Kayfabe

Crime Fiction by Gregory Meece

A sharp clang cut through the arena—brass on bone. Wild Bill Brewster crumpled, wide-eyed, staring at nothing.

John McMurphy didn’t flinch.

The fans roared—at first. McMurphy knew how they worked. They’d buy the blood, revel in it. Then doubt would creep in. Too real. Too much blood for a converted bingo hall.

As its founding promoter, McMurphy built Quad-City Wrestling from the ground up—booked matches, sold tickets, and even stepped into the ring when needed. He looked after the men and women who literally bled for him, covering medical bills and supporting their families when injuries took them out.

McMurphy was old school—fiercely loyal to kayfabe, pro wrestling’s sacred code that kept the illusion alive. He never broke character. Neither did his wrestlers, even after the lights went out.

But with the cops sniffing around a possible homicide, McMurphy’s loyalty to the code was being tested. There were some things about the business a man in his position just couldn’t say—not to the police, and certainly not to the public.

***

Earlier, McMurphy watched Bud the Stud flex before the mirror, grunting through a final rep and letting the dumbbells crash. He didn’t need the mirror to see Bud’s decline, but it still provided proof. Under the locker room’s harsh fluorescent lights, the grooves carved into his former protégé’s forehead from years of blading looked deeper than ever. They served as reminders to McMurphy of what his guys had given to the business and what he still owed them.

“More oil,” said Krusher Kozlov, tugging a 4XL tank top over his barrel chest. The shirt looked ready to split. His warm smile didn’t match the scowl fans would see later in his match with Bud.

“If he oils up anymore, he’ll slide right out of your Krusher Konstrictor,” McMurphy said, referring to Krusher’s finishing move.

“At my age, wearing the name ‘The Stud’ on my t-shirt ain’t easy,” said Bud. “I should’ve picked a different ring name when I started wrastling.”

Veterans like McMurphy and Bud still called it “wrastling,” a holdover from when they distinguished it from the amateur kind. But the pro game wasn’t anything like the sport that got them hooked on grappling—no weight classes, time limits, or points awarded for style. What it did have was plenty of carnage. Pro wrestling was theater. And a business.

When McMurphy introduced Robert Boone (now Bud the Stud) to the business, he quickly became a fan favorite—a “babyface” and main eventer. Now in his late forties, and with Quad City Wrestling under new management, Bud found himself relegated to a supporting role. He was reduced to making younger heels like Krusher Kozlov look dangerous.

Wild Bill Brewster burst into the locker room after The Wolfboys’ win over the Alberta Brothers. “Those Canucks really sold it,” he said. “Chairs, blood, chaos—fans’ll go nuts for the rematch. That’s good for business.” When he saw Bud, he said, “That bleached-blond hair of yours won’t hide the gray—or your shrinking fan base.”

McMurphy saw Bud was about to say something to Wild Bill, so he stepped between them and spoke first. “Since you took over Quad-City, you’ve killed locker room morale,” he said.

“Just because I want burners who do high-flyin’ flips off the top rope?” Wild Bill said. “Would you rather I filled the card with aging has-beens with worn-out gimmicks?” Pointing toward Bud, he added, “Like him?”

McMurphy raised his hand to warn his old friend to stay put. “You know, Bill, there was a time when loyalty and longevity mattered around here,” he said.

“This ain’t the seventies,” Wild Bill scoffed. He looked past McMurphy. “Still using that ‘down-but-not-out’ gimmick, Stud? How long do you think sympathy can carry you? Fans’ll forget you quicker than a crooked ref’s three-count.”

McMurphy clenched his jaw. Guys like Wild Bill were users, parasites who coasted on the sweat of others. He tried telling himself he could outlast it, wait for the next cycle. He could fool the fans. But not himself.

Cable TV changed everything, and McMurphy had been forced to sell. Wild Bill—a slick media mogul—turned Quad-City into a profit machine. He built his fortune on the backs of the wrestlers. He bled them dry—doubling their bookings, pushing steroids, and parading the women as eye candy. Whispers of unionizing rippled through the locker room.

He kept McMurphy on as a spokesperson, reluctantly. McMurphy had been a fixture in the arenas for decades, with fans who’d followed him since childhood. It was good for business. But in wrestling, revenue ruled, and McMurphy feared he—like Bud the Stud—was just another short timer.

