The One Where Rocky Paints a Big Ass Target On His Chest While Waiving His Arms Like One of Those Blow Up Dudes They Put In Front of Mattress Stores Over Labor Day Weekend. You Know the Ones. Right?

Quaternary Ammonium.

Peracetic Acid.

Hypochlorite.

Phenol.

Antiseptics.  That’s what you smell when you walk into a hospital – the overpowering scent of chemicals sloshed over every square inch of every surface, be it linoleum, glass, nickel, copper, or tile.  For the purpose of curtailing the spread of disease.  For preventing death.

“…severe concussion…”

Whether you associate the scent with fortification, healing, sickness, or mortality, eventually your olfactory nerves stop registering its presence.  You become desensitized, and your brain returns to focus on your immediate needs.  The reason you’ve come here in the first place.

“…significant damage to the left maxillary and zygomatic arch…”

Your limbic system files away the signals from esthers of the antiseptic to focus on more interesting and important inputs resembling acridity, ammonia, and iron.   Blood.  Bile.  Infection.  Your nose knows; it registers the injury, the illness of yourself, and others.  Eventually you get used to that, too.  When you’re in this bed, all you want to do is rest… to sleep and heal.

“…no serious damage to the spine, though he’ll display heavy bruising…”

But you can’t.  Do you know what the most common time of death is in a hospital?  Between 3:00am and 4:00am.  If you’ve ever wondered why hospital doctors order nurses to pull blood draws every two hours – why you feel like you’re never allowed to rest when you clearly need it the most – it’s not because they need that constant drip of data.  It’s because they’re worried sick, though not as sick as you are, that they’ll miss the moment that sinusoidal line goes flat.

“…frankly, he’s pretty goddamn lucky this isn’t substantially worse.”

 

“I don’t feel very fucking lucky.”

If a pin dropped at this moment, it might as well be a cymbal.   In his room at Alvaredo Hospital, Rocky felt the eyes of Dr. Fihlguud, Stu, and Cindy all over his body.  He felt them undressing him, but not in the manner he was accustomed to – they were assessing the damage.  

Stu’s khakis wrinkled slightly on his approach; his shirt starching was flawless, and that dry-cleaned smell took over Rocky’s nose as the weight of Stu’s palm pressed into his shoulder.  “I am pleased to see you awake.  How are you feeling?”

Every beep was an electric spike to Rocky’s temple.  “Of course I’m awake.  You people won’t stop yammering, and this machine won’t stop reminding me I’m alive.  I feel like I got sucker punched with brass knuckles, had my back slammed like someone was beating a rug, and had my head spiked like a football.”

The burden of Stu’s sympathy was removed from Rocky’s shoulder, and he nudged his glasses up his nose.  “Yes,” he cleared his throat, “Well, given the circumstances that description is both apt and… rather accurate.”

“Awesome.  Someone take me home.”

Cindy parked a wheelchair by his bedside, “With pleasure, Sugah.  Hop in.”

Annoyance filled the lines by the FDP’s eyes, “I am perfectly capable of walking, Cindy.”

“Ah said. Hop.  IN.”  The width of her stance, her white knuckled grip on the handles of the wheelchair, and a look that would somehow have been made less threatening if her eyes were shooting lasers made it quite plain this was not open for discussion.

“Yes ma’am.”

—🦖—

The sleeves of Stu’s shirt were in substantial danger of minor wrinkling as his arms crossed at less than ideal positions, “You are not showing up for ReVival 31, and that’s all there is to it.  I will be notifying Ms. Troy of your medically necessary forfeiture, and you will rest and heal.”

Rocky sat with his back straight; slouching was too painful.  “You will do no such thing.  Now stop it with this bullshit, and help me prep.”

Stu straightened his arms just enough to preserve the starching, “I am helping you prepare by saving your very foolish life.”

“Alright, fine then.  You’re fired.  Cindy, you’re my new manager – what do I need to know about Paxton Ray?”

Pink bubblegum popped and a diet coke can wobbled slightly as Cindy bounced from her chair, straightening the skirt of her sundress, “Oh no, Sugah, don’t you go puttin’ me in the middle ah this.  Uh uh.”  Were common sense quantifiable, the average amount in the room would have dropped 10% following her departure.

“You are not going, and I am not fired.  You are not able to fire me without cause per the terms of our contract.”  Stu reached into the filing cabinet to procure a copy of said contract, presumably to display for the Master of Moonsaults the relevant paragraphs.  

