"The Booker" FREE Chapters

"The Booker" is coming to Kickstarter in March '27!

Time to party! The Booker is coming to Kickstarter in March '27! To celebrate, I'm releasing the first few chapters of the book here! If you're interested in following the Kickstarter campaign before it launches, CLICK HERE!

1 - The Piledriver

Career ender. Vicious. Stiff. Unscripted.

The thought taunted me in the space between the mat and the high school gym's ceiling. Someone had painted the school's mascot there. A cartoonish wolf's head. Not once in my life, not one second, had I ever hated a canine. Not the vicious ones. Not big dogs or loud dogs. Not even chihuahuas. Not until that moment. Maybe it was the numbness or the sudden realization of my bleak future, but I swear the wolf was laughing at me.

Not that the painted wolf was at fault. The mascot wasn't the reason I was lying in the center of the ring, unable to move. That distinct honor went to one Barry "The Bomb" McMillian. A full-time mechanic and part-time wrestler who was almost as passionate about wrestling as me. As passionate as any part-timer who spends what little free time they have making a few bucks and scratching the persistent itch. Barry wasn't a rookie either. I'd wrestled my fair share of those types. The guys who threw on tights and homemade costumes, thinking they could pull off moves they saw every week on TV. I stayed as clear of them as I could. And when a booker came up with a scheme to have me teach them the ropes—literally and metaphorically—I played it safe. No way I'd let a rookie use a move like the piledriver on me.

Maybe I should have extended that policy to everyone. Hindsight, I swear.

Barry had pushed for the unscripted move about three seconds before he had me upside down, head facing the mat, face squeezed between his sweaty thighs. A move we hadn't brought up in the pre-match discussion. I would have rejected it at the first syllable had he asked.

A good guy, he'd hear the riot act as soon as I figured out how to roll over. An honest guy, he wouldn't be saved from my scathing questioning of his decision. Any respectable wrestler would have called for the move while we were slugging it out or locked up. But no, not Barry. Sometimes he didn't think straight. A little boy in a big man's body when his blood was pumping.

Where was he, anyway? Somewhere out of my vision? Maybe he'd made a run for the parking lot before I found feeling in my legs again? Who knew? All I could see was the damn laughing wolf's head. The gym could have been deserted for as quiet as it was. This promotion didn't draw big crowds. Most high school volleyball games got bigger audiences than our cards. Even so, this was too quiet.

"The stinger," I said, hearing my voice for the first time since feeling my spine shred. Since losing feeling in my legs.

"What's that, Matt?" Sonny, the referee, said, hovering over me. His big, round head was haloed by a single circular light hanging from the ceiling. "The ambulance is pulling up. Hold on."

My throat was dry. Swallowing was difficult. "Shouldn't have hit him so hard. Sorry about that, Barry."

"Don't worry about him." Sonny glanced away. "He can't hear you. The idiot is standing in the corner. Honestly, Matt, he's kind of out of it. Think he feels bad."

I coughed a chuckle. "He should. The move is an outdated finisher. No one uses it anymore. Including most pros. For a reason. But hey, at least I don't feel any pain."

Sonny's brown face darkened. "You don't?"

I lifted my hand and made a 'pew pew' gesture with my finger and thumb. "Nope. I don't exactly feel like keeping the match going, but I'm not uncomfortable."

"Good, because I called the match off. You lost, by the way. Can you move?"

"Ah, that explains the silence. I thought we'd bored everyone to death."

Sonny's mouth fluttered. The son of a bitch was trying not to laugh.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Out with it."

"Well, I was going to attribute the lack of a crowd to your performance." His words trailed off as his gaze traveled down my body. "Doesn't seem cool to say now, though."

"How many people are still here?" I rolled my head from side to side, but with the house lights still off and only the ring illuminated, I was in no position to get a head count. When I tried to tip my head back to look at the far side of the ring, my shoulders seized up and a stabbing pain shot deep into my skull. When I could breathe again, I let out a long, slow sigh.

"Can you give everyone a wave? Let them know you're conscious at least?" Sonny sounded like he was pleading with me to honor the request. I was the one on my back in the middle of a ring that smelled like sweat and spit, unable to move my legs, and he was asking for the small crowd's discomfort to be addressed. Sonny was thoughtful like that.

I obliged. I waved to the crowd. Queenly like.

Awkwardly, the response started with one pair of hands. Another joined as if they felt bad for the solitary pair. Soon enough, twenty-five people clapped respectfully. The first noise I'd heard since Barry drove my head into the mat with his poorly executed move.

Twenty-five people. I'd ruined my life for a smaller crowd than an open-mic comedy night at the coffee house.

"What about your legs?"

"Legs? Do I still have them?"

"Shit. Sorry, man. Maybe it's just temporary."

"Maybe."

Sonny's dark forehead scrunched. He patted my arm and nodded toward the corner of the ring.

"Is Barry still hiding?"

"Yeah."

"Call him over."

"Not sure he wants to face you."

"Don't care. Call him over, please."

Sonny looked about to say something but just nodded. "Barry, come here."

I waited, hearing nothing.

"Come on," Sonny said, more firmly, the words coming out heavy in his accent.

The ring bounced with Barry's unseen steps. I winced as another stabbing sensation pressed into the base of my skull.

Sonny smacked his thick hands. "Careful."

The steps halted, the bouncing ceasing.

Sonny waved in sharp swings of his arm, looking like a parent demanding their child come to them without wanting to make a scene at the family get-together. "Damn, I thought you were slow coming off the ropes, but you'd make molasses smile with pride. Hurry the hell up, man."

"Sorry," Barry said as his round head covered in sweaty fire-red hair and his round body came into my view, "it was an accident, Matt. I swear."

I reached up with my dominant arm. Seeing it move up toward the large, full-time-mechanic, part-time-wrestler was encouraging. Legs might be shot, but the upper body still worked. Who knew about the median zone? In the time since I'd last had a girlfriend, dozens of presidents and prime ministers had switched nametags. Ten times that number of businesses had gone under around town, boarding their doors forever. Without working legs, my prospects wouldn't improve. For love or proper work.

What was half of no chance?

"I know. Told you I hate that move," I said.

Barry scratched his head. It was matted to his skull and his fingers got caught in it. "I thought I had you situated right."

"What made you think you could pull off a piledriver?" Sonny's Trinidadian accent meant 'piledriver' came out sounding like 'piledriva.' His eyebrows pinched together in annoyance, ruining the smooth surface of his forehead that was still youthful despite the ref being on the wrong side of a half-century. Annoyance at me. At Barry. At the situation. At things he couldn't fix. Who knew? But his words provided the clarity I lacked. "You're not a pro. Who does that? Especially ten minutes into the match and in your—" He scanned from Barry's plump booted feet to his round face hidden behind the shredded blanket of his beard and mustache, and back down again.

"I'm a pro. I get paid."

"Technicality."

"Leave him alone." I chuckled, feeling suddenly tired. Too tired to listen to Sonny defend me and Barry apologize more than was necessary. The large man could stand in the ring until the gym emptied. Until the ambulance hauled me to whichever emergency room was closest. Long after the realization that my aspirations of making it as a professional wrestler had been crushed in front of twenty-five fucking people. Nothing would change. The people in attendance would go home to their lives and forget about me. At least until they caught another wrestling show. If my crippling injury hadn't scared them from ever buying another ticket. The ambulance crew and the emergency room staff who'd treat me tonight would carry on. Plenty of them would get promoted out of their current jobs. Others would leave to start yet another Washington coffee stand. The adventurous would chase a European hiking dream. Nothing would undo what had been done. I'd run the ring for the last time, and Barry's apologies wouldn't alter the course of my life one iota from my visit to despair and uncertainty.

Sonny grumbled.

Barry's forehead was dotted with beads of sweat. The corners of his round eyes were turned down. I felt bad for him.

"Seriously," I said, giving the man a smile, "it was an accident. We're good."

