The REAL Karl Kitsch Story: Exile Reboot

[Karl_Kitsch]

On my 15th birthday, I punched my old man square in the face. I looked him square in the eye and threw my hand into his flattened, crooked nose as hard as I could and I watched him stand there, unmoved by the trickle of blood running down his lip. My old man, the alcoholic, waste of a lump of man, he didn't swing back, he didn't yell. That doorknob of a man, he laughed in my face. He laughed longer and harder than I had ever heard him before. He laughed for what seemed like forever before he stopped. Still smirking, he looked at me and said something that would change the course of my life. "You have to do more than that to drop the Masked Strangler." "The Masked Who?", I asked. "The Masked Strangler, former two time All-Midwest Champion from 1968-1975. Master of the Iron Grasp.", he said, standing as tall as possible, his chest forward. I stood before him, shocked and speechless for a few minutes. Then I asked the only thing in my brain. "Can you make ME a wrestler, Dad?" He thought for a moment, smiled wide, and said the two words that would define me for the rest of my life. "Why not?" I spent the next three years of my life training. Not training like you do in some rented building that used to be a TG&Y or the kind you get from some former SWF World Champion in a state of the art facility. No, I got the kind of training you get from a 56 year old former masked jobber. I woke up every day an hour before I needed to get ready for school. I carried sacks of potatoes up and down stadium steps. I did Hindu squats until I couldn't stand. I ran until I threw up. This was my 16th year on Earth: School and working out until it made me sick. On my 17th birthday, he told me to punch him in the face. Again. "Are you sure?", I asked, meekly. "Hah! I think I can take a punch from the likes of y--" I swung a wild haymaker at his cantelope head. Waiting for the squish of my fist slamming into his lump of a nose, I was on my knees and in agony. "That's rasslin', kid. That's how the Masked Strangler before me taught me and that's how the original Masked Strangler taught him." "Argh!" "Oh, yeah, sorry. I forgot to release that knuckle lock." And so it went until my 18th birthday... On my 18th birthday, I was awakened at 5:22 am. I remember the precise time because of the look on my mother's face. Her eyes were beyond red and she was shaking me violently. "Karl! Karl! Wake up!" "Wha--" "It's Hank... Your Dad, he's..." "No! He can't be..." My father was dead. Henry "Hank" Kitschko, the third Masked Strangler, the two time All-Midwest Champion, had died in his sleep. I spent my eighteenth birthday helping my Mom tidy up his affairs and box up his clothes. There wasn't any talking or even crying, just quiet work. I am sure we ate at some point, but there was no cake. After spending the whole day sorting out the hole in our house, I walked up stairs to bed. "Honey." "Yeah, Mom." "I almost forgot, here's your birthday present. From Dad." I swallowed hard and opened the box. It was a mask. His mask. The Masked Strangler mask. "What does the card say, Karl?" "From the Masked Strangler to the Masked Strangler..." "What does is say?" "It doesn't say anything, there's this." I showed her the card. All it had on it was a number, in black sharpie. "4" [B]Twelve Years Later...[/B] The phone rings... [COLOR="Blue"]"Karl speaking..."[/COLOR] [COLOR="Red"]"This is Bowen... we need to talk."[/COLOR]

[Karl_Kitsch]

I received a note in the mail from Bowen. All it said was... See me in Portland. -Bowen And it had a logo on it.

[Karl_Kitsch]

2005 It was a Wednesday night in Tupelo, Mississippi. July heat was making everything sticky and disgusting. My stomach was turned and full of fried food from a hotel diner. I was sitting backstage, listening to Slipknot on my headphones, pretending I wasn't so nervous I could throw up at any moment. I had worked a few tryout matches. HGC said I was too young. TCW said I was too old. USPW thought I was too modern. CZCW thought I was too old school. Stomper wanted more than I was willing to give, if you catch my meaning. Japan, not interested in the Masked Strangler. Mexico, not interested in Karl Kitsch. After all that time of being let down, I was in the SWF. Richard told me he was packaging me with a new gimmick. He didn't want to popularize a gimmick I own and he didn't think I was marketable as 'Karl the Old School Guy.' [COLOR="SeaGreen"]"So, tonight, in this very ring, you get to be Tiktik, the Mongolian Warrior."[/COLOR] Eisen threw me the outfit and some makeup. I was less than enthused, but I was in the SWF. My pop never got this far. Two hours later, and it was show time. I was sharing a locker room with the Warlords and Runaway Train. The Warlords were polite enough, but aloof. Until I mentioned my father. Pain actually worked against him a few times. That was cool. Train was cool, but a little intense, a little jittery. [COLOR="Indigo"]"Look, Karl, I want to make sure this is what you want. Do you really want to be Richard Eisen's boy? I mean, is it worth your soul?"[/COLOR] I stopped fiddling with my costume and I looked up at him for a long time. I didn't know how to respond. [COLOR="Indigo"]"I just want you to think this out Karl. He signed you to a one day contract and put you into a match with Christian Faith. Do you think he has your best interests in heart?"[/COLOR] I didn't understand. Runaway Train had a reputation for being kind of a prick, but not the type to play mind games. What was he getting at? It didn't matter, because the gorilla called me up. This was my moment. A match at a house show against Christian Faith. This was my shot at the big time. I didn't want to blow it. I didn't realize Richard Eisen had screwed me before I walked out the curtain. By Thursday morning, my wrestling career in the U.S. would be over and I would be exiled. That moment was almost worth it all, anyway. I step out of the curtain and into the light.

