Short-Changed

This piece was written as part of a larger storyline within a fictional online wrestling federation.



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A flash of blinding sunlight, followed by the pitchy whine of massive aircraft, before finally the heady aroma of diesel and hot tarmac; Will Peterson had barely stepped off flight VS 2171 from London Gatwick before he was met by the assault on the senses that the Hartsfield-Jackson Airport runway had in store for him. He paused for a moment, a few steps outside the main doors of the airplane, gazing around at the Atlanta skyline. The main terminal loomed large in the foreground, bustling with thousands of commuters and holidaygoers to-ing and fro-ing like a colony of travelling ants. Further afield, busy roads and freeways stretched for many a mile, carrying yet more travellers to home, work, or maybe even to a place a little more exciting.

A place where dreams are made…?

The short yet muscular Peterson closed his eyes slowly, taking in a deep lungful of the dirty air, before letting a contented smile creep slowly over his chiselled features.

Yes. This was right.

“Sir…”

Peterson’s eyes re-opened, his musings interrupted by the sound of muttered voices behind him…

“Sir!”

… muttered voices which were getting louder and more insistent. Peterson sighed, his contented expression being replaced by a look of utter resignation.

“SIR!”

Will’s head snapped around to face the aircraft’s main door, his eyes widening as he took in the scene that was now unfolding before him. There, in the narrow doorway, an absolute man-mountain, laden with what seemed to be the hand luggage of four travellers, had somehow contrived to wedge himself in between the aircraft’s opening and a rather terrified-looking member of the cabin crew.

Will Peterson could do nought but sigh.

“I… I… I really am sorry miss. I was just trying to… you see… and then what seems to have happened is that…”

The passenger in distress had begun to babble, a slightly Midlands twang to his obviously English accent, as he fought to extricate himself from the predicament he now found himself in.

“It’s quite alright sir, really not a problem.”

The cabin crew attendant was clearly trying to resume her well-rehearsed spiel of customer service, but was being betrayed by her flushed facial features and a look of mild terror hovering behind her eyes. Will Peterson, for his part, merely stood there with a look of mild amusement on his face, seemingly content to watch this farcical scene unfold.

“Jayson!” Peterson barked in the direction of the bumbling, troubled passenger. The big man turned his head at the sound of his voice, a child-like smile appearing on his face.

“I’m comin’ Will! Just a bit of a… situation to sort out here first…!”

At this, the smiling Jayson attempted to turn his whole body away from his ‘situation’, trying to hitch the bulky luggage he has been burdened with more securely onto his arms, shoulders and back. However, in doing so, he somehow manages to find himself in even closer proximity to the poor flight attendant, who simply stands pinned to the wall of the aircraft, looking horrified. Seeing the look of fear on her face, Jayson raises an arm to placate her, but slips and almost falls under the weight of the luggage, his previously raised right hand falling straight into the chest of the trapped stewardess.

Time appeared to stand still as Jayson looked slowly down at his hand, then up into the eyes of the traumatised woman in his grip.

“Whoops…” was all the reaction he could manage.

His companion, Will Peterson, rolled his eyes, sighed, and barked out a single laugh.

Then - pandemonium.

The previously-frozen cabin crew attendant shouted out in disgust, forcefully slapping Jayson’s hand away with one of her own. The impact caused Jay’s hand to fly almost completely around his entire body, stopping only when it struck a fellow passenger square in the face. The recipient of the blow was much less patient than the flight attendant had been with Jayson’s physicality; he seemed to snap almost instantly, throwing himself toward the stricken big man, face snarling, fists flying.

Again, all Will Peterson could seem to do was stand and watch, this time in a kind of amazed stupor, trying but apparently failing to take in the scene of utter carnage happening before him. Panicked shouts, angry yells, booming footsteps; an almighty scuffle. And in the centre of it all, like a gigantic planet being orbited by its many moons, stood Jayson Jacques, wearing a look of simple bewilderment. He caught Will’s eyes, seeming almost oblivious to the madness unfolding around him, and gave a tiny little shrug. As before, his expression was almost that of an apparently innocent child, completely at odds with his larger than life appearance. Will could do nothing but chuckle at the absurdity of it all.

Finally, amidst all of the confusion and chaos, the remaining members of the cabin crew had succeeded in releasing the previously trapped but now practically hysterical stewardess. Couple that with an almighty shove from a particularly unruly passenger from behind Jayson, and he suddenly found himself hurtling forwards, limbs and luggage flailing in all directions. Peterson darted forwards, throwing himself in front of his flying pal, succeeding in stopping his momentum a second before they were both sent hurtling down the steps from the plane to the tarmac below. The bags that Jayson had, until this point, still inexplicably been able to balance about his person, now lay strewn all about the fallen couple.

