Bradley Bufford
“Man, I’m sick of getting beat up all the time!”
Brad Billings sat in the locker room after another humiliating MMA defeat. His left eye was swollen shut, his nose plugged to stop the bleeding from an elbow to the face. He reached up and wiggled his nose, testing it to see if it was broken – again.
“Maybe MMA isn’t your thing, Brad,” said Curt, his longtime manager and best friend since kindergarten. He reached over and patted the defeated fighter’s muscular shoulder. “Sorry to say it, but I think you should try something else before you get your neck broken.”
“But what?” Brad asked, hanging his head in defeat. “Aside from fighting, the only thing I was ever good at was gymnastics, but I couldn’t make the national team last time they had tryouts.”
Curt leaned close, holding out a blue and gold luchador mask. “What about pro wrestling? I heard about this new circuit, the DWC, that’s looking for new talent. Take your fighting and acrobatics somewhere else, learn how to make the crowd cheer. What do ya think?”
Brad turned, taking the mask in his hand, turning it over slowly, the possibilities swirling. “Pro wrestling? Never thought of that. Think I’d be any good?”
Slapping Brad’s arm again, he stood up with a grin. “Only one way to find out, right? Can’t be any worse than this, and probably pays better too!”
Staring down at the mask, Brad didn’t answer right away. In his mind, he was already flying off the top rope with the lights shining down, the crowd roaring his name. “Bradley! Bradley!”
After a moment, he pulled the mask on and, with a big smile, nodded. “Find out how we sign up…”