“You’ll be signing autographs in the old folks’ home,” Wild Bill sneered as Bud laced his boots.

“Lay off him,” Krusher said. “Fans love rooting for guys like Bud. He makes guys like me look like monsters.”

Bud headed to the ring. McMurphy followed a stagehand holding the ring bell tightly to his chest.

Wild Bill leaned in. “This is Bud’s last match. He’s out tomorrow. McMurphy too. Dead weight.”

“You mean you’re gonna can them after all they’ve done for the business?” Krusher asked. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Bud talking to the union, would it?”

Wild Bill glanced around the locker room guardedly.

“Gotta tidy up the locker room before this place falls apart,” Wild Bill muttered.

Ringside, McMurphy observed the crowd staring at Bud leaning against the turnbuckle, waiting for his opponent’s entrance. When Krusher’s music started, he saw their focus shift to the backstage curtain. The ring announcer’s voice echoed across the arena: “From Moscow, weighing 398 pounds—Krusher Kozlov!”

That’s when McMurphy quietly slipped behind the timekeeper’s table.

The referee met Bud and Krusher in the center of the ring. As usual, he pantomimed reviewing the rules—a misdirection for the fans while he made sure the wrestlers understood the plan.

“Wild Bill plays the babyface who rescues Bud but gets accidentally clocked by Krusher,” the ref said. “The bell’s fake—foam rubber, painted up. The timekeeper will hit the real bell under the table—sound effect, so timing’s important. Got it?”

The drama unfolded as rehearsed, each actor playing his part like it was a screenplay:

SCRIPT:

Outside the ring

• Krusher suplexes Bud onto the timekeeper’s table.
• Krusher grabs the fake bell and raises it toward Bud.
• Wild Bill runs over, shouting, “Don’t do it, Krusher!”
• Krusher swings. Bud ducks.
• Bell hits Wild Bill.
• Wild Bill staggers, pleads for mercy.
• Ref disqualifies Krusher; raises Bud’s hand.

Only that’s not what happened.

Krusher swung hard, thinking he was holding a foam prop. The hollow crack echoed like a Louisville Slugger meeting a fastball. Blood gushed. Wild Bill Brewster collapsed—and didn’t get up.

***

Detective Arnie Tolos took statements and collected the bell—the real one, heavy brass, dented—as well as the prop.

John McMurphy told Tolos it was supposed to be foam. It was an accident. The props had gotten mixed up in the chaos.

Krusher insisted it wasn’t his fault—he was just following the script. He was confident he grabbed the right bell, although, under Tolos’s pointed questioning, he admitted that smashing Bud the Stud into the table might have jostled the equipment.

Then McMurphy held a press conference. With a straight face honed by decades of promos, he called Brewster a “visionary promoter” and a “good and generous man.”

He explained it for the cameras: The match was scripted. The wrong bell was used. It was tragic, but accidental.

***

After the crowd cleared, Bud waited in the parking lot. When McMurphy emerged, Bud stepped out from the shadows.

“I won’t lose sleep over Brewster,” Bud said. “But you… breaking kayfabe to the press? Never thought I’d see it. You told the world what we do is fake.”

McMurphy placed a hand on his shoulder. “Bill wanted us both gone. But this business—it’s in our blood. The rush, the crowd, the ring. He forgot what makes it real.”

Bud stared at him. “It was just an accident, right, John? I mean, it wasn’t in the storyline.”

McMurphy didn’t answer right away. He’d built his whole life around protecting the illusion. But some betrayals didn’t deserve to stay hidden.

His voice dropped to a whisper. “Krusher didn’t make a mistake. I switched the bells.”

He walked away without looking back. The bell had rung. The show was over.

---

Bio: Gregory Meece’s career in education spanned every grade from kindergarten through college. His short fiction appears in various anthologies—Malice Domestic’s Mystery Most Traditional and Mystery Most Humorous, Larceny & Last Chances, What the Butler Didn’t See, and Love Letters to Poe—as well as magazines like Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Thriller Magazine, Black Cat Weekly, The Yard: Crime Blog, Bristol Noir, Yellow Mama, and Flash Fiction Magazine. He lives in Pennsylvania, where he moonlights as an Amish taxi driver and woodcarver. Visit him at MeeceTales.com.

Cover photo by: pexels/Juan Trevilla Martínez; Edited by The Yard

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