Read Online New Title 1 by Edward Lee, John Pelan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Edward Lee, John Pelan
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asked over the din. Right now, in the ring, Terri Strong and the Fabulous Ghoula were trading combinations on the mat.
“The rats generally hang by the locker room access for the whole show,” she said, her eyes glued to the ring. “The idea is to catch the eye of a grappler as he’s coming out, then try to snag him later.”
It made sense and, frankly, Straker wasn’t too keen to sit anywhere near the ring. Everytime a wrestler was slapped, drop-kicked, or body-slammed, a rain of sweat sprayed the crowd.
But this current match fascinated him. Two women. “Wow. Lady wrestlers.” Ghoula, obviously the heel, was being tossed around the ring like a sack of packing curls, not an easy feat, he didn’t imagine, because the woman probably weighted 300 pounds. Strong, on the other hand, in spite of a gymnast’s arms, was ravishingly attractive.
“They pepper the cards with some of the bigger name females,” Melinda said. “The fans love to see women fight.”
Strong rode Ghoula across the ring in a headlock, but suddenly the obese woman fell to the mat, sending Strong’s head into the ringpost. And when Strong groggily rose, her face shone with blood.
“Gross,” Straker observed.
“Kill her!” Melinda shouted, her breasts bobbling as she rose to her tip toes. Now Ghoula was biting Terri Strong’s face as she squirmed on the canvas, her muscular legs kicking amid a sound like thunder. Ghoula cracked out an evil chuckle, her blubber jiggling in black tights, her grin pocked by missing teeth. She is the most digusting human being I’ve ever seen, Straker affirmed to himself, but Melinda, as though reading his thoughts, smiled uncharacteristically and said, “How’d you like a roll in the hay with her?”
“No thanks,” Straker said, queasy at the image. I’d sooner put a gun to my head.
Ghoula’s fat visibly tremored as she dragged Strong to her feet, then grasped her head between her palms, pressing, pressing. The effect made it appear as though she was squeezing blood out of Strong’s face. “This is a lot more violent than I thought,” Straker observed, his stomach knotting. “But I guess it’s nothing more than the power of suggestion, you know, the fake blood and all.”
“It’s not fake,” she told him.
“Come on.”
“Strong bladed herself when she had the headlock on Ghoula. Remember, the more blood the bigger the draw.”
Strong had just taken a drop-kick at Ghoula’s head, the larger woman ducked under the kick and using her shoulder heaved her opponent over the top rope to the floor. The crowd was really into it, with a chant of “You fucked up! You fucked up!” being shouted at the prone girl who was being further humiliated by a rain of popcorn, candy wrappers, and other soft-drink cups as she groggily got to her feet.
“This is a real hard-core crowd here, she missed her move, she was supposed to catch the top rope and pull herself back into the ring while Ghoula had her back turned. These fans are pretty unforgiving when someone screws up.”
“So the blood was a ‘work’ but falling on the floor was an accident?”
“You’re catching on, Captain.”
Straker didn’t know if he believed it, but one thing he did believe was there were some great-looking women around the entrance aisle. All around them, and on the other side of the railed aisle, ringrats congregated as a shrieking mass: tackily dressed, painted up with more makeup than a French whore, but beautiful nonetheless. “This is incredible,” Straker went on. “These women aren’t dogs—they’re gorgeous. What the hell do they see in a bunch of goddamn wrestlers?”
“It’s a sexual psychology, Captain. Why is it okay for men to lust, but not women? It’s the Blonde Bimbo Syndrome in reverse. Ringrats are simply playing a fantasy role. You don’t see any kids here; rats aren’t like teeny-bopper rock star groupies. They’re adult women who’ve grown disgusted with the sexual exploitation of
“The rats generally hang by the locker room access for the whole show,” she said, her eyes glued to the ring. “The idea is to catch the eye of a grappler as he’s coming out, then try to snag him later.”
It made sense and, frankly, Straker wasn’t too keen to sit anywhere near the ring. Everytime a wrestler was slapped, drop-kicked, or body-slammed, a rain of sweat sprayed the crowd.
But this current match fascinated him. Two women. “Wow. Lady wrestlers.” Ghoula, obviously the heel, was being tossed around the ring like a sack of packing curls, not an easy feat, he didn’t imagine, because the woman probably weighted 300 pounds. Strong, on the other hand, in spite of a gymnast’s arms, was ravishingly attractive.
“They pepper the cards with some of the bigger name females,” Melinda said. “The fans love to see women fight.”
Strong rode Ghoula across the ring in a headlock, but suddenly the obese woman fell to the mat, sending Strong’s head into the ringpost. And when Strong groggily rose, her face shone with blood.
“Gross,” Straker observed.
“Kill her!” Melinda shouted, her breasts bobbling as she rose to her tip toes. Now Ghoula was biting Terri Strong’s face as she squirmed on the canvas, her muscular legs kicking amid a sound like thunder. Ghoula cracked out an evil chuckle, her blubber jiggling in black tights, her grin pocked by missing teeth. She is the most digusting human being I’ve ever seen, Straker affirmed to himself, but Melinda, as though reading his thoughts, smiled uncharacteristically and said, “How’d you like a roll in the hay with her?”
“No thanks,” Straker said, queasy at the image. I’d sooner put a gun to my head.
Ghoula’s fat visibly tremored as she dragged Strong to her feet, then grasped her head between her palms, pressing, pressing. The effect made it appear as though she was squeezing blood out of Strong’s face. “This is a lot more violent than I thought,” Straker observed, his stomach knotting. “But I guess it’s nothing more than the power of suggestion, you know, the fake blood and all.”
“It’s not fake,” she told him.
“Come on.”
“Strong bladed herself when she had the headlock on Ghoula. Remember, the more blood the bigger the draw.”
Strong had just taken a drop-kick at Ghoula’s head, the larger woman ducked under the kick and using her shoulder heaved her opponent over the top rope to the floor. The crowd was really into it, with a chant of “You fucked up! You fucked up!” being shouted at the prone girl who was being further humiliated by a rain of popcorn, candy wrappers, and other soft-drink cups as she groggily got to her feet.
“This is a real hard-core crowd here, she missed her move, she was supposed to catch the top rope and pull herself back into the ring while Ghoula had her back turned. These fans are pretty unforgiving when someone screws up.”
“So the blood was a ‘work’ but falling on the floor was an accident?”
“You’re catching on, Captain.”
Straker didn’t know if he believed it, but one thing he did believe was there were some great-looking women around the entrance aisle. All around them, and on the other side of the railed aisle, ringrats congregated as a shrieking mass: tackily dressed, painted up with more makeup than a French whore, but beautiful nonetheless. “This is incredible,” Straker went on. “These women aren’t dogs—they’re gorgeous. What the hell do they see in a bunch of goddamn wrestlers?”
“It’s a sexual psychology, Captain. Why is it okay for men to lust, but not women? It’s the Blonde Bimbo Syndrome in reverse. Ringrats are simply playing a fantasy role. You don’t see any kids here; rats aren’t like teeny-bopper rock star groupies. They’re adult women who’ve grown disgusted with the sexual exploitation of
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