The woman I worked last night wrestled in cut-off Wrangler jeans and Carhartt work boots. I think it was a gimmick. I’m still working barefoot and she stepped on my toes about 700 million times. There’s a spot you do in wrestling with bare feet where you pretend to stomp them. This wasn’t that, she was just clumsy.
I think I would have lost a couple toes if I couldn’t heal myself. This experience convinced me to use the last dollars I had to buy some Pro-Keds to wear in the ring. Hopefully I’ll have enough gas to make it to my next show. If I don’t get paid I’m fucked.
One of the only times I’ve gone out to hang with the “boys” was after a show in Burlington. The promoter disappeared and didn’t pay anyone. A wrestler called Pete Thunder invited everyone to a bar his wife worked at to drink for free.
Everyone was complaining about not getting paid while drinking more free booze than they could have bought with the money they were supposed to get. After a while it turned into a kind of game where everyone was saying what they could do to the promoter if they ever saw him again.
I said that I would cut up his body into six pieces put them in garbage bags and dispose of the pieces in a Pennsylvania mineshaft. That was the end of the game. After that nobody would talk to me except an old dude with bleach-blonde hair that looked like he belonged in the 1980s wrestling scene. I asked him what I said that was wrong.
He told me that when someone says they’re going to rip off someone’s head everyone knows they’re joking. What I said was too specific. I said it like I was really going to do it.
I didn’t understand the rules of the game I guess. Later he asked me if I wanted to do a line of coke off his dick. Talking to people is hard.