Piledriver : Scary Stories – Short Horror Story

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I’m a wrestler. Name’s Lockhart. Maybe you’ve heard of me. I’m one of the biggest stars in the indies, and “world” champion of this tiny promotion. Crowds love me. Internet loves me. I’ve got the best flips and the best hurricanrana in the business. Ain’t no one got flash like me. I’m Golden!

Bookers love putting me against this other dude. Pyro. Boring ass guy who just sticks to the basics. I can’t tell you how many times our final spot in matches he won was him countering my rana into his piledriver, “Pyroclast.” A simple sit-out piledriver. No flash, no intrigue, just like him. Boring ass.

I get eyes on the product; he just grapples. Somehow we just get each other in the ring, my flash and his basics.

Naturally, I’m the one who sells the tickets. I’m the one who sells the shirts. I’m the one who gets the groupies. The good-looking ones, anyway. All Pyro gets is jealous, and autographs with broke, fat, sweaty dudes who say I flip too much. Just as worthless as him.

Just as naturally, when the biggest national promotion scouted one of our shows, I’m the one they wanted, not him. He can stay in the minor leagues, where he belongs. I’m meant for more. Sure, these fans are “rabidly loyal,” but this is a damn bingo hall. I need stadiums.

I kept quiet until last week. After my match, I went off script, gave a small speech, and, amidst chants of “please don’t go,” signed that fat contract right on the World belt. Pissed the fans off, pissed the booker off, but whatever. I’m a star now.

Only one match left on my contract with this small shit. Gotta drop the belt, go out on your back, all that. I checked, and of course it’s Pyro. Boring-ass champ for a minor league, ok.

The booker gave me a pissed look when I passed gorilla. The crowd threw trash when I came out. Pyro looked furious when we stared down, like I skinned his dog and turned it into a hat. Almost like they’re taking this personally. It’s just business, guys, chill out.

Match goes like much the rest. He’s a’ight, don’t get me wrong, but he’ll never make it anywhere without me.

Finish comes, just as normal. I start my ‘rana, he stops me. Just one more Pyroclast, and I’m golden. But then I look down, up rather, at the floor.

I’m too low. I tap his leg to let him know, to say to lift me a bit more. He’ll break my fucking neck!

He just chuckles softly. “Boring, eh? Just gonna leave us? I ain’t gonna make it? Nah.”

My blood chills, and I start thrashing, but his grip is tight. The crowd is cheering. Don’t they see this!? They’re “smart” fans, they know I’m… they… they know.

“Booker-man has a message for ya. ‘You ain’t Golden, Lockhart, and you ain’t going nowhere.'”