Chapter 16 – The Super Sleepover
The Big CK was simply large and in charge – a legendary page of grade school lore about whom many of my peers will one day tell their grandkids as corncob pipes dangle out the sides of their wrinkly old mouths. I can already visualize their geriatric exaggerations being spit at absurd volumes as they compete against the noise of their creaky rocking chairs.
“Old Chuck had been the single biggest kid in our sixth grade class. Mmmhmm. He had the height of Yao Ming and bulk of Mike Tyson.”
And no matter how good of a story it might be to our generation, the legend will always be met by a general disinterest of the young’uns who’ll inevitably roll their eyes and sigh.
“Grampa! You already told us this one,” one of the snot-nosed brats will whine before I whack ‘em across the back with my cane ‘n’ learn ‘em to never, ever interrupt me again when I’m talkin’ about The Big CK. “Now where was I?” I’ll ask myself following the outburst of violence. “Oh, right. So The Big CK was as monstrous as a T-Rex with hands as powerful as…”
Sure, he might not have been as ferocious as some lonely old man will one day make him out to be, but there was something to this dude. He was like a man walking among children or, to get back in that sixth grade frame of mind, a fire-spitting Charizard among a group of smoke-coughing Charmanders.
A bully he was, but not your typical, everyday, steal-your-lunch-money kind of bully. Ya see, going to grade school with Charlie had been like growing up with a professional wrestler, a pro wrestler who was always in the mood to open up a can of whoop-ass on anybody in the vicinity – and I mean anybody. Don’t think that because you’re seventy-five years old and are attached to an intravenous that you’re exempt from Char’s intense Suplexes or Chokeslams to Hell because you’re not.
As word of his brutality spread across the Northwest Side of Chicago, many began to fear the wrath of The Big CK, but none did as much as his closest group of “friends” to whom he’d dealt the most savage of beatings. If he was loathed for his Powerbombs and kicks to the groin, he was despised for the Stone Cold Stunners that surely followed.
This Catholic school colossus would rarely miss a day of school solely for the purpose of exercising his power. He’d show up to class and just sit there with arms folded in a desk way too small for his ass-beater physique, casting foreboding glares at instructors whom he dared to call on him. From him, no faculty members had the balls – well, to be fair, none of our teachers had balls in grade school, they were all old ladies – to try and elicit a response. Even though he never participated and wasn’t forced to turn in homework or take any tests and quizzes, to the nightmare-inducing monster of the sixth grade, Straight A’s were given out of trepidation and respect.
There was a light at the end of the dark, dreary tunnel, however. An expiration date had been declared on the oppressive reign which had kept the children of St. Juliana School in the Dark Ages for so long. In less than a month, the Big CK and his birth-givers were to move far, far away to a distant land called Crystal Lake where no one would ever have to see, hear or receive a beating from his big hulkin’ ass ever again. Everyone I knew had been marking off dates on the calendar in anticipation of their liberation. Spirits were high but it wasn’t time to celebrate just yet. There were still battles to be fought and a dragon to be slain.
“Tonight’s the night of my suuuuuuuper sleepover and it’s going to reign supreme!” Charlie bragged to his classmates. “Cahill, O’Shea and McMahon are coming over and none of you roody-poo candy-asses are invited!”
He’d always been a man who spoke with conviction. Anyone who opposed….
“Buzz off,” said Tim the class nerd who, over the years, had been the target of many beatdowns and footballs to the groin – not just from Char but from many others as well. If only he would’ve taken off that stupid Mickey Mouse jean jacket and matching wristwatch, perhaps this kid would’ve had a shot at normality. Regardless of his pre-school fashion sense, however, it had been his loose tongue that’d gotten him into trouble this time around. “I seriously don’t even care about your stupid sleepover – like, at all.”
“Oh, you don’t care?” Char asked as he stood on an imaginary turnbuckle and looked up at the roaring crowd.
“No,” he reiterated in his obnoxious voice, “I don’t care.”
“Oh, really?” Char laughed to himself at the joke no one else got.
Tim stared back through his gay-ass glasses with an “I don’t give a shit” look on his face. Seconds later, Charlie’s demeanor switched and he moved in for the kill. That little slip-up had been enough to merit the president of the Mickey Mouse Fan Club a swift kick in crotch of his ridiculous, sock-exposing flood pants and was immediately followed by a Tombstone Power Bomb.
