knuckle society 2

2. Freeko

Freeko remained constantly in motion, trying to keep Lemonhead from cornering him and bitching about his shitty life. He’d all ready heard Lemonhead ask Blood Clot Boy if he wanted to move in, share the rent. He neglected to mention the room mate he currently shared the house with, the one who refused to pay rent or wash dishes or match dope; who couldn’t even be bothered to throw away his empty cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon in the trash or turn off the stove after over-cooking a pot of macaroni and cheese.

The house itself was a dying brontosaurus bogged down in a land teeming with veloceraptors. Every angle sagged, every stench represented in the house’s filthy innards. The gutters hadn’t been cleaned since the Jurassic period. Funky green mold coated the vinyl siding. Freeko stayed outside as much as possible.

The afternoon’s turn-out pleased him. Most everyone was accounted for. Even Duct Tape Boy straggled in on time. Usually there were a handful of jobbers who couldn’t pry themselves away from the couch and the Scooby Doo cartoons on the tv, yet still wanted to be considered Jugheads, DTB being the most notorious absentee.

A sizeable crowd of the XJW faithful, mostly neighborhood kids, looking for a dose of controlled chaos, had begun filling the yard of the abandoned house next door.

Freeko busied himself supervising pre-event rituals. He helped Jack Doobie situate "the ring" made up of eight salvaged mattresses. Duct Tape Boy, ever cautious, used a whisk broom to sweep away the tacks and fragments of broken glass embedded in the mattresses from last week’s main event.

He discussed camera positioning with Coal Train and wrasslin commentator Marvelous Mark Mukowski. He moved on to the CD player set up next to the commentator’s couch. All the Screaming Shits CDs were accounted for (almost everyone’s entrance music was taken from this seminal band with the exception of the two Mexicans, Mad Man Mondo and The Bean aka The Spaniard aka The Venezuelan Goat Fucker, whose preference for disposable hip hop changed weekly).

From there Freeko inventoried the XJW checklist of pain: several sheets of scrap plywood, two dozen long fluorescent light bulbs. Two boxes of hundred count thumb tacks, one eight foot ladder in acceptable working condition, two slightly dented folding chairs - PROPERTY OF ST CASIMIR CHURCH stenciled on the back, lighter fluid, an ironing board, a baseball bat, a roll of barb wire and three shiny new aluminum trash cans with lids freshly stolen from the alley behind the Modjeski residence.

All the while, Lemonhead stood on the fringes of his own yard waiting for an opportunity to speak privately with the president and co-founder of Xtreme Jughead Wrasslin. He readied his approach, but the sudden appearance of Da Jew at Freeko’s side gave him pause. Da Jew was especially ruthless in his opinions concerning Lemonhead.

"Whatcha figure we start off with?" Da Jew asked.

Freeko shrugged. "We’ll get Street Pharmacist in first before he gets too stoned to wrassle. Last time he almost broke Terrorist’s neck with his fuckin powerbomb."

"Powerbong. He’s calls it the ‘powerbong’."

"Hell, I call my cock ‘Clarence’. Doesn’t mean everyone else gots to."

"So who we gonna get to wrassle him?"

"Get Terrorist again. Come up with something to spice it up."

"I’ll think of something. I was gonna ask you; wanna go halfsies on an ounce while Street’s holding?"

"Just as long as it ain’t that ditch weed he’s been passing off lately. I’d just as soon huff gasoline then try to get off on that shit."

What Freeko wanted even more than a half-stake in a bag of Mexican ball hair was for Da Jew to stick around a bit longer, keep Lemonhead at bay, but he was all ready off, searching for Freeko’s brother.

His disappointment with Da Jew’s departure was alleviated in part by the arrival of Lemonhead’s woman, Frankenskank. She could pat Lemonhead’s hand, tell him everything was going to be sunshine and unicorns. Seeing her cat-walking her scrawny, angular body through the side yard reminded Freeko of the metal compass he had in grade school, the sort you used to draw perfect circles but possessing no educational purpose other than stabbing the kid seated in front of you.

Freeko’s relief was short-lived. With everyone’s attention diverted by Frankenskank’s spindly-legged approach, Lemonhead made his move.

"Hey, Freeko, can I have a word with you?"

"What you want, bitch?"

"Damn, man, no reason to snap off like that," Lemonhead sulked. "I just wanted to ask about some X-Jay-Dub business."

Freeko exhaled through his crooked nose. Every other XJW member wore Screaming Shits shirts emblazoned with the Samurai Dude insignia. Even the Mexicans. Even All American Scrub who’d yet to experience the joys of chronic employment managed a few Screaming Shits shirts and quite a number of Screaming Shits tattoos. Lemonhead wore purple sweatpants and a plain gray t-shirt. No Samurai Dude silhouette. No pictures of the Screaming Shits vocal duo Marrow Sucker and Toe Cutter. No sign of any other bands from the Shit Storm Gang on the Shitzophrenia record label. Not even a fucking Nike symbol.

"I ain’t snapping off, bitch," Freeko snapped off. "I call all my homey’s ‘bitches’. So what’s up? I heard about you getting shit-canned today."

"Yeah, this dumb cunt at work -."

"I said I heard all ready."

"Oh. Well... ok... uhm... I wanted to ask you when it’s gonna be my turn to get a belt. Everyone except me’s had one at some time it seems like."

Ah, fucking hell, he should’ve known. Ever since Scrub stole his cousin’s credit cards and mail ordered those plastic WWE souvenir belts to the empty house next door, that’s all Freeko’s heard about. When do I get a belt? When do I get a belt?

"Duct Tape Boy’s never won a belt. Neither has Coal Train."

Lemonhead wrinkled his nose real cutesy-like. "Duct Tape Boy misses half the events. And Coal Train’s black. I don’t see why I can’t have one of the belts. I let you guys put on these shows in my yard. You know? Hell, that’s my couch and boombox over there getting ashed on by Triple M’s Winstons. When Da Jew’s mom kicked you guys out for putting a hole in the garage with your skull, who helped you guys out? I did."

What Freeko thought was: Fuck you, Lemonhead. You’ve got no skills. You won’t even let Jack Doobie light you on fire. You bitch almost constantly... almost as much as DTB bitches, but at least he can perform the swantan bomb from the top of the garage. Your entire wrestling persona is based on the shape of your fucking cranium.

What Freeko said was: "Fuck you, Lemonhead. You didn’t even have a girlfriend before XJW came along. You want a shot at the belt? You’re gonna hafta earn the motherfucker. I’ll make tonight’s match for the Guadalajara belt a three way match. You want the belt, you’ll hafta beat Mad Man Mondo and The Bean to get it. Bitch."