Summer versus Cross Recoba

“How did it come to this?”

The words strained over the sounds of generic rock and roll that filled the diner, it matched the aesthetic, for what is was worth. The red leather booths, the counters with swivelling chrome and leather stools at them, the waitress in red gingham dresses all screamed ‘We have no imagination!’ The diner was mostly deserted at this time of night, the patrons at the time segregated into the old, the tourists, and the appropriately ironic. The two men talking fell into none of the above categories but the location was perfect – outside the Strip and central Las Vegas, the suggestion was made to satisfy anonymity, that no-one who knew them would be there, or even caught dead there.

The elder of the two, who had just dropped the question, looked wired when you saw his eyes, the cogs in his brain were almost audible in their movement, his body looking full of nervous energy. He picked up his phone and put it back down as if aware that he was fidgeting.

“You don’t need to know the ins and outs, we do it, we get the result we want, and we get out. No-one needs to be hurt in this…”

The younger man’s words trailed off as his dining partner’s eyes drifted to the pair of leather gloves sat on the table. Their presence brought a pronounced feeling of dread to the older man, the accessory to the words that stated – I haven’t decided when I’ll need to put these on.

“Cross, look, I know I owe you but why me?” the words fell out in a stammer from the older gentleman’s mouth.

Cross smiled, the question had an obvious answer and one that should have been evident.

“Joe, let’s be clear about this – I have any number of other journalists I could come to but they always want to be tipped off, to be reimbursed for their meagre efforts. What you have going for you is pure economic fact….” The words were deadpanned; Cross betrayed no sign of feeling or affection towards the man.

Cross lit up a Lucky Strike and took a deep inhale, as if anticipating it he slipped a note to the scowling waitress who approached the table and waved her off.

“What you have in your favor is a marker to The Sands, that is fact, the marker’s size is one that you, as a local journalist, could pay off if you switched to the Karen Carpenter diet…or if you worked it off. I’m not inhuman in my demands, I won’t ask you to skip meals, that’s plain unhealthy, instead you have the privilege of working off your debt. Tonight’s job will see you halve your debts – doesn’t that appeal to you? Do you really want me to tell you to forget about the job, we’ll just call in your market without warning? Do you know how time-consuming and arduous I find house-calls of that nature? The pretense, the scouting, and the tools you have to carry around?”

Joe’s mouth had become agape with what he was hearing, the words were barely disguised as anything other than a boldfaced threat.

“I really loathe them, Joe, honestly it’s such a ball-ache! Fun fact for you, earlier this year a guy in your situation killed himself over his debts to us…I had to travel out of state for God’s sake! I had to recover the money from his widow, I got a cup of coffee out of it but seriously – no-one asks you back for the Summer party season.”

Joe tried to blank out what he had just heard but was failing.

“Cross, just let me know what I’m getting into…”

Recoba sighed.

“Okay, I’ll give you the quick version but even that isn’t a cup of coffee length version…”

---

Let’s get some facts straight up front – I was crippled, now I walk, like I was touched by a modern day Jesus – only Jesus didn’t save me, medicine did – but what I wasn’t protected from was the sucker punch that Youth used to put me down at Bad Moon Rising. I’ve watched the replays, repeatedly, if you don’t think that he cheated to weasel his way out of my beginning to put Garibaldi’s Guillotine then you clearly need to remember where you left your glasses.

That’s right, it was the beginning, he didn’t escape the hold – if he hadn’t have resorted to the kind of tactic that only a cretin would use then he’d have submitted and right now we’d be talking about me back where I belong – in the Main Event!

Instead, the wonderful people who put these shows together have decided that how they treat PAW royalty is to put them in a match against someone called – Summer?
The actual fuck? Just when you think you’ve seen everything they go and pull a stunt like this that just makes you wonder – are they all drinking the moonshine down in Louisiana? First, they put me at the bottom of the rankings – like what I did before I was put out to pasture doesn’t count anymore, then they decide that having the hottest returnee of the year opening the show is an appropriate place.

