It was finally enough. Pablo's bank account finally had the minimum for a down payment for a 30-year mortgage for an outer-borough co-op apartment. "We'll finally own a place," he told his wife ... [+]
Chuck always ends up waxing poetic around his trainees.
About how professional wrestling is a dance—a violent choreography of chokeholds and suplexes, timed to the tune of their bookers' plotlines. How each beautiful sequence could lead them to immortality, but a single misstep could mean expulsion, or a broken spine.
It was a turbulent tango, and it only took one to ruin it.
Which that damn kid Bruno was trying his best to do. On his very first match on live television, too.
"Jump!" Chuck hissed at the rookie tucked between his legs, too heavy for him to lift. "We're doing a power