“I dooooooooon’t care! I beat you, I own you, you are my slave!” The Big CK shouted in his trademark Macho-Man-esque wrestling voice while pointing in the kid’s face as he laid in ruin on the pavement of the school parking lot.
These types of things happened far too often.
Now, the three lucky guests of the acclaimed “Super Sleepover” that he called his friends could not stand The Big CK. They hated The Big CK. The last thing they wanted to do was go to a farewell pajama party in the heart of Charlie’s personal wrestling arena but they had no choice. They’d said yes and once you say yes to the Big CK there’s no going back. Withdrawal from a commitment to the man-beast was punishable by a steel chair to the back of the skull and they knew he was good for it.
“I’ll go if you go,” said Cahill as the group congregated at recess to discuss their fate.
“Ya, alright. I’ll go,” O’Shea agreed.
“Fine,” Mickey added. “I guess I’ll go if you guys both go.”
Doomsday had arrived and the three amigos arranged a carpool to avoid being alone with the blood-thirsty monster in his dreadful lair of a basement. The brave boys had a look around and took one last whiff of fresh air, for they knew very well it may have been their last. They pushed the doorbell and a tune rang out from the inside – a jingle that seemed far too jolly to be representing the house of pain. Seconds later, the portal creaked open.
“Hello boys,” The Big CK’s mom greeted them before slamming the door and sealing their doom with a thud. “Charlie’s in the basement.”
They proceeded downstairs and were greeted with a “suck it.” For those of you who’ve managed to remain unaware of what a ‘suck it’ is for all these years, it’s a gesture in which a wrestler raises his arms and then uses them to chop at his pelvic region with one arm ending up at each side of the genitals. There are several other variations of the sign which, as you might’ve imagined, commands the receiver to do just what the title suggests.
“Grab the remotes,” Charlie said. “You guys are playing.”
The Big CK’s game of choice had always been WCW vs. NWO Revenge. Nobody had ever beaten Charlie at that game not only because they plain old weren’t good enough, but also because they didn’t dare make a fool out of their master and bring out the mean in him – at least until that fateful night.
“O’Shea, you insane fag,” Char said as the redness in his power bar throbbed off the meter towards the very end of a sixty-something person Battle Royal, “let me do my special, right now!”
“No Charlie, screw you! I’m fuckin’ winning.”
The Big CK toggled his joystick, evoked the special and began chasing O’Shea’s character around the ring as he purposefully retreated just to piss Charlie off.
“O’Shea, you ridiculous jabroni!” the Macho Man voice came out again. “Let me do my fucking special!”
The chase continued and, as Charlie began to lose his special, his temper went with it.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me, O’Shea!” His glasses fogged up as the perpetual sweat mustache began to drip off his upper lip. “You made me lose my special and I will make you pay for it.”
“Woo-hoo!” O’Shea laughed then bounced off the ropes and clotheslined The Big CK’s character to the floorboards. At that very moment, Cahill used his character who’d already been thrown out of the ring to grab the foot of Charlie’s guy and yank him off the edge. Once a player had left the ring, they were out for good. O’Shea had become champion of the final Battle Royal they’d ever play together.
In a vengeful and murderous rage, The Big CK grabbed his controller by the wire, ripped it from the console and began swinging it like a lasso.
“You have disobeyed my orders and now you must feel my wrath!” the psycho panted before firing the N64 remote and bashing O’Shea in the side of the head.
One down and two to go.
He then lifted McMahon by the shirt and, as if the kid had weighed nothing, tossed his ninety-pound body against the basement drywall. Backing up into the same wall which McMahon had just been thrown, Cahill took a swing in self-defense but it was of no use against The Almighty CK. In fact, anyone who showed resistance got beat twice as hard and Cahill was dealt the chokeslam of a lifetime. With all three of his friends out of commission, Charlie danced around the room raising a fake wrestling belt over his head in triumph.
“We’ll get ’em,” Cahill said, weezing for breath. “We’ll get him.”
In this particular situation, the three guests were certainly the victims, however, these kids were by no means saints. Aside from The Big CK, they’d probably been the most rotten sons of bitches at school with the worst reputations in the neighborhood. They too took pleasure in ridiculing dweebs, kicking asses and fucking all types of shit up for absolutely no reason. That’s exactly why they had no trouble at all settling the score in the final battle versus their number one adversary.
