Death matches and ruminations on the cusp of World War 3.
From the National Affairs Desk-
Writer's Note: The following is an excerpt from a project I have been working on for most of last year. It became clear, very quick, last Spring, that the local music scene will never be back to what it used to be in my lifetime. I needed to turn my focus to bigger topics. So I got vaxxed up, got my card, lost all the excuses, and decided to hit the West Coast (Vegas) and the East (New York), and just put my feet down on the terra and absorb what it was like living in and out of a pandemic in 2021/22. No issues, demographics, agenda, biases be spared. It was supposed to be a two part post here but it ballooned into something....more. "This could actually be a book," I said to myself many a time. And I think it will as long as, well enough of that. I didn't set out to write the Definitive Pandemic Novel, but I guess that's what ended up happening ho ho ho. It wears its influences in the open and has enough truth, fiction, humor, etc. to please anybody or nobody. It is called "Adventures in the Dumb Life" and I hope to have it finished....soon.
The following is an excerpt, most of which won't be in the book. In it, the narrator is preparing to go to the West Coast and is distracted by an old friend wanting to go to an underground death match fight in Southwest Detroit. Since it falls under the umbrella of post-pandemic social interaction, I include it here.
"An underground cage match, no, death match, headlined by some miscreant with a felony record with a litany of blood diseases against some local schlomo willing to be debased in front of 60-plus unvaccinated swingers for only $25? You do realize that I am due to depart for Vegas in over a week? Do you realize what I could be bringing onto that flight? Ah, fuck it. Sign me up. I'm in."
I am talking to Kentucky Pete and he has just floated the idea of ruining my entire book project before it even gets started by attending an outlaw cheapjack bloodfest cage fight, underground, off the books, blood party in Southwest Detroit.
"It's at the Knights of Columbus in Detroit. Larkins street. You should know it," K Pete says.
He was right. I knew it. I knew the venue well. I grew up a mile away and have been there many times, the last being for my father's memorial where I ended up completely, well we're wandering here. According to my notes it is currently shut down but still holds "events" like this. I have no idea who owns it, rents it, profits from it and I don't care. In 2020 a few tipsters contacted me that the police academy graduations were held there and there were no masks and that the Mayor of Detroit was even there and there were no masks, but I didn't bother to post on it because shortly after Benny Napolean died from the Bug and Holy Shit what a story this could be! The Big Break! But the vibe was too dicey and it was the holidays, so I never verified any of that so for the Public Record: None of that ever happened! Once again, we're wandering here so, moving along, this invite to the death fights seems like a hiccup on the surface, but fuck it, let's see. But before any of that, there was still work to be done
Copyrights on the Cusp of a Death Party
Up until that point I was trying to obtain as many presses passes as possible for my Vegas trip as there were multiple big game fights the weekend I was scheduled to fly out. I had moderate success but ultimately needed more. My only option was to call back Kentucky Pete, the old friend from my days in retail and probably one of the biggest con artists I know, and more importantly, trust. Back in 2003, well...we're wandering again. These days K Pete is running a highly profitable music and sport memorabilia bootleg operation, fleecing poor dingbats out of thousands of dollars, selling reproductions of any type of merch you can imagine. He informed me that he has templates for press credentials for the Los Angeles Lakers, the NFL, Hour Detroit, and the Metro Times (ho ho ho). He also agreed to throw in an authentic Ceasar's Palace Media Badge that he bought from a pimp outside of Our Lady Queen of Angels in SW Detroit.
Instead of meeting him at some elaborate printing Darkroom I found myself at a Walgreens in Garden City...
"Are you nuts?" I ask/yell, "You print this shit at a fucking Walgreens? This visit alone violates at least six copyright laws. We are looking at six months and at least a $250,000 fine. Look at this file. You even named it 'NFL Fraud'! We're doomed!"
"Calm down," his reply, handing me a Van Halen IPA from Rockford Brewing and for all I know is a repurposed Bud Light,, "Hey, I'm a fool for doing your dirty work, oh yeah. Here drink this and don't worry. They know me here. Besides the evening crew actually think I work here. I had some uniforms made at the Walmart a few miles away. Target, Walmart, Walgreens. You want any?"
The IPA hit me hard but we went in anyway so I did not initially register when K Pete noticed the new employee.
"Fuck, this guy's new. Just a kid. I've never seen him before. Last thing we need is some gunslinger bozo looking to make a name for himself at my expense. Let's get out of here. There's a place down the road...."
