Bodyslam

Turn

TW: Blood

"So what are we thinking for the new guy?"

Mitch looks up from his binder at Kevin's question. "We?" he arches a brow. "You're the booker. What are you thinking for the new guy?"

Kevin leans back in his chair and props his feet up on the announce table. "What do you know about his gimmick?"

"Just that Hotwing is a stupid gimmick name. You know my policy," Mitch lies. He knows quite a bit about Snacks' gimmick because the internet is a thing and he officially broke his own policy after Saturday's show. He's not about to let on that he spent a couple hours Googling the guy and watching matches on Youtube.

Kevin just grins at him. "Snacks isn't much better than Hotwing, and if we're gonna talk about creativity in gimmicks, Mitch..." he drawls pointedly. "You're wrapping up with Psycho tomorrow. How do you feel about an angle with Snacks?"

It's not the worst idea he's ever heard.

"Maybe," Mitch pretends like he's thinking it over. "He'll have to keep his ego in check, though. Boy doesn't like being told what to do. You think he's ready to start working with us?" He flips through his binder to Snacks' section and looks over his notes.

"You're the one with the dossier," Kevin replies. "What do you think? Is he ready?"

Is Snacks ready? He can wrestle, judging by the short time they've been in the ring together and by the matches he's seen online. He's already been to both workouts this week and he said he'd be by tonight for the pre-show meeting so he appears to be dedicated. Mitch isn't sure about his attitude, though. He visibly bristles when he's given instruction and if he clenches that jaw of his any tighter he'll break a tooth.

Then again, isn't the attitude part of the fun?

"He's technically sound. If you're happy with him you know I'm happy to work whatever angle you want me to work," Mitch answers after an appropriate time considering the question.

Kevin swings his feet down from the table and lets his chair fall with a thump. He's getting into his arm-waving, hunched-forward position which means he's excited about whatever he's about to say. "So Snacks has this crazy douchebag, obnoxious gimmick. Like a fratboy who doesn't realize he's too old to be a fratboy anymore," he begins, smiling widely, and Mitch nods and pretends like he doesn't already know. "Here's what I'm thinking..."

***

He has a second to brace for impact.

When the flat of a folding metal chair connects with cranium, to the crowd it sounds more like a line-drive shot off a fastpitch with a wooden bat. To the recipient, though, it's more a sharp, cracking thud with an internal high-pitched whine that goes on and on. It's an odd sound, one that really shouldn't exist, and Mitch takes a moment to ponder that as he falls to the mat.

It was a good shot: clean, to the thickest part of his skull but away from his still-stitched cut from the previous week. Of course there's a chance that could open back up but the telltale warm trickle isn't there.

Mitch is messily crumpled face-down with his hands awkwardly pinned beneath him. With his left thumbnail he peels at the tape wrapped around his right hand until he reaches his prize.

He stirs a little as Psycho and the referee, Tim, play tug-o-war with the offending chair; when Psycho gives up and jumps out of the ring to go for another one he makes his move. After ensuring the taped razor blade is positioned correctly in his hand, he moves the exposed edge to his forehead at the hairline and swipes hard once... twice... three- oh, there it is. Probably didn't need that third gig, but there's the blood. He frowns hard as the first drop runs down his nose and drips wetly onto the mat beneath him, quickly followed by another and another and then a thin stream.