Slenderslam One

From their strategically chosen table they could monitor both the pub’s entrance and the corridor to the rear, which led to the conservatory and patio. The Waterloo was popular with locals, a fact supremely evident today. The trio was somewhat conspicuous by its presence.

‘So you were due to put out a CD?’ asked Hitman.

‘That’s right,’ Lita replied. ‘I poured my heart and soul into that thing. The difficult second album! The record company was on the verge of announcing a release date and then the anonymous letter and plane ticket came. I guess you know the rest.’

‘And neither of you have any idea who could have done all of this?’ Flair asked.

Hitman leaned in conspiratorially. ‘A few names spring to mind,’ he said. ‘There’s Road Dogg, Honky or maybe Shawn. It could be Hornswoggle.’

‘Hornswoggle is a mischievous leprechaun but he knows how far to take things,’ Lita commented. ‘What about Bobby Heenan?’

They considered the Weasel for a moment.

‘Well, Bret,’ said Flair. ‘I thought it might be one of your prankster brothers.’

Hitman removed his shades and was about to retort when the door opened and in walked a well-built, shorthaired man in baseball cap and jean shorts. He gravitated to the eye-catching group and salutations were made.

‘It feels like I have just stumbled upon the weirdest ever triple-threat match,’ said hero-to-many, John Cena. ‘One in which everyone sits there looking confused!’

Flair went to buy a round of drinks and Cena got up-to-speed with events.

‘So we have all been blackmailed into meeting in a British pub in full wrestling attire?’ said Cena. ‘In Britain.’

‘It would appear so, yes,’ said Lita.

‘Why?’ he continued. ‘And why us four? Were there other wrestlers that never showed? What happens next?’

‘Relax, Cena,’ said Hitman. ‘Let’s just do what each of our respective threatening letters instructed us to do and enjoy ourselves.’

The door opened and a distinguished fellow in velvet flat brim hat and Hawaiian shirt placed a newspaper and sat down. There was a frisson of excitement whenever anybody new entered. Flair delivered the beers and Cena’s milk.

‘This is so weird,’ said Cena. ‘Last weekend I’m in the main event at Wrestlemania and next thing I know I’m in Freemantle, England, hanging out with you guys! It’s so cool!’

‘How were you blackmailed?’ asked Hitman.

‘Whoever the scoundrel is managed to steal my world title but I was like whatever,’ Cena said defiantly. ‘I knew Vince would just make me a new one and it would probably be an improvement on the original.’

The four had each known the infamous Vince McMahon as their boss at some point and they knew the power that he wielded. He was like Skeletor with skin. He could make or break a person.

‘So why did you come if you weren’t bothered about the belt?’ asked Flair.

‘The free plane ticket,’ laughed Cena. ‘Vince actually granted my request for the time off. I was super-excited for this trip. I got fish and chips in Millbrook!’

The four told stories and compared scars. A man resembling John Voight asked how much Bret charged and Flair explained that he was the Hitman not a hit man. The group soon forgot the dark reasons that had brought them together: the stolen championship belt, the intimidation, the incriminating back-stage footage and the kidnapped family members. They had completely acclimatised and other patrons forgot they were even there. That is, until one more entrance.

The final two wrestlers to appear were about as conspicuous as you can get without being shot naked out of a circus cannon. A stocky man wearing blue cape and matching luchador mask leapt into the pub and immediately performed a cartwheel, narrowly missing a seated couple. Another man seemingly returning from an ancient Norse re-enactment accompanied him.

‘OMG, it’s Blue Blazer’, said Cena. ‘And Berzerker!’

‘It’s Viking actually,’ said Viking.

‘Let me guess,’ said Flair. ‘Some guy wrote to you saying he was going to scupper your book launch unless you travelled half-way around the world to some watering-hole a stone’s throw from Shirley?’

‘Oh, Flair,’ said Blazer. ‘Did you fall like a bowling pin and land on your head again? Have you never heard of ‘How Far to the Bar’? It’s an annual tradition. The Viking shoots a crossbow bolt at a world map and then we go to the closest public house. This year it landed exactly equidistant from two English pubs. Haku and Damien Demento are over at The Wellington Arms.’

Afternoon became evening and the six had long ceased speculating about the contrived event and its perpetrator. Flair’s cell phone played Strauss and he left to answer it. As he did so, Lita noticed another man also using his phone and Flair appeared to acknowledge him with a nod. The grey-haired man in navy bomber jacket seated in the corner, under the specials blackboard, watched Flair as he passed. He held his goatee beard for a moment and fixed his gaze now on the wrestlers’ table.