"Clear the ring," a new voice called from the side. Our booker. Frank "The Riz" Rizzo. One of the last people I wanted to see if he wasn't slapping a couple fives and tens in my palm. His voice gave him away. I didn't need to wait to catch a glimpse. That voice held a scratchiness that betrayed the double-whammy of the man's age and his forty-year dependence on cigarettes.

"Ambulance is here." Sonny patted my shoulder and vacated the ring at his boss's orders.

The EMTs were at my side in an instant. Two men. The younger guy kept glancing at my legs.

"They're still there, right?"

The guy blubbered and blinked. "Uh, yeah."

"Focus, Rick," the older guy said with an unquestionable air of authority.

They worked efficiently. I was secured to a backboard with practiced movements.

"How many times have you guys done this?" I asked as they cinched the straps.

"Enough," the older guy said with all the emotional range of a bored teen reading their book report to an equally bored class.

Words like 'cervical stabilization' and 'cord compression' were thrown around between the pair as they hooked me up. My focus drifted in and out. My discomfort became muted. My thoughts wandered. The less I knew about this situation, the better. At least until someone with a couple of initials after their name was giving me their educated prognosis. The cartoonish wolf mascot on the ceiling began to blur.

At least they didn't slap one of those puffy collars on me. I still had a smidge of dignity.

"BP's stable," the young guy said after he'd slapped a cuff on my arm.

"Did I pass?" My voice sounded slurred.

"Let's move." Apparently, the jaded old guy didn't hear or appreciate my unquestionably superior humor.

As I was rolled away, I glanced toward the steps leading into the ring. Barry stood there, looking like a scolded child. Almost comical to see a nearly three-hundred-pound adult look so sheepish. When we made eye contact, the mechanic raised a hand, waving awkwardly. I tried to smile, but my lips didn't seem to want to cooperate.

Under fluorescent lights lining the corridor, their buzz denying me the sleep I really wanted, I was wheeled out into the cold, black night.

I was tucked under a blanket, and the chill didn't touch me. Twinkling stars filled the spots of the night sky that the parking lot and ambulance lights didn't wash out. Each pinpoint seemed to mock me.

The stars I'd never performed with. The lights I'd never show off my skills under.

Fifteen years of wrestling. Thousands of training sessions and countless bumps. The bruises that sometimes made it impossible to sleep or even get comfortable. A torn ligament years ago that took forever to heal. For what?

"You good?" the younger guy asked before they lifted me into the back of the ambulance.

"All things considered." I would have pointed at the starry night, but didn't want to mess with the tubes and gadgets they connected to me. "Beautiful night."

The young guy—he couldn't be more than a few years out of high school—smiled while his older partner locked the wheels down. He leaned closer, smiling with the bedside manner of a rookie. "Can I tell you something?"

"You found a miracle cure for useless legs?"

The smile widened. Laughter burst from his throat. "You've got the best damn attitude I've seen from someone who just had crap happen to them."

"Not much I can do. Literally."

The EMT laughed even harder until he received a stern look from his partner. Clamping his mouth closed, he cleared his throat and didn't say another word until they were in the front seats, engine rocking, ambulance rolling as we pulled out of the parking lot. No sirens. Was that a good or bad thing?

The rocking helped sleep come. My eyelids grew heavy. Sleep. Deep. Maybe eternal.

Was the beeping on my monitor slowing? Was it supposed to be so lethargic? Had the EMTs filled me full of something from the wrong drug kit?

Am I dying?

"Do you want to?" a sweet voice asked. Neither male nor female. Yet both.

I swiveled as much as I could to find the stranger we'd somehow picked up along the way.

I was alone.

"Do you?"

I jumped. The back of the ambulance was full of equipment and exactly one human being. Yet, I wasn't talking to myself.

I called out to the EMTs. Neither responded, not even the young guy who seemed to enjoy putting the 'service' in customer service.

"Guys? Hello?"

With the way my stretcher was inclined, I couldn't see either of them. Wouldn't have been able to even if my neck didn't feel like it'd been squeezed in a vise.

I cleared my throat and shouted for them. Nothing. No sounds. At all. No beeping of equipment. No conversations between the EMTs. No hum of the road.

I waited in deep silence. I had a feeling the owner of the voice would wait forever for me to answer.

"Guys? Hello? Please." I swallowed, or tried to. My throat was very, concerningly dry.

"Do you want to die? Is that your wish?"

The second time of asking wasn't any easier to respond to than the first.

I had to peel my lips apart. How had someone shoved a T-shirt down my gullet? Dehydrated, I guessed, even though the EMTs had pumped me full of a bag of what they claimed was sterile water and electrolytes in the IV. "No."

"Then live. Truly."

Something that sounded like an old-school tube television powering on kicked my pulse up a notch. I smelled acidic bile.

"Wha-what the?"

As I craned my neck, my soreness turned to stiffness. Yet, this time, once I worked out the kinks, looking around was easy. Alone in the back of the ambulance. Neither of the EMTs reacted to my surprise. In fact, if I adjusted just enough, I could make out the younger one clearly enough to see that he was on his cellphone, looking at pictures he probably shouldn't have been looking at while on duty. I'd excuse him. Based on what he was looking at, I would have been distracted too. But the older grouch hadn't even shared a single grumble.

In the process of breaking my back, had Barry also severed my touch with reality?

2 - Life After

CATASTROPHIC CAREER EVENT DETECTED

INITIATING NEW CAREER MODE

I gripped the sides of the bed. The metal was cool. Its hardness reassured me I hadn't completely lost a sense of my brain. My breath came in harsh pants. I waved a hand in front of my face at the words that'd suddenly appeared, floating in the air. Each letter glowed a soft blue. My hand passed through them, not disturbing a single swirl.

"What the hell did you give me?" I asked. Either EMT could answer for all I cared, even the grouchy guy. At the moment, I had bigger problems. Losing the use of my legs was—sorry—crippling. As a healthy guy who'd just closed out his third decade on the planet, no one could have paid me enough to never walk again. But doing so for ten bucks and a not-so-adoring crowd of twenty-five made every bit of this harsh new reality worse. Enough of a shit sandwich to have shoved down my throat, chased by seeing illusions. Great. Just great.

If I had to see intangible words hang in the air, couldn't they have come as a text from Jessica Alba? One where she was asking to be taken to an intimate dinner for two. Or next week's winning lottery numbers?

I passed my hand through the air again, right through the middle of the words. My hand didn't hit an obstruction, nor did I unsettle the two sentences.

"Just like a video game."

I reached out much more slowly on the third pass. Maybe the disembodied voice's message needed to be treated with TLC instead of a harsh swipe. Just as my fingers were about to caress the space for the first letter, the sentences disappeared. Before I could celebrate the only win I'd get tonight, my vision was filled with a wall of text.

PLAYER: MATT ANDERSON

CAREER STATUS: NEW PLAYER/OWNER

IMPLEMENTING GENERATION ENGINE VERSION 2.0

REALITY OVERLAY ACTIVATED

NEW PLAYER ABILITIES UNLOCKED

STARTER KIT UNLOCKED

WELCOME TO THE WRESTLING PROMOTION LIFE!

A warm sensation spread through my body, like someone had poured hot honey into my veins. I shivered with excitement. The numbness in my legs was transforming. Tingling. Phantom sensations or something more?

No time like the present to test out my suspicions. The voice was suddenly absent, so I was on my own here.

With a deep breath, I tried to wiggle my toes. It felt like breaking a rusted bolt, but all ten of my digits responded. Waving like a tiny bored crowd at a baseball game, all ten moved on command.

A sob raced up from my chest, but I caught myself before letting it out. Guys in the presence of other guys didn't sob. For any reason. I'm pretty sure it was written somewhere. Plus, no need for false hope.

At that moment, there was nothing in the world I wanted more than to test my knees. To see if I could bend them. To see if they'd comply as my toes did. I failed. Not because of my body, but because the EMTs had strapped me down. But my muscles tensed in response.

"Yes!" I clenched my fist in triumph. They might still be taking me to the hospital, but I was walking out of the emergency room.

The younger EMT turned. "You good back there?"

"Golden." This time, I didn't bother to hide my laughter.

