Knuckle Society 4

4. Duct Tape Boy

Duct Tape Boy kicked together the mattresses, trying to cut down the risk of turning an ankle or blowing out a knee. As far as his chances of losing an eye or severing an artery – he could only hope for the best.

The mattresses had been procured from the alleyways of the seedier sections of town. They were all invariably piss-stained, mottled browns like Jughead Rorschachs. The mattress on the far left was saturated with Street Pharmacist’s blood. The barbed wire proved to be a bit more merciless than anticipated. The mattress resembled a prop from the movie Hellraiser 2.

Duct Tape Boy spat, disgusted, not so much with the bodily fluids, but with XJW commentator and occasional battle royale participant, Marvelous Mark Mukowski’s failure once again to announce Duct Tape Boy by his rightful name "Crackersack Jack". Come to think of it, since he switched names two months ago, he’d yet to hear his new moniker from any lips but his own. It was time he confronted Freeko and Da Jew about this shit. The Terrorist aka the Serbian Svenghouli aka Gucci Gucci Goober got to change his fucking name once a week.

DTB stalked across the mattresses giving his approximation of a menacing stare. The assembled neighborhood kids still buzzed with the excitement of bloodshed. Chants of "X-Jay_Dub" occasionally broke out in the crowd, usually led by Da Jew who would point at the quiet kids in the rabble and yell things like "hey you fuckin punks, you better get to chanting or I’ll send you home to your unwed mothers with an ass-beating".

"Hey, Duct Tape Boy," Marvelous Mark Mukowski called from the threadbare couch he shared with guest commentator, Freeko. Coal Train, still swearing the fellas named him after the legendary jazz musician, focused the camera on him. "You got anything to say to the camera about All American Scrub before we begin the Battle of the Jobbers?"

"Who you calling a jobber? At least I ain’t afraid to get out here and wrassle. And as far as All American Scrub goes, I’m gonna kick his fuckin ass. Also, my name’s Crackersack Jack, now. You know this."

Freeko reached over and cued Scrub’s music. The Screaming Shit’s "High School Gun Club". All American Scrub raced out from behind the house, through the gauntlet of kids, giving Scrub high-fives because they didn’t know any better. Scrub slipped off his SS shirt, revealing his tattoos. He was especially proud of the JUGHEAD inked in fancy letters across his bony upper back.

Scrub flexed his eight inch biceps, bugged out his eyes and shook his head as though he were experiencing a massive surge of adrenaline or an epileptic seizure or a Hulk Hogan Saturday Night Main Event flashback.

Duct Tape Boy tried to remember the loose confederation of moves they’d worked out while smoking a bowl before the match. First the clothesline. Scrub would ten deliver a body slam, a standing drop kick and a abbreviated frog splash before DTB would retaliate with a fireman’s carry, dumping Scrub onto the sheet of plywood propped against the chainlink fence.
Scrub picked up a garbage can and caved it in over Duct Tape Boy’s head.

"Fuck!" Duct Tape Boy found himself horizontal, blinking back tears.

He was vaguely aware of the other Jugheads and the rest of the audience chanting "X-Jay-Dub! X-Jay-Dub!"

"Are you okay?" Lemonhead, the acting referee, asked. His sole function consisted of making sure the wrestler hadn’t suffered any spinal injuries following every high risk move.

Duct Tape Boy answered Lemonhead’s question by regaining his feet and catching a clothesline across his throat.

Scrub aped Hogan again, cupping his hand to his ear. Rather than cheers and adoration, he heard Freeko holler at DTB to get up and stop being a pussy.

Scrub kicked Duct Tape Boy three times in the head, mostly to hold his attention as Lemonhead squeezed lighter fluid across the plywood adorned with the blessed marijuana leaf.

DTB thought the second boot to his head might have jarred something loose. He shook his head expecting to hear gears rattle. When Scrub grabbed his chin, lifting DTB to his knees, Duct Tape Boy punched Scrub’s ball sack. Scrub’s eyes bugged out for real and he doubled over, gripping his jewels.

Chants of "Holy Shit!" and "X-Jay-Dub!" rose from the rabble. Nut shots were held in high regard by XJW members provided they were not on the receiving end.

Duct Tape Boy set up the ladder next to the mattresses and ascended to the top. He stood at the apex, arms spread out as though to orchestrate the cheers. He executed his finishing move, the swantan bomb, flawlessly, flying through the air, somersaulting across Scrub’s chest just before the moment of impact.

"Holy Shit! Holy Shit!" Went the crowd.

DTB felt like what he imagined God must feel sitting up in St. Casimir’s steeple, listening to all the old Polish ladies begging and praying for one more year of perogi-eating. Then Scrub smacked him across the face with a folding chair.

Scrub scooped him up on his shoulders. Scrub nodded at Lemonhead. Lemonhead struck a match and flame immediately roiled off the sign. DTB had once singed the eyebrows right off his fucking face igniting a charcoal grill. The plywood inferno looked ten times worse.
"Wait a second, guys, there’s too much –."

Scrub dumped him like 150 lb. sack of shit.

There was the pain of DTB’s spine breaking the plywood, his left hand and forearm raking the garage. Heat encompassed his torso. The flames licking off his Screaming Shits shirt was especially alarming. The shirt set him back twenty bucks! He considered rolling, but where? Tacks and slivers of broken glass littered the yard. He’d have to hop the fence and roll around the neighbor’s patch of grass.

"You’re on fire," Lemonhead said.

Lemonhead stepped back, not wanting to take the chance of catching fire, himself.
Scrub landed on top of Duct Tape Boy with a bone-jarring thud. Jack Doobie, Terrorist, The Bean and Da Jew joined the monkey pile.

"Oh shit, you guys are crushing my liver."

"The fire out?"

"You guys are fucking killing me..."

"Fire’s out."

The Jugheads removed themselves from DTB’s battered, though extinguished body. Duct Tape Boy laid there, watching the tendrils of smokes curling away from his chest. He thought about his couch at home and how nice it would be to sprawl across it, eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and watching Scooby-Doo. There’s no shame in early retirement. The XJW could limp along without the dynamism he brought to the occasional event.

All American Scrub leapt in the air and dropped his leg across Duct Tape Boy’s clavicle, then covered him for a quick three count.

Lemonhead raised Scrub’s hand and pronounced him the winner. Scrub posed down, flexing his bones and skin and tattoos to a smattering of applause.

Lemonhead’s excitement eclipsed Scrub’s joy in actually winning a match. His match for the Guadalajara belt was next. He glanced at the faces of the XJW fans surrounding him. His smile faded.

"Where’s my girlfriend?" Lemonhead asked no one in particular.