Man is flesh. That’s what one of the broken wrestlers who taught Dom to push and run the ropes in a drop-ceilinged gym a stone’s throw from Mason Dixon Stadium said. As a kid in a business that ate its children, Dom was used to crappy advice. That line was special.

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There were nights, especially after Dom took Pilar away from her mother, when he tried to understand why he couldn’t get it out of his head – why he spat it out through his teeth on the bench, didn’t toast anyone with it before drinking a shot, stuffed it into himself while he lay on the floor watching his little sister fall asleep on her futon on garbage day. He wanted to make it smarter, make it deeper than it originally was. Man is meat. You can cut him. You can cook him, chew him, and swallow him.

On the East Coast independent wrestling circuit, a loose network of promotions that beat up girls for a buck, Dom was a heel. His job was to stay big and be mean. And lose. The heels did the heavy lifting. They blocked the matches. They coordinated the tags. The more heat Dom could generate, the brighter the spotlight shone on the babyfaces.

Although his fights were theatrical, the risks were real. Dom’s day-to-day life was managing that risk, calculating when a dangerous maneuver was necessary to achieve the desired result. Even in a routine fight, spines could break. A pound of pressure could collapse a windpipe. It had happened to better wrestlers. It had happened to guys with necks as thick as tree trunks. Every wrestler had only a limited number of chances.

From the entrance gates, the Sumter County Freedom Festival was filled with tents, flags, neon-lit trailers, and everything sugary and fat-related. A whiff of frying oil reminded Dom how hungry he was. The place was decorated in aggressive pastel colors. Some festival-goers had settled into the shade, closing their eyes to rest. Even the ground, a once-turfed plot of land leveled for hay, reflected the sun with all its might.

Apart from a few permanent exhibition buildings and toilets, the fairground was wide open, opening up to the blazing Midlands sky. The place was packed. Seared skin stretched as taut as the tents. Tattoos of all shapes and sizes on every surface imaginable, with no offence. Dom hadn’t taken ten steps into the crowd before he saw people in all states of consciousness – some comatose and boiling in the sun, others struggling to make their way to the bass of a music stage.

“I’ll get a sno-cone,” said Pilar.

“Why?” asked Dom.

“Because I’m melting. And sno-cones are delicious.”

Dom glanced at her. She was tapping away on her phone.

“So much for rare and appropriate cheats,” he said.

Her thumbs tapped in a pianist’s gesture. “That’s rare. Can you even imagine a scoop of ice cream on a day like this? A miracle of science.”

“A poor diet cannot be compensated for by exercise.”

“Oh my goodness, Coach. Relax. Are you nervous or something? You’re sweating like crazy.”

“They would listen to a real coach,” Dom said.

“You know me so well, brother. I like taking orders.”

Pilar nudged Dom with her elbow and hopped forward, eyeing the endless line of food trucks. Dom’s career had taken them south. He worked at Mid-Coast Championship Wrestling, an independent organization outside of Charlotte with a sizable draw, usually a few hundred per show. The main stage was the Hangar, a converted maintenance building on an old airstrip outside 485 Beltway. When Dom wrestled in the Hangar, he hung around until the end to snag scraps from the food trucks parked outside. Pilar had sworn off heavy meat as she ramped up her training. Any money Dom saved on free meals meant his sister could get more creative at the grocery store. Fresh out of high school, she had sharper looks and better prospects for the top than Dom ever had.

Several bookers had already inquired about the young Contreras sister. But Dom was determined not to throw Pilar to the wolves of these slavering men. He hoped Bonnie Blue would take a look at her. With the death of her long-time partner, Bonnie was now in control of MCCW. The sleazy showmen of the Southeast would sell Pilar’s ring time with implicit demands for certain private appearances. Bonnie was different – the rare woman in a sea of ​​thugs and bullies. She was cold and hard and hungry. She could make Pilar a star.

