Obviously, the wrestler's job is no piece of cake, but from what I've witnessed tonight, the refs take no small amount of abuse. Is it a hard job, I wonder?

"My first couple times in there, I got clotheslined [the slamming of neck into extended arm], and I had a concussion for a little while. But it's not hard, not really," reveals the Road Boss. "It's pretty easy, actually. Basically, I just lock up the cage."

Do you need any special qualifications to do the job?
"No."
But it's fun?
"Very fun."

So it's all over, and it's time to talk to the Drifter. I grab him, over by the Mental Ward, as emotionally drained fans begin filing out. He's triumphed, been beaten, been thrown around, thrown some other guys around; it's been a full night. What is going through this special athlete's head?

"Pain."
Pain?
"Pain. Pain."
I tell the Drifter that I've talked to some fans. Not everybody loves him.

"That's fine with me," he replies with a shrug. "Don't bother me at all. They like me, they like me. They don't, they don't. That's the way it goes."

What did you think about the referee?
"The referee always sucks. The referee doesn't know what he's doing, or nothing."

But what if the Bladerunner had been here tonight? Could things have turned out differently?

"The Bladerunner's out right now. Shoulder injury. If he'd been here tonight, he'd kill everybody. Kill everybody. The Bladerunner's awesome, man."

Who is he, this Drifter? Facile warrior or awkward dipshit? Hero of the square ring or craven nobody? Champ or chump?

This evening, he was everything to everyone. He did his job, and then, clutching an ice pack to his cranium, the Drifter, this sweating badass with a dream of glory and a bump on the head, drifted off to the parking lot and into the night.

--Gilstrap

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