grin on his face, basting in the waves of adulation coming from the audience. Michael pressed the Pope to his oiled body, giving him a hug of pure joy, then released the old man and raised his arms high once more. The Pope staggered backwards with a giant grease-mark shaped like Michael’s body down his front. The roar of the crowd surged impossibly higher.
After a while, the commotion started to subside and the Pope brought the microphone to his lips one more time.
“And wrestling for Hell, please welcome...” and here the Pope turned to Hell’s entrance with one hand out. The follow spots stabbed down to reveal...nothing.
The crowd screeched to a halt.
There was dead silence.
The Pope tried again.
“And wrestling for Hell...” and he waved his hand again. The crowd was ready to give it another chance but again the follow spots stabbed down to reveal absolutely nothing. Just an empty entrance with the curtains swaying slightly.
The Pope put his hand over the mic and turned to Heaven’s corner, where Michael was being given a towel rub by Raphael.
“Where are they?” he asked.
“Go find them,” Michael commanded Gabriel, who bit back his resentment and turned to go.
And then, suddenly, the curtains stirred and the rumpled contingent from Hell stumbled out. Minos was in the back, Nero was in the middle, and in the front was a short, unimposing masked wrestler, clad in an ill-fitting bodystocking.
The applause was underwhelming.
“Okay,” the Pope said. “Fighting for Hell tonight is a Masked Wrestler of unknown abilities. This ferocious little dwarf could be any number of shrimpy dead guys.”
Inside her mask, Mary Renfro was hyperventilating, on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. The follow spots were blinding and she could barely see the aisle in front of her. She locked her eyes onto the brightly lit ring at the end of the two dark tunnels formed by the eyeholes in her mask and tried to steer towards it. All she could hear was her own rapid breathing.
“Maybe it’s Stumpo!” the Pope announced, catching the mood of the crowd, which was baying for blood. “The Amazing Midget. Or Napoleon, one-time Emperor of Europe and known out-of-shape fatty. Perhaps it’s a small dog with almost-human intelligence walking on its hind legs.”
The tiny masked wrestler blundered head first into the side of the aisle, banging its forehead on the metal handrail with an audible Doooonnnnggggg!!!!
“Ouch. That had to smart,” the Pope chortled and the angels in the stands laughed and began to throw nachos at Nero and Minos who were trying to steer the Masked Wrestler up the aisle.
“He’s already having incredible difficulty just getting down the aisle,” the Pope shouted in disbelief. “I can’t believe this is happening. This match is shaping up to be a real dog.”
Derision filled the air as the three idiots from Hell made their embarrassed way to the ring. Michael couldn’t help but smirk as he watched them struggle into their corner, climbing the ropes like retarded children. Twice, Mary lost her footing and fell on her butt. The crowd screamed with laughter. Michael had wanted a match and he had wanted a victory but this was going to be almost too easy.
The Omni Peachtree Hotel was in the CNN Center located in downtown Atlanta, Georgia. Upstairs in the Widowmaker Suite, Ted Hunter was getting professionally exfoliated while Frita Babbit sat on the bed watching QVC. She had her cell phone in one hand and a credit card in the other. JP Morgan Chase had advanced her a line of credit against her settlement and so far she had bought a Haan Floor Steamer, a dozen Moulinex Electric Cocktail Makers as “thank you” gifts for the jury, a twenty-eight and a half inch tall wooden Nutcracker, and a Reelsmart Auto Rewind Seventy-Five Foot Hose with Dual Mounting Options. She showed no signs of slowing down.
“The Republicans are like horny dogs,” Ted Hunter said, as his exfoliating technician paused to sharpen her scab stick. “They want to hump your leg so bad.”
“Uh-huh,” Frita Babbit said as a Dennis Basso Faux Fur in Lynx came on the screen.
“You let me work ‘em over with my magic mouth and you’ll be Sarah Palin’s Sarah Palin by the time they leave here,” Ted Hunter shouted to her from the giant, walk-in bathroom. His exfoliating technician re-lit her sterilizing torch and went back to work on his problem elbows.
“Okay,” Frita said from the bedroom.
There was a knock at the door.
“Get that,” Ted said. “It’s probably the champagne,