I’ve managed to get my head around it though – you see, all madness must have sanity at its heart. They’re looking for a strong opening quarter hour – they know it , you know it – I’m Box Office! I’m the man who spent his convalescence in front of the cameras. You think they didn’t know that making me a weekly attraction was a draw? I’m the guy who puts fear into the hearts of everyone who sees their name opposite mine on the booking sheet, I’m the guy who takes shit and turns it into shinola, and this shit they’ve serve me is nothing short of a redemption story.

Think about it, Summer, isn’t it odd, the placement on the card? Almost like what I’m telling you is fact? You, the walking encyclopaedia, the just happy to be here girl…against The Fox, The Man Worth a Thousand Bullets, Santino “Cross” Recoba – doesn’t make sense without my rationale does it?

Tell me, how many of my matches have you seen? How many did you watch for the first time to prepare or did you just know when you saw that you’d drawn my name for the show? How often do you catch yourself fantasising about just being able to say you touched my leg while I make you scream for the bell in the Guillotine? How many times have you looked in the mirror and asked ‘Is it real? Me, The Arizona Firebird, gets to potentially scalp such a big name in PAW, surely I’m dreaming?

By Friday morning you might wish you were, when the effects of trying step toe-to-toe with me come to the fore. Tell me, have you looked into the Sicilian Typewriter or are you too focused on that glaring weakness of yours that are submissions? Is it the Guillotine you fear or is it that I’ll make you An Offer You Can’t Refuse – you could be the first to be put in that hold, the first to tap, think of the history books, Summer, you know you want to be in them.

---

Recoba’s phone buzzed into life as he took it out of his jacket pocket. He looked down to see it was a WhatsApp message from his boss, Al Costello.



Cross lit up a cigarette in response to the message; he regretted insisting that Costello get with the times and learn how to use technology. A major plus point for Recoba was his ability to convince, that was greatly dampened over text, his influence muted by the ability to truly connect and sell to his audience. He tried to work out when this had happened, this slide in his career but trying to pinpoint it had so far eluded him.

He looked across the room and wondered how he found himself here in a tiny office at the back of a whorehouse in Vegas. The ambiguity implied by his title of VP of Operations & Communications allowing this to be a suitable use of his time. Four days here, one day back at the hotel working his team, for it was his team still in his mind, and then the obligatory board meeting appearance to give the members and investors faith that all was very much rosy at The Sands as far as the nuts, bolts, and headlines went.

He tried to focus on the positives, finding them was proving to be a Herculean task at this moment in time, and reminded himself once more that he was no longer afflicted with the reliance on a cane to get about. That should have been a triumph he could beam about but his current surroundings put paid to any feelings of pride he had in the achievement.

The role he had was ebbing away at his goodwill, his ability to excel when he needed to – his showmanship rotting away in a place where people too overweight or underweight to get laid would part with their money, hard earned or otherwise, for an hour of being told they’re the best, that no-one else made her moan like that.

At first the novel factor had blinded Cross to the severity of his situation, once you’ve been in a place like this one tended to admire the theatrics involved – how Roxy would telegraph a fake orgasm by telling the John – go on baby, send me to heaven. The similarities between wrestling and prostitution had tickled him. Now though it was a monotony of endless purgatory. Recoba turned back to his screen frantically refreshing the dirt-sheet site he’d been on every day since he had returned to PAW to see what was being written about him and his return but every click of the F5 key brought a familiar sense of disappointment when nothing new appeared.

He looked up quickly to the door and saw that Joanna, the hostess, was showing a new mug into the establishment. He looked impressed by the décor and so he should – when a place is used to spray bodily fluids by the clock the work that goes into keeping up appearances should be appreciated. Cross recognised him, or so he thought, but couldn’t put his finger on it – eventually they all wear the same pathetic smile of gratitude for a service that was as transactional as buying a carton of milk.

