Date: Fri, 30 Jan 1998 04:21:25 +1000
From: cuteheel@hotmail.com
Subject: Teen Pro #3: Betrayal

One.

Summer was staying late in Peyton County and not a skerrick of breeze
found its way into the large, gloomy gymnasium that Tuesday afternoon.
Chief Commissioner and senior scuzz-bucket J.W. Simms was sitting three
seats in front of me, smoking like a chimney and scrawling obscenites
onto the ragged edge of his yellow legal pad when he was supposed to be
making notes. It was audition day for Continental Championship Wrestling
and things were not going well.

"Fucken losers," he muttered as two enormous men in dirty blue overalls
lumbered around the ring in front of us. The entry on his pad read "Tag
team #7 -- Uncle Bart & Cousin Clem: The Ozark Killbillies".  Each man
was as big as the mountain that bred them and Simms was scoring thick
black lines through their names on the page.

"The truth is, if we don't get some talent inno this outfit soon you ken
all pack yer bags and go home," Simms had told a meeting of the
wrestlers just three days before. "We're almost broke and none `o your
ugly pusses is pulling in the mugs. What we need here is a show."

The truth was, the only time Simms wasn't crying poor as a rat was when
he was trying to pick up one of the trailer-trash girls who hung around
the dressing room door after a fight -- girls so ugly not even Clinton
would fuck them. But somehow this time we thought he might not just be
spinning us a line -- Mad Dog Donovan had already been poached by a rival
promotion and even our ring announcer was so poor he was coming home
sober two nights out of ten.

"Why don't you just sack pussy-boy here?" my tag-partner Aaron had said
that day, smacking me hard on the shoulder. Teenagers a year apart, we'd
been a good draw for CCW for nine months. But depsite clean blond looks
which made us seem like brothers, we'd gotten so we couldn't stand the
sight of each other. Aaron had been madder than a snake after I won the
Cruiserwight Title and I'd promised myself now I had the gold around my
waist, our next tag match would be the last.

"Shaddup, shit-fer-brains," Simms had said. "What I called you here to
tell you is that we're holding talent auditions for athletes on Tuesday,
and I'm gonna test some `o your sorry asses against the new guys in the
next show. If you `girls' wanna stay in this flea-bag promotion, you'd
better start earning your keep."

After that little talk the other guys had dispersed, with Aaron storming
out of the room first and slamming the door to underline his point. He'd
accused Simms of favouritism toward me on account of giving me the title
shot, and it just seemed to confirm his suspicion when Simms asked me to
stay on after the meeting.

"Look, Chad," he said, "I want you to help me on Tuesday. You got an eye
for talent, you know what looks good in the ring. I want you to give me
your opinion."

So here I was , sweltering away in an iron sweatbox, watching two
rednecks with cholesterol levels higher than the combined IQs of their
entire family sparring unsuccessfully with a pair of the dumbest jobbers
in CCW.

"They suck," I said, as the two clambered clumsily out through the ring
ropes. The jobbers looked pleased to see them go, smeared as they were
in the sweat from the Killbillies' bodies.

"I know," said Simms, who'd stopped crossing out their names. But
suddenly he drew a big circle around the whole inky mess and added: "But
they're in, `cos they'll work for less'n any other idiots I know."

Two.
I knew it was pointless to argue with him and was just about to excuse
myself for a Coke when Simms called the next candidate. I was already on
my feet and turned for the door when I saw a 5' 11" silhouette appear in
the sharp light from outside. He cast a heavy shadow and as the stranger
walked forward the supple darkness seemed to stick to him, resolving
itself into the cocoa-coloured skin of a young Pacific islander.
"Lanai?" Barked Simms, looking at his pad. "Kyle Lanai!"

As Lanai came out of the glare I could see the boy looked about my age,
19, but where I was blond and fair he had the smoothest, oak-coloured
skin and hair I had ever seen. His hair was cropped close and squared
off at the top which accentuated his small, turned-up nose and deep
dimples. He looked like one of a series of erotic colour drawings of
Hawaiian boys I had once seen in a magazine.

