Body Slammed! (16 page)

After a commercial break, Jesse turned up the volume as Dan Greenberg introduced the next bout. TJ Masters came out first, to almost no reaction from the crowd. Chris Choate, on the other hand, received a decent pop.

The match started with a standard, collar-and-elbow tie-up. Choate followed that up with a side headlock. Then he flung TJ to the ropes and connected with a solid, flying shoulder block when TJ sprang back. Choate picked up TJ by his hair, rammed him against the turnbuckles and hammered him with forearm smashes to the face.

The fans began filing out of the auditorium. As far as they were concerned, this was a bathroom-break match. They weren't interested in watching a jobber getting squashed.

Choate went for a big boot to the face, but TJ ducked and Choate got his leg caught between the corner ropes. TJ took advantage of the situation and hit him with a series of right hands. He dragged Choate away from the corner and dropped him with a Russian legsweep, then a pump handle slam.

The people in the aisles stopped to watch, and a mild “TJ” chant broke out.

TJ climbed the ropes, pointed to the crowd and smiled. He leaped off the top turnbuckle, flipped himself in the air and landed on top of Chris Choate. He hooked a leg and the referee counted to three. The surprised crowd leaped to its feet, cheering and clapping at TJ's upset win.

Though Jesse knew what the outcome of the match would be, chills still ran down his arms as he watched TJ bask in the glory of his first victory on
Monday Night Mayhem.

“Did you see that, Güelo?” Jesse asked excitedly, but his grandfather had fallen asleep.

The third match featured Black Mamba, who was defending his Iron Fist championship against “Lone Wolf” Luke Mauldin. The match ended in a disqualification when the referee caught Mauldin using brass knuckles to knock out Mamba.

The show went to a commercial break.

When it returned, the Angel of Death's spectral music sounded, and dark-blue lights blanketed the arena. Columns of flames shot up on each side of the stage entrance, and a cloud of smoke billowed out. Amid a chorus of boos, the Angel of Death appeared. He sauntered quietly down the aisle.

Jesse nudged his grandfather awake. “Look, Güelo. Dad's on TV.” He hoped Wally was watching.

The Angel of Death climbed through the ropes and stood in the center of the ring, holding his scythe in one hand and a microphone in the other. Speaking in a gravelly, robotic voice, he cut his last promo as the Angel of Death:

The darkness, which the Angel of Death once embraced,

has forsaken its most loyal minion.

Deprived him of triumphs, has besmirched his name,

has cast him from its dominion.

With the gates of the Netherworld now shut,

where shall this tormented soul retreat?

Alas, where shall he find solace

to lick his wounds of defeat?

Fate, cloaked in shadows, thy vanquished son beseeches thee.

Restore thy servant to what once he was,

that he may savor victory.

“Pretty good, huh?” Jesse's grandfather said, smiling.

Jesse had always thought that the Angel of Death's poetic dialogue was hokey and silly. His father, on the other hand, took his work seriously. On numerous occasions, Jesse had heard him yelling at his laptop whenever he struggled to write his promos.

The sound technician in the arena played a recording of “O Fortuna,” a religious choral piece, and a white, almost blinding, light radiated from the stage entrance. The orchestral music built slowly, with kettledrums, cymbals and gongs marking the tempo. A chorus sang, almost in a whisper. Gradually, the sound increased, louder and louder.

The Angel of Death turned toward the light and said:

Is this the sign, O Fate, which thou dost send?

Is this what thou givest mine soul to mend?

The Light, which the Angel of Death once shunned,

now beckons the Netherworld's abandoned son.

As the musical piece reached its climax, the Angel of Death finished his promo.

If Darkness has renounced him heretofore,

then the Angel of Death shall be no more.

With that, he removed his hooded cloak and dropped it and his scythe on the mat. He exited the ring and walked toward the light, disappearing in its white glow.

Immediately, Jesse's phone rang. When he answered it, Goose asked, “What happened, man? Did your dad just announce his retirement?”

“No. He's been given a new gimmick,” Jesse told him. “From now on, my father will be known as a preacher called Elijah Nightshade.”

“Are you serious?” Goose said, nearly speechless. “What about the Angel of Death?”

“I don't know,” Jesse said. “I guess you might say he saw the light.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

T
he next day, Jesse was bombarded with questions from kids wanting an explanation for what they had witnessed on
Monday Night Mayhem
. Even Dr. Ríos pulled him out of class to ask him what his father had meant when he said that the Angel of Death was no more. Dr. Ríos wanted to know the significance of the white light and in which direction the ACW was taking the Angel of Death character. Out of respect for the wrestling industry, Jesse kept his answers brief and sketchy. Except for Wendell, Goose and Bucky, he seldom revealed backstage information to others.

During lunch, Jesse sat with the guys, glad that they were friends again. He filled them in on the plans the ACW had for his father.

“What idiot came up with that idea?” Goose asked. “If I wanna hear a preacher, I'll go to church.”

Wendell shook his head. “Man, the ACW has ruined the best character they ever had.”

“Yeah, they ruined the best character they ever had,” Bucky said.

Goose took a bite of his ham and cheese sandwich. Through a mouthful of food, he told Jesse, “I noticed that your friend, The Jobber, finally won a match.”

“Yeah, TJ's being given a minor push,” Jesse said. He wanted to say something sarcastic to Goose for calling TJ a jobber, but after his blowup in the locker room, he held back.

“I've got to give TJ Masters his props, though,” Wendell said. “He may be a jobber, but that shooting star press was awesome.”

Goose washed down his food with a drink from his grape juice carton.
“
I guess we won't be able to call Masters ‘The Jobber' anymore. We'll have to come up with something else that starts with a T and a J.”

