Wrassler

Here's the beginning of a new story.

For every Hulk Hogan there are a hundred Tony Atlases, and for every Tony Atlas there are a thousand Gypsy Joes.

I'm not even a Gypsy Joe.

You don't remember me. It's o.k., nobody really does, except my Ex-Wives and the IRS.

I've been around the world and back again, from the gutter to the Penthouse and back to the gutter more times than I can count.

I've had more names than I can count too. In Indianapolis in '72 I was the Mad Mook; In Philly in '76 I was Jimmy the Retard; In Atlanta in '77 I was Kruschev the Killer, and then ten years later under a hood I was Mr. Midnight #2.

But I started out and I'm gonna end as Leonard Bergeron Chapek.

I didn't expect it to ring a bell.

I've been a grave-digger, a short order cook, a tobacco farmer, a janitor (twice) and a bunch of other shit not worth mentioning. But the only thing I was ever good at was wrestling. Some people might argue with that, but the promoter's knew what they were doing when the brought me in.

If they needed a Heel to make their Babyface, I was the man to do it.

There've been plenty of guys that they say could get a great match out of a mop if they tried, but I didn't even need the mop. In Birmingham in '74 as Uncle Rascal, I convinced the marks that there was an invisible grappler called Tim Spook and managed to work for three months without even having an opponent.

I know the business better than most. I know how to squeeze pennies until they turn silver. I know the look in a promoter's eye that they get when they're going to short you. I know how to milk any hint of fame and I know how to dig through the garbage.

Put me in the ring with your Babyface and I will make him. Put me in the ring with your top Heel. Put me in the ring with your son.

Hell, put me in the ring with your dog and I will make it a star.