"Lanai?" Simms barked again, fumbling simultaneously with a cigarette
and a box of matches. "What're you waiting for, boy? Get in the ring and
show us what you got."

The boy was already dressed for the audition in a pair of white speedo
tights with a yellow band at the waist and frond-like filigree patterns
reaching down from it, like the design of a Versace swimsuit. The
pattern was picked out in black and the only other thing on his body was
a blue, drug-store-bought ankle brace around his left foot. The foam
brace had a hole for his heel and another for his toes, and while there
was no trace of a limp its mere presence gave his youthful body a
vulnerable quality unlike any other wrestler I'd ever seen.

Simms seemed oblivious to anything about the boy and lit his cigarette
as Kyle faced one of the jobbers in the ring. I returned to my seat and
took another look at his incredible, slender but strong body. It seemed
to have a lot in common with mine: big, square-cut pectorals and solid
biceps which tapered quickly and smoothly into a narrow waist or a
slender forearm. His abs, like mine, were in good shape but still a
little boyish to look at, while Kyle's slimness and his islander
colouring gave his figure an almost Asian appearance. His face, however,
was almost impossible to describe. He had almond-shaped eyes which were
elongated but full, as if he may have had one Caucasian parent. His chin
was square and when he looked at you straight on the little spikes of
his hair-cut and that button nose made him seem far younger than his
years.

The jobber he was sparring against was in no great shape and already
exhausted from an afternoon in the ring. The biggest beating the guy had
received was from the first try-outs, a tag team of humourless,
well-built Canadians who'd failed to make it at professional ice hockey.
But even against this unimpressive foe Kyle shone, showing an incredible
agility and a preference for aerial moves that could have won him a job
in any show in Mexico. 

After about five minutes the jobber had been pushed around, knocked over
and tripped up; never really hurt or on the receiving end of any big
blows, but sufficiently frustrated and humiliated to look thoroughly
pissed off. Simms ordered an end to the demonstration and Kyle left the
gymnasium, barely having worked up a sweat.

"That kid's incredible," I said when he'd gone. 

"Naah," said Simms. "Too flashy, too young. And what the fuck was with
those faggy trunks? He'd be beaten up by the audience before he ever got
inno the ring."

I noticed that my own dick was stiff as a board in my jeans and I leant
forward a long way rather than stand up to talk. 

"Look, Simms. Why not give the kid a chance? I could, you know " I
didn't want to sound too eager here and blow the whole thring " I could
go up against him myself, you know, on Saturday. In singles. Just to
check him out for you. You know."

"That's real generous of you Chad, it really is. But I got other ideas
for this Saturday. I want you and Aaron to go up against those two
Canadians."


Three.

On Saturday Aaron and I were getting dressed just before the match. We
had to share a dressing room with other wrestlers in the show on account
of all the new blood, whose appearance had added three extra bouts to
our usual card.

The mood in the locker room was tense and Aaron and I did not speak as
we slipped on our matching yellow boots and speedos. I noticed Aaron's
tight little body had definitely been getting mroe muscular over the
last two months and wondered idly whether he'd been using steroids. Some
guy claming to be a sports therapist had been handing them out to some
of the other wrestlers and if Simms knew anything about it, he wasn't
complaining. I figured steroids might account for Aaron's extra
obnoxious moods lately -- and anyway, I'd made up my mind that I was
going to dissolve our tag partnership as of this match. I'd tell him
after the bout.

Aaron sneered visibly at me as I took my gold Cruiserweight belt out of
the bag and snapped it around my waist. He had never had a title and I
paused for a moment to examine myself in the mirror -- I was convinced
the round metal plate in the middle made my dick look bigger as it sat
just over my crotch in the speedos.

"Enjoy it, pussy-boy," was all Aaron would say before we walked into the
auditorium, "enjoy it while you can."

We jogged up the three stairs into the main stadium and the good-sized
crowd let out a cheer. I'd come to know a good number of the regulars
and even though Aaron was an evil little fuck in real life, to the mugs
these two blond-haired, all-American teenagers were the good guys.