"Jesus, my plane leaves in a week. I need these press passes. You need the bootleg deathmatch merch. How am I supposed to complete the assignment because you don't know some twerp?" I am flustered.
"Well, it's your call. Never mind, it's too late now. He saw us."
"Well, it's your call. Never mind, it's too late now. He saw us."
We both approach the counter and K Pete gives the bozo the files.
"The Los Angeles Lakers AND the NFL? Copies? Do you have permission to reproduce these?" the geek asks.
Well this was it. The entire trip, zapped by some linthead with morals.
"Dammit, we need these passes. Get me the waiver. I'll sign it. I'll sign anything," K Pete yells as his fifth Van Hazy IPA spills on the counter, "This man is a writer and has to cover the pandemic next week for the NFL AND the Lakers!"
"Don't bring me into this," I mutter.
"Sir, I think I should get the manager's approval."
"Are you prepared to lose your job?" K Pete was on a roll, "I'm here every day. This man with me is a close personal friend of the LA Lakers, Al Davis, part of the family."
That did it. The bozo finally printed them up and K Pete signed the waiver explaining afterward that he uses his neighbors' information and ID which he also bootlegged at that very Walgreens a month ago.
"Don't worry about any of that," he tells me back on the road laughing hysterically, "that kid will be out of a job in days. I always use Roger next door. That poor guy is 80 years old and has no idea why total strangers are knocking on his door at nine in the morning once a month."
Things had turned grim but I had my fraudulent press passes and as an added bonus, K Pete threw in a treasure trove of bogus vaccination cards.
"You never know," he said cryptically, "You might need some quick cash in a pinch and some petite teen fresh out of homeroom might need to get in that club."
He had a point. So I grabbed them and went back to the JCM'sTown Compound. My assistant, Sebastian Owl, was not happy.
"You are going to this death match and Las Vegas with at least eight illegal press passes!"
"Seven, the Raiders one is legit."
Political Districts, Steaks, Sinatra Tattoos on the Day of the Show
The heavens are pouring the day of the show as I take the Silver Hornet to pick up that rat bastard Kentucky Pete. In addition to the absolute cesspool of a neighborhood we were about to crawl into, we also had the additional work of the drive down there. Normally this would not be an issue. However, last year that waterhead assistant Sebastian Owl put two pro-Biden decals on the Silver Hornet violating the "No Politics" rule of the JCM'sTown Compound (and this blog). If this was early 2021 it would not be an issue. However, now, the decals pose a serious problem. We will be going from a decent suburb to an okay suburb back to a decent suburb through a so-so suburb into a horrible suburb. The only logical decision would be to stop off at JCM HQ, the bikini bar made famous for [REDACTED].
I arrive and immediately notice the pair of jumper cables on top of the Metallica pinball machine, an ominous warning. Undeterred, I unload my folder of printouts and maps. Like clockwork, the waitress, a former dancer with full-size portrait tattoos of Frank Sinatra and Benjamin Franklin on her back asks, "What are you working on? Are you a writer?"
"Of course. I'm on assignment covering the death matches downtown. Are you familiar?"
Her eyes start to tear up. She is familiar.
"Anyway, these papers are printouts of the last election results divided into precincts from here to this show I have to cover in SW Detroit. You see, my normally trustworthy assistant botched the car by putting Biden decals on it violating the JCM "No Politics....."
"Oh no, why?" the Lifer asks, suddenly emotional. I look at my results of the political prescient breakdown for this area. Yep. Check.
"Too late to worry about that now," I console, "You see, I have a couple of rags and some duct tape....no no no, you have no reason to worry. My other assistant, are you following this, and I are going to have to tape the rags over the political decals and remove them depending on the location. I anticipate having to do this around four times each way during the 30 minute drive. Do you get it?"
She is already at the next table, telling her latest sob story, and I do not have the time to ask about her full back tattoo so, with my mood already soured and panic starting to seep in, I left. There was no more story left there.
I arrive at Kentucky Pete's early as always and he is already on the front lawn arguing with someone I've never seen before, possibly an arab. I wait until it cools down and then decide to slam the horn.
"What was that about?" I ask, half interested, as I speed off.
"Oh that's just Manny, some ribbonhead from my work. Owes me money for this print job I..."
"Here, take these," I yell handing him the rags and political district printouts, having heard that story before, "We are going to have to stop around four or five times to check the area and tape these rags over the political decals on this car."
"Yeahhhhhh, I noticed those. What's the story?"
