TWO: OGRE

Three days earlier....

Almost as if he had already known the move was coming, Lars Ochre shot forward and ducked the human clothesline barreling toward him with haste that seemed impossible for a man of his size. There had been others like him to get into the ring, of course. Not speedy people, though Lars was most certainly speedy.

But big men.

Big wrestlers, to be specific.

Men like Andre the Giant, and Happy Humphrey, and Haystacks Calhoun. King Kong Bundy. Killer Kowalski. Hell, even The Embalmer, the man leaning up against the ropes across from him in his scrub-esque singlet draped with a green fluid and faux blood splattered plastic smock, was a big man. But none of them had been as big and as good as Lars was. Except for maybe the Big Show. He did put on a show. And he was also big.

However, unlike those other legends—Big Show included—Lars was so good he only needed a short, one word stage name, and that name was Ogre. And in keeping with character, Lars “The Ogre” Ochre turned around and rested his elbows on the ropes while he patted his big hairy belly with one hand and buried a finger into his navel with the other. “That all you got, you old necrophiliac?”

The Embalmer bared his yellow maw and growled, “You better watch your tone, Ogre! I’ve got a pine box and an embalming needle with your name on it!”

“Oh, Jesus. You better not try to poke me with that needle dick, again,” Lars grumbled with a smirk. He wasn’t wearing a hidden microphone like The Embalmer—his agent had made sure he wouldn’t ever have to wear one again the last time he negotiated his contract, but one of the half dozen directional mics the Federation had pointed in his direction to compensate would probably pick it up.

The fans confirmed his suspicion a second later when the stands around the ring erupted with cheers and guffaws. They really hated The Embalmer with a passion, which was sad because he was actually an amiable and generous man. Believe it or not, his actual name was Jesus Cremación. He sang in his church choir every Sunday—without the rotten prosthetic teeth and the corpse-like stage makeup. And he always brought Lars a pack of circus peanuts whenever they had to work on a routine together. A few years ago, Lars had made the mistake of mentioning that his grandfather used to buy them for him when he was a kid and even a big jerk like Lars just didn’t have the heart to tell him he hated the goddamn things. Plus, you never knew when a super nice guy who spent an entire thirty-year career playing a villain might finally snap.

Lars didn’t want to be on the receiving end of that postal delivery.

He shook his head, sniffed, and brought his attention back to the match and the next move in that routine they had spent so much time rehearsing. Then he looked over to The Embalmer and gave him an almost imperceptible nod. The villain nodded back, then turned to work the crowd, raising his hand to his ear to take in the symphony of boos with feigned glee.

While his opponent had his back turned, Lars stepped outside the ring and took his turn playing the crowd. At first, he nodded his head, as if he were enjoying the moment just as much as they were, then raised his hands for silence. The fans, as usual, followed his every command. Without breaking eye contact with the crowd—his crowd—he reached his hand back into the ring and felt the referee set a real man’s microphone in his hand.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

He raised it to his mouth, paused, and let out a horrendous belch so low pitched it shook the foundation of the old warehouse along the southern sideline. There was a moment of silence, then the crowd exploded like a two hundred megaton fun bomb had gone off.

“Well, Detroit,” he said, as he basked in the temple of their glory. “What do you say we get this Ogre with?”

They roared and chanted, “Ogre! Ogre! Ogre! Ogre!” as they pumped stacked fists into the air.

Lars made quick work of removing the razor blade taped to the bottom of the microphone, then tossed the transmitter over his shoulder into the horde beyond as he tucked the sharp piece of steel into his waistband. He roared, then took one enormous leap towards the corner post, climbed to the top turnbuckle. and looked straight down at The Embalmer, pleased to see the old pro had slipped an antacid tablet into his mouth when no one was looking. White foam oozed past his yellow teeth and dribbled down to the blue mat like he was an oversized bonobo with rabies.

The Embalmer rushed forward. Lars leaped and twisted his body, driving his feet forward in a hard kick that didn’t quite connect with the other man’s face. But The Embalmer jerked his head back like a truck had hit him, spraying foam in a high arc through the air as he fell to his back with an amplified slap. Outside the ring, regular folk would consider a kick like that the unsuccessful start of a retaliatory beating. To the crowd inside Ford Field, the villain of their narrative had just taken brutal damage to the face.

Lars jumped down on top of the Embalmer, careful to make a show of grabbing the older man’s leg while he removed the razor blade and placed it in his opponent’s open palm. Then, that part of the routine sorted, he yanked up on the leg for the pin.

The referee shot down to the mat and counted. “One! Two! Thr—”

The Embalmer kicked to his belly and mumbled, “You do know that eventually you’re gonna be the old fart past his prime, cutting himself every night, right?”

“Just do the damn thing, man,” Lars spoke through gritted teeth. “You know this part makes me queasy. I hate blood.”

“Sorry, I forgot about that. Lord forgive me. That wasn’t very considerate of me.” He hesitated. “Uh, hey… um, Lars?”

“Yeah?” he replied as both men stumbled to their knees, thankful for the breather.

“You, uh, wanna mix it up a little? Freestyle for these guys? We’re the main event, so we have the time. We could put on a bit of show—add a little value to these overpriced tickets. It would be the Christian thing to do. I know it’s your hometown. Or state or whatever.”

“State. I actually fucking hate Detroit. And stick to the routine, okay?”

“I hate it when you curse like that, but sure thing, Ogre. You’re the star! And for the record? You’re doing a great job.” He paused. “Now hit me.”

Lars did. He cocked back and delivered what looked like a haymaker to the old man. The pro threw his hands up to protect his head, raking the blade across his dark hairline so fast that Lars barely even saw it. Blood poured down The Embalmer’s face, before dripping down his chin and onto his smock, mixing with fake blood splatter printed on at whatever factory made the thing for the lowest possible bid.

With only a few movements left before the routine called for the finisher, Lars “The Ogre” Ochre delivered another series of faux blows, splattering even more blood across the ring. Eventually, The Embalmer dropped to his knees, head wavering like a drunken sailor.

Lars turned towards the nearest corner post, set a foot on the rope, and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey, Detroit? Has anybody here seen my axe?”

“Ogre’s Axe! Ogre’s Axe! Ogre’s Axe!” the fans shouted in response.

Crowd now fully invested in the finale, he climbed to the top turnbuckle for the second time that night, put his hands together as if he were holding an imaginary two-handed axe, and bellowed, “Nevermind! Found it!” before leaping through the air and driving the invisible handle deep into The Embalmer’s skull.

Or at least, he pretended to.