The Great Dane

Chapter 3

The one thing that Markus Finch, aka Dolberg, the Brexit Bomber, loved about fighting in converted primary schools was that it instantly got him into character as a giant from a fairy tale. With his cumbersome frame, huge hands and muscles, the ceilings felt lower and everything inside seemed like toys. It was as if he'd stepped into a doll's house. The water from the gym showers spraying his chest, he scrubbed off the sweat and blood creating a long cape running into the drains.

He glances at his left hand as he crouches down to let the water run over his head. It had been fifteen months since she'd died and he still couldn't take off the ring. Outside of liking how it looked, leaving it on made her a part of him. Every post-match shower, he went back to her last words. Do what you love. That was Meg Finch's final gift to him. He hated that with every fight, her voice changed and faded. It was the last tangible thing he had left of her and it was now a smudged fingerprint, melting slowly into some other sound lingering in a memory, and in the phone videos he'd saved and stopped watching.

A professional wrestler and entertainer, living the boyhood dream, alone. He'd quit his job as an investigative journalist for a big national newspaper when Meg had got ill. He was there to help her fight back, but the reality was a kind of torture; helplessly watching the sickness strip away everything of her, slowly, in front of him. When she finally passed away, the relief smacked him harder than any stiff punch. Loss' dangerous concoction of guilt, sadness and anger took the wind from him. He couldn't go back to his job afterwards, he just didn't care anymore. He'd been good at it, passionately driven to uncover truth, but now his harsh reality was more than enough.

Grabbing his towel, he dried off, towering over the pegs and benches. He helps Barry, the promoter and headline act - also the man he just put through a car door - take the ring down. Barry puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Thanks for the help Markus, but don't go outside to load the van. Still some nut jobs outside and we should try keep kayfabe."

"Yes, boss. No problem."

"Oh, here's your money. We have one more booking left in this run. My revenge!"

"Oh god yes, let's get our thinking caps on. Want me to do some YouTube promos?"

"Definitely, text me your ideas and I'll do some too.

"Now I have the belt, what more can I take? Wife? Kid? I'm her hero, not you?"

"God, too close to the truth that mate!" Barry laughs.

"If it's my last match and I'm leaving, why don't I try take the promotion?"

"Go on," Barry says, ears pricked up.

"Well, I took your gold, now I'll take over your business. Put you out of work. Very EU in the fans' eyes."

"I fucking love it! Loser leaves town. It's perfect!" They start stacking the ring parts as they come apart, others ferrying them into Barry's white van. "I'll play up that you'll put all the talent out of jobs and bring in your mates or something."

"I'll go real snob and elitist, talk about a purer athletic wrestling. All very PG and regulated."

"Oh yes, then I can get the wife and kid involved. How will I pay for stuff etc. Brilliant." The cogs in Barry's brain begin firing, despite the discomfort of multiple stitches and bruising beginning to take hold on the areas in-between. "Right I'll send you some beats to expand on and when to post. I reckon we can get at least a hundred in for it. I'll see if we can do it in The Grand Hotel's ballroom in Ipswich."

Once the gear was taken down and loaded, the primary school gym returned to normal. Barry thrusts the belt at him.

"Take care of it or it's coming out of your last pay!"