The first page of my creative project – a pro-wrestling novel

Before you begin, the idea:

What you’re about to read is a fictitious biography of a female wrestler’s chaotic pursuit of stardom, told by her unfaithful partner as an act of penance (loosely based on the 2005 Hardy/Lita storyline with gender roles reversed). The narrative also includes extracts from a sit-down interview between the couple; as in wrestling, the dual voices call into question for the reader whether this is a genuine competition for their sympathy, or a pre-determined work, with Cissy Cassidy (female wrestler) and Donny Coates (narrator) cooperating to achieve the final effect. 

Enjoy…

Work, Shoot; Shoot, Work
The Story of Cissy Cassidy and a Pro-Wrestling Relationship

By popular author and celebrated professional wrestler,
Donnie ‘The Greek Alpha’ Coates

Let me sell this. 

I first met Jackie Parnaby, or, as you may know her, Victoria Atlanta, or now, Cissy Cassidy, on Monday 20 October 1997 in Joe’s Gym, Lincoln, UK. Even if I hadn’t spent the next twenty or so years alongside her, I wouldn’t have forgotten a first meeting like that. See, that morning, she didn’t just interrupt my workout. Using language that was back then strictly reserved for us insiders, she looked me square in the eyes and said, “Now, come on, shoot, don’t work me, it’s you isn’t it? Greek Alpha, right? I’ve heard the boys talking about you. Who came up with your finish last night? It was quite creative. You’re getting over with the crowd as a babyface but I don’t know if I’m buying it.”

To say this showed balls would be like saying Andre the Giant was tall. For a start, no one cut in on the Greek Alpha’s workouts, especially the morning after a big show. More to the point, was this using insider words. Kayfabe – our insider code to keep the pre-determined nature of pro wrestling a secret. And Jackie had zero regard for it. Zero respect for our beautiful business. 

I looked this preposterous preener up and down. She was maybe eighteen, six foot, wearing a punk t-shirt with the sleeves cut off above heavily worn jeans. She nodded at me, displaying the dimple in her chin. This didn’t soften her. In fact, she looked like she’d hang you by the balls if you came within a metre of her. The final warning was the colour of her hair, dyed jet-black – black as a booker’s heart.

Part of me wanted to tell her to do one, but two things stopped me. First, kayfabe. She was right, I was getting over pretty good as a babyface, and I was duty-bound to act as one both in and out the ring. In other words, I had to be friendly and accommodating, smile at all times. Even when she picked up the Carver and Mailer books I’d brought with me to read between reps, sneered at them, then tossed them back to the sticky floor. She repeated the terms ‘babyface’, ‘work’ and ‘getting over’, and when I said I wasn’t sure what she was talking about, her green eyes shone. Hell, she knew I had to feign ignorance, and still she looked at me like, “oh, you want to play a game do you?” Second, even more important than kayfabe – if we’re shooting here – her moxie pulled me in. Not just her moxie, her look. Straight-up, she had the natural look for our business. The physique. She had “it”. 

Wait. If we’re shooting, let’s really shoot. This is what it comes down to – she had a charisma that I didn’t. That I could never have. I was a solid worker and as Jackie said, I was getting decent pops from the crowd. But would I ever draw a full house in Madison Square Garden? Even at that point, five years into my career, still early days in wrestling terms, I knew. Even then I had this weight in my chest. The weight of loving something and it not loving you back. So, to see how Jackie drew eyeballs… I sensed that by sticking close to her, I would be pulled upwards with her.