On the Ropes
Content Warning
abandonment, death of a child, violent sports
by Nicholas De Marino
Maybe the naked laser demons and melting skulls are too much for Jimmy. I’ll never forgive myself if he screams through Colonizer #7000’s whole entrance. Silly me, I try and turn down his 4D visor and my hand passes right through his see-through head.
“Sorry, honey,” I tell my special little guy — we don’t say “ghost” in our household, no sirree.
BOM BA-BOM BUH, BOM BA-BOM BUH.
“Jimmy, honey, look,” I say as her theme music booms. “There’s Colonizer #7000! Over there!”
“¡Wepa!” roars the crowd, which is Spanish for “weapon,” I think. Our hero swaggers onto the stage in her classic outfit: a white and gold luchadora mask and a robe over matching shorts and pleather vest, feathers and sequins everywhere. A total hottie with a body. But don’t let that fool you, she’s a no-nonsense tough girl. Colonizer #7000 always wins.
The giant screen behind her strobes scenes of her kicking booty and taking names in the cubed sphere. There’s her making Dwight “The Black Hole” Peterson tap out. And there’s her beating up Turbo Sasquatch in a trans-dimensional portal match. Jimmy watches her intro vid four times a day. Maybe more since his dad left. Some lowlifes can’t live up to their responsibility as the parent of a deceased child.
“Over here!” I yell as Colonizer #7000 saunters toward the ring. I wave for Jimmy to reach past the barricade with all the other hands, cyborg limbs, and claws and antennae, but he’s too shy. Did you — did you see that? She made eye contact! Colonizer #7000 can see I’m a strong woman just like her and that I’m a good mom showing my son strong female role models, even though he’s no longer corporeal. That can’t just be the visor’s enhancement.
Our hero strikes a power stance. I swipe away the HoloFans popups. Hey, a girl’s got to put food on the table, right? Colonizer #7000 leaps into the ring — a rotating flashy, cubey thing, each side with its own gravity — and tumbles across the floor, walls, and ceiling. A total boss.
“See, Jimmy, see?” I say.
“Ladies and gentlemen, clones, symbiotic lifeforms, and polypods, this is it!” shouts Announcer Bot 23 over everyone’s telepathy chips. “Defending the Wormhole Wide Entertainment Intergalactic Championship! The Masked Wo-Menace! Col-luh-nize-er Num-bur Seh-ven Thou-sand!”
Our hero pops out of each of the eight corners and holds up her title belt. It trumpets neon sparks and the crowd goes nutso.
“C’mon, already! Get on with it!” shouts Announcer Bot 37, who’s a total jerk and doesn’t respect women in positions of power. “Who does she think she is?”
Everything goes black. It’s quiet for a femtosecond before terrified screams fill the air. Then I remember to be strong for my special little guy and shut my mouth.
“ALL SHALL CURTSY BEFORE XANDRIFF THE UNSOPHISTICATED,” blares a voice that’s in front of us and beside us and everywhere. “RESISTALENCE IS FUTILITY.”
“It’s okay, honey. Cuddle up to Mama,” I tell my special little guy. “Not that close. Remember what Mama said about personal hoops?”
The lights pop back on and Xandriff is floating in the center of the ring.
“Where did he come from?” shouts Announcer Bot 37.
“Xandriff the Unsophisticated comes from the far side of 55 Cancri e!” shouts Announcer Bot 23, who’s glitchier than usual tonight.
The heel’s diamond-shaped head spins the opposite direction of his diamond-shaped body as seven noodly tentacles flail from places that spit in the face of bilateral symmetry. Snake birds and busty rock people zip around the arena as warm bass farts his theme music and even I have to turn down my visor because too much is too much.
A droid with knobby joints and a zebra-striped shirt shuffles into the ring while Colonizer #7000 flexes and Xandriff flips off the crowd.
“¡Lárgate d’aquí, cabrón!” yells a guy behind us. That means, “Go away, bird!” I think.
“Boo! You suck!” yells my special little guy, who must’ve learned that naughty word from Xandriff the Unsophisticated. He’s the worst rudo — “rude” — who’s ever wrestled. Way worse that FlairFlairFlair or Matilda the Hun.
DING!
“Look, Jimmy, there’s Colonizer #7000 up there!” I say. “See?”
Our hero leaps and bounces around the ring. Xandriff just sits there and flails.
“Colonizer #7000 with a clothesline! She misses!” shouts Announcer Bot 23. “Here she comes again! Another miss! Xandriff capitalizes with a tentacle grab!”
“He’s gonna fustigate her into mincemeat!” shouts Announcer Bot 37.
Xandriff holds Colonizer #7000 in place with five tentacles and slaps her with the other two.
