I

THE NEGOTIATION

“Believe nothing you hear, and only one half that you see.”
— Edgar Allen Poe, The System of Dr. Tarr and Prof. Fether

LAUGHTER IS THE BEST MEDICINE is written across the side of a cable car next to a picture of a gorgeous blonde woman with a very Gorgo-like smile outside the window of Carnivora, the hotspot of contemporary American cuisine in San Francisco and a self describe temple to all things meat, conveniently located three blocks from my castle in the Castro district. Yes, castle. I bought a castle, or more accurately, I bought the historical landmark that previously belonged to Vanessa Byrne, former wrestling executive and cautionary tale of the dangers of COVID to even a healthy, fit woman with no underlying medical conditions. Or at least that’s the official cause of death. I still remember the thrill of injecting the palytoxin into her cigarette while she went to tinkle.

I’m halfway into a drink of my gin martini when Lucas Oilsman says, “You’re a perfect fit for CULT. You have the look, the athleticism, and the personality our fans will latch onto. Frankly, I’m shocked we haven’t met before.”

He has a suave charisma that most women probably find alluring. Some men as well. Maybe it’s the perfectly parted gray hair or the way his crossfit physique looks in that Bespoke suit. It’s not really my thing. I like my boys to be heroin chic, fresh out of school and still eager to please.

Our main course is a flight of meatballs, each sourced from a different game animal native to one of the six inhabited continents. They’re hand rolled, seasoned and smoked to perfection, and then drizzled with sriracha BBQ sauce and served with a side of pickled relish. It’s the dish that single-handedly earned Carnivora its Michilin star.

“My schedule was a little cramped until UPRISING folded,” I say as Lucas digs into one of the meatballs. He laughs before taking a bite from his plate.

“Oh god,” he says, still chewing. He points his knife while swallowing, “This kangaroo is so good. Mmm. You have to try it.” He wipes his mouth then changes the subject. “By the way, who are you wearing? That dress is breathtaking on you.”

“Stella McCartney,” I say, feigning appreciation. The sleeveless polka dot maxi dress has a mesh material, allowing the faint shadow of my Dolce&Gabbana lace bra to hint through the material. I take another sip from my martini.

He smiles like a wolf. “It’s lovely. So do you live around here? I heard you’re splitting your time between here and Tokyo.”

I place my glass down and look straight into his eyes. “Do you want to fuck me, Lucas?”

He coughs mid-drink of his Pappy Van Winkle. After wiping his chin with his napkin he says, “Excuse me? No, no, no. You misunderstand.” He looks down at my plate, which I haven’t touched yet. “Is there something wrong with your meatballs?”

Is there something wrong with your meatballs?

I brush a lock of blonde hair behind my ear, exposing the length of my neck. “Am I not fuckable?”

“Well, yes, I mean, of course, but that’s not—”

“Then what are we doing?”

His face turns a slight shade of red. “I just want to get to know you. It’s important that I’m familiar with the talent. I want your introduction to our unique audience to be perfect, who I believe will connect immediately with your equally unique character.”

I’m a little disappointed. I mean, he’s not my type but sometimes a girl’s gotta bust a nut. Then again, there are more interesting activities the two of us could take part in that would really get my panties moist.

Tie him to a chair. Peel back his eyelids and staple them to his brow. Force him to watch the Sound of Music on repeat until he starts to sympathize with Hans Zeller. Yes, make him suffer for my pleasure.

OUR PLEASURE, you mean.

Yes, our pleasure.

The waitress roaming around is much more our type, in that cute little boy shirt and tie ensemble. Now her I wouldn’t mind bending over the table and seeing if the glove fits.

I reach for my utensils while saying flatly, “What do you mean by character?”

“The whole multiple personalities thing you do in your promotional videos and on social media. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not judging you for creating an illusion for the audience to buy into. In fact, I encourage it.”

Somewhere, in the deeping dark of my subconsciousness, the Other Me tugs at my amygdala. He thinks we’re playing make-believe in our videos. No, dear Lucas, this is me playing a character, sitting here, right now, watching you masticate a marsupial.

“Yes, my character,” I say with a thin smile. “My father taught me everything I know about professional wrestling.”

“Yes, Spiral. I’m familiar with his work.”

“He always said pro wrestling is a sport, but it’s also entertainment. Viewers want a story. They want drama. They want heroes to cheer for and villains to fear.”

I take my knife and stab into a zebra meatball, hard enough to make our table rattle. It startles Lucas and the sound breaks through the noisy restaurant to draw a dozen sets of eyes away from their meals to watch me roughly slice off a piece of meat and take the first bite. It’s surprisingly lean, which often can lead to a drier texture, but the chef has added a slight amount of cream, or perhaps egg, to the mixture to help retain moisture.

“I know exactly what you mean,” he says to me before moving down his plate to cut into the next meatball. “Your father was Danish, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. Mother is Moldovan-Russian. My grandfather was from Voronezh. He was an abusive alcoholic. He beat my mother and grandmother regularly. He put his hands on me once when I was four. Punishment for accidentally breaking a plate. Mom told me not to tell dad but I did anyway.”