Lita headed for the pub garden. She stopped within earshot. When the call ended, Lita confronted Flair.

‘Who’s the man in the bar?’ she asked.

Flair shrugged.

‘Listen,’ said Lita. ‘I know that you know something.’

‘Okay, okay,’ said Flair. ‘I hired a private investigator when things got serious. His name is Barry Shellback. He wants me to draw our villain out into the open. I’m going to start a fight with Cena.’

‘Why would you do that?’ asked Lita. ‘It would be a shame to spoil the day.’

‘Shellback seems to think that whoever set this up would be upset if we all fell out with each other. The instructions were for us to enjoy ourselves.’

‘But if we don’t do what he says he will hurt us.’

Flair took Lita’s hand gently and said, ‘trust me. Wooooo!’

The ensuing bar brawl was quite the farce. Two superstars from different generations slugged it out and others joined in. Lita and Blazer clashed. Viking waved his plastic sword and attempted to pick up Flair, unsuccessfully. Hitman was slapping on sharpshooters like they were electioneer badges. It was carnage.

Without warning, a man shot a pistol in the air and everything went silent. Grips on submission holds were eased. Replica weapons were lowered. 4’33” by John Cage played on the jukebox. The man in the Hawaiian shirt removed his hat and addressed the room.

‘I’m Mitch Sizemore: actor, presenter and former sports correspondent. You may remember me from such movies as ‘Dr Spunk’ and ‘Hesitant Weevil’. Or you may not.’

He lowered the pistol.

‘I would like to explain why I assembled everybody today. You won’t know it, but I have taught you all something important. And you will remember this day for years to come. Up until the disgraceful brawling, would you say you were all enjoying yourselves? Has it felt far-removed for your Wrestlemanias and your Royal Rumbles?’

Nobody dared say a word.

‘Wrestlers,’ he said, beleaguered. ‘The airtime you guys get is frankly mind-blowing. And what do you do with that exposure? You whinge and whine about title-shots, referees’ decisions and who deserves what. You squabble endlessly and you use the word ‘nefarious’ way too much.’

He ordered a rum and the bartender didn’t hesitate. Everybody waited while he drank.

‘Wikipedia doesn’t record that I was an amateur wrestler for eight-and-a-half years. I grappled true fighters. We sought respect and occasionally medals. But all people really want to read about is which Hollywood actress I was dating and for how long.’

He shook his head and seemed sad.

‘My movies are harder to find than your dumb throwaway matches. You guys are prime time; you’re worldwide. I’ve worked with some real unsung heroes. I worked for Ghoulies Entertainment, goddamn it! Today was a milestone. A bunch of you needed to sit in the Waterloo Arms, a million miles away from the Reliant Stadium or the Hoosier Dome. This needed to happen.’

‘I get it,’ said Viking. ‘We get it. It’s like you’ve tipped away our protein shakes and handed us glasses of warm water.’

‘Yeah,’ said Blazer. ‘Sometimes we need to strip everything back to the bare essentials and see what life is really all about.’

‘I agree,’ said Lita. ‘On the whole, today has been tremendous fun.’

The sentiments being expressed turned Sizemore’s whole face into a smile.

‘We thank you,’ said Hitman. ‘And we humbly ask that you join us in an official capacity if we all meet up like this again. Say, in a year’s time.’

The orchestrator placed the gun on the bar. As he did so, Flair’s private investigator tackled Sizemore to the floor.

‘My plan worked,’ cried Shellback. ‘We have him now!’

Others put the boot in.

‘You’re barred for life, Mister,’ called landlord, Gordon.

‘Wait,’ said Sizemore. ‘I know I’m unorthodox, but I believe the end justifies the means. The gun is just a prop from one of my movies.’

People relaxed and recovered toppled seats.

‘Okay, Sizemore,’ said Shellback. ‘Talk.’

Sizemore dusted himself off and sat with the wrestling troop.

‘I’m sorry if I scared people with the gun, but it was intended to interrupt what appeared to be a really rough fight.’

‘The fighting was fake,’ said Flair. ‘It was a ruse. We wanted to draw you out and it worked.’

‘Oh, right,’ said Sizemore. ‘Like shooting a scene but without the camera crew? Smart.’

‘Replica guns, fake fighting,’ said Lita. ‘Whatever next? Locals pretending to be sports entertainers?!’

Sizemore laughed and then everyone else laughed.

Shellback extended a hand and Sizemore shook it.

‘Well everybody,’ said Hitman. ‘There’s a slender chance this might just become a tradition.’