We climbed through the ring ropes to our entrance music and Perry the
announcer bellowed out our fake names to the crowd. We waved, and there
was an extra cheer as I took my belt off and handed it to a
ring-assistant for safe-keeping. In another moment the lights dimmed,
signalling the arrival of our opponents. I hadn't seen the pair since
their audition on Tuesday and had not paid as close attention to them
then as I should have.

Suddenly there was a screeching sound in the auditorium, like someone
dropping the needle on a record, and after a noisy pause `O Canada'
started blaring out of the speakers. It was a bad recording of a
dreadful song and there, in the distance, two figures appeard.

The first one was Todd Morgan, a clean-cut college-looking athlete with
broad shoulders and tall, powerful legs. He had tight black hair which
had just a slight tendency to curl, and was wearing a white floor-length
robe with a red maple leaf sparkling on his back. Despite his powerful,
healthy frame, Todd's skin was extremely pale and he had a red tinge to
his face like a Scot or a Britisher.

His partner was a dusty blond, with a brown complexion that gave the
impression his skin and his hair were all the same colour. Alexandre
Guillot had thick, straight-combed hair which came out to a ducktail at
the rear and revealed a darker growth underneath. He too was
college-looking, 24 maybe or 25, with a rower's build and long black
tights which disappeared into heavy black boots. The boots looked a lot
nastier than regulations permited and as soon as he entered the ring he
dropped his black robe to reveal a powerful upper-body with a strong
chest and large, milk-chocolate coloured nipples. 

Morgan also dropped his robe to reveal surprisingly small white speedo
tights with thick red stripes on either side and another red maple leaf
directly over his crotch. His pale colouring made his body look less
impressive than his partner's, but it was sinewy and strong and every
bit as muscular. He has small, pink, angry-looking nipples which glared
at me from across the ring.

Perry did his announcing and Aaron said to me he'd take the ring first,
which was unusual.


Four.

When Aaron approached Guillot I got a sense of just how much smaller
than the Canadian he was. Aaron was about an inch shorter than me at 6'
but the blond northerner was a good two to three inches taller, and his
partner was the same. But I knew the boy didn't scare easily and as they
circled each other I could see Aaron staring the bigger man out.

My partner opened with a classic feint -- he stretched his left arm out
and clutched his hand open and closed, as if inviting a lock-up.

Guillot's attention naturally follwed the hand and as he was deciding
whether or not to take up the challenge, Aaron landed a kick to the
man's thigh with his right boot.

Guillot was immediately staggered and Aaron followed it up with a boot
to his abs. Guillot had a great stomach with a prominent `outy' navel
and Aaron had great pleasure in landing another, even nastier kick as
the Canadian leant into the ropes for support. Guillot had doubled over
now and Aaron held his neck down with one hand and landed a powerful
forearm with the other.

The ropes bounced with the force of the blow and the crowd roared.
Guillot was hunched over, bent at the knees but still standing, as Aaron
landed two more heavy forearms on his neck. The Canadian's arms grabbed
weakly at Aaron's waist but he seemed to be too dazed to do anything
more. Then, just as Aaron raised one arm to acknowledge the crowd, his
oponent tightened his grip and threw Aaron over his shoulder and over
the top rope.

I could see the look of surprise and terror on Aaron's face as the
slender teenager sailed through the air, arms flailing until he hit the
ground. He managed just to miss the top of the metal railing but his
head landed hard against its bottom, and now it was Guillot's turn to
acknowledge the approval of the crowd.

If the Canadian had been seriously hurt in the first attack there was no
evidence of it as he leapt over the rope after my partner. Aaron had
lifted himself up to all fours just as Guillot landed next to him and
kicked him solidly in the ribs with his biker's boot. The railing
clanked loudly as Aaron bounced into it, and as he fell forward onto his
stomach I could see thick red marks on his back where he'd connected
with the metal bars.

Guillot grabbed Aaron by his hair and lifted him into a press. The crowd
roared as the big man displayed the teenager for a moment, then dropped
his limp body so his throat connected with the top of the railing.

