Upon the Death of Folkstyle

You walk past a dark alley in Chicago and hear a voice, "Hey, buddy, want some Folkstyle?"

You know you shouldn't.

You start shaking. It's been two weeks since you scored a riding time point. You need to score bad. You haven't been able to focus at work. It's getting hard to sleep at night. And when you do catch a few zzz's there are the nightmares, nightmares about half-nelsons and claw rides.

You give in.

It shouldn't have to be this way. We gave up arm bars and granby rolls for whatever that thing is when the other guy grabs both of your legs and laces them together and then thrashes around like an alligator on a wildebeest. Those are back points? **** you! But you know the deal, the reality is that Folkstyle's gone. Gone forever. Except here in dark alleys in Chicago, in small-town Pennsylvania, and in Iowa City.

You step into the alley.

You smell the sweat of a thousand riding time points, and your adrenaline goes through the ******* roof! Your eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, and you see Lucas Byrd, Dylan Palacio and Gable Steveson warming up by the Pizzeria Uno dumpster. Yeah. That's why you drove to Chicago. For the good stuff....

EDITOR'S NOTE: THIS IS A COMMUNITY NARRATIVE PROJECT. HOW DOES THE STORY END? THE FOLLOWING CONTINUATION WAS SUBMITTED BY THEO BRIXTON AT INTERMATFORUMS.COM. WARNING: FOR MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY.

When I peered through the crowd, I caught a partial view of a single, worn Resilite mat. Its frayed edges were  folded up upon the brick facade to fit in the narrow alleyway. As I made my way forward, I could see Ed Ruth taking the mat against a nameless foe. 

Ed was wearing a tattered, navy blue PSU singlet, a rarity among the competitors typically donning reversible pink and baby blue singlets sanctioned for "Wrestling". 

You wouldn't even have to know who Ruth was to know this was a folkstyle OG taking the mat. As the ref blew the whistle, the competitors sized each other up, knowing one wrong move might spell their demise. 

Ruth's opponent takes a deep shot but Ed is able to sprawl. It's sometimes said that lesbians with long fingers are well-hung. I'm not sure what they would call Ed's banana hands, a veritable John Holmes of the digits. He uses them to forcefully butt-drag his foe-- a move strictly forbidden by the "Wrestling" Federation. The reason being Commissioner Mulvaney wants "Wrestling" to maximize inclusivity and this particular hold might unintentionally damage the stitching of newly transitioned athletes. 

You see, the Federation's "Wrestling" has replaced all styles: folkstyle, greco-roman and women's wrestling to create a single, inter-gendered game of horrors.

As Ed gained control, the crowd shouted "twoooo". The Chicago house rules pay no heed to the three-point bastardization that sent their beloved style into an irreversible tailspin. Chicago rules stipulate takedowns are worth two points and escapes are also worth two. However, no one dares to choose bottom when given the choice--riding time is revered in Chicago and each minute of advantage time is granted five points. 

Furthermore, no wrestler is saved by the bell--if one wrestler is in the advantage position after the first period, wrestling continues and no choice is granted during the match. Ed is now in the driver's seat and won't dare to take any unnecessary risks. His preferred ride is the Penn State ankle trap that he learned from coach Cael-- or Nittany Voldemort as he is known among the folkstyle faithful after he finagled multiple entries per weight for the PSU squad thereby destroying NCAA wrestling. 

Try as he might, Ed's foe could not escape and spent every last ounce of energy to break free. As the final whistle blew, Ruth's opponent collapsed into a tepid puddle of afterbirth, spent from his efforts. His coaches needed to scrape his lifeless body off the Resilite so that Corby could perform his perfunctory inter-match Stevie Wonder rituals with the Sterilaser, the mat disinfectant of choice since approaching the nearby establishments for a bucket of water and bleach might draw too much attention to their illicit endeavor.

After some time, shouts of "THERE HE IS!" could be heard over the din of the restless throng. The sea of people surrounding the Resilite parted and in walked a bloated, middle-age Moses of the mat. It mattered none that he sported a paunch only made possible by Mr. Pibb and long-haul trucking. In fact, what would be a liability in any other domain has become a uniquely lethal weapon. James Flemming was a crowd favorite for his tenacious mat skills. 

His tactics were so brilliant even Shane Sparks couldn't be bothered with mat returns. The ref blew the whistle after allowing James to pull the singlet straps over his furry potbelly. He immediately moved to the edge of the mat where his strategy was to simply back out-of-bounds at the first hint of danger. 

No concerns for stalling, this IS folkstyle, after all. 

He only needed to weather the first period so that he could ultimately get his chance to take top. Here, lining up on his opponent's right side, he deploys his visceral adiposity with aplomb, driving his belly into his opponent's back. This forward pressure invariably thwarted his victim's first move, leaving them susceptible to the inevitable. 

The period begins and Flemming effortlessly moves to the head where he cinches his patented headlock. It is only a matter of time before he pries his prey over and the crowd goes wild. Here he holds his victim for the remainder of regulation at which point the crowd screams for more and the referee allows the match to continue. 

Only a verbal submission of Flemming's foe will end the match. Try as he might, his opponents jaw cannot take anymore and he relents, squealing and tapping the mat. The crowd erupts and swarms the mat. It takes three second-generation Polish construction workers to lift Flemming upon their shoulders where they carry him off to the Giordano's around the block for a celebratory deep-dish, a Flemming favorite.