“How about just calling him TJ?” Jesse asked. “That's his name.”

While they were talking, Wally walked up to their table. “Hello, boys. Mind if I join you?”

The guys stared at Jesse. It was his call.

“Have a seat.” Jesse removed his windbreaker from the chair next to him. When Wally opened her Tupperware container, he said, “I'm not even going to ask what you're eating.”

“That's good,” Wally said. “It's best if you don't know.” She turned to the guys. “I'm Wally Morúa.”

“Yeah, we know,” Goose said. “Jesse told us all about you. You're the chick who stole his dog.”

“I didn't steal his dog,” Wally said. “Samson was a gift from Jesse.” She turned to him. “Isn't that right?”

“Yeah,” Jesse said, glaring at the guys. “I told you that.”

“Is it true that you have a parrot that can say the Pledge of Allegiance?” Bucky asked.

Wally stirred the beef stew in her container. “No, I have a parrot that can whistle ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.' But I'm sure Orpheus could learn the Pledge of Allegiance if he wanted to.”

“How did you teach your bird to whistle ‘The Star-Spangled Banner'?” Wendell asked.

“I didn't. My uncle Daniel did. He was so proud when he became an American citizen that he taught Orpheus the national anthem.” Wally took a sip from her plastic bottle. “I inherited Orpheus from him when he moved to Colorado.” Changing the subject, she said, “Hey, Jessup, you've got to tell me about what happened with the Angel of Death last night.”

“Sorry, but that's privileged information,” Goose said smugly.

“No, it's not,” Jesse said. He explained to Wally the reason behind his father's transformation.

“That had to be the sweetest promo the Angel of Death has ever cut,” Wally said. “Does your dad write his own material?”

“Yeah,” Jesse said. “He's one of the few wrestlers Frank Collins, the promoter, trusts to do it. Almost all the other wrestlers have their lines written out for them.”

“I'm going to miss the Angel of Death,” Wally said, “but I'll be looking forward to seeing your dad as Elijah Nightshade.”

Goose wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “You know, I've never met a chick who knew so much about wrestling,” he said.

Wally scowled at him. “And I never met anyone who referred to me as a chick.”

“Hey, I just call them as I see them,” Goose said. “You
are
a chick, right? I mean, with that weird haircut, from the back, you sort of look like a dude.”

Wally stood and gathered her Tupperware container and plastic bottle. “You know what? The air at this table has begun to stink. Excuse me, but I think I'll sit somewhere else.”

“Wally, wait!”Jesse grabbed his lunch tray.

“What's with that chick?” Goose asked. “Can't she take a joke?”

“Shut up, Goose!” Jesse said and hurried after her.

Wally sat at a table with a group of girls. One of the girls, Jora Enge, said to her, “I told you, you were wasting your time trying to talk to those jocks. There's not an ounce of gray matter between them.”

“Shh. Here comes one of them now,” Emily Robinet whispered, nodding in Jesse's direction.

He approached their table and said, “I'm really sorry about that, Wally. Goose is a moron. You can't take anything he says seriously.”

“Are you in the habit of hanging out with morons?” Jora asked, defending her friend.

“Probably,” Jesse said, smiling. “But it's a habit I've been trying to break. Mind if I join you?” Without waiting for a response, he placed his lunch tray on the table and sat on a round stool across from Wally.

“Say hi to my friends, Jora and Emily,” Wally said. “And that's Alyssa.” She pointed to a girl with long, red hair, who had her head lowered, almost buried, in her sandwich. Alyssa didn't look up to acknowledge Jesse.

“So anyway, this kid dangles his shirt over a bridge, Nikki grabs it and he pulls her out of the water,” Jora told Emily and Alyssa, finishing the story she had begun sharing before Wally and Jesse arrived.

“Are you talking about that kid from Dallas who saved Nikki Demetrius's life?” Jesse asked.

Jora slapped her friend on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “See, Emily? Even this jock knows about it. The story's been all over the news. I don't know how you could've missed it.”

“I told you, I don't watch a lot of TV,” Emily said.

“My mom knows the kid,” Jesse told them. “He's a student at the school where she teaches.”

“What's your mom doing teaching in Dallas?” Wally asked. Then she caught herself. “Oh. I guess your parents aren't together. Sorry.”

Jesse shrugged. “They're divorced. But hey, life goes on, right?”

“So tell us about the kid who saved Nikki's life,” Jora said. “What was his name? Ronnie something?”

“Rawly,” Jesse said. “Rawly Sánchez.”

The girls gathered closely as Jesse filled them in on the story his mom had shared with him of the student at North Oak Cliff High School in Dallas who had rescued world-famous fashion model Nikki Demetrius from drowning after she had driven her car into Winnetka Creek. Even Alyssa stopped eating her sandwich and scooted in to listen.

While Jesse was talking, a tall, thin boy came from behind Wally and kissed her on the cheek. “Call me, okay?” he said.

“I will,” Wally replied and kissed the air as the boy walked away.

Jesse felt a sudden stab of anxiety in his gut. “Boyfriend?” he asked warily.

The girls giggled.

“Brandon?” Wally said. “Hardly.” She paused, then asked, “Why? Would it bother you if he was?”

“No, I . . . uh . . . was just wondering if you were seeing anyone right now,” Jesse said.

“Why do you want to know?” Jora asked.

“I think he's hitting on Wally,” Emily said.

“I think he is, too,” Jora agreed.

“No, Jessup. I don't have a boyfriend,” Wally said. “Don't really want one, either. Tell you what, though. If you're interested in the job, I'll take your application. But I'll be honest with you. I'm not hiring right now.”