Chapter III:
You ever have that dream where you're in your underwear in front of your whole school? That's what I felt like when the Bavarian Commie fella in a cheap suit pulled out an anti-Commie leaflet from the pocket of Sully. I am not going to say me and Sully were blood brothers. But he was one of the boys and me and him shared some territories in the last three years or so, so I can tell you that the only politics that Sully gave two shits and a holler about were backstage kind. Sully barely knew the name of the US President and once asked me if Reagan was a Democrat or a Republican. The extent of his understanding of the wider world revolved around him remembering which Korean promotion had an agreement with ours: New Korea or Pan Korea, so he would not piss of the wrong office personnel when he booked his appearances there.
All this I tried to think in a coherent manner as the fellas in the cheap suits and yardbirds in police unis started going ape shit and pointing fingers and hollering at me, Andy and Dan. I threw up both hands and yelled out:
"Go ahead and search me, you won't find that shit on me."
English speaking copper translated some of that to his pals and that quieted them down some, except for the two in the cheap suits, who kept on jabbering and jabbing their fingers at us.
"Will your two companions submit to searches as well, Comrade Ensign?"
When you travel with the boys, you get to know their habits. Some like pills. Some like devil's weed. Some like nose candy. Most like all three. Andy was clean. Dan... was Dan. He surfed for fun and hailed from Hawaii. He was not above carrying weed on him on a long flight to world's end. But the only politics that interested Dan were the kind that got him laid. I once saw him convince a Republican thumper gal he was all for saving babies and the next night he got a feminist in the sack by talking about a woman's right to choose.
"Comrade Ensign?"
"Look, you not gonna find any political crap on any of us. But I don't trust you not to plan nothing on us, no offense. So call the consulate official and him come on down and then you can search us for political stuff, of which you find none."
The English speaking copper did not bother to translate any of that to his jabbering monkey allies, thought for a moment and lowered the tone of his voice so only I could hear him:
"It might take a while for a consulate official to show, Comrade. I would hate for you to be late to the wrestling show. And suppose during the search of you and your companions we would find certain... items not legally allowed to be transported into Germany? I would hate for you to get into trouble over smuggling in some recreational items. Suppose, Comrade Ensign, you would consent to be searched by me right now, and if I were to find no political propaganda, I would search your companions and only look for political items."
"Let me ask the boys."
He nodded. I spoke carny:
"Any of you holding?"
Andy shook his head. Dan shrugged.
"Pills, or...?"
"Or. I didn't trust the locals to have medicine."
Weed it is then.
"Cigarette pack?"
"Sealed, Bee."
It was an old trick. Buy a pack of smokes, open it, put in some joints, reseal the pack in plastic and walk on through the customs. Dan was wearing his red leather jacket. It had more pockets than Monroe had husbands.
"Which pocket?"
"Front left."
"How many?"
"One for every other night on the road. I ain't greedy."
Two week tour. Seven joints. I turned back to the English speaking cop:
"Get a consulate official, please. We'll do a full search with him present, as we have nothing to hide."
The English speaking copper was a confused as Andy and Dan. Call me weird, but I don't go into the habit of trusting policemen, especially from a country where they have no democratic rule of law or jury trials. The English speaking copper gave me a funny old look and translated to the jabbering monkeys. They started quizzing him, not us. I spoke carny while not looking at no one in particular:
"Dan, crack open that pack of cigarettes, light up a regular, then treat these assholes to regular ones as well. Stick one regular cigarette behind your ear and when no one is looking start eating the funny ones."
"Eating them, Bee?"
"Eat them all, Dan. While we wait."
"I done never ate them before, Bee."
"Guess we gonna find out what that's like."
The English speaking copper bade us to stay in our seats. The corpse was removed. The fellas in cheap suits stayed behind, along with the guys in uniforms and Dan treated everyone to some smokes. You should have seen their eyes light up when Dan gave out free American made quality cigarettes. They were so busy puffing, they created a cloud Hitler probably used to slink off from Berlin to the mighty, mighty "Alpine Redoubt," never mind Dan eating seven cigarettes full of marijuana. Andy kept an eye on him, in case he'd have to restrain Dan, but Dan showed no ill effects.
Everyone was so happy, I was even given phone privileges and ran off to make a call to what passed for a promoter in this town: some dipshit theater manager, formerly of Tampa, Florida and currently of Munich, Bavaria. I told him of our situation:
"We'll be late to the show, but can still make the card, minus Sully."
"Sully?"
"Lenny Hudson. He died on the plane."
"Oh my... That's terrible. Is there anything I can do?"
"Depends. Did the babyfaces make it?"
"Babyfaces?"
I hate marks.
"Jimmy, Randy and Tim."
"Tim missed his flight and is coming in later. Jimmy and Randy are here already."
Even better.
"All right. Put Dan and Andy against them."
"Uh, okay. I have you as the fifth match?"
I hate marks.
"How many is that from the top?"
"Uh, Yoshida vs. Kanemura is in the main event..."
