Wrestling mentor

Marjorie’s down for the count when she meets her wrestling idol the Under Taker.

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Mark Calaway, ever the professional, wore a smooth fitted grey business suit that one would for a corporate meeting. Mark sat in the back of the arena, watching two females going at it. One much more athletic, noticeably so, then the other but it was an even match up. At least Mark thought so. His eyes lingered on each form as they danced about the ring trading blow for blow. This wasn’t even the main event and that much was evident from the lackluster faces in the audience, mostly other wrestlers and trainers.

She reminded him of himself when he had first started. His large stature made him prey for the smaller, quicker types and honestly, brute strength only went so far in winning the audience. It was true. People wanted to see high fliers and nimble, agile champions instead of people who were more suited for boxing.

Mark’s posture was exceptional and his movements seemed almost picture perfect and calculated as he reached up to his suit pocket and plucked out from it an arena card. Unfolding it, eyes never looking away from the match, he brought the paper upward, blocking his view only slightly, allowing him to gaze at the various names printed upon it and the match at the same time.

Marjorie

Re-folding it, he placed it snuggly into his pocket again right over his heart. She had spirit, that was for sure and her willpower, remarkable. Both opponents in the ring were worn out and gasping for breath. The two females sized each other up, earning them both time to recoup their strength and their breath before locking themselves against each other in an exhaustive display of sheer stamina. Marjorie’s sheer brute force tossed the opponent to the ropes but Marjorie didn’t capitalize upon this advantage, instead, taking time to re-energize herself a little more. Mark winced, realizing that Marjorie was attempting to summon up strength that she no longer possessed. Marjorie was going off of pure adrenaline and each moment was precious and she was wasting it.

Wrestling was a demanding sport. Nothing else zapped your strength like wrestling for merely five minutes but this match was long, and lingering still. Marjorie was not giving in to her exhaustion. Not yet. She fought with a spirit most wouldn’t notice, and even if they did, wouldn’t be able to comprehend how or where to begin to appreciate such a display of mental and physical fortitude.

Mark clenched his large hands against his knees, tightening with each passing moment. His long grey dress pants smoothly brushing upward his lower leg, revealing his thin charcoal dress socks. For once in a very long time, he wasn’t being introspective. This was as good of entertainment as being in the ring himself. Like watching a play that captivated a person, Mark was lost in a sea of wonderment. The match was nearing at a close though, each female on their last leg, so to speak. With a spear, the unnamed woman took down Marjorie with frightening ease. Mark had no idea who the opponent was, but honestly didn’t care.

They locked themselves in a tangle of flesh and flailing arms, each trying desperately to earn the upper hand. Marjorie finally found herself on top the smaller framed female, pinning her, earning a slow count down from the ref.

One!

.

Two!

.

.

Not so gracefully, the opponent squeezed out from under Marjorie’s form and shoved Marjorie onto her side while promptly taking over the wrestling match, attempting her own pin.

Mark, without thinking, quickly stood up, perhaps the only one in the audience who actually felt the need to participate in the event. With his loud, deep voice, he called out “That is some bullshit! That was a slow count ref, and you know it!” No one really expects to be heard, especially at a wrestling match but everybody heard, probably even the ref. Some people scattered in the front side seats looked back. Mark didn’t back down even if he did feel a little oddly about his outburst before promptly sitting back down in his seat, his calloused hands running from his chest down to his stomach, smoothing out his business suit in a professional, cooling off manner and continued to watch the match.

One
Two
Thr –

Marjorie placed her hands under her opponent and with shocking and startling strength, bench pressed the female off of her, tossing her like a rag doll. Marjorie returned to her feet. Exhausted, breathing quick and shortly before the two females engaged in yet another competition of strength. Mark had spent so many years in the ring, he could tell the signs, the signs of lack of oxygen, the signs of adrenaline finally dissipating leaving only a tired, frail opponent. The knees wobbled, caving in as Marjorie’s opponent danced around her skillfully, and struck just behind the kneecap. Marjorie tumbled and collapsed.

This time, however, it was one sided and while Marjorie had willpower, she was not invincible and was pinned effortlessly.

Where most saw a winner and a loser. Mark saw something else. He saw the real winner. He saw potential. He saw a future. He saw someone who needed to be trained. Someone who needed to know the secrets of the profession. But most of all, Mark Calaway saw someone who was capable of learning those secrets, someone willing to, someone who wanted to. Nothing could replace, nor buy, passion. The passion he saw burning in Marjorie’s eyes. She didn’t look like a loser.

—

Part of training was working the audience; much like the match last night. No tickets were sold. No one was paid for anything. It was just very, very realistic sparing. Mostly the trainees who utilize the facilities were present for the show. It didn’t mean that Marjorie wasn’t pissed at her loss to Miss Prissy as she called her. No one else did but her though. Marjorie, however, was not one to lose her concentration in training just over a silly, silly, silly… stupid loss because some ref wanted to slow count her just because Miss Prissy had big fat fake tits and …. It wasn’t even a real match, exactly, anyway. No, it definitely rolled off her mind like the sweat dripping off her body.

Marjorie threw a punch at the heavily pummeled punching bag, hard enough to actually make her pause from her repetitive strikes upon that heavy object. Ouch! She shook her hand off before walking over to the locker-room to sit down and rest where it was at least somewhat cold and secluded. Give her hand a little time to mend itself.

