6. Ronan

"I'm done."

"The hell you are."

I glare into Marty's big leprechaun eyes, as best I can through the cigar smoke.

Outside the gym office, none of the wrestlers are aware of our argument. Thank God. It's bad enough to have a lousy manager. To air that kind of dirty laundry in this community, it's a damn death knell. Ronan makes sure the door is tightly shut.

I plunk down on the office sofa. I have a wellspring of fight in the ring, but office politics leave me quickly tapped out.

"No, Marty. This time I mean it. I'm grinding my gears under contract with you. You know what I want, and you refuse to give it to me."

Marty stomps behind the desk and uses a step stool to reach the chair. With a lightweight plop, the little leprechaun goes for a spin. His stubby legs can't stop the revolutions. All I hear is swearing as the little man goes round and round until inertia dies and he grabs onto the desk. I'm pissed enough that I don't laugh.

"Are you even going to oil that chair?"

Marty looks up. "What? And deprive my office visitors of the audible result of my thinking prowess?"

I stare and let out an inaudible sigh. One which does not display my thinking prowess.

"Creative bloody control, aye. So you've said, over and over again. What makes you think you know of such matters, Ronan? Look who got you here? Sure, it was your big clod-hopper paws that put on the show. But who cemented your brand? Made it into the multi-million-dollar prize it is now? And you want to kick it all, and me, to the curb for some fancy idea of becoming all soft and squishy in a Good Guy image? That thought makes me want to vomit."

Marty coughs up a storm, but I know it's his endless cigar smoking and not my so-called lousy idea.

I lean back and put my thick green arms over my head. "Yes, you and your psychological bullying had me believing that BS for years. I'm just the muscles in the ring. The sexy photo in a wrestling calendar. The brains are yours."

I lean forward, shifting my forearms to rest on my knees. "Here's the thing. I'm no longer wet behind the ears in this industry. I know what works and what doesn't."

"Oh, you do, now, do you?" Marty grabs his stogie and taps the ashes into an already overflowing tray. "You and what Public Relations army?"

My eyes widen. Those are fighting words.

"Right, so yeah, I needed an army when I was first in this biz. But I don't anymore. I have a fan base, the biggest in the league. You think me swapping sides will diminish that?"

Marty leans forward over his desk, but it's hard to look tough when you're only three feet tall. I'll assume the tough-guy ruse works and react accordingly, merely to placate the little guy.

"Pal, I think you swapping to Good from Evil will wipe out your base like some kind of fleeing spectator tsunami. Your fans come to see you for what evil takedowns you'll use on your unsuspecting opponents. They boo you ‘cause they love to hate the hater. You swan in one night with faerie wings and stardust, and those fans will exit the joint before you can say, what did I do wrong? And then all we'll hear in the wrestling mags is Lawless who?"

Emotionally deflated once more, I lean back. I want the guy to asphyxiate on his own cigar smoke, but I weigh the effort of forcing that cigar down his throat versus throwing a couple of curses at Marty and walking out the door.

I exhale. "You know what irritates me the most?"

"No, you tell me. I'm all ears." Marty removes his Kelly green top hat and whips it on the desk. His similarly tinted hair is askew and makes the tiny duffer look like he's put a finger in a light socket. Again, I don't laugh. Marty isn't funny to me anymore.

"After all these years, after all you and I have been through – the highs and the lows – you still don't take me seriously. You slough off my ideas like child's play. You look at me like I'm a bottom line, a profit margin in muscles and braided hair."

"Holy blue cheese on a moldy cracker. You've been watching daytime TV again, haven't you? Filling your head with too many buzzwords. "

I bolt up and stomp over to the drinks counter. I grab an oversized bottle of Gatorade, swig it in one go, and cough. Man, I hate that shit. So salty.

I know Marty buys that swill to piss me off. I turn to him and smack my lips like I loved it anyway.

This time, I choose to lean over the desk, placing a menacing shadow over the little green man.

"Just because I can feel something, anything, but glee from incoming bucks, it doesn't mean I can't pummel you into next week with these fists."