"Neighborhood kids," I lie saving my assistant the shame, "Vandals. Savages. In our day we egged the street, all the squares. Now its all political decals. Its ruthless."
"Pigs! I would have killed them if they pulled that with me."
"Not so fast. According to my notes we are entering a friendly district."
"Fuck! I forgot my mask. There are going to be so many people at this thing. We have to go back," K Pete is ecstatic.
"No chance. We're already running late because of your dust up with that balloonhead back there. We'll have to stop on the way."
"Are you sure? Masks are scarce. They were giving them away at the Meijer back there but there was an incident..."
"Trust me. There's a feeling I get when I look to the west."
"Damn right. Yabba dabba doo!"
I pull into a Walgreens so he can get his silly mask while I switch out the decal rags.
"Oh man, we can't stop here. This is where I am banned for that printing scam. You remember? From last month. Screw it. I'll be right back."
I start to nod off when he rushes back in.
"Let's go. I got the masks. Boosted them. They were asking for it," he is ecstatic.
I blast the Silver Hornet into the intersection leaving the rags and political district printouts flying in the wake. We were on our own now.
"Slow down, not so fast," he advises, "There are always cops around here."
"Dear god man, make up your mind!" I am ecstatic.
I take a slight detour and stop off at a local mid-level steakhouse to cool off. I hadn't eaten in two days so it was the logical thing to do. Kentucky Pete is already barking orders.
"Just get me the same as you, but medium well. I know how you operate you fucking vampire. I need to make a call."
Well okay then. And he was off to make his call. I took the moment of peace to...
"Hello, what can I get for you today?" the waitress asks, no back tattoos.
"Jesus! Sorry. One high powered craft beer for my friend. He's Mexican. High tolerance. Weak bladder. You know the type. For me, the lowest percent beer you have on tap. Non-alcoholic if that's the case. 25 percent of my liver was burned off two years ago so it only takes a little to get me a rocking and a rollin'. Do you know what I mean? Also, two center cut big bangers, one medium, one medium well.
"What are you working on? Are you a writer?" Jesus not this again, secretly liking the attention.
"Yes, I'm on assignment covering the death match bloodfest bug chase downtown. Wait, what political district are we in? Never mind. One medium, one medium well. Get it right. This is important."
She is confused, which is understandable because of my codes, and shuffles off. K Pete returns and we eat a respectable dinner without incident. Thankfully the Lifer got the order right. As we are finishing up our steaks I begin to notice the staff flipping the chairs and killing the blinds. Because it is only 6pm I ask the waitress what was going on. Oh jesus, the lights just went out as well.
"We're closing," she answers.
"Ah, sorry for dragging our feet. Employee holiday party? Private event?"
"No," she snaps, "We. Are. Closing. The restaurant is closing. We just found out. I no longer have a job. Another drink?"
"No, we are in a hurry."
After she leaves to get our tab K Pete breaks the uncomfortable silence.
"Obvious cash grab. Just fishing for extra tips. I bet they pull this every Friday at 6. This place will be in flames by next week. Bust out. I have a guy I can call..."
"No let's split. If this place really is shutting down those political decals on the car are going to doom us. We're going to have 15 teenage dishboys waiting for us out there. Besides, we're running back on time. We can stop at the Lager House to prime our pumps," I suggest.
"But we lost the rags and political moosh moosh. What if somebody sees the political decals and blows out the window?" He is on edge.
"Jesus man. It's the Lager House. The windows are being busted out regardless. This is despite the vandal demographic....oh god, never mind."
After four more phone calls by Kentucky Pete we are back on the road. We arrive at Lager House as the staff are flipping the chairs and locking the doors. The barmaid remembers me and K Pete from ten years ago when I smuggled 30 bottles of Bud Light in a gig bag for a JCM show despite them not selling the brand at the time.
"Holiday party? Private event? Sold out? Ho ho ho just kidding," I ask, I think.
"No we're closing. We just got word that two of our staff tested positive for The Bug and a few more who attended a show last week did as well, which makes no sense because there were a total of only five people at the shows last week," she explains, actually starting to cry.
"Sounds heavy," I try to console.
"Thanks for stopping by. We hope to see you when we are back up and running," she says, genuine.
"Don't count on it," Kentucky Pete mutters opening a bottle of Bud Light he must have stolen from the Walgreens or steakhouse.