Rocky did not waste time expressing his disinterest in the document.  “I’d say refusing to help me get ready for the most dangerous fight of my career counts as cause.  Donny, how do I beat Paxton Ray?”

A grunt emanated from behind a shield of newspaper set upon a base of denim.  A hand passed around the side of the barrier to grab a ceramic mug with, “#1 Dad” emblazoned in a large red sans serif font.  There was slurping.  The mug returned to its origin.

Our favorite pterodactyl furry jumped from his chair, fighting against the instinct to reveal the pain in his face as he spoke, “Alright, look I get it.  Fighting Paxton Ray is stupid and life threatening, and I. DO. NOT. CARE.”

Fury blazed in Rocky’s eyes, but he held his tongue until the coals smoldered.  Neither Stu, Donny, nor Pablo (he came in to mop) dared to break the silence hanging in the air.  

“I appreciate that all of you care so much about me, but this is about more than me.”  Rocky’s eyes met Stu’s and held his gaze,  “Look at this.”  The FDP pointed at his face, “Vickie Hall not only broke PRIME rules, but straight up broke the fucking law by hitting me in the face with something people aren’t even legally allowed to own.  I’m amazed I’m even able to speak right now.  And here,” hands struggle with cloth as Rocky turns and shows off his back.  

Its usual deep tan was awash with blue, purple, black, and yellow.  If an onlooker was unaware of the pain underlying such bruising, it would be almost beautiful.  “Her cronies took me while I was knocked out and literally tried to kill me.  I was already out and Zion tried to break my neck with a fucking piledriver.”

Rocky pulled his shirt back down, “And what happened?  Were they punished?  Was JCH disqualified?  No.  He gets the W, I get a trip to the ER.  The Love Convoy gets no repercussions, and now I’m being put through a fucking wood chipper named Paxton Ray. For god’s sake, the man put The Anglo Luchador out of commission with barbed wire to the face.”

The muscles in Stu’s face relaxed, his posture softened slightly, and he stepped in front of the FDP and placed his hands firmly on Rocky’s shoulders, “Which is exactly why you need to sit out.” He attempted to emulate a hug and curled his arms generally around Rocky’s body.

Rocky demonstrated how to hug him back properly, and Stu’s body relaxed into the appropriate posture and position.  He gently pushed Stu away and held him at arm’s length, “That is exactly why I can’t sit out.  If I forfeit, they win.  The assholes win.  Paxton Ray gets a free W.  All the Mortifucks and Pervert Convoys of the world get the signal that it’s totally fine to cheat, to go around pissing on people’s graves, and to literally try and kill people for a cheap win.  There are too many people that watch this shit for me to let them send that message.  I have to do this.  I know it’s dangerous.  I know it’s stupid.  It doesn’t matter; I have to.”

Stu went back to his laptop.  Clicks, taps, and keystrokes later, and a dossier for Paxton Ray displayed on the screen.  He sighed, “I begrudgingly accept that I am not going to be able to dissuade you from this path of idiocy, but the repercussions are of your own making.  Rock, the way I see it, Ray is not a wrestler, he is a street fighter – a boxer, a brawler.  If he lands a single punch on your face…”

“Then I guess I better not let him hit me in the face.”

A voice emanated from behind the Great Wall of Newsprint, “Thattaboy. Rope-a-dope.”

Six eyes tried to burn a hole through the Sports section after the unexpected utterance.  Cindy peered around the door frame, her father’s voice piquing her interest.

Rocky was the first to break out of the trance, “What?”

The Freer Free Press spoke, “Rope-a-dope.  Ah, geeze, ain’t you kids never heard of Muhammad Ali?”

Air audibly expelled from Stu’s nostrils, and his eyes rolled so hard they nearly popped out of his head, “Obviously, yes.”

“Well, then learn a little sumthin’ from ‘im.” The newspaper came down and the barrier folded into quarters; boots formerly hovering in mid-air found the floor, their attached supports no longer resting on the desk; and Donny looked across the room at his rapt pupils.  

“Ali versus Foreman, the Rumble in the Jungle – Foreman was a big bruiser of a man. Brutal – the hardest hitting boxer of all time.  Had a rep for putting people on the floor with one punch.  Ali was a dancer as much as he was a fighter.  Wore people out.  Ali was at the end of his career when he fought Foreman – if he took a hit, he was likely going down.  So what did he do?”

“I’m guessing he didn’t forfeit.”  Rocky shot a glare at Stu.