Marjorie’s hands came to her face as she leaned down into them. She was tired. She had been training all day and that fact was very evident in just how sweaty her attire was. Her figure was bulkier than most female wrestlers, not fat, per say, but her thighs were unflattering to say the least, or at least that is what she’d say. Unlike most, she choose to train in a sports kimono bottom which loosely but firmly caressed her plump rear end and shapely legs. To add insult to injury though, they were charcoal black, making her sweat even more. Even the bottoms were earning some of the saturation from her upper bodies sweat but that fact remained concealed from her impeccable wardrobe tastes, specifically the color. It was her sleeveless shirt, however, that bespoke of her intense training. The neckline of the grey shirt was dampened darkly with liquid, along with her armpits and the sides of the shirt. Marjorie knew she didn’t smell at all that well but that didn’t stop her from training and perhaps she might even put on another coat of deodorant.



Quickly rubbing her hands in her hair, letting her damp hair dry out on the ground behind her, she replaced hands with a towel and just closed her eyes and sunk backward to face up toward the ceiling. It felt good, how long had she been at this? She heard boots against the locker room floor. They echoed, making their approach impossible to not notice. It must have been one of the big girls, she thought in passing before her eye curiously opened, just to see who it was. Marjorie saw a towering man before her. Built like an ox, evident even with his white t-shirt and leather biker jacket. Complete with overused, ripped blue jeans and a pair of expensive looking boots, Marjorie couldn’t help but linger her now widened eyes along his mustache and beard, slightly unkempt, but still remained sculpted, like a statue.

It dawned upon Marjorie who this man was… The Under Taker. His lips slipped back, smiling widely as he noticed her realization. Chuckling under his breathe, he walked nearer, sitting himself upon the bench. It was not like it changed his size or anything, even sitting down he reigned over her. Marjorie immediately felt the bench, strongly constructed; give way under his impressive weight and dip downward.

Still with her body arched backward, towel in her hair, and breasts heaving outward, Marjorie’s movements were slowed down conscientiously though. Licking her parched lips, she mustered up her best smile, which just seemed awkward in the already awkward situation. With head tilted to look over, and upward at the Undertaker, she finally spoke.

“Hey…I think you are in the wrong locker room…No, the wrong stadium.” Pausing, she flashed an amused smile. “and the wrong state to boot.” Marjorie had grown up watching him. As he grew, she grew also. His dreams realized became her dreams unrealized yet pursued to the best of her ability. He always retained his cool, savvy natured self though, which Marjorie knew all to well.

“You’re Marjorie, right?” Mark asked confidently.

“Yes?” Marjorie was befuddled but inquisitive.

“Then I am definitely in the right locker room.” He thinks for a minute. “But the right stadium,” Mark retorted charismatically. “and the correct state, actually.” Mark flashed a smile, his teeth exceptionally white and near perfect.

“Okay. But why are you here?” She laughed, looking away, trying to act natural which came across as anything but.

“For you, of course, Kiddo.” Mark took his hand and playfully rubbed it into her damp hair. It was oddly soothing to have someone else do it, but it didn’t diminish the fact that she was shocked how much of her scalp he could palm with ease. Mark could definitely palm a basketball. It was a playful rub before he pulled back his intruding hand, but not because of some notion he was invading her private space, but because it seemed natural to pull it away at that moment.

Marjorie couldn’t help but laugh playfully and smile herself, even blush a little. But she couldn’t find words. Her mind was foggy with confusion. The Under Taker. Here… Why? For her? That just didn’t make sense.

“I get this a lot you know. But the first thing you have to remember in wrestling is that it is a business. You have to keep your wit about you in the ring and out of it, especially in the locker room. The first thing I tell anyone back here is that I am just a person, just like you. You know. I got different interests; I do other things, right, but still, the same. See what I am saying? I saw you last night and you looked very… soulful. Talented”

Finally she found her footing and returned the back and forth. “That is flattering… I just don’t really know what to say. I had an idea when you said you were looking for me but… to hear it. It feels…” Marjorie chuckled again and looked upward into the Undertakers eyes, it took a lot to be able to look into the eyes of a legend. “What did you want, Mr. Calaway?”

“Mark, please.”

That wasn’t too business like…

“Mark. Oh, my name is Marjorie, not ‘kiddo’” She was friendly, even as she did the quotations with her fingers.

“You got some natural raw talent. You got the moves, you definitely got the charisma. Figured there might be something I can do to help you out on, like, the fundamental parts of your training. It could help out, never know. But really, it will help.”

Mark’s body being as large framed as it was, Marjorie didn’t even notice the water bottle, rather canteen, on his other side which he brought toward her. Mark handed it to Marjorie who quizzically grabbed it, their hands brushing together. Electricity that only grew stronger by the waters conductivity.

“Gotta keep you hydrated. Looks like you need it, most your fluids are on the floor and around the gym. What time did you get in here at?” He spoke with authority but concern, and genuine interest, something foreign to culture now a days.

“Seven a.m. Sharp. Every Saturday.” She drank the water bottles content. She barely had time to admire the flask like canteen, which didn’t much match Mark’s outfit, but with him in a business suit… she thought trailing as she eagerly consumed the liquid, some of it spilling out of her mouth, trailing down to her neck refreshingly. The water was deliciously cold, not too cold, but cold enough. Just right.

Pulling his sleeve up, he glanced at his watch. “You should be getting lunch right about now.”

“I ate a healthy, large breakfast. You know how it is in training.” She said after gasping for air, pausing her drinking of the water.

“Four square meals a day. No exceptions.” He said kindly yet firmly.