Jay looked mortified, and hauled himself to his feet, dusting himself off and busying himself with picking up the pair’s bags, still apparently ignoring the various scuffles and scenes that were still sorting themselves out at the entrance to the aircraft.

“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed. “Sorry Will I don’t know… one minute I was alright and then…” he raised his hands somewhat randomly, struggling to find the words or the actions to express what had happened.

Meanwhile, Will had dragged himself to his feet with a little more decorum, and was watching Jay bumble around whilst also keeping half an eye on the passengers who had spilled out of the plane behind him, more than one of whom were eyeing his clumsy companion with anger, or disdain.

“Bloody Yanks… such a palaver over nothing… typical…” Jayson continued to mutter.

Fearing another confrontation, Will snatched up a bag, and grabbed Jayson roughly by his right arm and steered him down the stairs, aiming for the relative safety of the terminal building.

“Come on you berk, you’ve caused enough trouble for one day already. Don’t want us getting arrested on our first day here do you?” Will said, stifling a chuckle.

The two clambered quickly down the stairs, leaving behind a path of destruction littered with angry passengers and dumbstruck cabin crew staff. Yet even as they reached the bottom, there came a voice from the top. A voice of renewed composure and with the unmistakeable rehearsed tone of an experienced customer service employee, yet still with a tinge of stress and strain:

“Thank you for travelling with Virgin Atlantic – we hope you enjoyed your flight and we look forward to welcoming you on board again soon!”

Once again, Will could do no more than smile wryly and shake his head at the absurdity of it all, repeating the words of his long-time buddy by his side…

”Bloody Yanks…".




Not five minutes had passed, and the newly-arrived Brits had already reached the hustle, bustle, yet relative calm of the airport’s main terminal building. Compared to the madness that had come before, the two looked positively at peace with the world in spite of their hectic surroundings. Nonetheless, they were still not what you’d call inconspicuous, and were drawing more than a few stares as they made their way through the crowds.

Will and Jayson. Peterson and Jacques. They were the classic ‘little and large’ pairing, with the short, stocky yet athletic Peterson, dressed plainly in jeans and a tight white t-shirt, barely reaching the chest of the much taller, broader Jayson. The gentle giant ambled with a relaxed gait, whilst Peterson seemed fidgety and almost permanently on edge, head turning this way and that as he walked, eyes flitting left and right with suspicion, almost paranoia.

The pair walked in this way for several moments in silence, before Peterson turned his head across and upwards to face his friend.

“Now, I know I said I wanted us to make an impact over here, but that wasn’t quite what I had in mind…” he said with a cheeky smile.

“Sorry Will. Again... It was all a bit mad and that thing with that woman… it just sort of… happened.” Jayson replied quietly.

Will chuckled. “Chill out. Its fine, the thought of her face as you groped her will keep me going for weeks!”

“Don’t!” Jayson pleaded, looking crestfallen. Will simply waved his hand dismissively, motioning for him not to worry about it. But as the two continue on through the throng, it’s clear the big man is struggling to shrug his ordeal off.

“They’ll have all my details…” he muttered. “They could track me down… she could press charges!”

“I wouldn’t count on it.” Will replied bluntly. “Did you see the state of her? It was probably the most action she’s had for months!”

“Can’t say the same about my right hand…” Jay shot back, letting out a snort.

Will looked less than impressed.

“Yes, well, we’ll have enough of that kind of talk thank you, seeing as we’ll be sharing hotel rooms for the foreseeable…”

By this point, the two had reached passport control, with Peterson slightly ahead of Jay, who was still laden with luggage. The Underdog blithely passed his passport over to the border control officer, who moved his eyes once… twice… three times between the document and Peterson’s face, looking like he could barely believe his eyes. Peterson simply held his hand out, not averting his gaze away from the officer’s narrowed eyes, until he finally relented, stamping and passing over the passport. Moments later, and Jayson had joined his companion through and into the main portion of the terminal.

“Still,” Peterson continued, “we’ve been here five minutes, yet we’ve already had more excitement and action than the last five years back home, eh?”

“Too true.” Jay replied, and his eyes suddenly lit up. “Which reminds me – your phone’s been going crazy since we landed. Messages and e-mails. Your IWR contract has finally come through…”

“Pen-pushing nerds…” Will grumbled. “Certainly took them long enough!”

“… as well as details about your debut opponent.” Jayson finished.

“Go on then, hit me with it.” Will replied in an even tone.

“Monday the sixteenth. Looks like you’re opening the show. One-on-one with a guy called Nighthawk.”

Will’s gaze flicked upwards at the sound of the name.

“Nighthawk?”