The barmaid bursts into tears and we are off, bypassing the casino (our backup plan). During all this K Pete informs me that the venue has been moved from the Knights of Colombus on Larkins to Harpo's (dear lord) due to the fact that the Knights of Columbus is no longer police protected. Thankfully, we get to Harpo's 15 minutes before the start time, but only to see a line of around 100 rib-sucking freaks snaked around the building. K Pete is horrified.
"Imagine the smell. I'm not going in there. Let's go home," K Pete is breaking down.
"C'mon man, get it together," I shout, trying my best, "I am the day. THE DAY Dammit. I can show you the way. I'm right beside you. Let's be real here."
"You are pulling some serious shit with me right now. But you're right. We have to do this," he rationalizes as he takes a pull from a quart of Wild Turkey I must have missed, probably also stolen from that Walgreens.
"Now you're talking," I shout, "this is the type of local coverage that needs to, HAS, to be done."
This was going to be a long night. After spilling half a can of light beer all over the car and stuffing it under the seat, K Pete ponders, "We survived the Lager House by the skin of our teeth. Who's to say that one of these cheapjacks isn't going to bust into the car. Should we just go home?"
Good lord. This again.
"I'd like to see someone try to bust out this baby," I laugh, "The entire car is boobytrapped. I rigged it two nights ago with my neighbor. I know you have seen the box on the back seat, the one with 'Fragile/Important' written on it. You have been staring at it all night you criminal slug. That box is filled with three rats that Scottie, the dwarf neighbor, caught last week. He knew I was going to be in this area of town so he snatched them up before the dogs could get them. Scottie and me have been starving these fuckers for almost a week. Imagine grabbing that box and getting home to that! At this point I almost want somebody to break in."
"Dear god......"
"Damn right. And if some Midnight Intruder misses the box and goes straight for the trunk, even better. Scottie and I drugged his pit bull this morning."
"Oh no, why?" K Pete is starting to crack and the acid I took way back when I picked him up is starting to really kick in.
"No worries. The dog is in the trunk. If some derelict pries it open the dog should be just about waking up. Basically any Red that comes close to this vehicle is doomed, just completely destroyed."
"Jesus, we never even needed to cover the political decals to begin with. This is madness."
"Yes. Now you get it. Now, let's go!"
The vibe inside the venue was mellow but tense. Kentucky Pete hit his meet and greets while I focused on all the signed band photos on the wall, wondering how/why JCM wasn't up there. We never ended up seeing any of the action because the waterheads at Harpo's decided to set up the ring in the "Pit" instead of the stage, which means that nobody could see any of the no-name jobbers carve themselves up. There wasn't even a video feed. We ended up watching the show on K Pete's phone using a pirated feed as it was happening.
"Can't see shit. Such a fraud. Plus, we're probably going to catch The Bug. Nobody here is masked," K Pete is starting to really slip so I strike up a conversation with some stereotype.
"If you really think about it, 'She Loves You' is probably the best Beatles song?" but I make sure to frame it as a question.
"What the fuck are you talking about? My boyfriend is right over there on that table by the way. Can't see shit," she yells, unnecessarily agitated.
"Yeah yeah yeah," K Pete chimes in, well played, obviously eavesdropping.
"Yabba dadda doo," I add, upping the harassment level, and then under my breath, "Bitch".
The night has turned sour and we aren't even at intermission. It doesn't help that we have managed to piss off multiple employees and alarm more than a few fans. In fact only 15 minutes prior, K Pete attempted to use the medical tape signed by local legend Sabu to hoist himself to the rafters so he could actually see the action. The tape ended up getting caught in a ceiling fan and he ended up flying through a table which actually got a better crowd reaction than the action in the ring.
"Just tell them you're suicidal," I attempt to explain, "they'll probably take pity on you and let you backstage." Which is exactly what happened and that heathen ended up lifting multiple ring worn items and a pair of Chelsea Green's panties, or so he said, which he ended up letting me keep as a favor for the idea even though I know that trash-bag doesn't wear panties. The acid had peaked and depression had begun to set in. It was time to go.
"It might be time to go," I say to him.
"Bullshit. We paid good money for this. All I've got I've had to steal," he is drunk.
"Right on. Me too," I am getting there.
"My legacy....never had to beg or borrow."
"Of course. You know me. Right now I'm living at a pace that kills," I am on board, high five, a few more matches, "Yabba dabba doo."
Fifteen minutes later K Pete and I are officially, criminally drunk, just absolute heathens. K Pete had a head start and continued with the high octane drink and had entered the dreaded "introspective zone". It was time to go.
