Roo-dy

Hoochies.

The restaurant, once described by The New York Times as ‘trashy’, ‘derivative’, and ‘infamous for the nacho cheese pileup’ - which some say is responsible for more deaths in the United States during the early 90s, than shark attacks worldwide - mostly due the bizarre mix of bone-in buffalo wings and a pound of melted cheese poured into a steaming pan and served with a side of mozzarella sticks. 

Despite its early reputation, however, Hoochies has slowly stepped away from the breastaurant business - building its base out of inclusivity - and freedom. All are welcome to come, explore, and be alive and for those feeling extra adventurous, there's the ‘Mystery Meat Surprise’ dish, where you never know what you're going to get.

The room itself is a barrage of colors and sounds, from the neon lights flashing overhead to the eclectic mix of music blaring from the speakers. The walls are adorned with wacky semi-erotic paintings and posters, including a portrait of a giant lobster wearing a tight dress and a cowboy hat holding a sign that reads ‘Free hugs from the chef’. 

The staff, clad in their signature purple cutoff t-shirts featuring the catchy slogan ‘Hoochies: We’re Everywhere’, deftly maneuver through the crowded tables. Two figures are seated at the bar, hunched over the counter. The smaller of the two abruptly turns his head to glance at a table across the room.

“He’s bigger than you.”

He takes a second glance.

“Stronger too I bet,” Zaza sways slightly as he leers over his shoulder at his friend, a coy expression on his face. His large eyes are half-lidded, partly due to his inebriated state. With a mischievous grin, he clutches a nearly-empty pint of beer in his right paw, using it to steady himself as he struggles to maintain his balance.

Dressed in a Hawaiian print button up with a straw hat tucked over his ears, he is seated next to Roo, his best friend and only crewmate aboard the aptly named PB-82. Roo, on the other hand, has on an old Hot Topic pullover hoodie with the slogan ‘I'm not a morning person, an afternoon person, or even barely a person.’ His size twenty-eight red Air Jordans are tucked neatly under the stool.

"He's probably a better fighter, if I had to take a guess," Zaza hiccups, eyes now fixated on a burly man seated at the table near the door.

Roo's ear flicks to life, and he tilts his head towards Zaza. The koala spins around on his booster seat, pointing aggressively towards the man. Roo, calm as a cucumber, tosses back a shot, pulling his hood over his head before bouncing towards the door. The man follows suit. 

“Your friend may want to be careful,” a man sitting two barstools down from Zaza says.  Looking over his left shoulder, he spins to his right - his eyes finally landing on the man. A short fellow, even by Zaza's standards, he had a long wispy mustache and a unibrow that may or may not have been its twin. “That’s Killer.”

“Oh yeah, what do they call him that?” Zaza asks, fighting valiantly to not tilt his head to see what this man might look like, upside down. 

“He kills people,” he answers, far more cheerfully than he should considering the nature of the conversation. 

“Well,” Zaza says, as sincere as he can possibly be, considering there are five members of the wait staff standing on the table just past the man, singing a raucous version of ‘Happy Birthday’ that's more akin to a pirate shanty. “Something tells me Roo will be alright.”

The man, who introduces himself as Harper, scoots a seat closer, his breath thick with gin and what Zaza could only assume was canola oil. “How do you figure?”

Teetering slightly in his stool, the crafty Koala starts to smirk.

“Buy me another beer,” he suggests, “and a plate of fries and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Go get him Willy!”

Roo cheered, running alongside the ring with the older animals as they ran back and forth in the makeshift ring. He had always dreamed of being a professional wrestler, but everyone around him told him he was too small and not tough enough.

"Hey, Roo, why don't you get in here?" Romper said, a much larger kangaroo with a tuft of fuzz beginning to form along the bottom of his furry face, the first whispers of a goatee that would never fully form.

“He would be much better than you,” Wallaby Willy, the local ‘good guy’ of the group, laughed, grabbing hold of Romper, pulling his head into a headlock. Roo gritted his teeth, gripping the bottom rope as he glared towards the ring. Romper, able to pull free, shoved the wallaby backwards.

"Tag me in!" Boomer shouted, bouncing on the apron. Boomer was Romper's baby brother by only a few minutes, and had grown much taller - and though he didn’t currently have a goatee it would be something he would someday achieve.

“Why don’t we let the whelp in, since Willy seems to think he’s so good,” Romper grinned, grabbing the rope closest to Roo, lifting it slightly. Eagerly, young Roo looked at the wallaby. Against his better judgment, Wallaby nods his head, reaching a hand towards the young kangaroo.

As Roo entered the ring, bouncing with anticipation, he felt the eyes of the older kangaroos on him, watching and judging his every move. His heart was pounding in his chest, but he was determined to prove them wrong. However, before he could even make a move, he was hit with a hard slap across the back that drove the wind from his lungs, and his face slammed straight into the mat.

Dusting his paws off, Romper smirked down at the smaller kangaroo, “Tag.”

Sniffling, the resilient Roo rose only to find himself looking up at the much larger Wallaby. Rather than strike, Willy placed a paw on Roo’s shoulder, smiling, “Hey, be careful out there kid.” He extended the other hand which the young kangaroo cautiously took. “And good luck! You got this, stay sharp!”

