The HeartBreak Kid, by Mick Shaffer

Shawn, just roll over on top of him.  Hurry.  You’re wasting valuable seconds here.  You’ve somehow felled a 6’10”, 300 lb. man, yet you can’t summon the strength to place your torso on top of his for a three count?

I know you’re exhausted from that earlier back-and-forth exchange of elasticity between the ropes.  He ran you into them, you ran him into them, you dodged his fist, he leapfrogged you, all of this furthering your momentum as you shot from one side to the other.  Those ropes are a goddamned perpetual motion machine until a forearm shows up and stops all bodies.

And, frankly, I don’t know how you’re still walking after that Piledriver from the top rope.  I’m pretty sure that’s precisely what happened to Stephen Hawking.  Tell me again, how did you manage yourself upside down atop the turnbuckle?  I’ll tell you.  Carelessness.

That’s right, carelessness.  I’ll tell it to your face.  I don’t care that you’re a chiseled mass of abs, biceps, and college coed hair.  You haven’t done anything to the portly, bespectacled kid in the orange John Cena T-shirt who’s toting the “Shawn Michaels Sux” sign.  So, I figure, you’re not gonna do anything to me.

After all, you need to hear this.  You’re being careless.  I mean, the man’s name is The Undertaker.  Of all the outdated professions only currently seen in the HBO hit series Deadwood to get in line for— marshall, blacksmith, apothecary—this man chose embalming dead people for a living.  I doubt he’s going to be fazed by your boot-kicks to the chest.  (Those are some killer boots, though.)

That is why you need to put a hand on him and get a count going.  I realize a three second count is lasting about as long as one of the death metal songs played to introduce you ‘roided-up aerialists, pseudo-grappling your way to a six-figure payday at this splendiferous event I’ve somehow stumbled upon a free ticket to: Wrestlemania 26.  Your kind doesn’t get imperial with the Roman numerals.  Leave those to the haughty NFL…and to the Romans.  You just leave it at 26.  Last year was 25, next year is 27, Hulkster ruled at Wrestlemania 6.

Take notice, Shawn, and get to the point yourself.  Pin him.  I know, I know, you’ve tried it already.  Four times.  Every time The Undertaker has uncannily thrown his shoulder (and you) sky high just before the referee slapped the mat for a third time.  Sure, you got a raw deal that first time.  Bull-riding championships have been won in less time than that three count took.  But you can’t let that deter you.

Do you know this man’s record at Wrestlemania?  It’s 17-0!  XVII-0!  I don’t know this because I’m a fan of professional wrestling.  I left pro wrestling where I left my fear of cursive and a taste for grilled cheese: at age 9.  I know about his perfect record because it’s been Sharpied all over about 89 signs in the crowd.  The Undertaker fans have the 17 crossed out, replaced with an 18.  The Shawn Michaels fans have the 0 crossed out, replaced with a 1.  Creative.

Actually, Shawn, you can also spot your fans by looking for the HBK signs.  At first, I mistakenly thought the 72,000-person throng packed into University of Phoenix stadium contained an abnormally large faction of Wichita serial killer supporters.  I then remembered that was BTK, and that HBK stands for Heart Break Kid.  Isn’t it more like Hip Break Kid these days, Shawn?  How old are you?  I’m pretty sure even I have a Shawn Michaels action figure left over from my 9-year-old days that’s buried in a basement cabinet grave at my parent’s house along with the Ewok Village and random Skip-Bo cards.  Christ, Marty Jannetty’s probably selling insurance somewhere, going to his grandkids soccer games, but you’re still wrestling.

Well, I say “still” but you won’t be if you don’t win this match.  Yeah, for some reason, you agreed with Cane, err, Undertaker (damn you, 9-year-old self) that you would retire if he beat you at Wrestlemania 26.  You made a deal with an undertaker, which is only slightly worse than making a deal with the devil, which is only slightly worse than making a deal with Vince McMahon.  Never mind he’s 17-0 in Wrestlemanias.  Everybody knows that.  But we all also know that these matches are coin flips.  Anything can happen in them.  You could very well be the best over-the-hill wrestler in that ring, but you’re just one distracted referee away from losing, Shawn.  What if you trip and Undertaker gets you in The Tombstone?  What if he deftly rolls out of the way when you’re trying to knee-drop him?  What if he punches your hair a lot with an open fist?  Boom done.  Game over.  You would be retired.  And you can’t ever come back from retirement.  Never.  Ever.

