It's Little Big Horn only they're firing lies.
Custer-stuck in the middle where truth dies.
Straight massacre and I only have myself to blame.
I'm surrounded now, this is my fame.

Immortalized, I'm drowning in young blood.
Soggy and sticky and caught in their flood.
Miserable last breath, my ego my crown.
Custer-stuck; now they're cutting me down.

Clear out my ears, one day I'll hear.
Rotten rigor mortis, nothing to fear.
All I have left is the love of the misinformed.
My version of history forever deformed.

It's Little Big Horn and we're covered in flies.
Gallant and macho, our ego survives.
I'm on the stake so ignite the flame.
And never ever forget my name.

_____________________

From the desk of Rosemary Duke
"Report 1, Opening interview."

Mr. Clemmens was referred to me by Gabriel Kane, my boss. Mr. Clemmens is interested in returning to the wrestling ring and expects the transition over night. Mr. Kane is no longer interested in carrying Mr. Clemmens as a client. I tried to pump Kane for information but all he could tell me was: Creative differences. That of course could be any number of things.

Here’s what I do know about Mr. Clemmens. He’s six foot two, a hair over two hundred twenty pounds which isn’t unusual for a Wrestler these days. He’s been engaged three times with only one making it to marriage. No kidding, the other two died before making it to the altar. Bad luck or foul play? Luckily for me I’m only representing the man for potential promotions, not for a court of law. Mr. Clemmens is a ten time World Champion and has many other title reigns to boot. This alone is astounding to me and I believe could be an easy way to get Mr. Clemmens over in a new promotion.

There is one problem though…

Shane Clemmens is not only a trouble maker but he’s also known for his need to disappear and he also has a bad habit of going AWOL from Promotions.

I have sent out contract applications to twelve different promotions and have only received one reply from an upstart promotion called Fight One Xperience. I suppose when a promotion is getting going, pulling in a possible flake but a known flake helps with the fan base.

They did however make me aware that if Mr. Clemmens misses one booking that his contract will not only be terminated but he will “never work in this business again.”

The ironic thing is, I was told the same thing by Mr. Kane. That is, if I’m not able to “control” Mr. Clemmens.

I would describe our first meeting as “Sketchy, at best.”

>>Fastfoward>>

Right off the bat, Mr. Clemmens was fifteen minutes late for our meeting.  Upon entering my office I was immediately struck by his disheveled appearance.  He obviously hadn't combed his hair since the night prior and I'm guessing slept in his clothes as well.  His t-shirt baring the image of Jerry Garcia was stained with grease.  Not only that but his jeans were stained with red paint or worse, blood.  That red jacket though, something straight out of the seventies looked brand new.

"Nice to meet you."  I stood, offering my hand.

"Pleasure's all mine."  He snorted, slapping my hand back at me.

He plopped down in the chair facing me and kindly removed his mirrored sunglasses to reveal shifty eyes.

"So where's Kane?  Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm the good news Mr. Clemmens.  You no longer have to deal with Mr. Kane.  I will be from here on in your manager, agent, whatever you want to call it."

"Oh, so I'm B-list now?  Kane's too good for me?"

"Not at all,  let's just say that he wants you to have the creative control you've been wanting all along."

"So I get some agent-in-training?  What, am I a wrestler hobby set?  Do I come with instructions?"

I wish he did, honestly.  Staring into his eyes I knew I was in for a goddamn rollercoaster of a ride...

"I have managed several wrestlers along with working as an agent for many actors."

"Inevitably curtain jerkers and actors that couldn't get work in Degrassi let alone anything respectable."

"Well I'll have to know that......Ok...  Well maybe they weren't the most talented people.  You though, with all your title reigns...  We could make lemonade out of this lemon of a career."

"Since when is a ten time World Fucken Champion a lemon?"

"Well you have to admit your career has gone down hill in the last few years."

"What kind of shit is that to say?  I don't have to admit shit.  Listen, how about you just tell me where I'm going?"

Straight to hell apparently, ego maniac.  I think this is the wrong tactic to get through to this boy.