The younger guy laughed along. "Like I said, the best damn attitude in the world."

There was no doubt. We didn't need to waste gas getting to the emergency room. They could turn the ambulance around and head back to the high school. Forget just walking out of the hospital. Tonight, I'd be driving myself home. They'd insist that a medical professional check me out. Weren't there stories about people who'd suffered similar injuries feeling temporary sensations? Was that all this was? Better not be. I felt good enough to get back into the ring. Just not against Barry.

No messing around with spinal injuries. If I needed to spend a few hours at the hospital, that wasn't so bad, was it? I mean, not like I had anything but a shower originally planned for tonight. Maybe the hospital was expecting me and I wouldn't have to sit in a waiting room for the typical four-hour stay most ER patients suffered. A doc, hopefully a cute one, would give me the once-over, and then I could bum a ride back to the school to grab my car. Did ambulances do that? Maybe I'd call Barry. He owed me at least a ride back, right?

Instead of bothering with the logistical problems I might never face, I examined the floating text. With my new enthusiasm, I noticed small icons I'd missed. Had they been there all along? A HEALTH status, currently reading GOOD. XP counter, embarrassingly set at 0. And a SATISFACTION bar that was three-fourths full.

Being the guy I am, thinking about the world the way I did, I wanted to know the reason to the rhyme. The origin. How things came about. One minute I was pondering my excruciating future, the next I was suffering auditory hallucinations, followed closely by visual ones. Stuff that didn't happen to sane people.

Nothing had changed inside the ambulance. Its bins of medical supplies. My stretcher. The two windows showing the night getting darker. Two EMTs. All was as it had been. Just as when they'd rolled me in and locked the stretcher into place. The single exception was the mysterious voice and its clear interface over my very real world.

CURRENT OBJECTIVE: VISIT A LOCAL GYM AND SCOUT

BONUS OBJECTIVE: RECRUIT YOUR FIRST WRESTLER

PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: HOST LOCAL WRESTLING CARD WITHIN 30 DAYS

I chuckled. That turned into a roaring laugh. One that forced me to wipe a tear from my eye.

"Poor guy," the grouchy ambulance driver said to his partner.

The ambulance rumbled toward my next destination. For the first time since the ill-delivered piledriver, I felt something beyond worry.

3 - Sweat Locker

WORLDWIDE FANS: 0

ACTIVE WRESTLERS ON MMW ROSTER: 0

PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: HOST LOCAL WRESTLING CARD WITHIN 29 DAYS

Turns out I had functional legs after all, so getting around wasn't a worry. So good were things that my biggest concern came in a much smaller package. One that stood five-foot-four and knew how to text at the speed of a levitating magnet train.

Tammy Anderson was not a woman to be messed with. Common knowledge for me and my sister throughout our lives. When we were teens, I'd learned the importance of keeping my mother informed of my whereabouts. The same went for important events in my life. My sister, Renee, was equally educated. One couldn't help but be because it only took us screwing up once by not keeping Mom in the loop to learn she didn't play when it came to her children's safety and health.

I'd made it three decades mostly avoiding my mother's caring wrath. But the strange events of the previous evening had distracted me, and I had honestly forgotten to text her about making it home from the hospital and in good health.

So I did what all good, loving sons do when they've screwed up and upset their mothers. I made up a white lie. Once she was convinced I'd simply suffered a stinger, she retracted her threat to disown me. Only after I swore to check in throughout the day.

I set reminders every two hours and kept my phone on vibrate. No way I was forgetting to send recurring updates. Not with the rabbit hole I was going down after last night's events. Reminders would keep me alive in my mother's eyes. Especially with how strange the last dozen or so hours had been.

The weirdness had started once the EMTs popped the back of the ambulance open. That state didn't look to be ending a full sunrise later. My brain was working overtime, trying to figure out if my new reality was what it seemed to be. Almost like I was living inside a sports simulation game. Except this was one that had been a constant partner since I told the disembodied voice I didn't want to die.

Being surrounded by other people didn't help me decipher the legitimacy of my experience. Not even in my favorite coffee shop. Being in the presence of people made it even stranger. Even the normally enjoyable ritual of seeing Tonia Haskings, my regular barista, didn't settle my nerves.

Thanking her for making yet another outlandishly tasty latte, I tried to ignore the yellow glow around her shapely form. Literally. This wasn't a case of 'jaundice gone wild.' Her entire body was encased in a yellow glow, like she emitted the color as a mist. Tonia was young and flirty, and in banging shape. Those factors already made it difficult to not let my gaze linger. But seeing her body outlined in a yellow haze she was completely unaware of only made pulling my eyes away more difficult. Doing so was about as easy as ignoring the combination of words and numbers floating above and around her head.

The illusion, if that's what this was, would be bad enough if it was just Tonia. But it wasn't. Everyone I'd seen since leaving the apartment was similarly encased in either a red or yellow hue. Numbers of mostly zeroes and lower single-digits followed people around Olympia like attached puppies. Every customer in the coffee joint. Every stranger seated at the tables. Not just this store. Trust me. I almost wished this single speck in the universe of caffeinated glory was the focal point of the weird haze and airborne statistics. But nope. So strange, so much confusion, so many questions without answers.

Why the variation in the colors surrounding people? What did the numbers mean? Was I absolutely losing my mind?

The SATISFACTION bar was still jammed in the right corner of my vision. Still three-fourths full. My XP still sat at 0. It would have been embarrassing if I understood what all this meant. At least I could tell my mother that my HEALTH was "good" if I ever got up the nerve to let her know the extent of things I was seeing. Just past thirty, and still spending at least four days a week in the gym to stay in wrestling shape, 'good' was the worst shape I should ever be in. Couldn't allow it to get to my ego, though. Based on what I'd seen from everyone I came across in the past day, I was doing far better than most.

Not that I was about to test my theory on the barista. Tonia was hot enough to make more than a full-time living on tips customers left when her beauty overrode their fiscal sense. Staring in her direction to assess what floated around her would have been creepy, even by the creepiest of creeps. The coffee shop was bustling with customers. Why not try out my thoughts on those less suspecting? Those who didn't get visually molested twenty-five hours a day? If I took a seat and gave myself time to assess what I was seeing, maybe I could work this system out.

It being early, the tables were busy with students and business professionals getting their caffeine fix before setting off on yet another long day. The stools at the raised counter near the front windows were occupied. The artist types clicked away on their computers, filling white space with words they were likely proud of, enlightening the world with each sentence of their brilliance.

"Ah, well," I mumbled to myself, using my hip to push the door open. I waved bye to Tonia before stepping outside, but she was busy with an overly flirtatious customer.

The street might be a better bet for my aims. I had to go to a gym anyway, according to the insanity I'd stumbled into that listed a visit as an OBJECTIVE. Walking to the gym would give me time to see what types of numbers and categories floated around various people clouded by yellows and reds.

My gym offered options for those looking for something other than simple weight racks, ellipticals, and Pilates classes. A fighter's gym. One of the few financial splurges in my life. It cost as much as all my streaming services combined. It'd be perfect. With the day off from my dead-end job at the department store, I strolled. No normal stride. Moving fast while intensely staring at people was a good way to get the cops called.

I nearly dropped my latte when a notification popped up in my vision.

CONGRATULATIONS! MAT MASTERS, LLC. HAS BEEN REGISTERED IN WASHINGTON STATE!

NEW MESSAGE RECEIVED.

Catching myself before I took a tumble, I moved to the edge of the sidewalk. Pulling up under the torn overhang of a business that died years ago, I pretended to have to tie my sneakers. Setting my coffee down, I undid my laces and used the time to re-read the notification.

A message? What message?

I scanned the interface and noticed a small white icon that looked a lot like an envelope.

"How do I open the—"

Before I finished my question, the tiny flap of the envelope peeled open, forming a small triangle above the icon. Another image—'hallucination'—popped up, covering the others. Good thing I moved out of everyone's way. Not that the sidewalk was busy. They never are in Olympia. Even so, my view of the world was nearly completely obstructed by this new piece of digital paper.

