Ding Dong Deathmatch, or Of Course I’m a Wrestler! Can’t You See My Muscles?

“Nothing like a bowl of Cheerios to start the day!”

Craig begins to laugh. 

It starts small. 

A smile, a snicker, a slap against the knee, but quickly turns to a howling guffaw. It is accentuated at first by the partially masticated cereal, then an unexpected breath causes the muscular man in loose tighty-off-whities to inhale - before rapidly exhaling - most of the milk. Doubling over the side of the once white couch, now tanned and distressed with age and other bodily fluids, he attempts to exhume the remains of his breakfast with some really super complex nasal rocketry. He would explain, but you probably wouldn’t understand. 

“Man, I’m funny! Ha! So funny!” he says, leaning back to appreciate how truly hilarious he is.  “A bowl of Cheerios in the morning! Ha! Fuck yea!”

Craig deposits the bowl onto the non-existent nightstand by his side, his hands landing on his muscular midsection. It’s completely natural, if you were wondering. Were you? Of course you were. 

“But now what?” he asks, but to who? The room? What should he do? 

“You should go become a professional wrestler!” a muffled, high-pitched voice says. Craig sits up, his nipple firm and at attention. That is part of having a natural body, after all. Fully firm nipples. Male nipples, surrounded by hair that told them the tale of their life and ultimately - their liberty. His finger slips into his ample belly button.

“Hey! I’m fucking talking to you!”

Dramatically, Craig stands up once more, his eyes shifting back and forth. There is a light rap on the window followed by a hail of gunfire and glass. A small honey bee, fully strapped, flutters its way through the now exposed gap as the bearded man watches with awe.

“Those were some fucking Cheerios!” he yells. 

“You heard it!” the bee buzzes, blasting by him before landing atop the bunny-eared television on a milk crate. As it does screen shifts and a voice can be heard.

“Join us.”

“You heard it: the calling of Casanova!” the bee’s voice whispers as it begins to drift around him once more.

“Join us,” the ominous voice repeats.

“Yeah.”

“You know what to do…” the voice and the bee’s blend, becoming hollow, empty - soulless.

“Yeah?” he asks, his gaze unwavering.

“Yes. Join us.”

He shouts, leaping to his feet. The corner of his lips begin to curl into a smile as he stands alone in the now darkened room, illuminated only by the glow of the screen. His eyes widen, locked on the television in front of him - the static of the screen blending in with the gentle buzz of the violent bumble bee that floats around his head. 

“Maybe I’ll become a professional wrestler after all.”

“Cogan. Craig Cogan.”

The bearded man stands confidently in front the back entrance to the Michelob Ultra Arena. A man wearing a black visor and matching polo is between him and the door.

“Hollywood Celebrity Craig Cogan? The whole Cogan?!”

“No, sorry.”

Craig frowns somewhere beneath the furrow that fills the bottom of his face. He steps back, placing his finger to his chin in thought before holding it up in a gesture of pause. Flipping out what looks like a Samsung Galaxy, he masses at the screen for a moment then holds it to his ear.  After a second, the phone in his back pocket rings. Withdrawing it with his other hand, he balances it with a pinky. His thumb and forefinger are held beside it like a mouth, with a thick, Groucho Marx-style mustache pasted on the ‘upper lip’.

“Hello, this is Hollywood agent Mulder Fox.”

The man, unsure how to respond, raises an eyebrow. 

“Mulder Fox?”

Craig lifts the hand up between them to reveal the hand has a makeshift suit, pulled over the upper wrist. The pinky and thumb have been tucked into the sleeves.

“Hollywood Agent Mulder Fox, this is correct,” his ‘agent’ confirms, though Craig’s lips clearly move at the same time.

“My very famous, completely natural client is looking to spread his fame and fortune to your good and wholesome community.”

“Nice one…” the armed bumble bee says, circling around Craig. He shakes his head, motioning towards his hand.

“He said it.”

The man watches as Craig watches something float around his arm. He nods along with something only he can hear before badly ventriloquising towards his hand. 

“That being said, he is here to wrestle.”

“Sir, I just work at the concession booth…”

Like a record scratch to reality, Craig pauses, looking around. The man is, as he claims, wearing a shirt with the label concessions. Nodding his head, he allows the attendant to open the door.

As the man starts to turn back, he discovers Craig Cogan is suddenly incredibly close, his natural muscles fully flexed, a thick, meaty vein running alongside his neck. Out of nowhere, there is a bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. Milk dribbles along his beard, the wild smile plastered across his face.

“Which way is Casanova’s office?”

The attendant steps back into the building, followed closely by Craig, the door slamming shut behind them.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

The scene opens up. 

Craig Cogan stands beside a table of assorted weapons. Chains, bats, even broken bottles make up the display. He wears a leather snakeskin jacket. He has no shirt beneath, showing off the impressive, completely natural muscles he’s accumulated through a strict diet of heart healthy Cheerios and nothing else. He holds a traditional bodybuilder isometric pec hold, confidently smiling towards the camera.

“You should give up now. Well? What are you waiting for? Hahaha! Don’t you see how big my muscles are? Can’t you see how strong my joints have become?! Look - look at the legitimate length of my ligaments!”

