6:03 P.m.
“Well, stick a banana up my butt and call me Betty!”
“What the hell did you just say?”
“You’re that ‘Hammerhead’ pro-wrestler guy with the big match tonight, ain’t you?”
I gritted my teeth. I was so caught up in trying to track down Jasper’s killer I had completely forgotten the Faustian bargain I had made with Grasby in order to get an audience with the Seven Heads of the Rodeo.
“Jesus, you’re huge. Whaddya, eat the cobs with your corn too in-between all them gravy smothered steaks?”
“Speak that way about a banana again and the only smothering will be my hand over your big mouth.”
“Easy, Hoss,” the man said while putting his hands up in the air submissively. “Just trying to break the ice. Kind of goes with the gig.”
The average-sized man in black western boots and Levi’s wore a white T-shirt with a hypersexualized green female frog on it, in which the amphibian’s bulbous butt was elevated, right underneath text that read “FROGGY STYLE.” The lewd tee was tucked tightly into the ill-mannered individual’s waistline, and I half expected him to tip over from the sheer weight of his shiny silver longhorn bull belt buckle that had nearly the same circumference as a frisbee. He stood in the middle of the first red barn I had entered, in front of a kiosk adorned with more novelty Tees and sexual innuendo-themed attire than you’d find on the wall in the back corner of a Hot Topic store.
“Forgive me,” he continued. “We just don’t see fellers like you around these parts much. Not with all the city slickers who roll in here playin’ cowboy for the weekend and tryin’ to get a taste of the rustic life.”
I gave him a slow nod, before turning my back on the banana blasphemer and taking another look around the rest of the barn-turned-Marketplace. The venue was absolutely bustling with people, many jammed shoulder-to-shoulder as they shuffled their way up and down aisles full of the finest gadgets, health products, impulse buys, and collection of As Seen On TV crap as far as the eye could see. Directly across from me and Froggy Style a squad of young Korean women in matching purple medical scrubs scurried about their booth trying to showcase their inventory and make some sales. Customers stepped on-and-off of acupressure foot pads, received neck rubs while seated forward-facing in upright massage chairs, and tried out kneading and vibrating Shiatsu seats. Froggy Style either didn’t care, or had simply seen it all before, as he continued with his pitch.
“I gotta say, I’m loving your T-shirt,” he said, pointing at the DO NOT GO GENTLE credo across my chest above the graphic of a two-by-four with a lightning bolt through it.
“Thanks.”
“What’s that on the back there?” he asked, inquisitively.
“It’s nothing,” I said, trying to wave away his interest with a hand. “This is only a prototype.”
“C’mon, Hoss, don’t be shy! Lemme see.”
I sighed and turned my back, allowing Froggy Style to read the additional text.
“Rage, rage, against the dying of the MIGHT?” he asked, confused. “What’s that?”
It finally occurred to me that the play on words of the famous Dylan Thomas verse I thought was so clever may have been asking a bit much from the casual sports entertainment fan.
“I’m a pro-wrestler and it’s, uh, from a poem—”
“I’m not an idiot,” he snapped. “But isn’t it supposed to say ‘rage against the dying of the light?’”
“That’s why there are weights underneath,” I replied, referring to the garment’s other image of an Olympic sized barbell curving downwards due to an abundance of cast iron plates.
“Ha!” exclaimed, Froggy Style, slapping me on the back as I turned back around. “I love it! That’s genius. And I’m not just blowing smoke up your ass either, I do this for a living. How much?”
“Like I said, it’s just a work-up. Not for sale.”
“What about a trade?” he continued, ignoring me. “What are you, like a double XL?” I think I gotta Rewind Beer Co. shirt that size around here somewhere.”
“I’m good, Bub.”
“Are you sure? It’s pretty sweet. Has a Magnum, P.I. retro theme and comes with their beer logo over top of the brown, orange, and yellow colours from TC’s chopper.”
How the uppity bugger had known to scratch my Tom Selleck nostalgia sweet spot was beyond me, but I’ll be damned if his pitch didn’t momentarily have me considering making the swap. Seeing that I was nibbling at the baited hook, he tried to sweeten the deal.
“C’mon, Big Fella. I’ll even throw in an ALF Chia Pet.”
Being the sentimental snob that I was, I lost interest as soon as Froggy Style tried pushing the burnt sienna, cat-eating alien from planet Melmac on me.
“Is it this way to the Jim Kootnekoff motivational speaking?” I asked, pointing toward the rear of the Marketplace barn.
“Kooty? Nah, not this year. They moved him next door. He’s at the Yuk Yuk’s theatre in the casino now. Takes the stage every two hours too so you can still make the next show.”
I started to head off when Froggy Style yelped. “Wait!” he pleaded, before scrambling behind his kiosk and rummaging around the shelves beneath the cubicle. He popped back up like a submerged buoy a moment later and handed me a plastic bag.
“I tell you what, this is on the house. But if you wanted to repay me for my generosity, maybe you could consider me as a potential business partner to mass produce those babies?” he asked, patting the exclusive T-shirt on my torso.
A business card appeared between his fingertips. I reluctantly accepted both the bag and fluorescent neon wallet-sized credentials which loudly touted “Dicky Diamond’s Duds’n’Stuff.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said, and that was all it took for Dicky’s face to light up brighter than the pyrotechnics that would go off back when I walked toward a WWE ring. I slipped the card in my cargo shorts pocket, and only then noticed the additional item to my eighties ale top, which came in a less than discreet box.
“Is this what I think it is?” I asked.
“That’s just the basic model. Come back and I’ll cut you a deal for the bionic one.”
I looked again at the penis pump on top of my T-shirt in my shopping bag, but when I went to speak, I simply couldn’t find the words. Dicky gave me a supportive pat on the shoulder.
“Gotta offset all those steroids, am I right, Gigantor?”
Five minutes later, I was inside the Elements Casino when music began to pulse from behind the doors to Yuk Yuk’s comedy club. I slipped into the theatre past a distracted usher assisting a confused elderly couple with directions to their seats. I hung back for a few moments as my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. Kooty’s motivational speech had begun, and the iconic bass for Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger” was rocking so hard I made a mental note to add the vintage tune to my weightlifting playlist. I slipped into an aisle seat in the rear of the theatre, in which almost all of the one hundred auditorium chairs were filled with folks anxiously awaiting inspiration.
About a minute later, the anticipation had reached a fever pitch, however before David Bickler’s iconic vocals hit, there was a record scratch followed by the ringing of reverberating sound similar to that of an amp being unplugged.
This was followed by utter silence, save for the hushed crowd looking around confused and whispering back and forth with one another as they tried to figure out what was happening. And while I may have been completely unfamiliar with Kooty’s presentation style, even I could tell something had gone awry.
Suddenly, a different pounding bass blasted out from the speakers and the moment I recognized the beat I cursed to myself, because I knew what was coming next. The poor crowd, on the other hand, had absolutely no idea the shitshow they were about to witness.
A dynamic figure in amber-tinted sunglasses and a tan Stetson cowboy hat emerged from behind the red curtain like an adrenaline-charged Arsenio Hall, fist-pumping and taking puffs of a cigarette, all the while doing a jig to the instrumental beat of “Shamrocks and Shenanigans” by House of Pain.
The only problem—it wasn’t Kooty, a Doukhobor, or even a legitimate motivational speaker. It was my cousin.