His fleshy fingers have gouged the eyes of lesser men. Now, they scramble in his wallet for the check.
“I got this. Um. . .let’s see. I don’t remember it all. It was my manager’s idea. I think I was, like, the son of Satan, wrongfully accused and sentenced to jail. An older wrestler was supposed to have taught me his secret moves, and showed me where he buried some treasure, or something. I remember I used to throw gold coins with ‘666’ on them into the crowd.”
He looks up from the table, sheepish. “Can you get this? I don’t have as much as I thought.”
As I sigh and pay, he leans forward and whispers, “A lot of people didn’t get the…ah…dualism of the character, and thought I was a vampire or something.”
He stares at his hands, perhaps picturing them slamming my head into the turnbuckle.
“It was probably the ‘Count’ thing that did it.”