[Karl_Kitsch]

I step into the light and a thunderhead of boos envelops me. A blanket of negativity wrapped around me and made me feel at home. The red, angry faces stared with unblinking eyes and made my heart swell. It was hard not to swoon. I was sticky and wet with $5 pops and $8 beers, popcorn and peanut shells stuck in my hair and cape. I savored each slow step forward. Faith was in the ring, shaking his head. I thought he was expressing his fear of me, Tiktik the Mongolian Warrior. I thought it was all kayfabe. I spread my arms out, and with them my cape, and spun in a slow circle. The crowd was a several thousand think choir of hate. Faith was red and shaking with rage. I climbed the steps and wiped my feet on the apron. I took my time and mugged for the crowd. Faith's head was down and he was trembling with energy. I put one foot in the ring... and it all went black. It was the next day on the Internet that I saw the next five seconds. Faith had rushed me, spearing me off the apron. My foot was still in the ropes and twisted at a disgusting angle. My head hit the padded floor. It wasn't padded enough. Christian Faith, to the great joy of the crowd, top mounted me and began laying down a torrent of fists. I come to. Faith is swearing oaths of my soon demise, punching my face until it is a bloody mess. My nose cracks.All I see is his face, contorted and demonic. My arms are wrapped in my cape. I am going to die on the floor of some arena in Tupelo. Then I see the light. Christian is lifted off of me, still flailing and spitting vitriol. Runaway Train has saved my life. The gnarled claw of Warlord Agony reaches down to pull me up. He and Pain scoop me up and push me up the ramp, broken ankle and concussion not slowing them down. Ever the veterans, they play the crowd as they save me. Somehow, Train kept Faith at bay until the Lords had me halfway up the ramp. I looked to Anger and spit out a bloody "Why?" before having a coughing fit. He pointed to the SupremeTron and snickered. I collapsed in realization of what I had done. There I was, posing and making faces in my costume and makeup, intercut with footage of special needs people and my name flashing up on the screen. Only, it wasn't the name Richard Eisen told me. The screen said my name was Tiktik the Mongoloid Warrior in ten foot letters. I could still remember the old vignettes of Christian Faith training, from years back. He was swimming and sparring and lifting weights with Special Olympians. He was smiling and uplifting music played. Then, at the end, it showed him holding his son in his arms. His little boy. His special little boy. I was openly weeping now. Train put Faith back on his feet. Faith didn't try to charge up the ramp and kill me, much to my surprise. No, he exchanged words with Train and Train laughed. Faith tackled Train to the ground. The Lords of War took me to the locker room and kept the other boys from attacking me while I got dressed. Agony put on my cape and Pain put on the shirt I had worn in. All three of us left and went our separate ways. I got on a bus and took off for home, the adrenaline drowning out the agony. A week later, and the buzz died down. A few fan cams, with amazing video quality, popped up on the Internet. Faith gained a new reputation as a bad ass defender of all things good. Train, who took credit for the whole thing, gained a reputation for being kind of a jackass. I was just a stupid yokel indie worker who did it for the money. I framed the check Richard Eisen wrote me for ten thousand dollars. It reminds me that nothing is worth my soul.

[Karl_Kitsch]

December 2007 When my feet hit the pavement in Portland, I was jet lagged and unable to see straight. I walked into a nearby bar and ordered a gin and tonic. It was going to take some liquid courage to face the day ahead of me. How do I face Barry after everything that happened? What is this PWN business? I found Barry in the hotel lobby, his ability to blend in, despite his imposing frame never fails to surprise. He was sitting on a sofa, his legs crossed. He wore a pair of well-worn jeans, a pair of motorcycle boots, and a blazer over a Runaway Train shirt. For some reason, it didn't even seem lame to me that he wore his own merch. In fact, it was part of his charm. [COLOR="Blue"]Train: "Mr. Kitsch! Great to see you. I see that the mask is off."[/COLOR] [COLOR="Red"]Kitsch: "I'm not a luchadore, just a guy with a mask. So what could possibly make it worth a trip to Portland on the day after Christmas?"[/COLOR] [COLOR="Blue"]"Would you believe a chance at redemption?"[/COLOR] [COLOR="Red"]"Ha, redemption. What I need is a job. I am, for all intensive purposes, an untouchable these days."[/COLOR] [COLOR="Blue"]"Of course, of course. There's a job at the end of this tunnel. And a chance to get back at Eisen..."[/COLOR] [COLOR="Red"]"Eisen... How can you do anything about Eisen? You WORK for Richard Eisen."[/COLOR] [COLOR="Blue"]"For three more days. And I'm not the only one. He let a half dozen contracts run until the end of the year. He wants to clean house."[/COLOR] [COLOR="Red"]"Let me guess... the old, the injured, the difficult. He wants to reboot the company at the expense of those he built it on the backs of."[/COLOR] Barry touched the tip of his nose with his pointer finger. [COLOR="Blue"]"So, will you do it?"[/COLOR] [COLOR="Red"]"Do what?"[/COLOR] [COLOR="Blue"]"Fight the power!"[/COLOR] Barry laughed long and hard. I was feeling dizzy.