Pilar rode as a passenger at Dom’s summer gigs. It was worth cutting her training time short. The gym might build muscle, but it could never prepare Pilar for the lifestyle. The road was tough. No breaks, no off-season. To make a living, afford the necessities—and build up a nest egg for the inevitable injuries—a wrestler had to be on the road three hundred days a year. That meant long nights on dark tracks, joints aching from the pain of half a dozen weekly matches. At least Pilar fit in Dom’s Civic, which still ran well after 300,000 miles and modifications that turned it into the world’s most pathetic RV. Dom’s head had dug a bald spot into the driver’s roof. Every pothole posed a serious threat.

MCCW ran satellite shows in partnership with smaller promoters in the Carolinas. Dom relied heavily on these shows to make extra money and stay in shape in case an opportunity arose on I-95. At Freedom Fest, Dom was booked for a satellite show, once again as Hack Barlow. His lumberjack gimmick had done quite well in the Ohio Valley before it fizzled out and forced him to move south. In indie wrestling, if you didn’t move up, someone else was bound to use your neck as a stepping stone. Dom had lost 40 pounds and planned to distance himself from the stocky Barlow and get a leaner, more low-maintenance physique. What would become of him was an unanswered question. His old jeans and flannel shirts hung off him like he was a kid who’d made a Halloween costume out of his dad’s clothes.

When a community in the Carolinas celebrated “freedom,” it was usually a code word for “firearms.” But this festival was nothing like the mix of county fair, trade show, and Second Amendment circle-jerking that Dom was used to. The first sign was the leather, any trace of it far too much as the temperatures rose. Armbands, spiked collars, chaps, leashes, hoods, corsets, and, unbelievably, full-body suits. And all this amid stars-and-bars types rummaging through cases of assault weapons and sipping large bottles as they strolled from tent to tent. In front of a doughnut truck, a middle-aged woman squeezed the trigger of an airsoft replica of a Glock. Nearby, a fuzzy-lipped teenager read the fine print on a roll of flavored condoms. At a stall crammed with obscene knick-knacks, a man in a striped polo shirt and salmon-colored shorts squeezed a drop of clear liquid onto his index finger, rubbed it thoughtfully with his thumb, and sniffed it.

“It doesn’t matter how long you’re on the road,” said Dom. “You never see everything.”

Pilar stuffed her phone into the front pocket of her denim shorts. Half of the screen protruded past her waist and the hem of her light green tank top. She shook her finger at her brother. “You love this, don’t you? Maybe we’ve found your fetish. El fetiche de Domingo. Wait. It’s fetishRight? Fetiz? Fetrics?”

“I have no idea,” said Dom.

Pilar grimaced. “So, we should go shopping. This would look good on you. Are you more of a leather or spandex person?”

“Don’t you know that? I thought we were close, Pilar.”

“Shut up. I’m serious. We could create a new character for you here for a reasonable price – cowboy, sergeant, gun nut.”

A man in a beret and cartridge belt walked by, sucking on a camouflage pacifier. “I’ll think about it,” Dom said.

“You have to seize the opportunity. Trust your gut feeling.”

“Right. Why should I think about the most important decision of my career?”

“I’m just saying – we should both do something. Why don’t you talk to the booker and get me the card? Preview of upcoming attractions. They can pay me with sno-cones.”

She was so eager, Dom thought. He never chuckled. Many of the old boys would have done that – men whose hulking bodies looked like muscle cars with moldy leather upholstery. Every newcomer to the industry fought with a chip on their shoulder. Few made it far. There was no telling where Pilar’s enthusiasm would lead. Wrestling was changing. More and more women were becoming stars. The business was full of men waiting to pounce on those who would stop at nothing to get there.

“You only get to debut once,” said Dom. It was a saying he had used before.

Pilar turned her gaze to the sun and let it tan for a second before she pulled out her phone and started tapping away at it. “The service here is so bad,” she said.

“When did you book?”

“Five.”

“Heat of the day. Great. I’ll look around for you.” “I’ll save you a seat,” Dom said as the cool blue of an ice cream truck lured her away. A man in black and purple vinyl with pink zippers pushed past her.

“Dom the dominatrix!” she shouted.

“No!” Dom replied.

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Out of kayfabe by Chris Koslowski. Used with permission of McSweeney’s. Copyright © 2024 by Chris Koslowski.