“Yeah… sounds like some camp, over-the-top superhero villain to me.” Jay replied, sounding unimpressed. But Will shook his head briskly.

“Nah. He’s nothing like that.” he said. “Not unless he’s had a charisma bypass anyway...”

“You know him?!” Jay asked incredulously, looking down at The Underdog with some interest. Will simply continued on, not meeting Jay’s gaze.

“I know of him.” he said bluntly, a note of steely determination in his voice. “He’s a bit like your Mum – he gets around a bit. He’s wrestled on pretty much every continent in a long career; overcome nobodies in hundred-seater gyms and battled legends in front of fifty thousand. His experience is unquestionable.”

“Have you ever faced off against him?” Jay questioned.

“No.” Will retorted. “I think we were both bouncing around the Indy feds in England at the same time, but our paths never crossed.”

“Sounds like he’s built up quite the reputation though?”

Will nodded. “Absolutely, and from what I’ve heard, the guy is not short on self-confidence. ‘The Man of a Thousand Holds’ and ‘The Wrestling Machine’ are just two of the nicknames he’s bestowed upon himself.”

“How original…” Jay smirked.

“Quite. But the man obviously knows his way around the wrestling ring, and if I’m not at the top of my game he could tie me into knots and have an absolute ball doing it.”

Jay frowned. “Let’s be fair though Will, you’re hardly a talentless chump. To paraphrase our American cousins – ’This ain’t your first rodeo… Brother!’”

“Damn straight.” Will growled. “So you can be damn sure that, if he didn’t know me before, he best do his homework and make sure that he knows what to expect come Monday night. Because otherwise, The Man of a Thousand Holds might find that Will Peterson has taught him a thousand more before the end of the night. Rest assured, this old Underdog still knows a few tricks…!”

Jay nodded, despite his frown. “Still, not an ideal opponent for what is probably your biggest debut ever in terms of stage and exposure…”

“I couldn’t disagree more.” Will replied. “What better way to show the world exactly what they’ve been missing by ignoring my talents all these years by beating not only a federation stalwart, a well-travelled veteran and possibly one of the best pure wrestlers in the IWF to boot. We’re gonna make a statement, Jay, we’re gonna tell our story to a brand new audience, and beating Nighthawk is gonna be the full stop at the end of the next action-packed chapter of The Underdog, Will Peterson.”

By now, the two had made their way through the terminal almost as if on autopilot, and had reached the exit door. But as Jay approached the Atlantan sunshine, Will continued onwards, back into the heart of the terminal building. Jayson turned and stared at the back of Will’s head, looking puzzled.

“Errr… Will? Exit? Sortie? No? Hello?!”

Without a word, Will motioned at a sign a few metres away, which read ‘DUTY FREE’, before forming a shape with his right hand miming the smoking of a cigarette.

Jayson rolled his eyes, shouting after his charge as he snatched up the bags that he had dropped to the floor.

“You’re an ATHLETE!”

Will smiled wryly as Jay’s thundering footsteps grew nearer, until the behemoth appeared by his side once more.

“Yup… an athlete who has to spend pretty much every waking moment with this buffoon.” Will jerked his head towards Jay with a smile and a wink, earning him a playful punch on the arm. “An athlete who, for some unfathomable reason, has freely and willingly chosen to spend the foreseeable future with a group of people who think it’s perfectly acceptable to pair peanut butter with jelly! I mean… jelly!!! Like ‘oh your four-year-old is having a party, they must be having jelly and ice cream’ not jelly and FUCKING PEANUT BUTTER!”

Jay looked round nervously, worried that Peterson’s rant was attracting unwanted attention.

“Erm… I don’t think that’s quite right bud. I think jelly is actually what they call jam…”

“AND PEANUT BUTTER WITH JAM IS ANY BETTER IS IT?!!” Will practically bellowed back. By now they were definitely attracting stares, and Jay did his best to raise his arms under the weight of the many bags he was still balancing in order to try to calm his buddy down. Peterson, however, seemed to be acutely aware of the attention he was courting, and took several deep breaths before speaking again in a more even tone.

“So yes, Jayson, I am an athlete. But you’ll forgive this athlete for indulging in a simple vice in order to keep him on an even keel in testing times. Comprendé?”

By now, Will had stepped inside the Duty Free area. Skilfully sidestepping a heavy-set single mother and her three screaming children, he strode purposefully past the many loudly-advertised wares and straight up to the cigarette counter. There, he stood before a heavily made-up woman, probably in her mid-forties, who flashed a false, artificially-whitened toothy grin at her newest customer as he appraised her wares.