Articles of Incorporation. Registered Agent: Matt Anderson. Under the 'incorporator' section, my name was also listed.

"Hot damn." I laughed. So it was true. I was the proud owner of a wrestling promotion. At least in my delusion.

"Mat Masters, huh?" I asked aloud before realizing I was probably fulfilling the expectations of anyone watching this mental disintegration. The past half-day hadn't been kind.

Legs work again, though, buddy. Just at the cost of my mind.

The street's ambient noise faded as I processed this development. A corporation? I hadn't filed paperwork. Then again, I hadn't installed this reality-bending HUD in my brain either.

Another chuckle. "Looks like I own a business. Wonder what it pays?"

I tested out my shabby gaming theory and closed the digital paper by focusing on the small 'X' in the top corner. My thoughts swirled as I picked up my steaming coffee, nearly strangling the compostable paper.

Stuffing my chin to my chest, I aimed my words toward the wet sidewalk. "Hey, if you're listening, whoever you are, I'd appreciate it if you told me what the hell is going on. I'm kind of struggling here."

Silence.

"Nothing?"

Silence.

Stranger things had happened to people, right? Some swore they saw visions of dead relatives in the dark of night shortly after suffering a loss. Others loudly pronounced to anyone who'd listen that they'd seen Bigfoot stomping around forests across the world. Even in Georgia. Even more claimed that they'd chilled with St. Peter at the pearly gates before being resuscitated by "God's hand" in an emergency room full of medical professionals who actually did all the resuscitating.

Was I really sharing categories with those types of people now?

"Please, this has to be a dream. Shit, I'll take a nightmare. As long as it's one I'll wake up from."

Time to make a decision. I could either stand on this sidewalk and talk to myself, drawing more and more notice with each tormented question, or I could do something. You know, actually play this out and see where it went. I mean, what other choice did I have? I couldn't pretend I wasn't seeing things. I couldn't go about my day acting like this was normal. With that crap piledriver and the visiting disembodied voice, something had changed.

My father always told me that anything worth dreaming about was worth working out.

I set off for the Sweat Locker to see if I could tackle the scouting OBJECTIVE.

The thick door creaked as it always did. No way anyone was entering the gym without drawing attention. For a place that charged as much as this gym, you'd think they could afford a can of lubrication. Maybe if what was happening to me was actual reality, and I was the owner of a startup wrestling promotion, I'd donate a can or two.

A familiar smell punched me in the face. Chalk and sweat. A gel of funk that'd coagulated thanks to overworked ventilation and a community that lived under the Pacific Northwest's perpetual gloom. Turns out, keeping people indoors ten months out of the year has ramifications the universe didn't plan for when it created places like Olympia, Washington.

I stopped and took in the scene. The sights. The sounds. The beautiful rhythm of feet stomping on a ring apron mixed with the grunts of people lifting and slamming weights.

"Hey, Matt!" Stella Knox, the gym's owner, called from behind the desk. The desk she was always at. Her firm body, ridiculously so for a woman in her fifties, was outlined in a red cloud. I instinctively looked away, disappointed that I couldn't escape this weird game mechanic even in a smelly gym.

"Hey, Stella. What's going on?"

"You're in early."

I lifted my latte. "Just have to take care of a few things. I'll be back to sweat later."

Her face scrunched, but she said nothing.

Moving toward the locker room, I pulled up at a small table set off to the side under a screen promoting the gym's monthly events. Stella used the table when potential customers came in to learn what the gym offered. A quaint retreat in an open bay of sweaty people.

I sat and pulled out my phone, launching the note taker app. Needing to look preoccupied so no one would bother me, I started my covert operation. If this were real, I had to go all-in. If the end of my story was that I'd lost my mind, I'd schedule the psych eval after I got an actual workout in.

The notification had never told me exactly how I was supposed to scout a wrestler. Everything I knew about the topic came from watching sports movies. Athletic but never skilled enough to be scouted by colleges, I didn't have first-hand experience. Would have been useful if I had. One guy I played high school football with had been scouted by the University of Washington to play cornerback. The scout hung around the team after games. His appearances became more regular throughout the season. Most of us didn't know who he was, beyond a middle-aged man hanging around teen boys. You can imagine the things we said in the locker room when it was obvious he wasn't going away. At games, all he seemed to do was watch. Our coach told us why at the penultimate game of the season. A pointless game, because we weren't making the playoffs. He told us to fight for Jamal. And that's how we found out our teammate was being scouted. Luckily for Jamal, we liked him and the speech worked. We won. The scout went away. Jamal got a full ride to school. And I forgot about the experience until scouting became my central focus.

I'd just people watch and see where the next half-hour took me. I watched people lift weights. Watched others do rope work. I paid particular attention to the guy in the ring who practiced falling on his back. The guy's form was off and it wasn't long before he slammed himself down off-center, knocking his head so hard even I winced. The guy got up, holding the back of his neck and rotated his head, and left the ring. A yellow haze enshrouded him. It looked faint. From an injury or a subtlety of the logic behind the aura?

What did the colors mean? Red and yellow. Were there only two? There was something to it. But what? Stella's haze was red. Lots of people had a red shell. The Sweat Locker's owner was in great shape for her age, but maybe that was the problem. Her age. People in their fifties surely had to be in the red in terms of their life cycle, weren't they? Life was basically over at that stage. Days filled with pickleball, golf, woodworking, and crafts. I mean, the pool I was basing this conclusion on included exactly Stella and two old people I'd seen this morning. Not exactly a legitimate study. But I was comfortable with the conclusion, for now.

The gym didn't have an older clientele. Most customers were in their twenties and thirties. I'd seen a few forties-people sprinkled in, but they were the exception. Any older, and everyone in the gym noticed. The reaction they got was a lot like someone dragging a gorilla in on a leash.

Taking a tally, the reds greatly outnumbered the yellows. I couldn't see a color around me, but that wasn't a surprise. Few people had true insight into their own nature. Why would I? Even if a miracle had happened in the back of that ambulance last night. Plus, according to the notifications, I was the owner of Mat Masters, not an actual wrestler. If my delusion was centered on starting a wrestling promotion, I needed wrestlers.

Whatever the meaning behind the color code, it had to relate to wrestling ability or potential or fit or whatever. I had to nail this down before I drove myself crazy considering the possibilities.

A loud grunt came from the corner of the gym. A massive guy was deadlifting. Ripples of muscle strained against a truly impressive amount of weight. Plates stacked side by side by side by side.

I stared, lost in the revelation. A green hue surrounded the musclehead.

Green was good, right? The new color was a lightbulb moment. Red, yellow, and green. A stoplight coding system.

"Here we go." When I focused on the guy, the noise of everyone else faded into the background. A floating jumble of words and numbers came into clarity around the behemoth.

EDWARD "ED" STEVENS

HEIGHT: 6'6"

WEIGHT: 255

STRENGTH: 10

AGILITY: 1

CHARISMA: 4

POTENTIAL: HIGH

"Holy shit." The limited statistics weren't much help, not without context. But Ed had a high POTENTIAL and a green hue. Had I just found a superstar?

4 - A Star Is Born?

WORLDWIDE FANS: 0

ACTIVE WRESTLERS ON MMW ROSTER: 0

PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: HOST LOCAL WRESTLING CARD WITHIN 29 DAYS

Admittedly, I wasn't sure about the color scheme, but Ed's green hue and a high POTENTIAL meant something. The two had to be connected. Plus, forget brick shithouses, this guy was built like a tank. With that size and strength, he'd attract attention from anyone in this wrestling-starved city.

Fixated, I watched Ed finish his set. His shirt stuck to his back. Thin straps of blue held the shirt over shoulders and trapezius muscles that were the size of small dogs. His shoulders heaved as he gasped for breath after each set. But only for a short time. Within thirty seconds, the guy was back at it, starting his next. A machine. Just one who dripped rivers of sweat.

"That's someone I could build a new promotion around." I pushed away from the table, ditching the cooling coffee I'd paid way too much for.

OBJECTIVE COMPLETE!

VISIT A GYM AND SCOUT A WRESTLER COMPLETE!

