No matter what moves Bo Norries pulled out during his show, the tips remained scanty--and he knew why. The patrons were saving them for th real star of the club, Big Jory.
So, how's the dancin' gig going?
asked Jerome Percheron as he saw his neighbor in the garage.
Shitty.
grumbled Bo Norris. Barely pays the bills, and I'm trying to find some way to stand out. Especially with Big Jory stealing the spotlight.
Yeah, a big bulge in the crotch is a dime a dozen amongst us horses,
Jerome commiserated. And it's not like you need to get in better shape; you practically live in my gym. Got any ideas?
Yeah, I was thinking: I've never seen a wrestling act, and I figured if I did a squash match on a colt, that might work. Built a ring, even.
Bo led his neighbor into his garage.
Jerome looked at it. ... How big is that thing?
Eight by eight.1
You gotta be kidding me.
He walked up to it and rapped on the canvas, frowning at the crisp knock of bare wood beneath. First off, this is literally the smallest ring I've ever seen outside of a toy store. Second, you're gonna kill your opponent in this thing.
Hmmm?
asked Bo.
You're gonna be wrestling him on bare wood. I been in pro wrestling for years, and let me tell ya: the audience knows the difference between
hurt
and legit injured. Saw a show once where some poor pika got nailed over the head with a chair and knocked right out. Killed the crowd right there. Stupid bringin' a chair out in the first match, but yeah—shoot nailed him in the head, and knocked the poor kid right the fuck out. The crowd knew somethin' was wrong. So, yeah. You're gonna legit hurt your opponent in this damn thing, and lose the crowd. Or get a crowd you won't like.
Any suggestions?
Bo asked, irritated.
Go to the club stage, measure it off, and build the biggest ring you can get away with.
Jerome said. I'll help you with it, even. I'll also find a colt for you, and train you both in the craft of wrestling. Him, I'll train how to fall; you I'll train how to take care of him.
Take care of him?
You're doing squash matches. The kid's ass is in your hands. You need to know how to make it look like you're kicking the shit out of him without actually injuring him.
Jerome was deadly serious.
What's in it for you?
Bo asked.
I don't train for free, Bo. I'll see you tomorrow.
Jerome had just the colt in mind. Devon had been living at the gym for close to two years—not in the figurative sense that it was his second home, but in the literal sense that the colt had nowhere else to go and paid rent
by doing chores around the gym. He was allowed to work out here as well, but there was no packing muscle on that skinny frame—at least not yet, anyways. Mornin', kiddo,
he said as he came into the gym.
The painted horse glanced up from mopping the floor. Good morning, Mr. Percheron.
I have a proposition for you. A friend of mine needs a helper.
I'm listening.
Here's the deal. Bo Norris is gonna put on an erotic wrestling show, and he needs a jobber—and a young one.
Devon tensed; Bo was a regular here, and he knew whom Jerome was going to send Bo's way. Jerome continued. I'll train both him and you on how to do this safely.
He noticed that Devon relaxed at that last word. And also how to put on a good show.
Bo came in right on time, and Jerome put them through an exercise routine. Then he started a brief lecture. The goal of this training is to make it look like a complete shitkicking without really injuring your opponent. You two will have to work together for this to work, while hiding the fact that you're doing so. Basically, Bo, you will be putting on a pro wrestling show first and foremost. The erotic elements will simply be layered on top.
Then he started showing them the rolls and falls that all wrestlers should know. Why am I learning this?
asked Bo. He's gonna do all the falling...
You need to know what you're making him do,
said Jerome flatly. And some moves require you to fall. You wanna put on a wrestling show? You're gonna learn how to do it right.
The training lasted almost three months. A session in the ring Bo had built revealed that yes, it was way too small; nearly every move nearly hung poor Devon up on the ropes. A measure of the stage revealed that a 12'×12' ring would fit, so Jerome guided Bo through building one. Don't nail down the top planks. You want them to bounce and rattle. The first thing it does is make the ring softer, and the second... you got a sandbag?
he asked.
Bo provided him with one.
Jerome took the bag into Bo's original ring and did a bodyslam with the bag. The bag hit the canvas with a thud. Okay, that's in your ring,
he said. You've heard what it sounds like in my ring when you toss around Devon; the boards bang and rattle and it sounds like he's being slammed through the wood. So there you go: Both easier on Devon, and sounds way more impressive to the crowd.
I just had a thought
said Bo. You said my eight-by-eight was the smallest ring, but the Furious Fighting Fallabellas Federation—
Ten feet by ten feet.2 Theirs is bigger than that. Eight by eight, kiss my ass.
Devon soon grew more confident in taking his lumps, even after Bo screwed up a couple moves and dumped the colt on his head. Powerbombs and tombstones piledrivers were at first practiced on a crash mat. Jerome forbade sit-out piledrivers on account that Bo's legs weren't big enough to protect the colt. Always remember—the colt's ass is in your hands,
was his regular warning.