"I have a promising bid from F1X.  Should be familiar to you."

"What the fuck is F-1-X?"

Shane Clemmens Show
"Final drive, old friend."

So yea, like I said, it’s madness. This fucken guy Gabriel Kane isn’t ditching me because I’m hard to work with. He’s not severing ties over creative differences. This geeky mother fucker is turning his back because he’s the guy that worked me in the first place. Now he knows exactly what’s going to happen if I don’t come up with the money and he’s scared shitless. Signed the deal and sold me down the pipe. Not exactly the kind of guy you want to trust, let alone the drones that do his biding.

That’s where this Rosie chick comes in. Yeah, she’s cute in the face and has an ass, oh boy, an ass that won’t even go on strike, let alone quit. You know damn well I’m a sucker for redheads and this babe is no different. If not for the fact that this lost little girl works for Gabriel Kane I’d probably be actively chasing her.

Eh, I probably will anyway.

Still, I can’t trust the bitch as far as I could throw her.

“Where are we going?” She asks, nails digging into her seat.

That’s what I’m still deciding, you know, where we’re going. We could go bowling and allow competition to mask sexual tension. We could go swimming and I could pee in the pool while she’s not looking. Yeah. I could take her out to a movie and talk her into a handjob during the boring parts. Something like that.

“WHERE are we GOING?!” She asks again and I just glare at her then back at the road.

I slap the Challenger into top gear and let it roar watching her tits bounce back with the horses. I smirk.

I ask her if they’re real.

“Real? What are real?” She retorts.

The tits.

“Of course.” She shakes her head and rolls her window down, “Smoking is a really bad habit.”

Probably one of the worst. I light up a cigarette.

Her first few coughs are forced so I nurture another by blowing my first drag her direction. Yeah, it’s easy when the same airflow sucking her hair out the window is forcing the smoke up her nostrils.

Yeah, but it’s that second hand shit that’ll kill you.

“It’s working.” She says, coughing.

Takes too fucken long.

I flick my smoke out the window.

“Look, I know this deal is pretty weak. Trust me, I feel it just as much as you do. What say we make the best of it?”

Lemons, lemonade, sand, and sandcastles. Yeah. Save me from clichés. Why don’t we put on a fucken show? Bust out the acoustic guitar and the tambourine. Ram the guitar up your ass while you bang the tambourine on the top of your head. Making the best of this situation involves kicking you out the passenger door at high speeds right now and taking care not to run my rear axel over your melon.

“How considerate. How about this? We don’t make the best of it. We make the worst of it? How’s that grab you?” She grit her teeth and pulled the e break.

I have to give it to her. Did not see it coming.

During the summer time down the old dirt roads around my summer home in Alaska, pulling the e-break I my old truck can be fun. Yeah, you kick up dust, slide, and amuse your friends. On ice in January in lunch time traffic? Not so good.

The Challenger lurches and is immediately out of control. A car in the oncoming lane tags the passenger side fender and sends the Challenger onto its side, rolling side over side. A merging truck hits the rear end and sends the Challenger up over the guard rail and into the ditch.

“Brilliant.”

My hair’s full of glass and I’m reminiscing on my last real good concussion. I cock my head to the right and see Rosie clearing glass out of her hair and laughing her ass off.

What the fuck was that?! My fuck—fucken car.

“Got your attention. Besides, killing this gas guzzler is a major blow in the war to Green this planet.” She smirks and I swear I see fire in her eyes.

Nah. She’s not an automaton. She’s not some scared little girl. This bitch… This bitch could be…

“Nothing’s broken I trust? Wrestlers know how to fall after all.”

Nothings broken but my FUCKING car.

“Boo hoo. We’ll get you a new Challenger.”

Oh yeah, a plasticy fucktard I can’t work on myself.

Rosie scoffs, “Clemmens, rich men don’t work on their own cars.”

No… No… I think you can call me Shane.

“If you fail, I fail. And if I fail, I will kill you…Shane…”

This bitch could be…

Amazing.

The Challenger catches fire.