He heard the door open to the left of his office and felt a little piece of him die when he noted that the John had been shown to Belle’s quarters purely from where the sound registered. He was surprised that she was still working after the morning’s drama.

The most surprising aspect he found about the whorehouse was what the girls would do without question that most normal people would shudder away without a second thought and the odd foibles that made these working girls queasy. This morning they had a visit from a guy the girls called ‘The Creep’. He had a name, but it says something when you can make nightwalkers collectively give you the name they had bestowed on him. He was polite, he was good looking in that odd European way, he even tipped but still the name stayed. His crime was that in a land where double penetration was met with the same kind of enthusiasm as the Average Joe would meet overtime pay he had a particular fetish.

When Recoba had first heard what it was he couldn’t stop himself from laughing, he laughed past the point where it was polite but no matter what he did to stop himself the idea of it being the – freakiest shit ever – kept the laughs coming. He would enter the room, ask the girl to take off her top and bra and then jerk off onto their tits – how in the world was that freaky? Apparently, the freaky shit started then as he would insist on licking the girls clean. No matter the girl they found it messed up and no-one appreciated Recoba telling them that it was the easiest money they’d make and they’d save on showers and wet wipes.

Recoba’s daydreaming was interrupted by shouting in Belle’s room, clearly from her. Recoba got to his feet and opened the office door.

“Cross, I got this – it’s the third time this week!” Joanna waved him off and Recoba wasn’t going to fight her – he’d pretty much settled in on clockwatching for this gig. Joanna was a former working girl herself, one who’d done so long before coming to Vegas where things – in theory – were more civilized in the trade. She also had one up on him – he never came to work armed, the threat of his presence tended to dissuade too much hassle and he only ever need make one appearance for the message to ring through.

The shouting continued, this time from all three parties. The words were muffled through no-one waiting for a gap in sound to make their point. The door quickly slammed shut and Recoba caught the back of the guy’s head as they rushed through the door back to normality.

Joanna bustled back to her station, her eyes refusing to meet Cross’.

“The fuck, Jo?”

His words fell on deaf ears, he wandered to the still open door and saw the carnage that the commotion had been about. Belle, normally well put together, had a clump of hair in her hands, her face buried down into her arms. Recoba got the feeling that he might have to do some work.

“Belle…”

He waited for a response but received only sobs.

“Belle, tell me what happened – I can’t do a thing until I know what went on…”

The sobs continued but she slowly raised her head, Recoba readied himself for what he was about to see but whatever he had anticipated didn’t match the sight of a woman with a very evident broken nose.

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In case you can’t tell, Summer, I’m seeing you as a mild annoyance, you rank somewhere between Vinyl being cancelled and the fact that I’m next to two mime artists on the PAW roster page. I get that you can fly around the ring, that you can end me with a kick straight out of a 16-bit U.S. air force base. I realise that you’ve been in the business nearly half of your life, that you eat, sleep, and shit wrestling but let’s be honest about this – you’re giving up seven inches in height, over a hundred pounds in weight, and this means that you’re well out of your depth with this one.

I’ll remind you of my modus operandi in the ring – work out their strengths, in your case it’s the ability to be a mosquito darting across the ring – annoying buzzing noises included, then make a plan to counteract these strengths, in this case – clip your wings through getting your legs and repeatedly wearing down your knee.

The real losers here are the fans – after all, no Million Lira dropkick to be found here, no need for it. What they’re going to see is me breaking you down move by move. What they’re going to witness is me picking you up and dropping you on your head. What they’ll remember is that two minute period when they really believed you could do it, you could beat Recoba.

That’s what I’ll cherish, the idiotic thought that I’m on the slide, that a hobbled Recoba is a maimed Recoba. You think what Press and Youth did was easy? Neither one of them would do it again – they make up the entire list of ‘People who have beaten me since 2015’. They also have the honor of being on my list of people I need to see shortly.

I’ll leave you with some advice, savor my entrance, give it your best shot, and remember that you’ll be joining a list with illustrious names that thought they could step into the ring with me and leave with their hand raised.