Hotter Blood: More Tales of Erotic Horror

He shook his head. Stirring up psychological turmoil in others, even a rudimentary life form like a wrestling promoter, rapidly reached the point of diminishing returns. Rory flopped on the bench and stared at the wall. Sam said something, twice. Finally, he looked up. 'Huh?'

'Your mind is in another dimension.' Sam waved a hand in front of his face. 'But then it always is.'

Rory laughed. From anyone else, that remark would have rated a black eye, at least. But Sam meant it as a compliment. He said Rory was a deep thinker. Sam was just a kid.

The kid checked out his own blade. 'No sweat,' he said. 'I'll do it again.'

Rory watched Sam wrap the blade in his wristband and silently contemplated the mysteries of his trade. He believed that the letting of blood was somehow symbolic, connected with washing one's sins clean. What would Sister Loyola have said about this, back at St. Luke's? Would she say wrestlers were closer to God because they willingly shed their blood? Probably not. Slicing open your head with a razor hardly qualified as stigmata.

He felt a brief flash of guilt for permitting Sam to take on the burden of his sins. He should have opened himself up now and again.

Rory looked around the locker room and sincerely doubted that any of his colleagues ever had similar thoughts.

There was Badass, dark and morose, rumored to have killed several men, only no one could remember exactly where or how. And Red Man, the practicing alcoholic (nobody on this particular circuit made enough money to be a practicing cokehead). Rory thought a lot of what he'd seen of wrestling would make for a good movie some day. A horror film.

Chuck 'The Lumberjack' Little brushed past them on his way back from the previous match. The big moose beamed at them. 'Playtime. Maybe I'll have a touch of that blonde.'

Rory rolled his eyes. Chuck couldn't seem to get enough of her. Neither could most of the others. Rory supposed that she was attractive. Him, he'd rather read a book.

But Chuck's playtime meant their showtime. 'Let's go.' Time to head for the ring.

Sam checked his wristband again.

'Look.' Rory lowered his voice. 'Don't knock yourself out tonight. Take it easy.' Sam, young and elastic, was a vigorous if overeager worker. It made up for his lack of size, it got him jobs, and Rory knew from experience it would eventually get him a bad back, hips, shoulders, and, Rory's own personal favorite, bad knees.

He heard the distant whine of the ring announcer: 'From the fabulous Hamptons, New York, at two hundred and fifty-three pounds, Rory the Ripper!'

He saw the girl as he went down the aisle, ducking insults and beer baths. Long ice-colored hair, the oval face that just melted away from angularity, the greenish eyes… she was very striking, he'd admit. Their 'stage door' was usually knee-deep in groupies fighting for attention by now. This one could probably cut right in line.

He and Sam had time for some conversation in the ring, during rest holds. 'Who knows? I may get lucky tonight instead of Chuck.' Sam had Rory in the dreaded abdominal stretch which looked painful as hell but was merely awkward.

The referee hovered near as Rory helped Sam sail over in a hip toss, ending in an armbar to the mat, where they could both be comfortable.

Sam grimaced as if Rory was about to tear his arm from the socket. 'She probably wants to go through the whole roster. Your turn may be next.' He tapped Rory, signaling their switch to standing wristiock.

'I can hardly wait,' Rory snorted.

Sam covered his laugh in a scream of faked pain.

They went to ten minutes, twenty seconds, then Rory put Sam's face into the ring post for the blading, after which he helped him over the top rope and got DQ'd. Rory felt the crowd's hate, aimed right between his eyes. Sam, wearing his own blood, got the cheers. Rory saw the blonde get up and head for the exit.

'Listen,' said the ref, just as they were about to leave the ring, 'you think she goes for short guys?'

'I'll give her your number,' Sam said.

The next night, the wrestler's home away from home happened to be an American Legion hall. But as Rory drove there, it seemed to him the Texas highways had been his real home, his and Sam's, for the past three years.

Before that, Rory remembered working the Mid-Atlantic area, and before that, Oregon, and before that, the Deep South, and before that was a pretty fuzzy memory. He'd worked with part-timers who came and went, star wannabes, and a few genuine celebrities, like four-hundred-and-fifty-pound Blubber Boy McKay. Many were cast in Sam's mold, young eagers who would eventually settle into a comfortable living in the wonderful world of pro wrestling, not household names but not paupers either.

Changing lanes, Rory caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror. He looked quickly away, laughed. There you are. Typecast. The good-looking, sullen heel. That was the «Ripper» persona. It played beautifully off Sam's fresh baby face. The innocent victim, Sam always had the crowd on his side. Maybe they all identified with the «victim» part.

Sam was, in many ways, a lot like him. No family, no roots. And no secret of his flaming hero-worship, openly envying Rory's size and skills in whipping crowds to a frenzy. A budding Rory MacLaren. As he got out of the car he wondered if that was exactly something to aspire to.

Inside, Rory tossed his bag down where his partner usually was. The chaos of preparation was all around him: taping of joints, physical warm-ups, last-minute instructions. He waited a few minutes. No Sam. He turned to Chuck. 'Where's Sam?'

Chuck shrugged. 'Maybe he got real lucky last night.'

He set his gear down inside the locker and went out into the hallway. No sign of Sam there. Rory frowned. Down the hall was Banks's setup.

Though it was against his religion to enter the realm of the promoter unless absolutely necessary, Rory took aim and fired himself into Banks's little room.

Banks was on the phone. Rory ducked away, but the promoter put his hand over the mouthpiece and motioned him in with a wave of cigar smoke. 'Wha?'

Might as well discover if Banks knew anything. 'Sam isn't here yet.'

Banks shrugged. 'So? Work it with, ah, Whatsisface in the first.'

'Red Man?' Rory inched away, heading for the safety of the hall.

'Naw, the other one. Tell him to put on a mask and — yeah, hold on, I'm still here!' Banks began shouting into the receiver; Rory took the opportunity to flee before the word «juice» could leave his lips. Without Sam's obliging presence, he couldn't be sure of avoiding the blade himself.

Whatsisface — Badass — in the first was wheezing a bit from having to do the extra match with Rory, but he lived through its seven minutes.

Not having Sam to work with made him vaguely uneasy. He took the feeling and stuffed it away.

That night he buzzed Sam's room. No answer. He gnawed on a cuticle for a minute, then silently toasted the kid's luck and turned over to sleep.

'Get used to working with Whatsisface.' Banks took the cigar from his teeth just long enough to get the words out. 'Your little buddy won't be back here.' He was already moving out the door.

Rory let his teeth show. It was not a smile.

Shit! Sam was going to be pissed! Rory felt his skin tighten. Swell — no one worked as well with him. Who would he play off now? Ah, the kindliness of wrestling promoters. 'You can him, for one lousy no-show?'

'I didn't have to. He's dead.'

Dead. The word echoed down the length of the hall. Dead.

Rory's face went stony. He moved instinctively in front of Banks, putting an arm against the open door. The promoter took a step back and the cigar from his teeth. Rory struggled to formulate a sentence. 'You mind telling me what happened? If it's not too much trouble.'

'Who the hell knows? What's it matter? Probably drugs.' A particularly unpleasant smile curled the promoter's lips.

Rory let his arm drop and said tightly, 'Sam is clean.' He corrected himself. 'Was clean. Didn't even take