Barrett Barrell was a monster of a man. At age 12, he started working as a professional wrestler because he was just too mean to fit anywhere else. He had no training whatsoever, and his roughhouse style showed as much. He loved beating people up--he found it came naturally for him, and got paid well for it. He might've become a world champion somewhere, in some promotion, had he ever cared enough to learn technique or focus. But technique, and sportsmanship, and glory--none of those things were important to him. He stepped between the ropes because he wanted the guy on the other side of the ring to tremble with fear.
As he got older and fatter and balder, he found that fear easier to elicit. Even well into his early 60s, no one wanted to get in the ring with him, and those that did found themselves humiliated to the point where they'd have to move states or change names or wear a mask just to get booked. Barrett broke minds-- he took their spirits and squeezed them dry. He was a bully in every sense of the word, and the sort of abuse he liked to inflict became something of an addiction for him. If he got his opponent to cry even a little bit, it was a good night.
Barrett Barrell was not someone you'd call handsome. His huge, thick lips hid crooked teeth and wide, slobbering tongue that seemed to spend more time hanging out of his mouth than in. His blue, sunken eyes drooped with wicked intent. He sniffed constantly. His cheeks were round and red. His sagging chest was enormous, and could not be concealed by his leather vest. His belly button hung down below his belt line, and wobbled with his gait. And yet, despite all this, there was something strangely hypnotic about him. He walked around town looking like he owned the place. No one dared say anything bad about him. Everyone feared him. People whispered behind his back, but no one would dare speak to him directly.
No one ever told Timmy Sun,his opponent for the evening, any of this.
***
Timmy Sun walked out into the arena to no music, and no particular fanfare. It was his debut match, and no one expected much from him. The booker called him "Twinkletoes" behind his back when he went through the curtain. Timmy heard it. He thought he'd be embarrassed, or angry, but instead he just kind of accepted that this sort of thing would happen, given how much smaller he was compared to other wrestlers. He was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to care. They certainly didn't pay him enough to care, and pay was all he cared about--win or lose, a paycheck was going to get handed to him at the end of the night, and that's all that mattered.
He wore a sleeveless white shirt emblazoned with a gold star, with pink speedos and boots. He adjusted his pink wrist tape and tried to ignore the front row drunks that called him a sissy. They probably wouldn't remember him tomorrow. But still: he was new, and vulnerable, and maybe a little afraid.
He hopped onto the apron, and stepped through the ropes.
The ref stared at him. Timmy looked tiny even next to the official. Maybe the ref was wondering if this whole match was some kind of sick joke. Timmy knew he could handle physical abuse; he was sturdier than his toned, 5-and-half-foot body made he look, he thought. He had heard his opponent was a fat old guy so he figured he could probably just wait till his opponent gassed out and get a surprise roll up pin or something. That's the way these old timers usually were at indie shows--all intimidation, no stamina. Or maybe he'd just lay down for a pin after a few minutes and let the guy win. It didn't matter to him either way.
But then Barrett Barrell's entrance music--"Lovin' You's a Dirty Job"--came on. Timmy raised an eyebrow and peered down the ramp-way. There was a big dude in an ill fitting leather vest and jeans limping towards the ring. His belly hung over his belt. He was balding but still attempted a mullet. He had a bushy black mustache that twitched. His arms were thick, perhaps the only part of his body with any visible strength. He walked slowly, purposefully. He seemed to enjoy being stared at, and met Timmy's gaze with an unflinching, unblinking expectation.
Barrett smirked as he reached the bottom of the ramp-way. He leaned forward and spat on the ground between his feet before walking up the steel steps, his cowboy boots clanking as he climbed.
Timmy started thinking thoughts that were, in hindsight, not the brightest thoughts he'd ever conjured up. The winner of a wrestling match always gets more money, you see. If this old guy had a limp and poor cardio, Timmy decided he could take control of the match by getting in Barrett's head. He was going to goad him into attacking first, run from the big man, and wear him out. Then he would finish him off with a surprise pin. It was a perfect plan, he thought.