XP +10

I was halfway toward the rack when the notification popped up. I nearly tripped over a woman stretching on a foam mat. I would have seen her if I wasn't so distracted.

"Sorry about that." I moved around her while trying to appear cool. I didn't get a good enough look to tell if I'd ticked her off because my vision was partially obscured by the notification.

By the time I turned my focus away from the woman, the notification faded, but the status display was back. I found my XP. The display reflected 10 XP.

"Awesome."

"You know what'd be awesome?" someone said, making me jump slightly. "If you move, I can get to the weights."

By trying to avoid the stretching woman, I'd inadvertently blocked a weight rack. The guy trying to get to them was smaller, maybe halfway through five-feet-tall. He had to weigh one-sixty if he was lucky. His red aura had an orange tint to it.

I made a mental note to pay closer attention to the diversity of auras around people and then apologized. The guy, probably a manager in some state government office, mumbled, snatched two five-pound plates from the rack, and returned to a bench.

Not important. The monster in the corner was.

What the hell am I going to say? I wondered as I closed in.

One truism of gym survival is that you don't talk to other people. Ever. But especially when they're in the middle of a set. That's what earbuds were created for. Once that evolution in human accomplishment was introduced, gyms became wonderfully siloed institutions of internal focus.

I was about to commit a cultural taboo, but what else could I do? Stalk the guy in the parking lot? Yeah, like that'd end well.

A new info box appeared, making me stutter to a halt again.

TIP: YOUR CHARISMA AFFECTS RECRUITMENT SUCCESS. GOOD LUCK!

More like a game with every new action.

Ed glanced my way but quickly returned his attention to the reflection in the mirror. Gym rats were like that. How often had I done the exact same thing? Just in the past week? A necessity.

Charisma? Shit, where was my CHARISMA?

Thankful that Ed was fixated with his mirrored reflection, I called up my display. Not that I was sure how that happened. Who knew if mentally demanding an appearance would do anything, but it was worth an attempt.

Unlike too many times when I willed something to happen only to be disappointed by fate, the interface appeared almost instantaneously. A wave of relief washed over me. Forget the fact that I was standing in the middle of an aisle in a gym full of motivated people. Ignore that I was as unengaged with my fitness as anyone had ever been in this gym since they took a Stella tour. It worked. It actually worked.

Examining the display, I didn't see anything obvious. Nothing about charisma jumped out. Not that I could call the menu cluttered. It wasn't. It contained a few icons I'd seen before. The opened envelope. No new messages. The XP counter showing my ten points. My HEALTH status. My SATISFACTION meter. Both unchanged.

No CHARISMA, though.

"Where are you?"

"If you're here to creep, I'm reporting you to Stella," a woman said in a huff as she neared.

I didn't have the heart to tell her she wasn't the type I'd creep on, even if I felt the urge to creep. In the name of decency and avoiding drama, I kept the comment to myself.

"Not creeping. Just thinking about how much I miss my mother."

The woman's hostility dropped. "Oh, sorry."

Behind her, on the row machine, a thin brunette smirked. She was Hispanic, fit, and beautiful. Her long hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Her dark eyes watched the exchange with a hint of humor. She was outlined in a glorious green hue.

How? She was lucky to weigh a hundred pounds. A little dramatic, but she was small. I didn't need her to stand to know she was short. Not bony by any measure, she had muscle where most guys didn't. Still, she was small. Maybe she was a small badass. But green? The same aura as Ed? Just when I thought I understood the color scheme. So close to having insight, and the rules seemed to have changed. Or I grossly misunderstood them.

I ignored the distraction of the numbers and categories floating around her. I didn't need any more confusion. One struggle at a time. Maybe I was right. Maybe I was wrong. Without tripping across a game guide, I needed to work my way through the mechanics. Starting with the big guy.

"Hey there," I said when I reached the deadlifting man, trying to sound casual. "That's serious weight you're moving."

Ed wiped his face with a towel. "Not done with my set."

I waved a hand in the air. "Not ready to get a workout in. Don't worry. Was wondering if I could ask you something."

Ed huffed, his boulder-like shoulders rising and falling. He grimaced when he gave me the once-over. He was one of those guys who looked good when he didn't shave. Superior genetics all around. Lucky bastard. "You look like you're in decent shape. Probably can't give you much advice. And, I swear, if you're about to ask me if I'm on the juice, I'll feed you one of these plates."

Ah, the glory of being the biggest guy in the place. "No. Not that. A business question."

That seemed to get the man's attention. "What?"

"Have you ever thought about wrestling?"

The big man's face scrunched. "Wrestling?" His brow furrowed. "You playing games?"

"Games?"

"Yeah, is this some kink thing? Dude, seriously, it better not be."

Despite his tone, immensity, and scowl, I didn't feel threatened by Ed. Not a little guy myself, he dwarfed me. But there was something about him that came across as kind. I chuckled. "No. No. Nothing like that. I swear. This is legit. I'm talking about professional wrestling."

"Like WWE stuff? Nah, man. Not really my thing."

I held my sigh. Everyone in the world thought of the WWE when they heard the term 'pro wrestling.' How did so many people have no clue that there were hundreds of wrestling promotions around the world? Thousands, if you considered the defunct ones. Nearly every country had at least one promotion. Large cities might have multiple. Even small towns were home to a promotion.

I couldn't hold this against Ed. Just because he wasn't a wrestling fan didn't mean recruiting him was dead in the water. One look at the guy said why. As big as he was, combined with his looks, there were plenty of aspects about him that couldn't be taught. "It pays."

One eyebrow raised on Ed's chiseled face.

Hook. "Are you working right now?"

"Yeah. Full time. Don't have time for anything but work, working out, and my kid."

"Boy or girl?"

Ed's face softened for a flicker.

"Girl. Krystal. She's four."

"Ah, cool."

"Don't get to see her much. Divorced, you know? So when I'm not working out or at the job, I'm with her." He grunted. "When her mom lets me see her."

"Oh, sorry, man. I get it. That's important stuff."

"You got kids?"

I raised my left hand, tapping the empty ring finger. "Nope. Not even a girlfriend. But I am someone's son."

Ed's head bobbed as he laughed. It didn't come out of his mouth, but rumbled in his chest.

"You've got to take care of what's important. But if you're looking to make a few more bucks a month, I'd love to talk to you." This guy could be a cornerstone of a wrestling promotion if he could take successive steps without tripping over his feet. Telling him that the promotion came to me from a disembodied voice in the back of an ambulance, and was less than a day old, probably wasn't the best approach. I'm not the lying type and wouldn't start now, but that didn't mean I had to be completely transparent. Even though everything about this guy, from what the interface told me to his personality, shouted that I couldn't afford to miss out. "We're just starting up, so I don't even have a schedule I could share. It won't be anything crazy, I promise. Sadly, I've got a full-time job, too."

Ed smiled. "And no romantic prospects."

Oh, so he has a sense of humor, too? Duly noted.

The turn was encouraging. Ed hadn't gone back to his deadlifts, a sign I wasn't totally being blown off. "Right? I promise, as I start setting things up, I could work with you. See what you think. If working a match once a month or so is too much, I get it."

"Once a month?"

"Well, there'd be ring time. Practice."

He bent to grab the towel he'd hung over the rack. He wrapped it around his neck. "I don't know the first thing about wrestling."

I gestured with a hand, raising it from Ed's feet to his head. "I've been in the business for fifteen years as a wrestler. I can teach you everything you need to know. But you've got something that can't be taught."

"Lines like that could get you punched." Despite his words, I felt no hostility. Ed's smile was conservative. "Saying them in a gym, of all places."

Now it was my turn to laugh. "Guess so. Hope you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I got you."

"You've heard of Hulk Hogan and Andre the Giant, right?"

Ed nodded. "Of course. Saw Hogan in old movies."

"Regardless of what you think of Hogan as a person, his rivalry with Andre put professional wrestling on the map. It's been around forever. Pro wrestling, that is. Dating back to its origins in circuses, when guys had curling mustaches. But it wasn't nearly the phenomenon it is now. Not until the body slam of Andre."