“SUMBIT OR PERISH, EARTH EXCREMENT,”blares his awful voice. “THE END IS TEMPORALLY ADJACENT.”
“Never!” yells our hero. She tries to counter, but she can’t get any leverage. The microgravity around Xandriff is a real witch with a B.
“I can’t watch!” shouts Announcer Bot 37. “This is a massacre!”
“A massacre implies a large number of people!” shouts Announcer Bot 23.
“Oh, shut up!” shouts Announcer Bot 37.
“Mama?” Jimmy asks. He looks up with puppy dog eyes — the same ones his deadbeat dad and I had installed two weeks before the accident. “She’s gonna lose?”
“No way, honey, I promise,” I say. “Colonizer #7000 always wins.”
BAM! SMACK! FLIBBIT!
“Woo! You go, girl!” I yell as our hero kicks off Xandriff’s body and escapes. She bounces off the ropes and whizzes past tentacles. She punches and kicks. She tumbles and turns and leaves a pop-up ad for Cyber Skittles.
“See, Jimmy, see?” I tell my special little guy. “See how she’s fighting the patriarchy?”
Colonizer #7000 hits a leg drop that launches Xandriff downward. The angle is off, though. He slingshots off the ropes back at our hero, bouncing her into a corner. The villain grips the ropes with his tentacles and slams his glittery bulk into her.
“She’s gotta be bleeding internally!” shouts Announcer Bot 23. “This is inhuman!”
“You can say that again!” shouts Announcer Bot 37.
“She’s gotta be bleeding internally!” shouts Announcer Bot 23. “This is inhuman!”
Handmade signs and padlocks sail into the ring. A cup clips the ref droid, who sputters and sparks. Meanwhile, Xandriff the Unsophisticated whales away on Colonizer #7000.
Look, I know all of this is fake. Kayfabe, whatever. Xandriff’s real name is Tony Peña and most of those tentacles were grafted on. Colonizer #7000 is actually Emma González. She’s just another roided-out actress chasing a Cinderella story. But, gosh darnit, this is important to my special little guy. He needs good to triumph over evil.
“¡Dale! ¡Dale!” yells the crowd, which is some ancient meme, I guess. Our hero ducks out of the way and Xandriff crashes into the turnbuckle. Then Colonizer #7000 pool sharks a three-plane bounce for an attack.
“Watch, honey,” I say. “Here it comes.”
“It’s the Somersault Assault!” shouts Announcer Bot 23, and he’s right. She lands her signature double leg drop onto Xandriff’s big, stupid face.
“I don’t care what your anatomy is, that’s gotta hurt!” shouts Announcer Bot 37.
The visor replays it twice, plus an ad for gum.
“Woo! You go, girl!” yells Jimmy and, for one perfect moment, I couldn’t be more proud.
But then I remember what’s supposed to happen next.
Xandriff gets back up.
“He’s still standing!” shouts Announcer Bot 37. “I don’t believe what I’m seeing!”
“Perhaps you should run a check on your ocular subroutines!” shouts Announcer Bot 23.
“Oh, shut up!” shouts Announcer Bot 37.
I read about this on an online message board for single moms with special little guys. Someone who works at Wormhole Wide Entertainment leaked it. Colonizer #7000 loses the title belt tonight.
“¡No!” wails the crowd as Xandriff spins in place. His tentacles blur as our hero sways, mesmerized.
“¡Vamos, mija!” yells someone.
“Git outta thur, missy!” yells someone else.
Xandriff blurs into a blinding ball with little cartoon lightning bolts whizzing everywhere.
“Is it—? Could it be—? Oh no!” shouts Announcer Bot 23.
“A Cosmic Mutilator!” shouts Announcer Bot 37. “No one’s ever come back from a Cosmic Mutilator!”
Jimmy screams and screams.
“It’s going to be okay,” I tell him, and I’m no liar.
Xandriff slams into Colonizer #7000. He smacks her every which way and she spins like a gyroscope. Then a Super Slap sends her crashing into the floor.
Colonizer #7000 always wins. But she’s not getting up. Not after that.
“¡Arriba! ¡Arriba!” yells the crowd.
My special little guy deserves better.
The ref droid gets into position to start the count.
I tear off my visor.
“This is the end, folks!” shouts Announcer Bot 23.
I pull on my pink and gold luchadora mask. “Wait here, Jimmy,” I say. “Mama will be right back.”
About the author and the piece
Nicholas De Marino tells us that one of the 26 markets that rejected this story commented, “I couldn’t figure out what kind of market, if any, would take such a story.” The answer is Hell Itself. A former journalist, neurodivergent poet, and published crackpot, De Marino enjoys petting spiders and watching cats. SFPA and Codex, too. More at nicholasdemarino.blogspot.com.
©2025 by Nicholas De Marino. All rights reserved. May not be used for A.I. training.