Maybe you should’ve checked a birth certificate before you shook on this bet, too.  The Undertaker is four months older than you, Shawn.  Yes, he will turn 46 before you turn 46.  Plus, a man possessing that combination of size and age surely has to be on knee surgery #46.

But, here you are back up and in a headlock.  Yeah, you wasted too much time, Shawn.  The Undertaker found his 11th wind and is getting ready to toss you out of the ring, smash your face on the lemonade stand disguised as a rock solid announcer’s table, body slam you over the railing hopefully onto the black foam mat that is sitting flush with the black cement floor where Edge slammed Jericho just 50 minutes earlier, and slide you back in the ring to make 18-0 official.

Damn you, Shawn!  If I had paid for this ticket—and not sponged it off a former WWE script-writer/current coworker who hasn’t stopped rolling his eyes at my tired “Oh that looked real” quips—I’d be pissed right now.  But as it stands, I didn’t even pay for parking.  No, turns out, Paul McCartney is playing next door at the hockey arena, so we just parked there because it was free.  Yeah, Triple H gets away with charging $20 per car, but Wings is somehow gratis.

But you can’t think about that right now, Shawn.  You’ve got to Live & Let Die yourself.  By now everyone can sense something is about to happen.  And momentum is swinging your way.  Every dude in here is chanting “HBK, HBK!”  Every dude in here also has a chinstrap beard, a really big wife, and a one-year-old with a styled Mohawk that borders on child abuse.  That’s a social examination for another time.  Right now we’ve got to keep you employed.

You’re fighting for it, too.  This old man still has some kick left in those boots, some stretch left in those tights.  You’re not gonna go down without a choreographed, drama-filled storyline.  That’s for sure.  Undertaker has had you nanoseconds away from defeat time after time.  But you keep popping up.  2.8 seconds.  2.9 seconds. 9.2 seconds.  Always just under three counts.  And don’t worry, nobody notices that you’re giving up nine inches and 75 pounds to your opponent.  It’s totally within the laws of physics for Undertaker’s body to shoot up like an IED exploded underneath the mat when you shake him off you.

But you’re tiring.  Your signature Sweet Chin Music kick to the face move hasn’t worked in minutes.  Likely because your opponent’s chin can barely be reached by your hands, let alone your feet.  You’re stumbling.  He’s tossing you around like a rag doll.

Oh shit, you’re knocked out.

What happened there?  I was texting.  Now I see how easy it is for the referees to get distracted.

Oh, Shawn, I fear it’s over.  All Undertaker has to do is put a boot on you for about half a minute and you’ll be counted out.  But he’s pausing, too.  He doesn’t want to do it.  He doesn’t want to end your career.  He respects you, Shawn.  This is a lot like when the Russians chanted Rocky’s name.  Hell, if I can change, and you can change, then the Undertaker can change.  Maybe this display of humanity is a harbinger for a character change to come.  Maybe The Undertaker will come out next Wrestlemania as The Underwriter, body slamming and Suplexing loans one application at a time.  Ok, that might be a more evil character than his current one.

Whatever the case, you’ve been spared, my high-flying friend.  Will this be a tie?  17-0-1?  That might take the 15”x26” poster board to fit on a sign.  Looks like you’ll live to fight…

And now you’re awake, slapping Undertaker in the face.  WTF, HBK?

You want to lose, don’t you?  You’re throwing this match.  And for once, the way you’re throwing the match is by throwing the match.  You’re tired of the grind, the weekly travel routine, the physical toll on your body, the rising cost of needles in this economy.  Go then.  Go proudly out into the dark, doomed purgatory of wrestling retirement.  Maybe it’s heaven.  Maybe St. Peter is played by Mickey Rourke.  You’re pinned.  1 … 2 … 2.5 … 2.8 … 2.99 … 3!  That’s it!  Farewell then.  Farewell, you tag team terror, you fancy belt holder, you heart break kid.  Know that even in defeat, Wrestlemania 26 might have been your finest hour.  Disappear.  Disappear into whatever history books wrestling writes and rewrites for itself.  Goodbye, legend.

Hope to see ya at SummerSlam!

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