Even though Barrett outweighed him significantly, Timmy seemed confident enough. He walked right up to the heel, snarled, then spat directly into Barrett's face before taking another step back.
The crowd erupted in cheers and gasps. Barrett's eyes widened. He took off his vest and wiped his face. When Barrett brought the vest away and revealed a crooked, inspired grin, Timmy briefly thought that, perhaps, he had gone too far.
Barrett charged forward and grabbed Timmy by the throat, and lifted him up with one hand. The little man flailed around helplessly, and kicked his pink boots uselessly against Barrett's wide chest. With one swift motion, Barrett choke-slammed him back-first onto the mat. Timmy bounced once, twice, three times, before coming to rest.
The referee rushed over to check on him, while Barrett sauntered over to the ropes and leaned against them, laughing with the crowd. The ref helped Timmy up. Timmy's head lolled on the swivel of his neck. He looked confused, as if he didn't understand what just happened to him.
"Are you okay?" asked the ref.
"Yeah?... I think so..."
"Well then, we'll start this match. If you don't want to do this, say so now."
Timmy's vision cleared. He saw Barrett leaning nonchalantly against the ropes. Timmy only thought of money, and getting at least one good hit in on Barrett for attacking him before the bell.
"No. Let's do this."
The ref blinked incredulously. "Alright, man. I gave you a chance." He signaled for the bell, which rang in response. The match was on.
Timmy ran up to Barrett and attempted to lock up with him. Barrett, whose brows rose in humor that this boy would try to chain wrestle him, simply slapped Timmy across the face. The pink-adorned twink flopped over from the blow. Barrett followed up with a short falling elbow to Timmy's chest, and had he wanted to, his 300+ pounds probably could have netted him the easiest paycheck in the world right there.
Instead, Barrett climbed atop his prone opponent, summoned as big of a wad of a spit as he could, and shot it square into Timmy's face. The crowd roared with hysterical surprise and disgust. This wasn't just normal spittle either; this was something special. The amount of saliva Barrett sprayed in Timmy's face was so thick, it began dripping from his chin and nose. Not satisfied with merely spraying him, Barrett continued to squeeze bullets of spit out of his mouth, over and over again, until most of Timmy's face was covered. Barrett pulled away and raised his hands to the booing crowd while Timmy tried desperately to wipe the gooey mess off his face using his hands.
When Barrett turned back around after jeering the crowd, he was shocked to see the little twink still on the ground, flopping like a fish. Did Barrett even need to fight that hard to beat this little twerp? When Timmy staggered back to one knee, Barrett grabbed him by the hair and clutched Timmy's jaw hard, forcing his mouth open. Barrett spat right inside Timmy's mouth.
Sun gagged on the saliva and stumbled backwards, as if he had taken a hit.
Barrell laughed. "You're ridiculous. I'm going to have fun with you, you little fag. You're mine tonight."
Barrett straddled Timmy again. Timmy groaned, which left his mouth open wide. A perfect target--Barrell continued spitting on him, intermittently slapping either side of Timmy's face between his projectile wads. Both sides of Timmy's face were red with palm prints now, and it was hard to tell where his sweat stopped and Barrett's spit began.
Timmy struggled to get out from under the 300 pounder, but each slap drained his senses. He was helpless. He could barely keep his arms up, much less force Barrett off of him. The more he fought, the harder Barrett would slap him. His eyes glazed, and after a particularly hard slap across his cheek which crackled like thunder, his guard simply drooped to the canvas.
Barrett realigned himself atop Timmy and pinned his shoulders flat. The ref slapped the mat to count the pinfall--One! Two!...
Barrett pulled the out-cold twink's shoulders off the mat. The crowd booed him, but their hatred just painted his face with wicked satisfaction. "I'm not done yet!" he yelled at the audience. "You're all on MY time."