"The body slam?"

"Andre was seen as superhuman. Over seven feet tall and more than five hundred pounds, no one thought he could be picked up and slammed to the mat. A body slam is basically a scoop. One arm over the shoulder. One arm between the legs. Lift. Up and over. Back slams onto the mat."

"Damn. Darn," Ed said quickly, giving me a wave. "Sorry, trying to cut down on my cursing. So Hogan scooped a five-hundred-pound guy?"

"Almost five-fifty. But Andre's true weight is all over the board. Some places online say he was seven hundred. Ridiculous. Anyway, yeah, Hogan did it at WrestleMania Three in front of ninety thousand people. Probably the single event that put professional wrestling in the public's mind. The hero against the unfathomable monster. Funny, because by all accounts, Andre was a really nice guy in real life. Point is, that match happened in the early years of cable TV. It brought wrestling out of the dirty corners of people's interests and into the mainstream. The WWE, WWF back then, built itself around those two. Especially Hogan, to where it is now. I need to do the same with my promotion."

"You want me to be your Hulk Hogan?"

Excitement surged. Ed hadn't blown me off. Plus, I was doing it. I was conducting wrestling business. Kind of cool, to be honest. I'd always loved manager modes in games or those with career builder aspects. When I was a kid, I'd spend rainy days writing out my own wrestling cards, the lineup of matches, and using my father's dice to determine the results. Kept everything in a notebook. My sister used to give me so much crap about my hobby.

One screwed-up move in a real ring later, and I was doing it for real. For my own promotion.

This had better not be someone's idea of a joke.

"I do. I'll pay you the best I can. Per appearance. Every time you wrestle for me, you get paid. Someone like you will draw crowds. Even if you can't wrestle. But I'll work with you. You'll improve, and you'll get good. The crowds will get bigger."

"And I'll get paid more?" Ed said, asking in such a way that it didn't sound like a question.

Ah, this guy was sharp.

Someone built like Ed didn't come along every day. Sure, Seattle had a bunch of huge guys, but they played for the Seahawks. Plus, Seattle was an hour away on a good day. I couldn't get up there on workdays, and they wouldn't come down to little old Olympia for matches. To Seattleites, the state's capital might as well be on another continent. Plus, renting a gym in that city for an evening full of fights would cost more than my monthly rent. My options were limited unless someone was raising a crop of guys built like Ed and I hadn't tripped across their gym yet. I needed Ed way more than he needed me.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Exactly. I'll pay you fifty bucks per match. To start. Guaranteed. Let me get a feel for the crowd sizes. A few months should give me a record to base estimates on. Then we can renegotiate."

"A hundred."

"A hundred?" Was that a squeak in my voice?

"Yeah, man. My little girl, remember? I barely make shit at my job. Paying child support and rent is a bitch. A hundred per appearance, and we can talk. If not, I get it, but I'll need to get back to my workout."

Mat Masters only existed in my mind and on a piece of paper stored in the state's database. I didn't know if I'd make a hundred dollars in ticket sales at the event I needed to hold. Maybe I would. Maybe I wouldn't. From the indie shows I'd worked, it was a definite possibility. Consistently, though? That was the challenge. There was my job at the department store. One that provided me with enough income to pay rent, feed my face, and even go out for drinks once in a while. My car was older than every middle school kid in the state, even the undisciplined ones, but it was dependable enough to avoid cataclysmic repair bills. Could I fund Ed's appearance fee out of my personal funds until the promotion started drawing big enough crowds to make a profit?

If it ever did?

Yet, one look around Stella's gym told me I wouldn't come across anyone like Ed. And if this man was up for it, and in need of a little extra money every month, what better chance did I have? I could agree or go without. If I did the latter, what was to say I'd find someone comparable who'd work for less? With all the guys in the gym, none had the green hue. Even so, they might demand the same payday for less draw potential. Then where would I be? Even if I came back to Ed on my knees, he might double his price. If it didn't work out, we could go our own way and at least know we tried.

Not that I'd saved up since my childhood for this moment. If I went bankrupt because I overpaid my first and only wrestler, I could just walk away from the promotion. Close its doors before they'd been opened a half-dozen times.

I can get out of this… this… whatever it is, right?

I met Ed's stare. "We'd train you up first, of course. Can't pay you for that. Maybe one day. But right now, I can't pull that off. By the time you were ready to wrestle a match, I'd have nothing left to pay you with."

Ed cocked his head, getting a faraway look in his eyes. While Ed considered, movement in the ring caught my attention. The Hispanic woman with the green cloud was practicing rope runs. A wrestling training staple. Was she a wrestler? Her form was nearly perfect. I didn't know if someone's color code could change, but hers hadn't. It was still green, and I was witnessing evidence, actual evidence, to justify my thoughts on the relation between the color coding and someone's potential as a pro wrestler.

Unprompted, the display slammed open, giving me information I hadn't asked for.

JENNIFER RODRIGUEZ

STRENGTH: 3

AGILITY: 10

CHARISMA: 9

POTENTIAL: HIGH

SCOUTING COMPLETE!

XP +10

Another scouted person. More XP. At this rate, I'd scout everyone in the city and gain tens of thousands of points of XP if it got me anything from the game.

"Come on," I said, forcing my attention away from the glorious form bouncing from rope to rope. One excitement at a time. Ed was now. I'd talk to Jennifer later. If she let me. "What do you say? Want to give it a try?"

Ed raised a finger so thick that it could put the state employee's arms to shame. "One time."

"One time what?"

Ed jerked his head toward the ring where Jennifer continued bouncing off the ropes, propelling herself across the ring. "One practice. You teach me what you can. If I like it, I'll agree to give it a try."

I blinked, probably looking like a total rookie, as a new notification let me know that I'd done a thing.

YOU RECRUITED YOUR FIRST WRESTLER!

RECRUITMENT TOKEN UNCHANGED

XP +100

Letting my excitement get the better of me, I slapped my hands. The state employee squealed a "Hey!" before returning to his skullcrushers.

"Hell, yes. Let's do it." I thrust my hand out. Ed wrapped it in his. Not a crushing grip. The man knew his own strength. Good.

"You got a card or something?"

I patted my pockets even though I knew I didn't. "Sorry. New business and all. I'll get on that."

"Hmmm." The response would have been discouraging if the big man wasn't smiling.

After setting up a date and time, I nearly floated away, leaving Ed in peace to lift the weight of his world.

As I passed the ring, two guys by a weight rack were snickering and pointing. I turned. Jennifer was leaning against the ropes, her hands on her hips, trying to catch her breath. She either didn't see or was ignoring the guys.

"It's harder than it looks, assholes," I said, giving Jennifer a nod as I passed.

She didn't return it. No problem. She probably hadn't heard my defense of her, or was so jaded from dealing with guys like the pair that she'd numbed herself to any gym interactions.

Passing the front desk, I called out to Stella. "See you later!"

On the phone, she gave me a wave without looking up. Apparently, I hadn't been reported for creeping. Or she was calling the cops to escort me home. Either way, I put the Sweat Locker behind me and stepped out into the day. Suddenly brighter.

I called up my display. My eyes went straight to my XP, which now sat at 120. Not only that, but my SATISFACTION bar had edged slightly to the right. A hair's breadth above three-fourths full. That revelation made my bright day even brighter. Exploring a little further, I noticed I had a new tab called ROSTER. When I concentrated on it, my display switched.

The tab was broken down into MALE and FEMALE tabs. I pulled up the MALE roster and saw Ed's name there.

I bobbed my head, encouraged.

"What a weird day."

The sun seemed warmer. The sidewalks, drier. The street was less crowded and definitely smelled less like urine. My wrestling career might be shifting gears, but maybe that wasn't entirely bad. I was the proud owner of a fledgling wrestling promotion. I had my first wrestler. Maybe. An eye on another. For the first time in my adult life, I had a path forward. Out of the department store. Something that couldn't be taken away by someone executing a shit-poor piledriver for twenty-five moderately interested strangers.

