She responded by giving him the Norwegian Fish Slap, the Ecuadoran Neck Burn, and the Tap Dance of Death, and then, before tagging her wonderful husband, she stood over the prostrate and slithering Mr. Hansen, her legs apart, her hands on her hips, and she raised her chin triumphantly and laughed. Oh god, it was passion, it was opera, it was giving me the sweats.
When Mario Delsandro leaped into the ring, he swept up his beautiful dark wife and kissed her fully on the mouth. The crowd sang! Mr. Hansen thought he would use the opportunity to crawl away home, but no! Still in the middle of the most significant kiss I’ve ever witnessed in person, Mr. Delsandro stepped squarely in the middle of Mr. Hansen’s back and pressed him flat.
There was never any hope for Mr. Hansen anyway. Among the spectators of his rude tumescence was his wife, Robbie or Bobbie, Mrs. Hansen, and she stood at her corner, her arms crossed as if for the final time, and sneered at him with all her might. Mario Delsandro took his time punishing Mr. Hansen: the German Ear Press, the Thunder Heel Spike, the Prisoner of War, the Ugandan Skull Popper, and the complicated and difficult-to-execute Underbelly Body Mortgage. A few times, early in this parade of torture, Mr. Hansen actually crawled away and reached his corner, where Mr. Delsandro would find him a second later, pleading with his wife to tag him, please tag him, save his life. She refused. At one point while he was begging her for help, she actually turned her back and called to the audience, “Is there a lawyer in the house?” No one responded. The attorneys present realized that to get in between two wrestlers would probably be a mistake.
After taking his revenge plus penalty and interest, Mr. Delsandro tagged the missus, and she danced in and pinned the comatose Mr. Hansen with one finger. The Delsandros kissed and were swept away by the adoring crowd. Mrs. Hansen stalked off. There was a good chance she was already a widow, but the crowd was on its feet and I couldn’t see what ever happened to her husband, Mr. Hansen, Robbie or Bobbie.
Mitchell announced the next match, using the same snake oil school of entertaining, which was about right, because, as I said, it involved a snake and a steel cage and five dark men in turbans.
When that carnage was cleared, we found out what we wanted to know. Another announcer, a round man dressed in a black suit carrying what looked like a Bible in his hand, climbed into the ring and introduced the final match of the evening, a grudge match, a match between good and evil if there ever was one, a match important to the very futures of our children, et cetera, et cetera, and here to defend us is David Bright, our brightest star!
Ka-lank! The lights went out. Betsy grabbed my arm. “David Bright?” she said. “Mitch is David Bright?”
“Come to save us all.”
An odd noise picked across the top of the room and then exploded into a version of “Onward Christian Soldiers” so loud most people ducked. A razor-edge spotlight flashed on, circling the room once, and then focusing on a crowded corner. In it appeared a phalanx of brown-shirted security guards, all women, marching onward through the teeming crowd. When the entourage reached the ring, we heard the announcer say, “Ladies and gentlemen: David Bright! Our Brightest Star!” And the lights went on and a blond athlete stepped into the ring. He raised his arms once and then took several ministeps to the center of the ring, where he lowered his head in what was supposed to be prayer and bathed in the tumult.
“That’s not Mitch.” I squinted. “Is it?”
“No,” Betsy said. “Look at that guy. There’s a lot of praying at these wrestling matches. Is it legal?”
When the crowd slowed a bit and David Bright had gone to his corner and begun a series of simple stretches, the announcer started to speak again. He said, “And his opponent…” and couldn’t get another word out for all the booing.
I sat down and pulled Betsy to her chair. We looked at each other in that maelstrom of noise. It was a throaty, threatening roar that was certainly made in the jungles when men first began to socialize.
“I think we’re about to see Mitch.” I told her.
“It sounds as if we’re about to see him killed.”
“We’ll be able to tell by his theme song.”
The announcer had continued garbling in the catcalls, and then the lights went out and the spot shot down, circling, and then the sound system blared static and by the first three notes of the song that followed I knew we were in trouble. It was “White Rabbit” by the Jefferson Airplane. The spot fixed on the other corner of the room, and here came a Hell’s Angel in a sleeveless black leather jacket, swatting his motorcycle cap at the fans, get your hands off. Well, it was a big guy, a large hairy Hell’s Angel, a perfect Hell’s Angel in my opinion, because it was not my brother Mitchell, and Betsy knew that too, because we exchanged grateful and relieved looks. However, when the Angel reached the ring, he didn’t climb up, but bent down and this dirty, skinny person in a red satin robe who had been behind him stepped on the Hell’s Angel’s back and entered the bright lights of the ring. This guy was Mitchell.