Kanemura was greener than grass, but Yoshida could make a broomstick have a decent match. I'd have slotted the match in the middle, just to be safe, but I'm not Rikidōzan. The fat old man wanted his boys in the main event, so he got his boys in the main event... in fucking Munich, Commie Bavaria.
"The match before that is, uh, Los Banditos vs. Fishman and Los Caballeros Durango?"
I did wonder who UWA would send on this tour. Fishman was old as shit. He had a colorful mask and a good body, which got him write-ups and photos in the mark mags, but in the ring, he'd drag everyone down. On the other hand, Mando, Chavo and Hector would make him look good and Caballeros wrestled down to their opponent's level. If those five had their working shoes on and we had to follow them, they could make us look bad. Good to know they were after us.
"The match before that is Beaucoup Betty and Alaskan Allie vs. Molly Mayhew and Lacey Lexi."
Molly could go. Beaucoup Betty was washed up and and didn't know a wristlock from a wristwatch. Allie was fat pile who did monster heel spots against tiny girls and even then not very well. Lexi gave the best blowjobs in the business, per Dan. Her oral skills must have been the reason she was brought on an overseas tour as her in-ring stuff looked phonier than a three dollar bill.
"Before them, I have El Dandy vs. El Hijo del Rojo Demon."
El Dandy was half decent, but Demon Jr. was the drizzling shits.
"Then I was supposed to have your team against Tim and Jimmy."
"Put us on after El Dandy. Dan and Andy vs. Jimmy and Randy. Got it?"
Demon Jr. would stink up the joint, then we would come riding to the rescue. The girls would kill the crowd and the Mexican trios match would get everyone into it again, though it'd be harder for them then for us, on account a singles match between a rookie and a veteran would not last too long, so the stink would not last as long as the girls match. Beaucoup Betty never booked herself in a tag match that went less than twenty minutes. It was one of her many, many horrible traits.
"Okay, Mr. Ensign."
I hung up and returned to the cabin.
Given we were wrestlers, the consulate sent the lowest ranking person not mopping the floors. He hemmed and hawed and looked through the propaganda leaflets and kept wanting to call his superiors. But eventually once he realized we three consented to be searched by the Commie cops in his presence, stood by and watched. Andy and I got down to our skivvies easy. When you're one of the boys, getting dressed and undressed in a room full of strangers comes second nature. But once Dan started taking off his clothes, every stewardess on the plane stopped doing what she was doing to come over to take a gander, and Dan, like a good worker, put on a show them gals will remember to their dying days. Even the fellas in the cheap suits were impressed. They poked through our stuff for a while after that, but couldn't find nothing, because there was nothing to find. I checked my watch and realized that if we were all done in the next fifteen minutes, we could still make the show before opening bell, minus the dead man. Where they stored him I had no idea, so when the consulate official started asking about him, I wanted to kick him in the nuts.
We were officially late to the show once all the forms got filled out and we put our clothes on. We were told to report to some office tomorrow for a follow up discussion, but seeing as how they found nothing on us I figured we got off better than we were. We found the taxi guy waiting for us, four hours late, but by the look on his face he was more or less used to waiting and was promised a pay day regardless. Off we drove.
I did a show in downtown Detroit once, before Sheik killed the territory dead and was still in the process of killing it, and I remember what that drive to that shithole was like up from my hometown of Kingsport, Tennessee. Munich made Detroit looked like a Garden of Eden. Gray concrete slabs pretending to be buildings lined the roads and the only color to be had were from neon signs on some of the roofs spelling out Commie propaganda.
Andy shocked the shit out of me by speaking German to the taxi driver.
After the taxi driver was done speaking, Andy nodded and looked about the place.
"Since when do you speak German?"
"Oh I served up in Dresden when I was in the Army, Bee."
"No shit. Why didn't you say nothing when those yardbirds were screaming at us?"
"One of 'em spoke English, so I thought it was all right. He didn't say nothing wrong either, so I let him."
"What'd you ask the driver?"
"What the signs said. I can speak German a little, but can't read it right."
"What'd it say?"
"'Eisner lived. Eisner lives. Eisner will always live.'"
Made sense. Well, as much sense as Commies ever make. As I told you, I read up on places before I go there so not to offend the locals by accident when I want to offend them on purpose. Right after Germans lost the War, the first one, I mean, Kurt Eisner was the Bavarian socialist who declared independence and got shot by a right-wing nutjob. Funny thing, Eisner was so well liked, even Adolf Hitler attended his funeral, wearing a red armband. Go figure. Where it becomes really funny, all of this happened before the Bavarian Commies decided to double down and declare another independence and proclaim the Bavarian Commie state in 1919. That went over about as well as a gangbang at a family picnic and they got stomped like rats in a water closet. Now, you would think the Bavarian Commies of today would try to call on those full-blown Commies as opposed to only half-a-Commie like Eisner. Except the full-blown-Commies of 1919 Bavarias were nuttier than a squirrel and half of them were anarchists to boot and philosophers and mystics and latter-day Hollywood writers. No, seriously, one of them got a start in Hollywood writing Westerns once the Bavarian Commies got stomped out. So all of these real Bavarian Commies got swept under the rug and Eisner was retro-actively made the founding father of the Bavarian Commie republic, whose spiritual heir today was the German Democratic Republic of Bavaria, founded in 1945 or '55, depending on who you ask.