My phone buzzed. Another motherly check-in. She'd smother me with attention until she was sure that my previous night's injury was truly a temporary one.

But my mother had no idea of its significance. One day, I would share my joy. When she was ready for it. When I was.

As I typed a quick response, I felt myself smile. This one was full of childlike excitement. Like the first time I texted a girl who was into me. Except this 'girl' was my mother and was into me in only the most appropriate of ways.

5 - Unboxing

WORLDWIDE FANS: 0

ACTIVE WRESTLERS ON MMW ROSTER: 1

PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: HOST LOCAL WRESTLING CARD WITHIN 29 DAYS

When life plops you down in the middle of a sports strategy game, without knowing how or whether this is the new nature of things, the nights that follow are the sorts that call for pizza. Pizza could solve the stress I was suddenly feeling. Especially when I had less than a month to pull off my first event. Well, pizza and ignoring an apartment in desperate need of a date with a broom and a bottle of disinfectant wipes.

Not that I didn't want to clean. I'm a modern man. I understand the importance of a tidy home. But I'm also single. That had a lot to do with it. I worked a lot, worked out just as much, and needed recovery time. Routine cleaning often got hit with life's snooze button. Seen in a different light, the place definitely needed it. I didn't have the money for one of those fancy robot vacuums, and none of my buddies or neighbors were cool enough to clean my place for the astronomical fee of getting to be around me and my stuff. Truly, just excuses. No matter how hard I tried to deny the pull of attending to the requirements of this new reality, I couldn't. I was only human, after all.

So the mismatched furniture remained unvacuumed. My 'fancy' wall coverings were nothing more than movie posters, so they didn't need to see the duster. Thankfully. I'd gotten them for free when my department store employer needed to clear out storage bins. I was supposed to take them to the dumpster, but it was an entire five-gallon bag of tightly rolled posters still encased in factory plastic. And I had bare walls at home. A rare moment of serendipity in my life, if there ever was one. Plus, hanging them on my walls was far more eco-friendly than tossing them in a landfill. The television and my PlayStation were dust-free. I'm a guy, and if men ever show tenderness to anything, it's our electronics. Especially when we didn't have to split time between them and an actual love interest.

I collapsed on the couch, having made the easiest decision I'd make tonight. Pizza uber alles. An entire pie. Extra cheese and pepperoni, thank you very much. No pineapple, though. Adding fruit to a pizza was demented. The couch groaned, deep in its belly. I patted the empty cushion, avoiding the tear.

While I punched my order into the app, the day's events swirled in my head. I'd recruited someone who could not only be my first wrestler but also someone who had the look to draw eyeballs. If the guy looked half as good in the ring after a few training sessions as he did working out, I'd found someone to build my entire promotion around. Someone and something to get excited about.

Just as exciting was the prospect of the woman I'd watched running the ropes, Jennifer Rodriguez. Undersized or not, she'd been the only other person in the gym with the green aura. It was far from an exact science, but I was convinced the color cloud had something to do with someone's wrestling potential. Everyone had one, so the element was obviously relevant, and important, to gameplay. A fundamental.

My phone vibrated as soon as I finished typing out my credit card number and before hitting CHECKOUT. A text notification. Mom.

I swiped the notification away and completed the order. My gluttonous need thrust into the ether at nearly light speed, I opened her text, saw that she was checking in, and knocked out a response. She had me on a timer, after all.

MATT: Still alive. No paralysis. Promise.

Her reply was almost instant.

TAMMY: Not funny, young man. Love u!

MATT: Luv u 2!

I smiled as I put the phone on the end table. Nothing like having a mother so hip she understood the newest ways to contract her words into the modern standard of the lexicon.

She really had nothing to worry about. Hopefully, soon she'd see that. Truth was, I felt better than I had in years. Why? No idea. Couldn't attribute it to the lack of wrestling. Maybe because I'd been relieved of the weight of pretending I had a shot at the big time. Years of serious indie wrestling, and what did I have to show for it? Six hundred bucks and a highlight reel on YouTube that had garnered exactly eighty-six views, most from my mother. Lost nights where my earnings didn't cover the gas to the gym or VFW hall and necessary pre-match meals.

Chasing the wrestling dream was about more than the paycheck at the beginning. Until science developed a magic pill that'd deliver a day's worth of nutrition in one swallow, even the least passionate wrestlers needed to eat. Doubly especially so for serious ones. And eating properly was expensive. Even more so than the gas to Portland and back. Forget hotels. Which was why I rarely splurged, preferring the highway rest areas for a few hours of 'rest my eyes before I kill someone' time.

All those years of believing I might get a break because I was the most serious wrestler in the local circuit. All those non-existent phone calls and emails that should have been a sign that I wasn't destined for anything greater than what I had.

Who had I been fooling? AEW, WWE, New Japan, NWA, or CMLL. None of them were calling, because none of them had in all my years in the ring. Even DEFY seemed to have moved on from me. A depressing thought that somehow didn't bother me now. I was actually pumped, and not just for the greasy pizza that was slowly nearing my apartment. Having a promotion to not only fall back on but to lead me into my future kept me in the wrestling business. It was the perfect tonic for my darker thoughts about never being in the ring again.

Owning a promotion was more than something to count on if all was lost. I'd be the boss. The man. The decision-maker. The booker. My duty was to find the right wrestlers for the right stories. No more sitting through bad storylines or coma-inducing in-ring action. If it wasn't working, I could axe it. If a wrestler was engaging, I could push them to the front of the line and raise everyone's chances.

I rubbed my hands. Dry, they gave off a scratchy sound not unlike rubbing two sheets of paper together. "Might not have been good enough for the big time, but I can do this."

I knew I could. Besides the training and real-world matches, besides all the wrestling games I'd spent far too many hours playing, I'd always had a wrestling brain. At twelve, I'd started a neighborhood promotion with friends. We didn't have a ring, but my father had roped off trees in the backyard and that'd served as our wrestling kingdom.

The memory drew a laugh. The 'ring' my father had created with the ropes was nothing more than a dirt patch free of protruding tree roots. Not even square.

My best friends were the first wrestlers. Slowly, other kids joined when they heard the fun we were having. Mom's homemade milkshakes didn't hurt my recruitment efforts. Not just boys. Girls joined, too.

I'd made up the matches, rivalries, and the stories behind each. Looking back, they were embarrassingly childish. Even the ones in the later years, toward the end. Kids around the block had a great time as they got into their characters. My parents even hosted barbecues around some of the bigger get-togethers. While the adults ate and drank and played cards, the kids ran through our program. Everyone ended up in the pool by the end of the day.

Fond memories of an innocent time.

Puberty ruined that fun. Wrestling the girls became awkward when they started developing. Wrestling the other guys lost its appeal when testosterone broke up the good times. In the end, they were times I thought I'd lost forever.

And now, I didn't have to miss that high anymore. Here was my chance, right? Maybe a last chance. Hadn't the weird guy-girl voice said that in the ambulance? It'd asked if I wanted to die. But the implications were bigger than that. The voice had told me to 'truly live.'

Delusion, magic, answered prayer, or a granted genie wish. Whatever it'd been didn't matter. What did was that I saw the world differently now and had a chance to live my passion.

"And maybe get paid for it," I said, taking in my shabby apartment. I glanced down, not realizing I was plucking at the foam stuffing poking through the tear in the couch's cushion.

I called up my interface. I noticed a semi-flat arrow at the top of my vision. Concentrating on it opened a new layer. A series of tabs ran across the top. Almost all were grayed out. The first tab said INVENTORY. I focused on it and a box appeared in the center of my vision. It held one phrase.

STARTER KIT

I focused on it. A small box opened to the right. Inside it, a golden icon, rotating slowly. It looked like a treasure chest from every fantasy game I'd ever played.

"Hmmm. Pretty cool. How do I—"

The chest burst open, the lid clanking as it slammed down onto the non-existent surface the chest rested on.

STARTER KIT CONTENTS:

●        Initial Funds: $5,000

●        Basic Ring Blueprint

●        Local Venue Contact List

●        Wrestling Move Database Access, Volume I

●        3 Recruitment Tokens

"Holy shit!" Five grand? That was more than I made in almost two months at the department store.