"Hey man. All I want is a woman who is drunk all the time," oh boy, here we go.
"Hey hey what can I do? I only know three women."
"Women seem wicked when you're unwanted," he leans in whispering, yet manic, "That girl back there, the one who snapped at us with the boyfriend on the table...that fucker. Some guys take a beautiful girl like that and hide her away from the rest of the world. When is she gonna live her life man?"
"Jesus man, you're drunk. That bootleg Van Halen beer really twisted you up. Complete rambling. We need to go. How about you? What are you going to do with your life?" I snap back, ready to go.
"Whoa man, take it easy. I was just kidding. You know me. I wanna be the one to walk in the sun.
"Yeah yeah yeah," I concede, followed by another high five.
We have missed the last two matches because of this absurd conversation, not that we would have seen them, and the assignment was officially a Bust. I will just find the results later and fill in some blanks.
"Hey pal, we can't see shit. I think it's time to go," K Pete has finally began to see the light, but I have other ideas.
"Not yet. Let's sneak into the VIP ringside area and try to at least see something. I have these press passes and they already think you are a suicidal nut because of that hit job you pulled earlier with the ceiling fan. Why don't you lead the way!" I propose giving him a wide berth to push his way through the crowd while I have my hand on the can of 'Chemical Billy' in case any tough guy or their jilly has an issue.
We make it down the stairs to the VIP area and still can't see any of the action. The crowd is going nuts but nobody is in the ring. What we failed to realize is that the two nobodies selling their souls for a buck had left the ring, begun fighting through the crowd, and had actually circled around and were behind us. I had missed all of it while monitoring K Pete weaving his way through the crowd spilling drinks. I turned around just as No Name 1 was about to toss No Name 2 down the stairs which would have struck K Pete and ruined our entire scam. In a completely surreal moment, much better than the acid could provide, we actually watched this happen both in person and on the broadcast which K Pete was still pirating on his phone. To triplicate matters he managed to screenshot it as seen below. It was time to go.
"It's an absolute crime that we only saw a few minutes of the entire thing so far," K Pete said after we were kicked out of the VIP area after I ended up macing the guy who dove down the steps.
"What do you think about getting that pit bull from the trunk out there and just letting that rabid monster right into the VIP area, straight into the ring," my wheels are turning, "That's not all I have in the trunk. While prepping for my west coast trip I picked up a 'Nutcracker Flail'. It is a combination club and pincers about three feet long that can cripple about anybody here. It works like a huge pair of pliers. First you 'flail' the living shit out of anybody you can reach, and then when they fall, and they will fall, you swiftly apply the 'nutcracker' action, gripping the victim's neck, extremities, or genitals with the powerful pincers at the 'reaching end' and then squeezing until all resistance ceases."
"Ahhhh man I should have brought my Growler. I just picked one up," K Pete shouts.
"Wait, you have a Growler?!" I am impressed. The Growler is a mobile sound unit that emits such unholy shrieks and roars that every human within a radius of ten city blocks is paralyzed with unbearable pain. They collapse in their tracks and curl up like worms, losing all control of their bowels and bleeding from their ears. I continue...
"While the dog is tearing up the joint we just rush in and cream everybody with the Nutcracker!"
"Whoa whoa whoa man. Bad ju ju. Why don't we just leave?"
"Listen man I know....that things are really rough, everybody gets you," I try to explain.
"Exactly! Life is really tough!" he is weeping.
"It's okay. I know that deep down inside there's a feeling that rides all the way to the end."
"Hey man, I just wanted to catch a mudshow wrestling thing. I had no idea we were wading into this madness. Protocols, no protocols, police districts..."
"Political districts," I correct.
"Same thing. I just wanted a good time, without any fear. I had no idea what I was getting into."
"I understand. Hope everything is alright," I offer.
"Hope everything is alright?" he replies, coming down.
"Hope everything is alright."
I drop Kentucky Pete off and head back to the JCM'sTown Compound. The next day I wake up feeling gassed, fatigued, just absolutely sick so I book myself a professional Bug test because I am days away from heading to Vegas. It came back negative. I am invincible. Nothing can harm me. It was time to go to Vegas. And I have a Nutcracker Flail. Yadda Dabba Doo.
From the Iceman Commeth,
Dr. Bryan Metro
*Note- The "Nutcracker Flail" and "Growler" descriptions are courtesy of Scanlan's Monthly June 1970, forever the Honor Roll.
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