"So, obviously, there's now an issue with the Gaymergate storyline," said Gugenheim. That wasn't his real name. He had been born Tomas Green, but that wasn't a name for a booker. Gugenheim Deathmaster: that was a name of elegance.
"Man, that is the last time we're ripping straight from the headlines," said Blutowski Flipmaster, born Blutowski Flipmaster to parents who resented his existence. "You stake your bets on 'guilty' and then out comes the 'oh she's innocent' and it's like, can't you just keep being guilty? For us? For the fans?"
Gugenheim and Blutowski did their booking in a small room in a small office building that served as LAW's administrative core. It was soundproofed with egg cartons and stocked with an espresso machine, for all-nighters, and a minibar, likewise for all-nighters. This was where the magic happened, where vast and powerful tales of human struggle were woven and destinies made and changed forever.
"Maybe we could've dialed it back a bit. Like, in retrospect."
"Granted." Blutowski set down an origami crane, one of several dozen he'd folded over the course of the past dead-silent hour of quiet contemplation and self-loathing. "But we made our bed and now we have to get that bed out the window and into a fire before our website gets DDSed another week. What do we do?"
Gugenheim whipped a throwing knife out of his cargo pants and hurled it at the Ten Commandments of LAW, the knife striking an egg carton two feet away handle-first and clattering to the floor. He retrieved the knife and indicated Commandment 4: "Thou shalt only replace a storyline with one at least 3/4ths as depraved." "See this? Important. We have to taper off the depravity or else the fans will go into shock."
"Hm..." Blutowski reached for a stack of applications. The latest recruitment drive had thus far been a resounding failure, in part because of the new talent they signed for the Gaymergate storyline, in part because there were only so many worthy candidates to go around in one city, especially in a modest one like Pound's Field. But these were new--brand-new, just turned in today. There had to be a winner somewhere. Some kind of fresh meat to feed to the grinder of sports entertainment.
He shuffled through the stack of papers while Gugenheim tried to land a throwing knife on or near the Ten Commandments. After a few minutes of thought he'd whittled it down from ten to three, then to two. Then, he asked the question that would change the LAW forever.
"Do we have a gap in the B-cup range or the C-cup range?" Blutowski said.
"B-cup. Lil' Tonya Terror got sacked for stabbing all those homeless people."
"Wait, when did this happen?"
"Oh. That was the text I got after lunch." Gugenheim laughed. "Ha, guess I forgot."
"Eh, fair enough. Guess we're goin' with the B-cup!" He leafed through the application. It was primarily a series of glamor selfies taken of an ambiguously brown woman in a sports bra and skinny jeans, along with several news photos of said woman punching a flying, ice-armored monstrosity in the featureless face. The core of her application was this hand-written declaration:
I'm pretty badass and I think I could fight pretty well. If you let me into the ring of honor I will beat the ever-loving hell out of anything you throw at me. You may also notice that I have breasts and that they're great. Don't you agree?
Love, Clio Katzenjammer (badass)."
These were, in total, the only words in the application, hand-written on lined paper, other than a phone number. Blutowski pulled out his cell and dialed the number.
After three rings, somebody picked up. "Yo."
"Is this Clio Katzenjammer?" he said.
"Yeah, that's me. Is this about those student loans I didn't take?"
"As a matter of fa-a-a-act, my name is Blutowski Flipmaster, co-manager of LAW. How much do you know about wrestling?"
"Uh... basically nothing. But I super wanna see if I can't beat your best fighters. You know... 'cause I'm a badass. And I like to fight people."
Blutowski made a 'cha-ching' gesture. Gugenheim obliged, pulling on the handle of an old-school cash register next to the espresso machine.
"Excellent! When's a good day for you to g somewhere and do a thing?"
"Uh--I'm free this weekend!"
"Doubly excellent! This Saturday, we're going to see how fit you are for Lesbian Action Wrestling. Flipmaster out."
"Bye!" Clio said in the instant before Blutowski ended the call.
Blutowski thrust a victorious fist into the air. "We've got an angle!"
"What angle? What angle?!" Gugenheim said.
"She doesn't know wrestling is fake. Nor will she ever know, until it is too late." Blutowski burst into hysterical, wicked laughter.
"Yep, that's about 2/3rds as depraved!" Gugenheim said. "And now we can quietly sweep Showy Quim under the rug. Make room for... what's her name, again?"
"Clio Katzenjammer." Blutowski was about to comment on their need to get some ethnic costumes, but noticed a final line of text on the letter.
* * *
Jan rushed to Clio's apartment, huffing and puffing. "Oh God, Clio, what happened? There was an explosion and--"
Clio grabbed Jan 'round her waist and hefted her up. "I'm in!" she said. "I'm in I'm in I'm in! I'm finally in Lesbian Action Wrestling!"
Jan braced herself on Clio's shoulder. "That's--that's cool! But what was that explosion?"
"Oh, I just played a Call of Duty LP real loud and pretended I was in trouble. I didn't know if you'd get here super fast if I just said I basically just got a girlfriend."
Jan tilted her head. "...I think you skipped a few steps, Clio."
Clio set her back down. "Oh. Well, you know how if two people hate each other, they're basically just some mood lights and jazz music away from making out?"
"Not really, no..."
"Basic logic, Jan. It's, like, hate and love run off of the same circuits, and going from one to the other just means sort of shaking things up! So what I'm going to do is I'm going to join Lesbian Action Wrestling and I'm going to get a battle-rival and when we fight over the championship all I need is to basically have the right entrance music and perfume and after a little rolling around in the ring we'll be making out so hard they'll have to cut to commercial just to keep the kids at home from seeing two badass ladies making the hell out on live TV."
January took a seat on Clio's big comfy bed. "I'm--okay. Just so you know, Clio, before you get your hopes up, I just want to remind you that real life isn't necessarily a fanfic where Draco and Harry just need some gay sex to settle things between them."
"Counterpoint: the haunting of Lamp Hall. That totally ended in making out!" Clio was already putting in some push-ups.
"Yes, incestuous making-out between two crazy people. You're not going to make out with a crazy half-sister, are you?"
"Well--stranger things have happened!"
"...Clio, promise me you will never make out with a relative of yours."
"I will try not to."
"Will you try hard?"
Clio halted mid-push-up. "What if it's a Luke and Leia thing where--"
"If it comes down to it you can get a blood test before kissing any girl who looks like she's at least half quarter-Roma-quarter-black-quarter-Chinese-Jew-quarter-Korean." Jan flopped onto Clio's bed for emphasis.
"I think that'd be eighths. Would that be eighths?"
"It's been thirteen years since grade school math, I don't even know."
"Oh, right--" Clio said.
* * *
"PS my best friend January Jones is my manager. NON-NEGOTIABLE."
"Gugenheim?" Blutowski said. "This calls for a second cha-ching."