He pauses from eating to look at me with peaked interest. “I bet he wasn’t happy.”

“You could say that,” I say with a playful tone. “Dad flew in and we spent the day together. That night, while I slept, grandfather stumbled his way onto the train tracks behind our house. Sirens woke me up. The sun was still on the horizon. I looked out the window and saw the aftermath. Do you know what happens when a train runs over a person?”

The food stalls in his mouth as the thought obviously crosses his mind. He chokes, just a little, forcing him to take a drink from his glass of water. “No, I don’t,” he mumbles after gulping hard.

“They’re butchered into tiny little bits. There he was, decapitated, dismembered, and humiliated. The gravel stained red. Crows circling overhead. I saw this graphic scene of violence and I smiled. Russians are an awful people, Lucas. I’ve never met one who wasn’t better off dead. That afternoon, daddy took me out for ice cream. I never asked if he was responsible for my grandfather’s death. I didn’t need to. I knew, and he knew that I knew. He marched my grandfather out to those tracks and watched the train run over him.”

Lucas leans forward. “And your grandfather just stood there?”

“Dad was very persuasive. If my grandfather accepted death by train, the other option must have been much worse.”

“That’s quite a story,” is all he says.

My knife cuts into the yak like train wheels through flesh. “If I sign with you, who will be my first match?”

“I was thinking of Ace Sky and Barney Green. Something simple to get you more acquainted with our audience.”

“Ace Sky,” I say after swallowing a bit. “Isn’t he the guy who bragged about sucking his own dick?”

He nearly spits out of his bourbon. “I, uh, heard about that. Yes.”

“I never wrestled him in UPRISING but I recall he claims to have an IQ of 190. Let me ask you something, Lucas. Have you ever had a conversation with Ace Sky?”

“Of course.”

“Does he strike you as someone smarter than 99.9% of all humans on the planet?”

“Well, he does love astronomy and science.”

The yak isn’t as good as the zebra.

“So do third graders,” I say with a wave of my fork. “That’s okay. He can be a genius. Join Mensa. Calculate the geometric angles to perfectly vault around the ring like Simone Biles. I’ll grab him around the neck and squeeze until enough capillaries burst to render him unconscious. What was the other name?”

“Barney Green,” he says while reaching for his bourbon.

“I’m not familiar.”

“Daddy of Violence?”

“You’re making that up.”

He laughs after taking a drink. “No, that’s his actual nickname.”

I take my phone out of my Prada mini-bag and run a search. “He’s from Boston. Great. Likes light tubes, bleeding profusely…fights drunk? That’s not wise. Oh, he’s missing an eye. So no depth perception.”

I sit the phone down. “Basically a garbage wrestler who might soil himself if I choke him out. I’ll stick with the head kick.”

“That’s what I love about this matchup. Every style of pro wrestling will be on display. Ace is the technical high flier. Barney, the brawler who will risk life and limb for victory. And you, a shoot wrestler. A goddamn Olympian! It writes itself!”

I don’t care who I face, but it’s fun watching him wiggle on the hook.

“It sounds interesting,” I say half-heartedly.

“I promise you, there is no promotion on earth that can match the lucrative contract I’m prepared to offer you.”

“I don’t need your money, Lucas. You can pay me the minimum but I want guarantees.”

That jolts him nearly out of his seat. He leans forward while pushing his half-eaten plank of meatballs aside. “By all means, don’t keep me in suspense.”

He’s practically drooling.

“First,” I say while picking up my martini, “you will acknowledge me as the UPRISING World champion and Miracle Galaxy Pro ENDVR champion.”

“Done,” he says, slapping his hand on the table for emphasis.

After a drink, I continue, “Second, I want full creative control of my presentation, merchandise and, more importantly, you will air without editing every piece of content I submit for CULT TV, whether live or pre-taped.”

“Absolutely,” he says excitedly. “We never censor our talent.”

“I want that in writing,” I say with a smile. “In return you can pay me one dollar a match and 50% of my merchandise sales. If you or anyone at CULT breaks these conditions, then my contract will be null and void.”

He thinks he’s winning. He’s going to go back to his hotel and pleasure himself over this, then call back to bumfuck Canada to brag about how he got one over on me, but he’s a fool. He doesn’t know what I’m capable of or what terrible things my life’s work requires me to do. The world deserves a better sort of monster. Someone willing to torch a field and starve the village to kill one lone rabbit feeding on the crop.

He agrees to my conditions and promises to deliver the contract to my lawyer first thing in the morning. We finish our dinner, filling the time with small talk. Nails on a chalkboard for me, but I maintain against the assaulting banality. He picks up the check and we say our goodbyes.

On the walk home I catch the waitress in the alley trying to light a cigarette. She’s startled when I approach but relaxes seeing my familiar face holding out a lighter. We share her cigarette and talk about life, work and the ills of society. She asks if I was on a date. It starts drizzling warm rain. I pull her in close by the waist. Her heart’s racing. The Other Me wants out to play. I let her.

We whisper in her ear, “Now we’re twice as wet.”