It was our understanding that the Big CK’s father had been a mean guy. He always had a sour look on his face and if there was only one thing that he cared about in this world, it was his beloved ostrich egg. No one understood why, no one questioned it. It was just a generally accepted fact among our group of friends. Charlie feared his father more than anything else, but that was who he looked up to and who he’d never wanted to disappoint or piss off – thus, his weakness.
“Uh, say Charlie,” Cahill began sometime later in the evening when things had cooled off, “what’s that weird thing over there on the mantle?”
“What, that?” he nodded towards the fireplace. “That’s my dad’s ostrich egg. It’s stronger than steel. You could stand on it and it wouldn’t break.”
“What, you don’t believe me? Even my dad says it’s true.”
“Yeah, well, lemme see it then.”
“Fine,” Charlie got up, grabbed the egg and, confident of its invincibility, passed the thing over to Cahill. “See for yourself.”
Now, Cahill just happened to have the strongest throwing arm in the grade and possibly even the school. He’d end up being clocked at ninety some years later so it was almost a guarantee that this ostrich egg didn’t stand a chance in hell of surviving the impact.
As the story goes, the kid with the rocket arm wound up, cocked back and fired the Jurassic-lookin’ egg as hard as he could at the drywall which, a few milliseconds later, had a brand new hole in it. The shell of the egg shattered into a million pieces as the disgusting ostrich yolk oozed down the wall where it began pooling up and staining the carpet. Charlie stood open-mouthed as his eyes nearly bulged out of his head.
“Pffff,” Cahill laughed, “unbreakable my ass!”
The Big CK dove to his knees, crawled across the floor and frantically began picking up the jagged little pieces as if he could glue them back together.
“CHAR!” his dad shouted down the basement stairs. “What the fuck’s goin’ on down there, Char!?”
“Uhh. Uhh,” his lip quivered with the sweat-stash now on overflow. “Nothing dad. It was the TV.”
“Turn that shit down, Char! Don’t make me have to come down there!”
“Uh, yeah,” CK appeased his overlord on the brink of tears, “no problem dad.”
While Charlie meticulously tended to the ostrich egg, McMahon got to work on his part. In the corner of the basement had been a very large tank containing a dozen or so fish of all different colors and sizes. The bottom of the tank had been lined with gravel that, more likely than not, had been covered in layers of algae and fish shit. Having once been a fish owner myself, I can tell you that it needs to be changed quite often and it never hurts to have a couple extra bags of gravel on hand. Char’s parents must have thought the same way. Conveniently under the tank had been a replacement bag of pebbles and since it had been a very large aquarium, the bag also happened to be quite sizable.
An overly-excited Mickey began fumbling around with this bag and apparently couldn’t get it open. After a short search, he found and grabbed a pair of scissors and used it to remove the top of the package. Using all the strength in his skinny grade school arms, Mick lifted up and dumped the entirety of the contents into the top of the fish tank creating a mini meteor shower. Meanwhile, all the loose sediment clouded the fuck outta the water.
Mickey laughed and laughed like the weasel that he was as the bludgeoned fish with clogged gills – which might as well have had “X’s” drawn over their eyes – instantly floated to the top of the mucky mess. That smooth move, however, hadn’t been quite enough to quench Mickey’s insatiable appetite for destruction. For his next act, the dude picked up the deceased fish by the tail with one hand and, once again putting those scissors to good use in the other, began snipping their heads off one-by-one. Only after the aquarium had looked like a scene from an under-the-sea horror flick did Mickey feel that the job was done.
The three boys stood back and looked at the masterpiece they’d created. In the aftermath of the shit storm that had just struck his basement head-on, The Big CK broke down and was reduced to tears. For once in his life, he’d been on the receiving end and couldn’t take it. Getting his ass kicked at his favorite video game, the exploded egg, the fish massacre, the impending disapproval from his father – these things were all too much for him to handle.
“Howda ya like that Charlie, you fucking faggot!?” O’Shea asked while gesturing a series of ‘suck its’ in the beaten man’s direction.
The Big CK knelt facing away from the others in silence as if he were imitating The Thinker. He slowly turned his head towards them, gently raised one arm in the air and proclaimed in the angriest wrestling voice he could muster, “That’s it! None of you are invited to the suuuuuper sleepover at my new house!”
And on that note, the new tag team champions of the world bailed on Charlie’s super gay-ass sleepover and the outrageous mess they left behind. As legend has it, no one has ever seen or even heard from The Big CK following the heroic events of that triumphant night on which they laid the biggest bully in St. Juliana history to eternal rest.