Aaron yelled in pain and rolled violently away from where he'd landed,
clutching his neck in agony. All of a sudden Guillot was on him again,
this time raking his nails deep across Aaron's back. The boy screamed
and reached up to grab the railings, desperate to get back to his feet.
I watched as Guillot took the opportunity to land two bone-crushing
boots to the small of his back and then, as Aaron crumbled, Guillot
grabbed his head from behind and dragged his face along the bars of the
railing like a cup against a cell in a prison movie.

I had never seen one wrestler do that to another and Aaron seemed almost
insensible with shock and pain. He had begun to bleed from his nose and
lips and his yellow boots and tights were flithy from where they had
dragged through the grime. Even the normally blood-thirsty front row of
the audience seemed stunned by the violence of what they had just seen --
the ref had only just appeard at the ropes to begin counting both
wrestlers out and Guillot was grinning from ear to ear as he climbed
back into the ring. 

Aaron was on his feet now, but blind with pain and staggering wildly
over the padded mats. I dropped to the ground and took him back to our
corner, where I helped him slowly back onto the canvas. Large drops of
blood were staining the downy hair on his boyish chest and his eyes had
rolled back into his head. Looking up, I saw that Guillot had returned
to his own corner and tagged Morgan, who just leant on the turnbuckles,
waiting. Taking my cue I rolled Aaron onto the ring apron and tagged in
immediately.

I climbed into the ring and eyed Morgan suspiciously. The dark-haired
man was still leaning casually in his own corner, hips cocked just a
little aside in a strangely sensual, coquettish stance. He seemed to be
evaluating me.

I moved into the centre of the ring but would go no closer. Morgan
stayed still for another moment, his expression appraising, but
spontaneously a bored clap rose from the crowd. They were beginning to
judge him a coward.

Morgan didn't respond to the audience but sauntered slowly over to me.
All the time looking me straight in the eye, he lifted both biceps into
a flex. Now the crowd screamed their approcal and Moragns' gaze seemed
to me mocking me, daring me to compete against his physique. My body was
a lot more slender but still reasonably muscular for a 19-year-old, and
it was my home turf. So I, too, lifted my arms into a flex.

Now it was me who had been suckered. No sooner had I exposed my body
than a big white boot pounded toe-first into my gut, sending needles of
pain down into my legs and up into my chest. I took an involuntary step
backwards and Morgan pounced, twisting my arm and extending it, trapping
me the next instant in a wrist lock. 

The pain forced me to bend my knees and I could feel my face screwing up
in agony. Morgan looked extremely pleased with himself and walked me
around the ring in a circle, ending up in his corner. With my head bent
down I looked up too late to see Guillot waiting for me, standing on the
top rope and poised for an elbow drop.

Down he came and connected almost exactly with my own exposed elbow. I
yelled, while the blow forced Morgan to let go and I crumpled to the
mat, nursing my throbbing arm under my doubled-over body. I was aware of
the ref's shoes and an order for Guillot to get out of the ring, which
he did. But there was Todd Morgan's hand on my shoulder, dragging me up
and once more taking hold of my aching arm.

Morgan dragged me quickly toward the centre of the ring and then into an
Irish whip. I spun towards the ring ropes, connected against them with
my shoulders and flew back into a drop-kick into my face. Both boots
exploded into my left cheek and I landed hard on my shoulders and the
back of my head. No sooner had I hit the canvas than there he was,
dragging me once more to my feet.

I felt a riot of pain as he went back to my injured left arm and again
sent me shooting into the ropes. This time, despite the agony, I managed
to hook both my elbows over the top rope and stop myself from flying
back into his kick.

For Morgan it was too late. He was already in the air, and as I bounced
back and forth on the elasticity of the ropes he kicked into nothing and
landed hard on the mat.

He must have landed on the small of his back because he bridged and
reached his arm into that area, wincing. I was dazed and sick-feeling
from my beating but I quickly launched myself at him, aiming an elbow at
the highest point of his stomach.