As crazy as all of this was, there was no way the mysterious angel or benefactor or whoever had come to me in my drug-induced delusion in the ambulance gave me five thousand stinking dollars. People could be kind and helpful, but when it came to coughing up money, they were as tight as an Amish woman's bun.

No sense in wondering. I grabbed my phone, opening my bank app with a shaking thumb that missed the small icon twice before landing true.

When I got to my checking account, I had to look at my balance twice.

"No. No way." Closing the app, I relaunched it.

Same app. Same total in my account.

"How?"

I opened the list of transactions.

DEPOSIT from "Mat Masters, LLC" - $5,000.

This was real. Actually real. Walking around Olympia and scouting everyone's color aura had been fun and games. When words and numbers floated around people like flies above roadkill, that'd been acceptable. Somewhat. But seeing real money in my real-and-usually-pathetic bank account was an entirely distinct reality.

"I can pay Ed for…" I did the math. "Fifty matches. Fifty freaking matches!"

I slapped the end table in joy. Delusions didn't come with a payday. This was real. As real as real got.

No wrestling promotion could survive with a single wrestler. With the windfall in my bank, I suddenly had an urge to recruit more wrestlers. Why not? It had seemed impossible when I thought I had to foot the bill for Ed. But now I had a little space. Enough to think about being able to pay enough wrestlers to fill out a card.

My own card!

Where I'd find enough wrestlers to hold an event was one thing, but at least it was a possibility now. I needed people I could count on to not let me down. Who would show up and show out. But how many? How many matches for a viable card when I had to be cautious? How much would renting a high school gym cost? Maybe a middle school? What about staff?

My elation dropped precipitously. Wrestling for years, and how much did I really know about the business? The creative side wasn't a problem. I had story ideas for days. Knew wrestling in my core. Years before the WWE turned Roman Reigns into a heel—wrestling speak for a 'bad guy'/antagonist—I'd told anyone who'd listen that Reigns sucked as a face—a 'good guy'/protagonist.

"Just turn him heel," I'd proclaimed at one WrestleMania to everyone who neared the table of wings and ribs I'd barbecued. "And I bet he'll be the biggest badass in the WWE. Not this crap. Listen to the crowd. They hate him."

The intervening years proved my comments to be prophetic.

No, creative elements weren't an issue. The rest of running a business? That was a different story. But unlike other times in my life when I began to feel overwhelmed by the number or complexity of tasks I faced, electricity raced from toes to fingertips. Charged by the appearance of $5,000 and everything the starter kit came with. I might not understand their importance until I put them into play. Starting now.

I pulled one up, getting used to the interface.

The BASIC RING BLUEPRINT was exactly what I expected. A blueprint for a wrestling ring. On the indies, it wasn't uncommon for wrestlers to help set up and tear down rings. A lot of us did it as a favor to the promoter. Free labor has a way of sticking your name firmly in a promoter's brain the next time they have a good gig. We didn't always work for free, of course. I'm sure avoiding violating laws was more of a motivator than any feelings that we were being taken advantage of. We liked when pay was involved. Setting up rings usually paid more than what we were doing in the ring. Definitely more than almost being paralyzed in front of less than thirty people.

The blueprint would come in handy when I had a place to test it. Realizing my excitement was getting the better of me, I closed the window and opened the LOCAL VENUE CONTACT LIST.

"Useful."

Names, addresses, phone numbers, and emails for various venues. All in the region. Nothing north of Seattle or south of Portland. No further east than Issaquah. West went all the way to the ocean, including the entire Olympic Peninsula. But that was a low-density corner of Washington. No cities and very few towns large enough to have venues. A bunch of tribal venues, though. The tribes paid well to get entertainers into their place. I'd keep that in mind.

I grinned at the thought. Already thinking like a promoter. I might just fool a few as I got this off the ground. Fingers crossed.

I closed that window and opened the WRESTLING MOVE DATABASE, VOLUME I. Scanning the list, I saw it was a set of basic wrestling moves. Nothing special or exotic. This was stuff anyone who'd spent a few days in the ring would have heard mentioned. Anyone with a match or two under their belt would have tried to execute each of the moves. Tame but useful when it came time to train people.

Wait. Did I have to train all the wrestlers? I didn't know how to feel about that. The thought of training Ed was exciting. He was a behemoth. He'd be the first. But what if luck struck and I had twenty wrestlers to work with? All that hands-on stuff wouldn't work. Time-consuming and tedious.

The last of the items in the starter kit was the three RECRUITMENT TOKENS.

Confused, I scanned the entire interface for information about the tokens and found none. Did I need the tokens to recruit an actual wrestler? That made sense. One token for one wrestler? That'd allow me to recruit three to the roster if that was the case. Why hadn't I had to use one for Ed? Was he the game's 'gimme'?

Another twinge of excitement. This was getting out of hand. If it kept up, I might have to dust off my dreams and aspirations.

When I closed the window, another box appeared.

NEW STATS AVAILABLE!

The words were in bold, glowing like a tacky eighties sporting event on-screen overlay. The message pulsed until I focused on the words. Another box opened. I was looking at my primary display. A "But wait, there's more!" voice boomed in my head, a voice of my own making. A new tab was slotted in at the second-from-left position in glowing white letters. A white oval circled it. An arrow pointed toward the oval, drawing my attention.

"A tutorial. Okay. Cool." I began clicking through the elementary aspects until I pulled up my STATS tab.

- PROMOTION REPUTATION: 0

- BOOKING SKILL: 0

- CHARISMA: 0

- CREATIVE SKILL: 0

- MANAGEMENT: 1

- TECHNICAL KNOWLEDGE: 3

- SHOWMANSHIP: 0

"Yikes, Matty, old boy. Not starting off very strong, are you?" A BOOKING stat of 0 did me exactly zero good running a new promotion. A quick look across my display didn't show any obvious shuffle button that'd allow me to push for a fresh set of stats. "Seriously? I'm stuck with this?"

This was like a sports game, all right. Just one set on a 'high difficulty' level.

"Not a fan of these attributes," I said to the ceiling, hoping against hope that the voice from the ambulance would make another appearance. I waited in silence because I'm stubborn like that.

No need to ask who tapped out first.

I shrugged. "Not like I've done anything except go to the gym and creep through these menus."

Whatever was happening to me, it was still a new experience. I hadn't done anything but talk to one guy and mark a woman as my next conversation. Probably where the 1 for MANAGEMENT came from. The 3 for TECHNICAL KNOWLEDGE, though? Was that a remnant of my wrestling career?

The zeroes hurt. One, I could have lived with. Five, though?

I wagged my finger at the display. "We'll fix you. Quick."

If I were suddenly living in a sports simulation, then it'd abide by those laws. Each stat could be worked on. I just needed to get started. Like now. Just as I was about to pull up my app and cancel my food order, the doorbell rang. I pulled the door open with a little too much verve for the delivery guy.

He did a wonderful balancing act with the box. I would have asked him if his future Fridays were free with agility like that, but the red color outlining him stopped that conversation cold. "Expecting your lady?"

"Nah." I took the pizza and thanked him. "This is the only hot date I've got tonight. Work night, you know?"

He was already turning away without as much as a chuckle. "Just don't do anything weird with the pizza. If you do, don't order from us again. Cool?"

He was around the corner before I had a chance to defend myself.

I looked at the clock. No sense in going back to the Sweat Locker now. Jennifer wouldn't be there. Better to shut myself in against the gray and comb through as much of the interface, stats, and information as I could. Deep learning tonight would give me a good start tomorrow. Maybe. After a long day of folding clothes, straightening displays, ringing up purchases, and pretending to care about customer complaints and needs. Tonight, oh, tonight was mine.

Because I finally had something that was all mine.

I hope you enjoyed your introduction to the cozy LitRPG progression world of Mat Masters! If you want to be the first in the world to read it in the spring of 2027, CLICK HERE to follow the Kickstarter campaign