Boots strike cement, and coffee flows from a pot into Donny’s laudatory vessel.  “Ali guarded his head with his arms – leaned against the ropes and took punches with his shoulders and body for 9 rounds.  Takes a lot of energy for a man like Foreman to punch as hard as he does.  Ali wore him out, and once he did… boom.  That energy management sorta shit’s something you and Stu know a little about, ain’t it?”

Stu nodded his head, “He’s right.  Ray wins matches decisively and quickly, but he hasn’t won a fight that’s gone the distance.  His losses to both Anna Daniels and Jared Sykes were prolonged bouts.”

Rocky looked at his wounds using the selfie camera of his phone.  “So I need to wear him out without him hitting me in the face, but his favorite place to hit me is in the face?”

Stu nods again, feeling somewhat like one of those toy birds that peck forever at glasses of water or the keyboards of lazy nuclear plant operators.  “Yes, but I have no master plan for making that happen.  So, unless you do, we need to call Ms. Troy.”

“I have just such a plan.”

Donny leans forward in his chair, and Stu’s eyes widen.  “Ya feel like sharing with the class, boy?”

“I need to make him hit me in the face.”

Stu’s eyes went so wide, Rocky was afraid they would pop out of his head, “Of all the amazingly stupid things that have ever been said in this office…”

“Zh zh zhu zhu zhu shhhhhhhhhh,” Rocky put a finger on Stu’s lips, seemingly enraging him further despite effectively silencing him, “Go get a high def webcam, a decent microphone, and some lighting equipment.”

—🦖—

“Are we all set up?”  Rocky sat in full FDP gear and stared past a bright ring light at a mass of cables flowing into and around Stu’s laptop.  It seemed he took Rocky’s instructions and decided what they really meant was, “Go purchase a professional recording studio, and install it in the gym office.”

“Just a few more minutes.  I’m still not sure how this is going to help.” The words came from beneath a table.  Khaki-covered legs and wing tips wriggled on the floor near the invisible source.  “There, got it.”

“Cool, alright man, get the livestream up and running.”  While his manager worked on loading the stream, Rocky took to jabber.  

 

@Rockysaur: Got some shit to say.  Going live shortly.  

@Rockysaur: Feel free to shoot the link out to anyone you think might be interested.

@Rockysaur: https://bit.ly/rockysaur  

 

A thumbs up on an arm twisted behind Stu as he faced his laptop.  “We’re up and running.  Viewers are trickling in.”

“Alright, alright, perfect.  Hey folks, how we doin’?  Happy Independence Day!  Yeah, man, you got it – Rocky de Leon, the FDP, comin’ at you live on July 4, 2023!  We got a big announcement coming up, but I want to give people some time to trickle in here so no one misses anything.”

 

GrannyPanties1928: you’re even cuter live!

S’Phyllis: Simps

SexeiLexei84: Big Brother American President probably watching stream. 

SexeiLexei84: Be careful, comrades.

SissyStuart: Oh gosh, for once I don’t have to be jealous of my boy getting a front row seat!

 

Rocky looked at the monitor and angled his body just a little so the shadows from the lighting gave better definition to the muscles of his torso.  “It’s great to see and speak with all of you!  It’s a treat to get to interact directly with my fans.  And wait… SissyStuart?  Are you Nick’s mom?  Oh my goodness, what a delight!  If you are half as charming as Nick is, he better be keeping an eye on you.”

 

NStuartPRIME: Mom, stop, you’re embarrassing me.

SissyStuart: You don’t have to watch the stream, son.

NStuartPRIME: Kinda do – it’s work related.

n1ghtcraw1er: …I did not log off of COD to watch a chat of old ladies drooling over you, Rock

n1ghtcraw1er: get to the point.

 

“Viewer count is a hair under 10,000 and holding stable, Rocky,” Stu called out without taking his eyes off the stream deck.

“Ok, thanks everyone for coming.  Like I said, big things happening.  I’m sure you’ve all heard by now that I’m set to fight Paxton Ray at ReVival 31.”

 

RockMe4Rocky: be careful Rock 🫢

GAIGRecRoomPC: we’re praying for you! 🙏🏿🙏🏿🙏🏿

SissyStuart: Oh, Rocky, don’t you let that boy lay a hand on those abs!

SexeiLexei84: Yes, be careful.  Medical bills very expensive in capitalist America.

 

Rocky chuckled, “Don’t worry folks, I’ll be fine.  I just wanted to take the time today to send a message… no, an invitation to Mr. Ray himself.”