We drove up to something that looked like what an Ancient Greek would throw up after eating gray concrete. It was the venue. It looked huge.
"Ask him how many does it seat?"
Andy went back and forth with the driver.
"30,000, Bee."
Shit. On the one hand we were in a virgin territory, and nobody toured here before, so they at the very least should have been curious. On the other hand, getting 30,000 people to show up for something they did not see on TV beforehand and had a compelling reason to see some heel get his ass kicked by their designated hero was a mighty tall order.
We tipped the driver five marks (well, South-marks, but that's not what they called it here) and ran into the back.
"You're late. Gonna have to fine you."
The words came from the mouth of a sawed off little runt I done never seen before.
"Who are you?"
"I'm Wally, Larry's brother."
"And who's Larry?"
"The guy running this outfit."
Vaguely I recalled the guy on the phone answered to Larry.
"Well, Wally, Larry's brother, you can't fine us, on account we don't work for you or your brother, you little cocksucker. And if you don't want to find out what it's like to pick up teeth off the ground with broken fingers, I suggest you get the fuck out of my way, find a milk crate to stand on so you can qualify to at least be called a midget and go fuck yourself, which I doubt you can, on account your dick is probably so small it counts as a pussy."
Wally stood there blinking, with his jaw open. The boys all around had themselves a good laugh.
I brushed past Wally and found El Dandy. He was sweat free, a good sign that:
"Your match go on already?"
"Nah. I'm up next, Bee."
"Thank you much. How's the ring and the ropes?"
"Ropes are hemp, so running is easy, but that ring is a piece of shit. They used too much plywood under it. I wouldn't bump on it if I were you."
"Fuck. Thanks, amingo. Who can run a message to the babyface locker room?"
El Dandy looked around and picked out a skinny kid in an ill fitting referee striped T-shirt.
"What's your name, kid?"
"Shoot or work?"
"If you ain't working me the fuck I'd want to know your work name?"
"Oh. Sorry. I'm, uh, new to..."
"Your name, kid."
"I'm Carlos."
"Carlos, run over to the babyface locker room, find Randy. Tell him he's the babyface in peril for the heat, Tennessee Two-Step, hot tag, house afire, they hit a double team finisher for the win. Half hour. Tell him to make up a finisher. Something simple that don't involve a big bump. Got it?"
"I think so, uh..."
"Call me 'Bee,' kid."
The kid nodded and went through the curtain right around the same time "Wildcat" Jones stepped through, covered in a sheen of sweat and cursing. "Wildcat" was here as a representative of a Dakota promotion that was running on fumes, which is too bad, on account he was a good worker, just could never keep his mouth shut around office people.
"Jonesy, how's the house?"
"Looks full, but silent as a church."
"Shit."
"You said it, Bee. Ain't nothing popping them. I wanted to get some juice, but..."
We were all warned against blood. Nobody was to get any juice on themselves while on tour. If you got juice hardway, they'd stop the match. It sounded dumb, but Hell, I wrestled in Maryland and their athletic commission is full of marks with the same rules.
I called Andy over. "Andy, feel 'em out?"
Andy nodded, grabbed his gear and stood by the curtain. El Dandy went through it for his match.
I went to change for the match next to Dan, leaving Andy to it. Andy read crowds better than anyone I ever rode with. Sometimes, we'd step into the ring and Andy would look around and say, "They wanna laugh today." And instead of being mean, brutal heels cutting off the babyfaces and stomping a mudhole in them we'd play Keystone Kops and let the smart babyfaces win the day. Sometimes he'd say, "Babyface gotta earn it." And instead of letting the babyfaces run wild on us early with us cutting them off and beating on them, we'd cut off the babyfaces just as they were starting their run and beat on them until the crowd felt the babyfaces earned the right to kick our asses by enduring an asskicking from us.
Andy came back to us as I was gimmicking up the badminton racket I carried to the ring. The handle was taped up just so that when it I hit a babyface in the ribs with it, it'd fall to pieces in front of the marks and the babyface would crumple to the mat as if shot.
"Bad crowd, Bee. Freebies."
Shit. If you work in the business long enough you gonna find yourself booked by a mark pretending to be a promoter. He'll hire you and a dozen others and make all kind of promises about a payday, book a big venue and then won't be able to draw paying customers to see you perform. So he starts sweating and will giveaway tickets on the dumbass assumption that if people will come and see his shit for free, next time he comes to town, they'll pay for the privilege. Never works. But that's the promoter's side of things. For the workers, it means performing in front of people who not only did not come to see you, but did not even want to see your sport. It was either this or staying out in the rain, so they came inside and hoped like Hell you'd keep their kids occupied for a couple of hours so they wouldn't have to sit with the brats at home.
"Well, boys, we getting paid part of the house by the home office regardless. So lets just have a safe ma..."
Dan interrupted my Patton speech by throwing up all over me and falling down on his ass.
"Bee, I think all that shit I ate just hit me."