He twirls, lowering the coat to show off his shoulders.

“Do you really think you have what it takes?” Craig finishes the turn, jabbing a finger towards the screen, “Listen here, and listen closely - even if you trained a single joint a day for the rest of the year, you'll never compare to the joints that I have. The best joints! The toughest joints! The strongest joints! Now you’re asking yourselves - how did my joints get this strong? Hours in the gym, lifting weights? No. Karate or Kung fu? Ha! Hardly!  No! I used extreme isometrics, training any and all angles imaginable!”

Craig begins a series of bodybuilding poses, grunting loudly as he moves from one to the next. After a particularly difficult isometric calf-crunch, he suddenly grabs his leg, rubbing at it furiously. “Owie-owie-ow!”

Looking up, he spots the camera then quickly adjusts the pained look to another deep chest laugh.

“Are you jealous yet? Hahahaha! You should be, because I’m ready and I’ll show you that I’m not only a master of my own beautiful, buff, and fully natural body which is totally capable of committing physical assaults and egregious acts of violence” he points directly at the screen. “But verbal assaults as well!”

The bearded man slides a stack of notecards from his back pocket. He smiles broadly before clearing his throat. “Joylene Ferlino - Few people know that she got the name Buck Nasty from a leaked sex tape. The reality is, the only things buck or nasty about her are her teeth and breath. Boom Roasted.”

Craig flicks that card away.

“Shmodka Shmack is what you get when you go to the dollar store for jelly. Jelly is, of course, the code name for methamphetamines. Also, her moustache looks fake. Boom Roasted. Kit Morgan may or may not remember who he is, but he’s sure going to remember me before I make him forget. I should probably say it again, but much like his parents I think…meh…why bother? Boom Roasted.” He shrugs, tossing that one aside, much like Kit’s parents. “Chris Page is the people’s answer to the question nobody ever asked. He has more money than he knows what to do with, but somehow can’t buy an original thought.”

He winks.

“Boom Roasted. Riley MacKenna has the exact kind of name you would expect for someone who wanted to be a rapper, but never quite made it. He must have never learned two dead ends don’t make a right because here he is. Boo-“

Stopping mid-sentence, he stares off into space as if listening to someone or something.

“Wait, what do you mean two wrongs don’t make a right? How do I compare that to his career?” After a bit more patiently listening, he nods “I am, stop interrupting.”

He flicks that card away.

“Legion is the type of woman who has multiple rewards cards with Hot Topic but all of them are somehow expired. Of all the voices in her head, you’d think one would tell her to get help but here she is anyway, just like her chances in this match: helpless. Boom Roasted. Iggy is what every kid grows up not wanting to be, but somehow ends up being. Untalented. Unsuccessful, and ultimately, a disappointment. Boom-” 

He goes for a high five, commits fully, and without a recipient, topples over through the table. Craig pops back up laughing, another card in hand.

“Ace Sky got his name from a random name generator. He originally wanted to be the Top Rope Terror, but felt it was too generic. Boom Roasted. Jonny C. is just as good as people say. That being said, nobody ever really talks about…” he flips the notecard, looking for the rest of the joke. Unable to find it, he moves on. “What can I say about Lissie Hope that hasn’t been said before? Probably something positive.”

He shrugs.

“Boom Roasted, slow burn, just like when she pees.Dickie Watson looks like he may be mostly bone with the name of a boner. Are those tattoos, skeletal scratches, or penile photography? I can’t help but think you’re tough, after all, you would have to have a nickname of Dick and that haircut. I wanted to think of another penis joke, but I’m sure you see them all the time when you take off your clothes and look down. Boom Roasted.” 

He squints down at the next note, scratching his head before flipping it over with an ‘ah’.

“When most people have a midlife crisis, they get a fast car or beautiful women. Instead, Javier Cortes attempts to imitate the one thing that was ever truly successful in his life - his daughter. There’s a joke there. Sorry, I meant you. You’re the joke. Boom Roasted.” He flicks the card owards the camera. “The truth about Squiggly is nobody really knows his name. That’s just what the signature looked like when his parents tried to run out on him after they saw him for the first time. He could probably figure that out if he could read.”

Craig spins the card around, showing it to the screen. He makes an exaggerated frown, rubbing at imaginary tears.

“Boom Roasted. And last and probably least, Cypher is secretly sexually addicted to his computer. He goes to weekly meetings to try to get better. They’re called Anonymous Anonymous, but they really could just be called sad. Boom. Roasted. So why say all of that? Well it’s simple - I will show each and every one of them - I am the only weapon I’ll need! Bring everything you got because you’re up against this. And this.” He accentuates each phrase with a new isometric pose, ending with what he calls ‘his proud peacock pose’, “And this! Haha!”

“So bring your-“ Cogan reaches down for the glass, only to slice his finger. “Aaaahhh” 

He shrieks, jerking his finger away, “Did you know this glass is real? Where’s the stuff we're using in the ring!?”

Craig wanders off from the frame, yelling for his manager and more Cheerios. The cameramen exchange a look as the scene fades to black.