SSSSD: Day Four

Here's today's microfiction-- hope you've all been looking forward to some pro-wrestling themed crazy-go-nuts!

Here's the prompt.

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Right before they call my name to go out in the ring, but after the camera crew has finished taping my pre-match interview (you’re going DOWN, Undertaker, you’re going DOWN!), the cameraman hands me a razor blade and tells me to slip it in my boot.

When I ask him why, he says that when the Undertaker hits me with the chair, the camera will pan away. When it pans back, he says, he wants to see some blood on my face.

The Undertaker is so predictable. He must hit people with chairs a lot, if the cameraman already knows he’s going to hit me with a chair. Try and hit me with a chair. Because I’m fast, that’s why I got this job, that’s why my tights have my name sewn down the side, like Ric Flair, like all the best wrestlers. It ain’t because I’m slow.

“Now when you lose the match,” the cameraman says, watching me tuck the metal of the razor into the tongue of my boot, “I want to see some rage. Maybe a tear or two. Your first time in the ring, devastated by the Undertaker. Yeah, a tear would be good. Cut through the blood.” And he turns, and he leaves. I have a staredown with the back of his head, turn his brain into jelly with just the hate in my eyes.

When you lose. When the Undertaker hits you with the chair. This guy, with his no faith. Can he see into the future? Does he know what’s going to happen?

Clearly not. Because I think it’s fairly obvious that I’m going to win. I am, after all, the one with a razor blade in his boot.