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The Karotid Kid:
a 73 Year Old Wrestler

by Anita Hess


Anita, too, is
73, an artist living in Sheboygan, Wisconsin, currently finishing up her Mother's memoir of the early 1900's in up-North Wisconsin titled "How Come You Never Smile?"


Creakily, the Kid slowly crawled between the two lowest ropes into the blinding glare of the wrestling ring.  Strutting up and down, he blatantly displayed himself to his best advantage. The Kid pointed one index-finger ceiling ward before tossing back long, thin, bleached hair and emitting his fierce ear splitting 'screech of eagles.'   

He stiffly dropped to one knee striking the 'Pose of Champions' elbow on knee, fist turned inward under chin, finger still pointing to ceiling. The Kid ratcheted himself up to a standing position to gauge the crowd's tolerance for further dramatics before tugging at the clasp fastening his trademark white satin cape. White - because his 'persona' had been reconstituted more times than a big can of condensed milk. Yanking the cord he tore the cape off, swung it overhead, then in a benevolent gesture flung it outward over the audience. For several seconds it caught hang-time before fluttering moth-like to the floor at his feet.

"Hey! What the? My caller thing. I hope nobody saw that!" he muttered. "Why did I have to wear that stupid thing tonight?" He hadn't heard the snap of the silver chain holding his first responder pendant, but now felt chain and pendant slither down his bare chest, down, down into his white shark-skin trunks. The belt still held his old coin-change dispenser. Years earlier after a match the Kid would challenge anyone, who felt gypped out of the ticket price, a chance to wrestle him for change.  A bell rang.

"OOOOh! TOOOO violent!" He cried, but it didn't matter at all what he thought or said.  He saw stars and even some planets. The full body slam knocked him to the canvas and he couldn't get up.  But, first responders were on the way.


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