New Title 1 Read Online Free PDF Page B

didn’t really matter. Two refs brought Goon in on the stretcher before Too Hot could get out.
    But then Goon sat up. “Hey, Too Hot. I was just joking with all that nigger stuff. Wanted to get you riled up, you know? The crowd loved that right hook.”
    Too Hot dropped his bag, stared in sheer disbelief that Goon was not only still alive but unhurt by a blow that would’ve certainly killed any man on earth.  
     
    ««—»»
     
    Ketchum Athletic Center. Not much bigger than a high-school auditorium, and that’s where half of DSWC cards took place—fucking high schools. Talk about the pits, Melinda thought. Fifteen ringrats congregated by the back door, fussing, cussing, whooping it up. Tonight’s card was over—they’d be coming out soon, some to the nearest bar, others straight to the motel with a rat on their arm. In their heyday, most of DSWC’s grapplers had lived the bigtime in WWF and WCW; Melinda had learned that much. Now they’d been consigned to this pissant federation because they were either too old or had stepped on too many toes in the bigger feds. Goon could make a million a year in WWF, Melinda realized, but he’s too smart for that. A big contract would mean huge exposure, big cities, television. But by enlisting in the Deep South Wrestling Conference, it was just a bunch of boondock towns in boondock counties. Easy to hide. Less conspicuous. And the ringrats in these parts? Fly-by-nights. The kinds of girls nobody missed. Melinda knew Goon must be taking a girl at least once a week. And in these little redneck towns? So spread out? Not to mention the fact that only one of the seven victims thus far had even been identified, and there were probably seven more out there rotting in the woods, yet to be found. No doubt Goon’s manager was taking care of body disposal, which meant that he was in on it too.
    “I’m Pinkie,” came a voice.
    Melinda glanced aside. Blond, late 20s probably—ringrats generally weren’t young. She chewed gum with enthusiasm, arms crossed beneath a ludicrous black-sequined top. Studded jeans, gaudy makeup. They all looked the same in a way.
    “I’m Melinda.”
    “Who’re you waiting for?”
    “I don’t know. Anything that looks good,” she lied. Melinda needed to get close to some other rats, but she had to take it slow, gain their confidence first.
    Pinkie snapped her gum, tapping her foot. “I’d like to snag Dick Dude, but I think he left after his match. I’m surprised they even put him on the card tonight. Dude’s top-name now. Ketchum usually only gets the mid-names and jobbers.”
    “Hate to disappoint you, but Dude ain’t worth shit in bed.”
    Pinkie gaped at her. “You—you’ve done Dashing Dick Dude?”
      “Yeah,” Melinda informed her. “Last month in Big Rock. Couldn’t get it up to save his life. The steroids kill their dicks. Hunk Hargan’s the same way. Dead dick.”
    Pinkie’s tone turned skeptical. “Hunk Hargan’s in WCW. They don’t do matches down here.”
    “Back when I lived in Baltimore,” Melinda maintained the lie. “My place was two blocks away from the Civic Center. Once a month WCW’d come to town, and so would WWF—big cards too, with all the names. We’d just wait for them outside the backstage door, and they’d pick us up in limos, takes us to this great bar by the airport hotel, the Safari Club it’s called.”
    Pinkie’s eyes widened in sheer envy. “Shit, I’d do anything to snag some real faces. Who… Who’d you get?”
    Melinda shrugged as though it was no big deal. “Rex Ruger, The Big Bad Man, Shaun Jarrety, Undertow—a bunch. But I’ll tell you, most of those big name guys in the big feds—they’re all assholes. They’re either cokeheads or steroid gobblers. At least the grapplers in the regional conferences are humble. I did Reed the Butcher the other night—pretty cool guy but, Christ, he was too big. I was walking funny the whole next day.”
    Pinkie giggled. “Better too big