I hit and the Canadian came down hard on the tenderest part of his back;
I could tell by the way he yelped that he was winded. Taking advantage
of his disorientation I manoeuvred behind him, grabbed and twisted his
own arms and planted my boot between his shoulder-blades. The surfboard
was clamped on quickly and standing, I had all the leverage I needed to
force his seated figure closer and clsoer to the mat, wringing every
last molecule of oxygen out of his lungs.

Todd Morgan had powerful arms and wrists but I managed to control him.
He was wincing with pain and half grunting, half whimpering as I
increased the pressure. 

"Submit!" I said.

"Fuck you," he cried through clenched teeth, degenerating into a cry of
pain as I twisted harder.

>From where I was standing I could see Aaron, who did not seem to have
recovered well. I was just trying to make eye-contact with him when for
an instant the word went black.


Five.

I opened my eyes to find myself lying on my side on the canvas, and
there was Alexandre Guillot's black boot right in front of me. I was too
late to stop it plowing into my stomach.

The blond Canadian had axe-handled me from behind, and his dark-haired
partner was already recovering. I could see Morgan supporting himself on
the ropes, taking one deep breath after another, but then Guillot's boot
hit home again and when I rolled over to protect myself, he kicked me
harder in the back.

The ref was again on the periphery, yelling at Guillot to get out of the
ring. I was dimly aware of Aaron, staying right where he was when I
badly needed a save. By now I was on my back again and just as I caught
a glimpse of the ref forcing Guillot back into his corner, Morgan's
elbow crashed hard against my chest.

Now it was me who was winded, although Morgan himself was sluggish and
slow to get up from next to me. I managed to rock forward into a sitting
position, but then another sharp pain to the head, this time from
Morgan's boot. My only chance was to grab the ropes and hope the ref
could get the big man to back off.

I crawled painfully forward on my elbows, dragging my lower body limply
behind me. Just as I reached out for the lowest rope I felt a hand
gripping my fringe and yanking me hard by may hair. The next moment I
was unsteadily on my feet, then I felt my neck being cranked backwards
and cradled on Morgan's shoulder. Before I could react the nightmare
struck: DDT.

For one instant I was on the inside of a thunder-clap and then I was
rolling groggily this way and that, unaware if I were just being rocked
by momentum or if my own body were dumbly trying to move me somewhere.
For that one moment all physical sensations were replaced with pain: the
roar of the crowd, the glare of the lights and even the distant feeling
of boots and tights pressing against my skin were all for one instant a
single, searing agony.

Suddenly I felt the mat falling away from me and in the next second I
realised it was not the canvas that was falling, but me. I hit the
padded mats on the outside of the ring and tried to open my eyes against
the painful light. Slowly the sound of the crowd resolved itself into
recognisible noise and I lay there, covered in sweat and breathing
shallowly, trying to recover from the crippling move.

I have no idea how many seconds I lay there, but all too soon I caught
sight of a pair of thick black boots and powerful calves clad in black
spandex. I tensed myself for the inevitable kick but it never came --
instead Guillot just lifted me to my feet and threw me roughly back into
the ring.

I tumbled two, three times into the centre of the ring, but I couldn't
see Morgan. For an instant I panicked, sure that he must be about to
fall on me from the top of the turnbuckles -- but then I saw him. He was
leaning back in his corner, that same insolent, appraising look tinged
this time with an air of smug superiority.

I was not close to Aaron but I struggled to my feet and tried
desperately to get into my own corner. He was still looking pretty
bruised form his beating, but I figured at this point he was doing a
whole lot better than me.

I was heavy on my feet and as I limped toward my partner I was aware of
Morgan approaching me from behind. Aaron was not so much standing on the
ring apron as draped against the turnbuckle, but I made one more lunge
toward him and managed to reach out before Morgan had me.

To my horror, as I stretched my hand to Aaron he pulled away. I was in
the corner now, touching the turnbuckle, but Aaron pulled away further.
He wouldn't meet my eye but I had no longer to ponder the situation
because Morgan landed a double axe-handle between my shoulder blades. 
I collapsed into the turnbuckles, turning as I fell so I hit the corner
hard with my back. Morgan stood in front of me for a moment, and I
seemed to notice movement behind the bright red maple leaf on his
trunks. But then he unloaded two huge rights and a left onto my chin,
snapping my head back in time with the blows. My jaw felt like it was
going to shatter and my knees weakened as Morgan hit me two, three times
more again.