After one session, he took them aside. You know, I just realized something. You won't have a ref in the ring, and one thing that a ref does is make sure both wrestlers are okay. You're gonna need a safeword so that you can tell each other that the match needs to end now. And it should be something that won't be said in a match under normal circumstances.
Like
asked Bo.I'm done?
As long as both agree on it, that will work. If one of you says it, Devon you drop down, Bo you pin him, match over, doesn't matter what shit gets left out.
It was the night of his debut as a wrestling act. Devon was pacing nervously. Bo chuckled a bit. It's gonna be okay,
he said.
When the ring was set up, the two came out, Devon being herded to the ring by Bo. Jerome was in the front row, cash in hand. He didn't normally come to places like this, but he felt he needed to keep an eye on these two newbies. The two got into the ring, and locked up. Devon struggled in vain to push Bo back. Then Bo casually shoved him off, and Devon slammed into a turnbuckle. The crowd cheered, and Devon came back. Three more times they locked up, and Devon ended up slamming backwards into a different turnbuckle each time. (Go to your knees for the last one
whispered Bo.) Devon slammed into the fourth turnbuckle and fell to his knees, gasping. Bo charged in and shoved his crotch into the colt's face, giving a few grinds. Now money started being tossed at the ring; clearly the crowd liked that. Bo hauled up the colt, and shoved him back into the corner, working his body over like a punching bag. The crowd yelled and cheered, and more money showered the ring. Bo then hauled Devon up into a gorilla press, carrying him around the ring and pumping him a few times. Then he tried something they hadn't rehearsed—he adjusted his grip and held the colt aloft with one hand. Bo felt Devon grip tight on to his arm, his small body trembling to remain flat. The cheers grew louder, and more bills flew. Bo smirked, grabbed the colt's head and planted him with a ring-shaking bodyslam, dropping down with his knees on the colt's arms and his stallionhood in Devon's face for a pin.
The crowds cheering coalesced into the chant We want more! We want more! We want more!
Bo stood up, looking at the crowd. What else should I do to him?
he asked, standing up.
One wanted a powerbomb, another a Northern Lights suplex. Bo smirked; this had gone over even better than he'd hoped.
Devon's eyes widened as he realized this match was far from over. We were only gonna go five minutes,
he thought, but was hauled up for the powerbomb. He was infinitely glad now for all the work that Jerome had put them through. He did his best to keep up with Bo, who proceeded to throw him around as the crowd demanded. Elbow drop followed bodyslam followed suplex. He was thrown into the corner, and got some loud, nasty chops from the big horse. He glimpsed Jerome signalling for Bo to slow down. Bo took some time posing before grabbing Devon by the main and slamming him face-first into the mat and grinding the colt's face into the canvas before flexing his arms while sitting on his back, grinding his crotch against the colt. The crowd cheered and threw more bills. Devon groaned as he was hauled up amd dropped chest-first on the ropes; Bo ground against his ass a few times before grabbing his main and yanking him back down onto the mat.
Bo posed with one foot on the colt's chest, grinning at the crowd, before rolling Devon over into an ankle lock. The crowd cheered as Devon clung desperately to the ropes, and Bo yanked him back. Rope breaks won't save you this time,
he said, before hauling him up into a full nelson. He ground against Devon's ass a few times, before nailing the colt with a Northern Lights suplex. He twisted around to put the kid in a headsissors, Devon's nose planted firmly in his crotch. Oh, the crowd liked that. With the crowd calling out for more moves, Bo did his best to please. Shit, how long had this been going on?
Devon did his best to keep up. He actually didn't mind the holds and sissors and so on, because he could catch his breath. But the throws were taking it out of him. His throat was burning, and he didn't feel very steady anymore. And he really didn't mean to go up like a bag of sand with that last bodyslam, but he was utterly wiped.
Bo rolled the kid over for a sleeper hold on the mat. You okay, kid?
I'm wiped...
Devon whispered.
Bo slowed things down, going from big impressive throws to suggestive holds, but before long, Devon was mumbling, I'm done... I'm done...
Bo stood up, strutting around the ring and panting, his fur damp with sweat as Devon collapsed onto his back. He's done! He's finished!
He threw himself down, streched out with his crotch in Devon's face. He and the crowd shouted out the three count, punctuated by Bo grinding his crotch against Devon's face. Bo learned what it was like to have his ears almost go numb from cheers and whistles; what it felt like to have wads of bills bouncing off his body.
When Devon was able to move, Bo lightly kicked him in the ribs. Pick up the cash, brat,
he ordered, sneering at the colt as Devon submissively did as he was told.
The sight of the colt crawling around before the powerful stallion brought more cheers (and money). With the cash gathered, Bo drug the colt out of the ring and into the backstage area by the mane.
Backstage, he pulled Devon into a hug. You did great,
he said.
Thanks, sir
gasped Devon, still a little unsteady. How long did we go?
