The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Gentleman Jim
by Naching T. Kassa

“Over here,” the Reaper said. She motioned toward a trail, lit by jack-o’-lanterns. Gentleman Jim Ford, freshly dead, followed the robed figure through the trees.

“Would you mind if I asked a question?” Gentleman Jim asked.

“I would not,” the Reaper replied, her voice soulless and hollow.

“How did I die? I can’t remember what happened after the match.”

“You fell off the top rope and didn’t get up.”

“And I’ve come here, to Purgatory?”

The Reaper shrugged. “I suppose you could call it that. I’m sorry I can’t say more. We’re late as it is.”

“Late for what?”

Before the Reaper could answer, they arrived at their destination, a large clearing in the middle of the wood. At its center, surrounded by spectators, stood a wrestling ring.

“I’ll be in your corner,” the Reaper explained.

“I have a match? Here? Now?”

Entrance music blared. His music. The Reaper pushed him toward the ramp.

Shadowy faces awaited him as he descended the ramp leading to the ring. They gnashed their teeth and booed. Jim tried not to stare at their lack of limbs, skin and eyes. Instead, he strutted toward the ring. When he reached it, he turned and flipped everyone off. The crowd booed louder.

Jim climbed into the ring. The announcer, a tentacled creature resembling the great god, Cthulhu, spoke to the audience in a strange language. The only words Jim recognized were his name. This garnered even louder boos. Jim grinned.

“Psst! Jim!” someone called from his corner. He turned to find the Reaper waiting. He crossed to her. She leaned in close, the scent of the grave radiating from her.

“This is a special circumstance,” she said. “If you win this match, you’ll live again.”

“And if I lose?”

“Well…you weren’t very good when you were alive, Jim. You’re slated for Hell.”

“I guess I’d better win then.”

Fresh music filled the air, and the crowd cheered. The babyface had arrived.

Jim turned toward the ramp. A young man, clad in white wrestling tights, trudged toward the ring. He climbed in and, once again, the incomprehensible announcer shouted his introduction. The only thing Jim understood was the name White Knight.

“Hey! I was fighting him when I died,” Jim said. “What’s he doing here?”

“He killed you,” the Reaper replied.

The bell rang.

Jim rushed forward. He punched White Knight in the face. The young man staggered back and fell against the ropes. Jim fell on him, fists raining down. The White Knight covered his face with his arms.

“Fight back!” Jim growled through gritted teeth. “Come on, you bastard. Fight.”

The young man continued to hide behind his arms. The crowd booed.

Jim rose to his feet. He grasped the White Knight’s arms, pulled him up, and flipped him over his head. The fellow landed hard on the mat, so hard blood sprayed.

“Boooo!” the crowd roared.

Jim lifted the White Knight. He had lowered his arms, revealing a crooked and bloodied nose.

“Look me in the eye, murderer,” Jim said.

The young man glanced up and then away. Jim kicked him hard in the nuts. He fell and squirmed on the mat.

Jim strutted around the ring, grinning at the angry crowd as the referee, a crimson-skinned demon, shook a finger at him. When Jim reached the corner where the Reaper waited, he said. “I’m going for the coup d’ gras next. Looks like I’ll be blowing this popsicle stand.”

The Reaper shrugged. “For now.”

“And the White Knight is headed for Hell. I can’t think of anything more fitting for the man who murdered me. How’d he die anyway? I hope it was painful.”

“It was. He hung himself.”

“Hung himself? Why?”

“There was a kendo stick in the ring. He tripped over it and fell into you. You hit your head on the steel steps.”

Jim lowered his arms. “But…that’s not murder. It was an accident.”
“He didn’t think so. He couldn’t live with what he did.”

White Knight had pulled himself into the corner. He sat there, eyes lowered to the mat.

“What happens to him if I win?” Jim asked.

“He goes to Hell.”

Jim glanced up into the darkness of the Reaper’s cowl. “But he had a wife…a family.”

“I don’t make the rules, Jim. Just put the poor guy out of his misery so we can go.”

“That’s just what I’m going to do,” Jim said. He crossed the ring, grasped White Night by the front of his blood-stained white shirt and said, “Time’s up.”

Haunted eyes looked up into his own. “I’m sorry,” the young man said.

“Damn you,” Jim replied. He grasped hold of White Knight and tried to flip him to the side. Unfortunately, he lost his balance and fell backward. Together they fell, the young man landing on top of him, pinning him to the mat.

The referee rushed over. 1…2…3!

The crowd erupted, cheering as White Knight rose to his feet. The ref lifted his arm into the air.

“Your winner,” the now comprehensible announcer shouted. “White Knight!”

The Reaper slid into the ring beside Jim.

“Must’ve tripped,” he said to her.

“Really?”

“Have you ever heard of a heel who cheats to lose? Of course, I tripped. I suppose the kid will have to go back to earth. Will he know it was an accident?”

“Yes.”

Jim nodded. He rose to his feet. The wrestling ring and everything around him had vanished. Flames licked the darkness to his right. Blue ambiance glowed on his left. He turned toward the fire, but the Reaper held him back.

“This way,” she said.

“But…that isn’t the right way. I lost.”

“And now…you’re found.” She removed her cowl, revealing a lovely face. One Jim hadn’t seen in many years. She took him by the hand and led him into the light.

Fiction © Copyright Naching T. Kassa
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

 

More from Naching T. Kassa:

Sherlock Holmes and The Arcana of Madness: A Horror Mystery

Discover the untold mysteries of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson in Sherlock Holmes and the Arcana of Madness, a trilogy that unveils three captivating cases intertwined with the mystical allure of tarot cards, designed by the renowned, yet infamous artist, Richard Dadd.

A collection of manuscripts, meticulously penned by John H. Watson M.D., is unearthed in 2019 amidst the restoration of Broadmoor Hospital, found inexplicably in the grave of Richard Dadd. The manuscripts’ concealed journey and their remaining unpublished raise a myriad of questions, enveloping them in a veil of mystery.

Available on Amazon!