Aaron was looking at me now, from the position he had taken up a few
feet away. Somehow I choked some air back into my lungs and said: "Aaron
-- for fuck's sake. Help me!"

But there was something different about him -- for the first time I had
ever seen, there seemed to be fear in his eyes. He had stopped bleeding
but his body was badly marked from the earlier beating and he just shook
his head. The crowd went silent with anticipation.

Morgan seemed to understand what was happening and he laughed. With one
powerful swoop, like an executioner's axe coming down, he grabbed Aaron
by the back of the head and rolled him over the top rope into the ring.
I didn't yet understand what was happening but Morgan then approached
me, hanging limply in the corner, and put me into a full nelson. 

He turned me toward Aaron and in a thick Canadian accent said: "Go on
kid. Go to town."


Six.

I couldn't believe what was happening, and in front of me Aaron paused,
confused. Then in an instant Guillot was behind Aaron and had clamped on
an identical full nelson, both taller opponents punishing us fiercely
with their leverage.

With a heavy French-Canadian twang Guillot said: "Do it, boy. Do it or
you'll get worse." Then he released him.

Aaron dropped to the canvas and looked up at me, his face a mask of
fear. Another moment passed and Guillot kicked him hard in the ribs. "Do
it!" yelled the Canadian. "Hit your friend or I'll break every bone in
your fucking body!"

I watched as Aaron's face passed from pain to confusion to anger, and
then to hatred. It was the same look I had seen after I won the
Cruiserweight Title; the same look whenever I executed a move that
gained the approval of the crowd. Aaron slowly got to his feet and
approached me as Todd Morgan tightened his grip. When Aaron was standing
lees than one foot away from me, he fixed his gaze onto mine and then
spat in my face. The audience went wild.

The next thing I knew Aaron was beating me in my stomach, lefts and
rights, then lifting his blows so they fell on my chest. At first I was
too startled to react, but in seconds I was yelling in pain.

"No!" I cried, "No, Aaron! Don't! Please!"

But at the sound of my voice Aaron seemed to get more viscious. After
fifteen or twenty blows to my gut and chest he aimed for my face, but by
now he was almost delerious, and Morgan seemed to think there was a risk
the boy would miss and hit him.

The darker Canadian released me and I fell like a ton of bricks to the
canvas, surrounded by three pairs of boots. The ref was dancing around
us like a crazed secretary bird, and from my obscured vantage point I
can only assume Guillot pushed him hard to the other side of the ring. I
saw the ref stumble over and then, with a look of fear similar to the
one I had just seen on Aaron's face, he slithered out of the ring like a
snake and ran toward the locker rooms. 

The bell rang to end the match but it was useless -- I was alone with the
two Canadians and my treacherous partner. The two big men each took an
arm and dragged me, stomach down, to centre of the ring. But instead of
dropping me they both started to twist, and I screamed with pain. Aaron
walked around in front of me, picked my head up by the hair and started
landing blows to my forehead as the other two stretched and twisted.
My head snapped back and forth until finally they dropped me. By that
time I could do nothing on the canvas, not even roll over. So I lay face
down as Morgan crouched on top of my back, knees pinning my upper arms
and used his grip on my hair to pound my face repeatedly into the mat.
The attacks on my head had shaken my brain and I began to lose track of
time, but I was distantly aware of Guillot leaving the ring and wresting
my Cruiserweight belt from its place on the time-keeper's table. Back
into the ring he came with it and Morgan shifted his pin on me into a
camel clutch. Again Aaron held my head up by the hair as Guillot gripped
the gold metal belt where I could see it. He smashed it hard into my
face.

I felt my nose crack and a bright red slash of blood ran down my neck
and collar bone, onto the canvas. Aaron seemed to particularly like
this, and Guillot allowed him to take the belt and continue the assault
on my nose, forehead and cheekbones. As the little shit laid into me
with increasing violence, I could see the dick getting harder and harder
in his yellow trunks.