Fourty-five minutes,
said a bouncer who was keeping patrons from sneaking backstage. The other dancers already hate your guts, Bo. Better be ready for shit to go down.
Bo nodded, and he and Devon headed backstage to get changed, but before they could reach their belongings, a big stallion blocked their path. That went on way longer than it should have, you motherfucker.
Crowd called for an encore, Jory. Besides, you said you could top any act I pulled out. Time to put your money where your mouth is,
said Bo, smirking. His rival simply shoved him aside, heading to the stage door. Bo quickly counted through his money and gave the club its cut. Come on, Devon, let's get out of here.
He quickly packed his stuff and left.
Back at the gym, Bo gave Devon 50 of the promised 20 bucks; the extra because the show had gone on way longer than expected.
Jerome looked Bo straight in the eye; he was not pleased. Talk about a trial by fire. Another 15 minutes, and it would have been an Iron Man match. When did Devon say he had enough?
Devon shrugged. Just near the end. I didn't want to let him down, but I was just kinda out of it.
Most wrestling matches, even at indy shows, don't last that long,
said Jerome, relaxing. But at least the crowd was into it the whole time. You did get a little fancy there with some moves. Seriously, keep it simple. Better to have three moves you do well than 30 you do half-assed.
He grinned a bit. Still, good for a first run. And as our agreement, since it went off, you can start paying me.
Bo gave Jerome part of the payment (he'd pay the rest off as he went), then took the time to actualy count his take. He paused. This is more than I've made in the last six months,
he said, stunned. Even after what I've paid out.
Guess you found a way to stand out,
said Jerome with a grin. Needs a bit of tweaking, but I think you've got it.
As the two horses practiced under Jerome's watchful eye, Bo learned to focus on the domination and humiliation aspects, putting holds in which Devon writhed helplessly in the big stallion's grip, or allowed Bo to grope the colt with Devon unable to do anything about it. Bo also learned to use slams less— both to give a bigger payoff to such a move and so that Devon wouldn't get as beat up. As for Devon, Jerome taught the colt to show more attitude in the ring, shifting the dynamic from Bo bullying a helpless foal to the stallion putting a disrespectful brat in his place. You want to be the heel, Devon. You want the crowd to want to watch your ass get kicked,
explained Jerome. If you're the helpless colt, then they sympathize with you, and that can lead to people not liking Bo.
He pointed at both of them. There needs to be a hard limit how long you go. I could see Devon was screwing up long before you finished your match, and that was just because he was blown up,
he said. You need to understand he can only go so long.
Can you keep time?
asked Bo.
I can. I think the club will appreciate it too.
It was a while before Bo was back in the club, and the duo was ready to put their revamped show on. Devon was a lot more cocky coming out, opening up the act by giving Bo a shove. Bo shoved Devon flat on his back, and the crowd gave a cheer. The suggestive holds were milked for all they were worth, complete with with Bo brazenly groping and stroking the struggling colt. The crowd hollered out move suggestions, and Bo was glad to follow them, though regularly glancing at Jerome, who would give the signal to end the match.
The crowd knew what they wanted: holds. They wanted sleeper holds, bearhugs, bodysissors, headsissors, anything that made the colt squirm helplessly. They cheered as Bo worked the colt's crotch, stroking Devon until the colt had a raging erection that could be seen through his trunks. Occasionally, Devon would almost get free, only for Bo to lift him up (twice, he carried Devon in one hand), slam him to the mat (to great cheers), and go into another dominant grip.
The ending had already been planned out: A backbreaker into a Dragon Sleeper Hold, and Bo would stroke Devon until the colt creamed himself. With this final humiliation, Bo pinned Devon, grinding his hips in time with the three-count. When Devon was forced to pick up the cash for Bo, the crowd threw more money, just to see the brat crawl some more. Bo drug Devon by the mane into the backstage while the crowd cheered.
Big Jory was not pleased at all to have to follow this act again.
Devon and Jerome were having coffee with Jerome a month later—the show had only taken place twice more, and Bo was feeling the heat. The club loves the crowds I pull in, even if I'm the last act of the night, but the others are really complaining now. So I've been thinking on taking this on the road and going from club to club.
I'll pack my stuff,
said Devon. It ain't much.
What makes you think you're coming with me?
asked Bo.
Because I fucking trained with you!
shot back Devon. Bo was taken aback; Devon had always been really diffident and quiet; this was the first time he asserted himself this way. What do you want? A complete gong show when you can't trust the colt to do what you want? Someone who's going to get himself hurt because he doesn't know what he's doing? Or do you want me, who you know can do this?
Bo thought about that. ... I'll meet you at the gym, then,
he promised.
Jerome nodded. Good luck, boys,
he said.
Bo had some experience booking appearances with clubs, so it wasn't too hard for him to get gigs at various clubs. Getting Devon into them, however, sometimes proved a challenge.
Footnotes
- That is, 8 feet by 8 feet.
- That's the smallest I've ever heard of. Apparently, it was awkward to work in.