Mox by Jon Moxley

Author:Jon Moxley [Moxley, Jon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Sports & Recreation, Wrestling, Biography & Autobiography, Sports, Entertainment & Performing Arts
ISBN: 9781637580394
Publisher: Simon and Schuster

2008 CHUNK

2008, SOME BAR,

SOMEWHERE IN OHIO

“Staple it to my cheek,” this guy says.

He’s backstage, holding a staple gun and wants me to staple a dollar bill to his face in the ring tonight. Sure, buddy. I was wrestling a guy named Drake Younger. He was affable, but I didn’t know anything about him other than he seemed from our conversation to be something of a hardcore stylist.

“Yeah, if you want,” I tell him, though I have no intention of using a staple gun. Truth be told, I didn’t even really wanna be there, on a Tuesday night in some dive in front of 50 people. I don’t even know why I still do shows like this … what’s the point? Just trudging along aimlessly because it’s the only thing I know how to do. Everyone on the card is wearing gothic face paint and falling on their heads, attempting moves they have no idea how to properly execute. They are all dressed like Jeff Hardy. I am depressed. Nonetheless, I go out for my match with this Drake. I enjoy wrestling, at least, and I took off work for this. The few bucks I make tonight will barely cover my gas, but I’m here — might as well grab my guitar and go bang out a tune. We’re having a fun match. This Drake dude’s easy to work with … he sells his ass off. It gets a little wild. We fight all over the place, calling shit on the fly. Drake does a Cactus Flip off the bar … the crowd is into it. I start coming to life, lost in the moment. I am happy. In the ring, I hit Drake in the head with a stop sign and that staple gun falls out of his shorts onto the dingy mat. There’s a flyer stuck to Drake’s sweaty back advertising 2 for 1 margarita night or something. I look at the staple gun. I look at the flyer. Eh, why not? I grab my opponent around the chin and place the flyer to his cheek, raise the staple gun above my head like a scepter and hear a collective “WTF” from the audience. I place the proverbial barrel on his face, grit my teeth and use all the might in my bicep to squeeze the trigger. There is a satisfying CLICKCLACK. I’ve heard plenty of OOOHS and AAAHS, plenty of pops, cheering, or booing. Plenty of whatever desired response I wanted to elicit from an audience. This was a particular reaction I had never garnered before, however. It was a different energy. It was … disgust, shock, revulsion. Cover-your-eyes-and-look-away-type shit, I couldn’t really put my finger on it, but I liked it. It was a new feeling, a small hit of a new drug pumping through my veins for the first time. As I got in the truck to drive home in the snow that night, still feeling good, I didn’t think much of it. Tonight was just a lark.

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