The camel clutch was unbelievably painful and the beating on my head was
leading me quickly toward unconsciousness. Had there been any ref, any
point, I would have pleaded for a submission. But there was no hope so I
resisted begging and just whimpered with the pain of the beating. One
eye had bruised shut already and out of the other one I could see
Guillot sliding back into the ring with a metal chair.


Seven. 

I lay in Morgan's hold, waiting for the blow with the chair. But just as
I was sure it was coming, there was a flash of something in front of my
eyes and the chair bounced off the apron and out of the ring in front of
me. In the next instant Guillot followed it over the top rope, and then
Morgan released the camel clutch.

I dropped to the canvas and looked up, with no idea what to expect. The
first thing I saw was a flash of yellow and white, and then a violent
kick with a trace of blue at the end of it. It was Kyle Lanai from the
Tuesday audition.

The big martial arts kick connected with Aaron's chin and he was thrown
across the ring, coming to rest hard against the turnbuckles. His head
bounced back and forth and another vessel opened in his nose, dumping
blood all over him. I could tell from the angle of his neck that he had
passed out.

Morgan was just getting to his feet after the blow that made him release
me, but Kyle was waiting for him, landing a chop across the throat that
laid him flat on his back. Guillot was getting back into the ring now,
mad as hell, but before he could climb through the ropes Kyle had turned
Morgan into a human missile, head-butting the blond Canadian back onto
the ground.

Morgan came to rest on the second rope, arms hanging outside the ring. I
was still too dazed to stand but I saw Kyle pick Morgan up by the feet
and flip him over towards the audience, so his neck was tied in the top
and second ropes like a wound up rubber band. He hung there like a rag
doll, with his arms also pinned, and the move genuinely looked like it
could strangle him.

Morgan began to panic and flail his legs wildly, trying to take the
pressure off his neck. Guillot was still on the mats outside the ring,
rubbing his head. With an incredible lucha libre move I had only ever
seen on television, Kyle launched himself over the top rope and
connected his fists with Guillot's head.

I had managed to haul myself to my feet now and supported myself on the
top rope, just next to the spasming Todd Morgan. His red complexion had
now taken over his whole face and upper body, and flecks of spittle were
flying out of his mouth as he rasped like an asthmatic. Guillot was laid
out below me, both hands clutching his forehaed and leaving his
magnificent body exposed. 

Kyle was recovering from his high-risk move, dragging himself up by the
railing. While he got to his feet I summoned the last of my energy,
aimed for Guillot's exposed `outy' and dropped a hard elbow into the
middle of his gut. I enjoyed feeling his strong ab muscles go liquid
under the blow, and as I hauled myself back to my feet I planted a knee
into his cock for good measure.

The whole arena was in pandemonium now, and as I got up I could see CCW
officials helping Morgan out of the ropes. Released, he dropped like a
sack of beans not far from Guillot, barely conscious.

Kyle was on his feet now and Guillot was sitting up, clutching his belly
and crotch in pain. Kyle landed a kick to the back of the Canadian's
neck that I thought was going to take his head off, and it was a tribute
to the big blond's flexibility that he managed to smack his head on the
ground between his knees before snapping backwards and lying there on
his back, out cold.

All the lights in the stadium were up and I had to support myself by
leaning on the ring apron. Officials were swarming everywhere and I saw
Kyle approach me with my title belt. He hooked one arm around his
shoulder and helped raise my other arm in victory, at which the crowd
cheered with a thousand voices.

"C'mon," he said, "let's get you to the locker room."

Even in my beaten state I was enjoying leaning on him for support,
running the flat of my hand against his bare chest and nipple.

"But why," I managed to croak, "why did you help me?"

Kyle grinned. "For the recommendaton you gave me the other day," he
said. "I always wanted to be a wrestler. And someone told me you might
be looking for a new tag partner."

Irony works best on those who aren't bleeding out of three of the seven
holes in their head, so I just smiled weakly at him, and let the
muscular teenager walk me back into the locker room.