Chicago, Illinois

Summer 1993

The door to the locker room burst open inside Chicago Stadium and the lumbering Golden Glen Miller entered following his match. The rest of the wrestlers sitting around the room looked up and stared for a moment before going back to their business.

His downfall seemingly had no end… he didn’t even get his own locker room anymore.

“What?” Glen asked audibly to no one in particular. “You guys haven’t seen a winner before?”

Most of the wrestlers tried to ignore him, and a couple of others shook their heads in disbelief.

Once a leader amongst the roster, Glen was no more than a bully these days. He acted better than everyone he worked with, he actively tried to drive up-and-comers away, and he was best described as a “cancer” in the business.

Glen sat down in his stall and pulled off his left elbow pad. His right elbow pad had been thrown somewhere into the crowd before he performed “The Golden Elbow,” the once classic finisher that was now considered a relic of entertainment.

The door opened again, and this time it was the promotion’s showrunner who entered. Steve Haines was a no-nonsense wrestling promoter who liked to run a tight ship with his events and roster. He no doubt was frustrated with Glen’s performance tonight where he cheated all the way up to his finishing move.

Steve approached Glen with a furrowed brow and stopped in front of him with his hands on his hips.

“Howdy, Steve,” Glen acknowledged.

“Glen, this is enough,” stated Steve, which prompted the rest of the locker room to stop and watch.

“Huh?”

“Listen, we all know you aren’t who you were ten years ago, but this behavior isn’t okay! The cheating, the abuse backstage, and not listening to straightforward orders!”

Glen stood up and looked down at the smaller businessman.

“Excuse me, Steve? I’m Golden fucking Glen Miller.”

Undeterred, Steve looked around Glen toward the black and gold gym bag. He sidestepped GGM and stuck his hand in the bag and pulled out a half-empty bottle of whiskey. The rest of the locker room began to whisper to each other.

“You’re fucking drunk, Glen. You’re out there… competing drunk!”

Glen’s face was now straight and serious; he knew this wasn’t good.

“I can’t have anyone out there working under the influence, Glen. It’s bad for business… you’re fired.”

Steve tossed the bottle back in the bag and walked out of the room. Glen put his head down for a moment and then looked around to see all his former coworkers staring at him in disbelief.

“Oh, fuck off, people,” Glen stated defensively. “None of you will ever reach my heights.”

Glen threw everything in his bag and left still in most of his wrestling attire. The news of his dismissal had already spread amongst the promotion, and producers and other crew members tried to avoid eye contact as he walked through the hallways.

As Glen approached the rear entrance to Chicago Stadium, a portly man in a dark red business suit emerged from a side hallway.

“Mr. Miller!” said the man. “I’m Thomas Torbenson, and I want to chat.”

Glen didn’t even stop.

“It sounds like it’s over here for you, but I can get you back on top!” yelled the man.

This time, Glen did stop. Although he didn’t turn around to look at him, Thomas Torbenson walked up and stood in front of the once-legendary wrestler.

“Listen, I know it’s been a little rough for you, but I promise that with my guidance, you’ll be a main eventer until you retire.”

“I’ve never needed an agent,” Glen replied.

The fat businessman grinned.

“Well, you do now. Come on, let’s go get a beer and I’ll tell you my plan to get you all the victories and money you deserve.”

Glen considered his present circumstances: he had no family, no job, no prospects, and no respect from anyone, including himself.

“Alright, let’s go. I want to hear it.”