The door to the dank, crusty Canadian dive bar creaked open as he pushed against it. The Flat Tire was the only bar in Champion, Alberta, and some might say it was the only good thing in town. There wasn’t much self-esteem in this part of the province.

Normally Golden Pro Wrestling’s commissioner, Parker Meloche, wouldn’t be caught dead or alive in a spot like this, but he was on a mission. He had been on a lot of missions lately, exploring the world to pluck quality wrestlers from every nook and cranny.

There were only a couple of patrons sitting around, which made it easy to find his recruitment target. Hunched over on his stool with his forearms resting against the wood bar, the thick, dangerous-looking man idly held a cigarette in his left hand and a beer mug in his right. Parker cautiously took a seat a couple of stools down the bar.

“What’ll you have?” asked the barkeep, polishing a clean beer mug with a dirty towel.

“I’ll have a Manhat-,” said Parker, before catching himself and becoming more aware of his surroundings. “I’ll have a Molson.”

The bartender nodded and began to pour the draft Canadian beer into the mug.

Parker looked up at the TV, which was broadcasting hockey highlights, and then slowly turned his head down the way to his target.

“What do you think?” murmured Parker, looking up at the television. “Do the Flames have a shot to make the playoffs?”

The thick, semi-retired wrestler took a drink from his beer with his cigarette still pinched between his lips. Afterwards he took the cigarette out of his mouth.

“Fuck you.”

The bartender moseyed over and set the beer in front of Parker and gave him a warning shake of the head as if to warn him against socializing with the big man.

Parker decided to change tactics.

“Or maybe the Flames should pack it up,” Parker continued. “They haven’t won shit in forever. And they won’t win shit because they’ve obviously given up.”

The man down the bar turned his head slightly in response.

“Fuck you.”

The bartender came back over and leaned toward Parker with arms spread to support himself against the dark wooden bar.

“I suggest you keep to yourself, or you see yourself out.”

“Why?” Parker asked. “Is there someone here with some balls to chat with me?”

Before the bartender could ask Parker to leave, the intimidating, tank of a man finally turned his head fully.

“What part of ‘fuck you’ do you not understand?” he asked. “Or do I need them to send the town’s only ambulance here?”

Parker finally had a bite at the end of his line, in fishermen speak.

“There you go,” replied Parker, smiling. “That’s the man I’ve been looking for.”

Violence.

Alberta’s finest piece of chaos in human form. A wrestler without style, self-control, empathy, and most important of all… without a job.

Even though he had caught Violence’s attention using snark and offense, Parker decided not to press his luck too much.

“Alright, alright,” said Parker before agitating Violence any further. “I’ll stop trying to piss you off now.”

The bartender excused himself and went down to check on another customer. Meanwhile, Violence shook his head in annoyance.

“What the fuck do you want?” Violence grunted.

“Listen, I know you’re out of work and no one will hire you,” Parker replied. “But I’m willing to throw you a bone here. A chance to get back on your feet.”

Violence didn’t look at Parker, but he was obviously listening.

“You know my shit, then?” Violence asked.

“I know you’ve been kicked out of three straight organizations,” Parker answered. “I know the FCC has decided that your finisher can’t be shown on TV. I know that you never listen to anyone. I know you enjoy injuring people. And I know you are the cream of the crop when you’re in the zone.”

Sometimes you must play to someone’s ego.

Violence scowled, sensing he might be getting played.

“Listen, I represent a promotion down in Memphis, Tennessee,” he carried on. “We’re building out our roster and I’m looking for a diamond in the rough.”

The big, unemployed wrestler scoffed.

“And you think I’m that guy?” Violence replied. “Who else you got on your roster?”

Parker listed off a few names; Golden Ben Miller, Shotcaller, King Crab Mick, Flip Costa. Before he could go on, Violence cut him off.

“Your roster blows.”

This response didn’t surprise Parker in the least.

“You know I’m going to tear through these nobodies, right?” Violence asked. “You know I’m going to hurt some of them, right? You know that I’ll be the most experience, unforgiving motherfucker you’ve got, right?”

“That’s what I’m counting on,” Parker said.

Violence sat quietly, likely contemplating his stalled out wrestling career and the lifeline that Parker was throwing at him.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Violence finally said to Parker. “But… send me your contract, and I’ll consider it.”

Parker smirked inwardly. Another swish a of a shot.

“I’ve got the address to that little apartment of yours,” slyly replied Parker, taking a little dig at Violence’s current circumstances. “3B, right?”

Violence furrowed his brow.

“Get the fuck out of here and send the fucking contract.”

Parker didn’t push his luck. He took a final sip of the Canadian beer, got up from the stool and left The Flat Tire. He just scored another wrestler.