“Welcome Sir! It’s great to see you today! How may I help you?” The customer service assistant spoke with the usual over-the-top patter, only amplified by her characteristic Georgian drawl. Peterson smiled, noting that although the woman was reasonably petite, she stood a good three inches above him, causing him to have to crane his neck to take in the full selection on offer. He suspected massive heels.

“Morning doll.” He emphasised the word for comic effect, looking round to share a look with his compatriot, and looking slightly disappointed to find he was nowhere to be seen. He turned back to the counter. “I’ll have… twenty Marlboros please sweetheart.”

Although the toothy grin remained, a ripple seemed to pass through the body of the lady behind the counter, as she noticeable drew herself up to her fullest height, making a point to look down at Peterson over the counter.

“Sure thing Sir! Do you have any identification for the purchase you’d like to make today?”

Peterson’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but he barely reacted as he replied “Excuse me…?”

The server didn’t miss a beat.

“Do you have any identification for the purchase you’d like to make today? Sir.”

Peterson actually placed his hands onto counter in a show of defiance, pushing his face closer to the sickeningly polite woman stood before him, almost uncomfortably so. When he spoke, it was in a quiet, yet menacing growl.

“Are… you… fucking… kidding… me?”

“Absolutely not sir, we here at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport take our responsibilities regarding the sale of prohibited items to persons not of legal age very seriously. As such, if there is even the slightest doubt as to whether the customer is of legal age, it is vital that we obtain proof of age through any number of forms of identification before we proceed with the transaction.”

Once again, there was barely a flinch or show of emotion before the expertly rehearsed spiel was delivered. Peterson, however, was livid.

“You… what… you… I’M THIRTY ONE YEARS OLD!!! This is… like… racism or something! No… its… SIZEISM!!!” Will spluttered. “You inbred hicks do actually get taught that height does not equals age don’t you? I’ve met some incompetent customer service employees before, but in all my life…”

Jayson Jacques, not interested in partaking in any of Peterson’s ‘simple vices’, had slipped away for a quick bathroom break. He expected Will would be ready and waiting on his return, probably blaming him for the fact he’d also had to buy a litre of Jack Daniels to tolerate being alone surrounded by this many Americans. What he didn’t expect, however, was to see Peterson being carried kicking and screaming from the Duty Free area by two burly security men who were, if anything, bigger than Jay.

The big man watched dumbfounded as Peterson was carried past him, craning his head to try to get an idea of exactly what had gone down in the barely five minutes he’d left his old friend unattended. All he caught was a final holler from Peterson, turning and shouting back in the general direction of the Duty Free zone:

“EDUCATE YOURSELF – GO AND WATCH SNOW WHITE AND THE SEVEN DWARVES! CLUELESS WHORE!”

Jay stuck his bottom lip out and nodded, looking faux-impressed with Will’s closing line; it was his turn now to smile wryly at the absurdity of a situation. He slowly collected the pairs’ luggage up and made his way out of Hartsfield-Jackson in a much less dramatic manner than one W.R. Peterson.

The Underdog had been left sprawled on the pavement outside one of the exit doors, his face a beet red, his tight white shirt stained with the dust from the ground he’d collided with. Jayson sidled up alongside his agent and best pal, neither man daring to make eye contact with the other as Peterson slowly made his way to his feet, brushing himself off. Jayson smiled, barely stifling a laugh, still unable to look at Peterson, but clearly incapable of resisting temptation any longer.

“What’s wrong? Did you get… short-changed…?”

Peterson was on him in a flash, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck… or as close as he could get at his full height.

“DON’T…!” He glowered into the eyes of his oldest friend, who stared quite plainly back, knowing it was game, set and match for one day. Peterson sighed and hunched back down, looking dejected.

“So.” Jacques said briskly. “What do we do now?”

“Now…?” Will spoke quietly, but in determined fashion. “Now… we prepare. Now, we find a gym and we train. We attempt to create a physical freak of nature that will reduce The Wrestling Machine to nothing more than nuts and bolts and gears. Now, we find a video of every single manoeuvre that The Man of a Thousand Holds as ever executed, and we find and learn a counter for each and every one. Now, we plan and execute a wrestling clinic, in which Dr. Will Peterson, PHD administers the gravest of diagnoses to his sickly, cancer-stricken patient - Nighthawk.”

There was a short pause as Jayson watched Will look out along the Georgian horizon once more, a faraway look in his eyes.

“And failing that…?” he asked.

Peterson turned to face his manager and long-time friend.

“Failing that? Well… failing that, we go out and get absolutely hammered to forget about this debacle of a day, and then show up on Sacrifice on Monday and beat the ever living shit of whoever is on the other side of that ring.”

Jayson turned his head away, chuckling.

“Lovely…!” he said light-heartedly. “Just make sure you don’t come up short this time, OK…?”

"Prick."