooms are a funny thing, ain’t they? You take all your accomplishments, anything tangible, and lock it away in a cramped, musty room in your house, and the only time anyone gets to see it is when you’re feeling depressed and need some cheap heat self-actualization.
Garvin.
The name haunts him to this day.
“Jeff, are you listening to me?”
A man puffs a cigar, slumped back in an uncomfortable leather chair, resting a drink on his well fed belly.
He’s Jeff Garvin’s beleaguered business manager. Also, part-time realtor and part-time drop-shipper. Anything to make a buck, really.
“The Original” Jeff Garvin, once considered the best technical wrestler in the world, has fallen on hard times. He’s bloated, blotchy, and generally in poor shape, looking nothing like his physical peak in the early 2000s.
“What? Yeah, I’m listening,” Jeff replies.
“As I was saying… you need income, Jeff. Money. Not promissory notes or Chinese toy rights or any of that fucking hogwash. Fucking mo-nay.”
Garvin shrugs. “So I’ll do a dealership commercial. Fuck it. Call Toby up. It’s been five years; I’m sure he’s forgiven me by now.”
“Jeff.
“Toby died three years ago.”
“That a fact?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Fuck that bitch.”
“Sure. Okay.”
The former wrestling world champion takes another sip of his drink. “Well, what did you have in mind, John?”
John sets a leather briefcase on his lap, pops it open, and rummages around inside. A few creased, coffee-stained papers fall out.
Why he still keeps paper files is anyone’s guess. He doesn’t own a phone, save the landline in his bungalow. He’s actually a very shitty business manager.
“Yes, got it,” John says, holding up a printed email. “A certain High Octane Wrestling superstar is apparently in need of a lesson in grappling fundamentals. It pays handsomely. What do you think?”
Jeff Garvin leans back in the nicotine-stained armchair, looking up at the ceiling in his office. He props his feet on the oak coffee table. Rests tented hands on his sizeable beer gut. “What’s his name?”
Teddy picks up a printed JPEG and turns it toward the Tennessee Technician. It shows a man—a massive muscle boulder of a man—flexing in front of some sort of meat processing facility. STRONKUMMS LLC, whatever that is.
“His name… is STRONK.”
“The fuck is a STRONK, John?”
“It’s him. He’s on the come-up and his management has money to burn. They see gaps they want filled as they prepare for some big cage match in May. You can fill them. And make lots of money doing so.”
“Maybe.”
“Plus, we have an opportunity I think you might like.”
“That so?”
“Yes. Do you remember a… Coral Avalon?”
Garvin’s teeth grind together, a physical reaction he cannot control. That’s a name he hasn’t heard in almost twenty years, though it’s also a name he’s never forgotten. His arch nemesis. His forever rival.
With a sigh, he responds, “I wish I didn’t. Why?”
“Because there’s an interpromotional event happening in June. Someone we both know informed me that you have history with Mr. Avalon. History you might want revisited. And you can ask—stipulate—that this STRONK fella challenges him to a match at the event; that is, if his management desires your services. STRONK’s a big, angry sonuvabitch… and he could lay a serious whooping on your old pal, should that interest you at all.”
Jeff scratches his scraggly beard, looks out an adjacent window: his yard hasn’t been mowed in two years, and there’s a broken down pickup truck with its engine removed and discarded parked in the center of it. The landscaping, when he bought the house decades ago, was pristine, immaculate, but has since fallen into disrepair. Much like the rest of his life.
“Well,” Jeff says finally, “I can’t say it doesn’t interest me.”
“Good. Let me get his manager on the horn and work out the specifics.”
“Do it.
“And one final thing… and this is of critical importance… I want to second this STRONK guy when he faces Avalon. I want to watch him push that asshole’s shit in from ringside. Up close and personal. I wanna smell it. I need that. No debate.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” John says, as he rises from his seat, collects his papers and his briefcase, and walks out the door.
Garvin chuckles to himself.
Ain’t life funny?