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The Hammer and Snake Show

Hammer and I had met in the winter of 93 when he answered an ad I’d put out in the classified section of TerminalCity looking for a roommate who was, “a mental mutant with a taste for social deviance, black humour and alcohol of any flavour.”

Shortly after he moved in we saw a poster for an upcoming c-circuit wrestling extravaganza at Vancouver’s Croatian Cultural Centre. One of the attractions on the undercard of this extravaganza was a match between the Bark and Bite Brothers, who billed themselves as the world midget tag-team wrestling champions.

Their schtick was that they were, “the meanest midgets in the world,” who, I assumed, were in the habit of barking and biting like mad, rabid dogs. The Bark and Bite Brothers were, so they claimed, so mean, that no other midgets would fight them, one on one, or tag-team, so they had to fight each other. Well, to a couple mental mutants with a taste for social deviance, black humour and alcohol of any flavour, them was fightin’ words.

Hammer and I got loaded one afternoon and I called the promoter telling him I wanted to do a story on the meanest midgets in the world for TerminalCity. He gave me the Bark and Bite Brothers phone number and the abuse began. We called the little fuckers up and challenged them to fight us, Hammer and Snake, for their championship belts. “Are you midgets,” Bite asked me as I snarled at him.

“No, but we’ll get shit-faced drunk before we climb in the ring.”

“No. We don’t fight big people, asshole.”

“That’s because you’re fags. You’re just a couple of dirty little midget closet cases who take turns sodomizing each other with your two inch dicks and yelling ‘Take that Bitch! Who’s your daddy?'”

Bite proved that he had a remarkable grasp of the obvious by yelling, “You’re a fuckin’ asshole,” before hanging up. When Hammer and I stopped laughing he picked up the phone and called again.

“Hey, is this Bite? Hey Bite, this is Hammer. Before you hang up I want to apologize for my partner, Snake. You’re right, he is an asshole. And he’s drunk. But hear me out – we’ve got a proposition for you. We do wanna fight you but we’ll fight you one at a time. You can both be in the ring with just one of us. And we’ll both be drunk. It’ll be great! I guarantee we’ll sell the place out.”

Bite, apparently, was listening and thinking about it.

“Yeah, the two of you against one of us. Oh yeah? Well if you really think you’re that bad and can kick our asses, get in the ring little man,” Hammer taunted. “But, because we’re gonna be drunk and because one of us has to fight the two of you, we get a little handicap-equalizer. I get to bring my Hammer. That’s right. You heard me. I’m gonna fly off the top rope and brain you little fuckers with my framing hammer and Snake is gonna climb into the ring and sodomize your little midget bungholes with his twenty foot plumbing snake.”

Hammer and I kept getting drunk and taunting Bark and Bite for the entire month leading up to the extravaganza. Any time we were drunk and bored – day or night, two in the afternoon, or four in the morning – we’d call Bark and Bite and mercilessly taunt them.

It got so bad that I seriously thought the midgets were going to call the cops and apply for a restraining order against us. And who would blame them? If I was a midget and thought two alcoholic, lunatic “big people” were out to do some serious damage to me, I’d call the cops, apply for a restraining order and demand a police presence on the night the wrestling circus rolled into the Croatian Cultural Centre.

There were no cops at the Croatian Cultural Centre on the night of the wrestling extravaganza. And only one of the midgets showed up, claiming that his brother had come down with the flu. Hammer and I were, of course, loaded. As Bark (or Bite) yukked it up, signing autographs and having his picture taken with drunken trailer trash (pot? kettle?) from Surrey, Hammer marched up to the midget’s table screaming, “Listen you fuckin’ midget, you don’t have the balls to fight Hammer and Snake, so we’re takin’ your belts because we are the rightful midget tag-team wrestling champions of the world!”

I was standing about five feet behind Hammer, laughing my ass off as the midget climbed up on his chair, then leapt onto the table yelling, “Fuck you, you asshole! I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”

“I’d like to se you try, you little cocksucker,” Hammer laughed, reaching for the belts on the table and adding, “Get it? Little- cock… sucker Little cock-sucker?” The commotion had attracted the attention of the lumberjacks, hillbillies and cavemen who were part of the traveling circus. One of the knuckle-dragging troglodytes grabbed Hammer and threw him to the floor.

Just as two BIG, burly thugs were about to jump in and stomp Hammer, I jumped in yelling, “Hey! It’s a joke. We’re just fuckin’ around. Let’s cut this shit right now before we all wind up in jail.” The threat of incarceration proved to be a sufficient deterrent, allowing us to escape before we got our asses kicked.

The Hammer and Snake Show rolled across Vancouver for the next couple years. The two of us were pure evil together, constantly feeding of the other’s insanity and upping the ante. When he got to Cowtown we quickly picked up our antics where we’d left off in Vancouver.

 

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