I feel the blood rush to my head and my muscles tense. If I don't calm down, I'll go into full-on warrior mode. I watch Marty slither back into his chair, clearly melting.

"Listen, Ronan, things have been said on both sides. How ‘bout you and I sleep on it? Let emotions die down. There's no rush to decide right now, is there?"

I stay quiet and walk to the window. I see kids in their early teens training. Their arms and legs are so scrawny, but their zeal is so strong. I know they would all kill to be me. The irony is not lost. Always greener on the other side. I sigh.

This isn't how I wanted things to be. I fought so long and hard to get here. To reach the wrestling mountaintop, win every match, and grab the silver buckle. And now I want to fight to risk it all.

For what? To soothe my savage beast. To be someone I'm not. Whoever heard of a good-natured orc, anyway? Instead of fighting, I should kiss and hug my opponent. The thought makes me shiver.

I fly out of the office, letting the door barely hang on its hinges, and head out to the locker room to pack my things. Marty doesn't stop me. Maybe he thinks I'll be back tomorrow. That I'd never actually leave, not for good.

On the way, light comes in from the open front door. I turn to look and see Cheyanne. She's geared up, ready to drill. My determination to leave quickly goes into high gear. The last thing I need is for her to see me vacating with my tail between my legs.

I stuff all my sweat-stained gear into my sweat-stained duffle bag. Every movement feels like my last. I walk out now, slamming shut all the open lockers. I don't give a shit about anything anymore. I'm walking out for good. So be it. Screw you, Marty Murphy!

"Ah, frig it. No pain, no gain. You meant what you said. Put your money where your mouth is, Lawless. Suck it up and go."

I flip the bag over my shoulder and lumber out. I can't ignore the feeling as the locker room door closes. It's like a chapter of my life closed without my say-so.

Go ahead, world, screw around with my life. I'll laugh last, I guarantee that.

Word gets around the gym about my leaving. Everyone lines up to say goodbye. I smile, offer a few niceties to each fighter, and shake their hands. Then I slowly make my way to the door.

Before the front door closes, I take one last look. I see Cheyanne in the center ring, training hard, but with no new trainer by her side. I let the door close, but questions arise.

"Hey, man, we heard the news. You're leaving for good. Is it true?" Killer Thomas catches me in the parking lot, and I smile and nod.

"Yeah, man, time for a change."

Charlie Hodge, aka, Monkey Man from La Mancha, strolls up behind Thomas and shakes my hand.

"The place won't be the same without you, Lawless."

"Call me Ronan, Charlie. I'm putting Lawless to bed."

"Damn, that's a cryin' shame. There won't be another one like Lawless again."

"Oh, I don't know about that. You guys see Cheyanne in there? She's training hard to be a badass."

"Yeah, we saw. She's been doing her new routine for weeks now but not with a new trainer. You know yourself, Ro. No new brand trainer, no new brand."

"So, what's the scuttlebutt, then?" I'm not the gossipy type, but with Cheyanne, my curiosity is perma-aroused.

"Word is that her schtick is a losing proposition. Cheyanne thinks a couple of new moves in the ring can resuscitate her image as Archimedes. Everyone from the water boy on up knows that's a joke. Her good girl image is toast." Charlie unwraps an entire pack of peppermint gum and chews away.

"Yeah, but with Mac by her side. I mean, what better trainer is there out there? The guy has the Midas touch for wrestling and training wrestlers. And, anyway, who says she has to fight? She's set for life with old man O'Malley. She could have any backstage job she wants. That merger makes him a monopoly owner."

I hear the front door swing open. The guys mumble their goodbyes, and I'm face-to-face with Cheyanne.

Out of breath, she runs up. "Ronan, I wanted to catch you before you left."

"Oh, yeah, why? To say goodbye, too?"

"No, well, yes and no. How ‘bout no goodbye? You stay and give me some pointers. You know, well, the whole place knows that I sure as hell need them."

I smile at the best news I've heard since I packed my duffle bag. I'll get what I want out of my brand change, come hell or Marty Murphy.

"You're on."