The fight is on. A man in a black flame-wrapped bodysuit steps into the ring to lay the smackdown on Slammer, an orange-suited convict from Arkham Asylum.
"I'll break you in half!" snarls Slammer. "And then I'll break those halves in half!"
Slammer puts the boots to his opponent, the man known only as Nightmare No. 2. "He has nothing!" he cries. "He's nothing!"
Nightmare chucks him into the ropes and slams him to the mat with a headlock takedown. Slammer bounces to his feet. "He had something!" he admits.
Slammer gets Nightmare in a headlock and gives him a brutal drubbing, soon joined, in a flagrant violation of the rules, by his tag-team partner, Ugg. Nightmare's partner, the long-haired tattooed man known as Kato, charges into the ring to assist. The ring devolves into a confusion of strikes, blows and throws. A crowd of their fellow wrestlers cheers them on. Kato and Nightmare slam Ugg with a double clothesline and —
Ding ding ding! Ivan Thomsen clangs a bar against the turnbuckle. "Time limit!" he says.
And then everyone piles into the ring for a battle royale.
Thomsen is the owner of Force Pro Wrestling, and he's bringing this brand of mayhem to Morinville's Community Cultural Centre this Aug. 20. It's silly. It's crazy. It's way, way over the top. It's professional wrestling.
And it's not fake.
Living the dream
Thomsen settles down for an interview at the Edmonton Sportsdome. He recently retired after 16 years with Edmonton's Prairie Wrestling Alliance (PWA) to start Force Pro Wrestling. Behind him, next to the mini-golf course, his wrestlers smack each other about the ring in a particularly loose training session.
Professional wrestling has deep roots in Alberta, Thomsen says, most of which involve Stu Hart's Stampede Wrestling.
"Stu Hart is what we classify as the king of wrestling in North America," he says, having trained a long list of famous fighters that includes Abdullah the Butcher, the Dynamite Kid and Bret "The Hitman" Hart. Hart's Stampede Wrestling group was one of the top promotions in Canada for half a century until it broke up in the early 2000s. When it did, Thomsen and some other former members founded the PWA.
Although it's not as big as it was in the 1990s, pro wrestling still has a huge fan-base in Canada, according to Thomsen. "You ask a regular person to name a pro wrestler, and they usually can."
Like many wrestlers, St. Albert's Craig Martin says he grew up watching the sport on TV. "Pretty much since I was seven, my two goals were to either be a hockey player or a wrestler," he says. "I wanted to be the intercontinental champion."
Coming up with his wrestling name at age 12, Martin says he got his first round in the ring at a wrestling camp when he was 17. Now 25, he's spent most of the last seven years as a wrestler with Edmonton's Monster Pro Wrestling, one of several promotions operating in Alberta.
Wrestling is a form of wish-fulfilment, says Martin, when asked to explain the sport's appeal. "A lot of people daydream," he says, wondering what it would be like to be a superhero. Wrestling gives people a chance to see larger-than-life characters fight epic battles. "You're almost living out a dream."
It's like a real-life comic book, says Ryan Lebel, a stocky five-foot-nine, 200-pound veteran with Force Pro Wrestling. "A lot of the boys actually read a lot of comics, as they're [about] larger-than-life characters, and that's what we're trying to be."
Lebel wrestles as Strife, for example, a supposedly Asian man who speaks Japanese to his fans. Strife used to be a villainous cheater, wearing Kabuki-style makeup and spitting coloured mist to blind his opponents. Lately, though, he's turned to the heroic side and started kissing babies.
Martin, in contrast, wrestles as the arrogant Chris Perish. "Chris Perish, right now, is probably the most competent, arrogant and athletic person he knows," he says, smiling. "He wants everyone in [the arena] to be talking about him." Perish badmouths women, mocks his fans and dumps drinks on people's wives. He even wears an intentionally bad T-shirt customized with duct tape to advertise his own wrestling league: Monster "Perish" Wrestling. Perish, of course, considers the shirt to be "the best ever in pro wrestling."
In the ring
Modern wrestling is less about athleticism and more about entertainment, Thomsen says, with video, lights, sound, and pyrotechnics. "It's kind of like a rock concert."
Most wrestling shows come with plots and rivalries, Thomsen says, but how they play out in the ring is up to the wrestlers. "You may be told you have an hour maximum and this person is going to win; have fun, see you later," he says. "The rest is improv."
The outcome of every match is predetermined, Thomsen says, which leads many to dismiss the sport as fake. It's not, he insists. "Realistically, a chop, a punch, a slap, a kick — they all connect." Wrestlers may exaggerate the scale of the hits, but they still hurt. "You let a guy clothesline you, how'd you feel about it?"
Wrestlers need to use their characters to tell a story and get the right reaction from the audience, Lebel says — cheers for heroes, jeers for villains. "It's the crowd that decides what you do." That may mean getting beat up until the audience thinks you're doomed, and then staging a tremendous comeback.
And you have to work with, not against, your opponent, he says. "You can't have a good match without another person." Wrestlers will signal moves to each other in the ring (during a headlock, for example) for better hits and choreography. Simply beating on each other results in a clunky, awkward brawl. "You end up with a boring-looking [Ultimate Fighting Championship] fight."
All this takes a lot of training. Skilled wrestlers will train for hundreds of hours to learn how to do their moves safely and stylishly, says Justin Sczembora, a 22-year-old Edmontonian who wrestles as Heavy Metal, a rude 1980s rocker. He trained six days a week for almost five years before he even fought his first match.
Unlike other combat sports, Lebel says, wrestling isn't about pummelling your opponent. "I'm not aiming to go in there and physically hurt anybody." Instead, your goal is to put on a great performance.
Still, injuries happen. Sczembora has had a cracked tailbone and a major concussion. "My back constantly hurts, and I have issues with some of my neck."
Lebel has broken his nose twice. "The first time, it just bled everywhere and it was disgusting," he says. "Half my face was just covered in red." Fortunately, it was during a match and it looked really cool. The match was also taped, so he got to use a shot of his bloody mug for his Facebook page. "My mom wasn't too happy."
A hard, fun life
Wrestling's not all glitz and glamour, Martin says. Sometimes you wrestle in front of five people. Sometimes you don't make a dime. And if you're injured, you still have to haul your broken body to work the next day. (He's a supervisor for Leon's Furniture.)
The pain and constant travel can wear you down, says Martin. There are days when it's been hard for him to get out of bed, and days when he's seriously considered giving it up. "You can't have a family if you're not ever home."
But you also get to travel across the nation, Sczembora says, and work with many of the heroes you grew up watching on TV. He's been wrestling since he was 13, and plans to keep doing it as long as he can walk.
Why? The fans. "There's [nothing better] than being able to step out into the ring and look into a sea of people who either love or hate you."