Rocky leaned in so the camera was mostly framed on his masked face.  “Paxton, if you’re watching, I want you to know I’m going to destroy you.  I’m going to wear you down, beat you up, and make you feel the kind of pain you weren’t man enough to stop your daughter from feeling.”

 

SissyStuart: uh… that’s not very nice, Rocky.

SexeiLexei84: Rocky is very good, but if ladies want to see real wrestler…

SexeiLexei84: This link has been removed by the auto-moderator as suspected propaganda

 

“I know you are intimately familiar with The Anglo Luchador, so you should know how big of a deal what I’m about to do really is.”  Rocky slid his thumbs under the edge of his mask.

 

GrannyPanties1928: OMG IT’S HAPPENING 🤤

 

He pulled off the mask, allowing the harsh lighting to highlight and magnify his injuries.  “The mask is off.  You know who you’re fighting.  That’s the thing, Paxton – I don’t want to fight you as the FDP.  I’m not telling a story; I’m not playing a character.  I don’t want to wrestle you.  I don’t want to do top rope flippy shit while you wait for the right moment to sucker punch me, stab your thumbs in my eyes, or whatever other below the belt illegal tricks you want to pull.  I want to fight you face to face in a fist fight.”

 

GAIGRecRoomPC: Oh my, Rocky, your poor face! 😢

GAIGFrontDeskPC: Gladys, you need to let the other ladies have a turn at the Rec Room PC.

GAIGRecRoomPC: They can see and read just fine over my shoulder 😡

GAIGFrontDeskPC: Gladys…

 

Rocky glided his finger down the cuts and stitches on his face where Vickie Hall laid her brass knuckles.  “Maybe you don’t get why I’m coming at you like this, Paxton.  Hell, maybe you don’t care, but I’m going to spell it out for your tiny little brain, anyway.  Mortimer tried to disrespect my family.  The Love Convoy disrespected the rules.  Both of them walked away with a win.  I won’t let it happen a third time.  Show me who you are.  Show me you’re a real man that can win a real fight without help.  No grappling.  No managers.  No masks.  Just you and me – Paxton and Carlos… and our fists.  Last man standing gets the W.  Let’s see if you can win a real fight.”

 

n1ghtcraw1er: …I hope you know what you’re doing, Rock.

 

Rocky put his mask back on.  “Me too, Eddie.  Me, too.”  He signaled to Stu to cut the video feed.

The latches of the laptop lid clicked.  Stu’s hands sit there, but they do not rest.  He trembles as he turns to Rocky, “What on earth have you done?”

“Exactly what he needed to do.”  The gym’s owner leaned in the doorway.  “He pissed him off.”

In his exasperation, Stu failed to notice or care that his glasses slipped one third of the way down his nose.  “How exactly is that what he needed to do?!  Why is the strategy here to make the crazy man angry?  How is crazy AND angry better than just crazy?”

“I gave him a target.”

…holy fuck I gave him a target.  What the hell am I doing?  I’ve been at this gig for what, seven months?  Paxton Ray damn near murdered a man in the ring, and I just painted “Paxton Ray is a Shitty Father” on my chest.  This isn’t a Nuzzle Lord, an aging gringo Lucha, or a 20 year old girl in a tutu.  He’s the fucking Bayou Butcher.  I might actually die.  I didn’t sign up for this.  Did I sign up for this?  Jesus Christ, I signed up for this.  Oh my god, what have I done?

“HE ALREADY HAD A TARGET.”  Stu repeatedly slapped his notebook of Rocky’s progress and training notes.

“No, Stu… I gave him… A target.” Rocky gestured in a circle around his face.  “He’s going to be so focused on hitting a weak point that he’s not going to think about how much energy he’s using.  I’ll spend the first several minutes guarding my head, taking body blows if he makes them, but no matter what, I protect my face.  I’ll try to take punches with my shoulder where I can.  When his hands are hurt and he’s out of energy, I’ll take him down.  Rope-a-dope.”

Stu collapsed in his chair.  “God, I hope you know what you’re doing.”  Rocky noticed the stress contraction and approached his friend.  He knelt by the chair and laid his arm around Stu’s shoulders.

“I know what I’m doing.  I’m going to be ok.  I have to be ok.  He can’t be allowed to win.  You know this.”

“…I know this.  Rocky?”

“Yeah, Stu?”

“Please don’t die.”

—💀—