Stunned, Roo's jaw dropped as he watched his hero walk away, giving him the space he needed to prepare. Once again, the young marsupial, who at no point in his life considered growing or maintaining any type of facial hair, least of all a goatee, began to bounce once more, circling. An arm drag sent a shock through his tail, seemingly coming from nowhere. He tried to push through the pain, but before he could rise, a hard clothesline shut the lights out completely.

A weight on his chest. 

Someone was counting. Someone was laughing. Someone was crying.

“It’s okay,” a garbled voice mumbled. He tried to open his eyes. A form was kneeling over him.

“Mommy?” Roo managed the whimper between breaths, struggling to stop the tears.

“It’s Willy, buddy. Hey,” the paws holding him shook him, causing his vision to clear. It was Willy, and standing off to the side were the two older joeys stood, laughing wildly. “You okay?”

“Roo-ser! Roo-ser!” Romper and Boomer began to chant. With the help of the wallaby, he found his feet and his focus. As he watched the two boys berate him, he vowed then and there that he would show them.

He would show them all.

The steaming hot plate of curly fries, with sheets of shredded cheddar cheese melted on top is set down in front of Zaza followed by a fresh flagon of their finest domestic swill. He takes a deep swallow from the glass, accentuating it with a loud, “Ahhh,” 

Harper seizes a fry, "So, let me get this straight. Just because your friend got beat up as a kid, that means he's..."

"Ey! Yous wanna let me finish?" Zaza snaps, smacking the man’s hand away as he reaches for a second, before moving the plate just out of reach.

"Sorry," the man says, rubbing the back of his hand.

"The nerve of this guy," the koala mutters, rearranging the napkins that he has carefully arranged into a makeshift plate. "The point of the story is that it's not always about the ones you win. Sometimes, it’s about the ones you survive…”

The makeshift ring set up behind the Waffle Shack was a raw, gritty display of pure desperation. The thick aviation cable ropes were pulled taut between four metal stakes, driven deep into the unforgiving asphalt. The surface of the mat was nothing more than discarded, and likely stolen, plywood, pieced together and propped up by a series of cinder blocks. It was a far cry from the pristine, manicured rings of professional wrestling, but for Roo, it was everything.

The crowd surrounding the ring was a swirling mass of noise and energy. Shouts of encouragement and curses mixed together in a chaotic symphony of sound, punctuated by the occasional gasp or roar as someone was slammed into the planking. The air was thick with the smells of sweat, blood, and fried batter from the nearby diner. The energy was palpable, fueled by the thrill of combat, and the allure of easy money.

Roo nervously scanned the crowd, rubbing his taped paws together. His mentor turned manager, Willy, shuffled through the throng, his snow-white smile glistening. He tossed a thumbs up toward the kangaroo before disappearing once again into the mob of spectators.

Suddenly, a disagreement broke out ringside, quickly turning into an undercard match of its own. Roo's stomach churned - partially from hunger, partially from fear. He remembered Willy's words: ‘Never eat before a fight.’ His stomach grumbled once more, and he began to wonder if there truly was wisdom in those words.

But then, out of the chaos, the wallaby appeared once more, bouncing towards Roo with excitement. "Roo! Roo!" he shouted. "You won't believe it! I got you a match!"

The fear faded for a moment, replaced by elation as the two friends began to bounce up and down with excitement. Taking the slip of paper from Willy's paw, Roo opened it up to reveal his opponent's name: JC.

“Jesus Christ?”

Pausing his story yet again, Zaza turns to the man with a look of bewilderment. "Wait, what?" he slurs, swaying slightly in the booster seat.

Harper raises an eyebrow, cupping his hands before shouting towards the koala, still seated only inches away: "You said JC. Jesus Christ?"

Zaza's jumps backwards, nearly teetering from his perched position. "Oh, right, right. No, not Jesus Christ." 

He takes a swig from his drink and sets it down on the table unsteadily, screaming back. "It's just...J.C. You know, initials. For his name."

The man nods, seeming to understand. Zaza leans back in his chair, tucking his hands beneath his little bear belly.

“Yeah, so anyways…”

"John Cryer? From Two and a Half Men?" he exclaimed, his eyes widening in disbelief.

Willy's voice cut through the jeers of the crowd, trying to be heard. "Yeah, but there's only one catch," he yelled, leaning in close to make sure Roo could hear, "He wants it to be a deathmatch."

Roo recoiled in horror. "What? That's insane!"

"I know," Willy nodded, "but allegedly he has something to prove, and, well, you wanted a match."

Roo felt his stomach churn with a mix of fear and excitement as he peered into the ring, his heart pounding in his chest. 

***

“BREAK HIS FUCKING NECK!” someone in the crowd screams before the voices once again become nothing more than a wall of sound. 

Roo smashed the actor over the head with a stack of light tubes causing the small crowd to roar its approval at the explosion of glass and Jon Cryer writing on the floor. This was it - this was his moment and he knew exactly what that meant. Heart racing, Roo set up another stack of bulbs in the corner - much to the delight of the feverish crowd. 

“Roo! Roo! Roo” they barked at him, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. Confidently Roo turned, but to his absolute surprise, he was met with a series of awkward punches before being rammed back first into the bulbs he so carefully stacked. John Cryer, his bald head bleeding freely, slowly stood upright, the crowd starting to chant his name. 

“Cry-er! Cry-er! Cry-er!” they called out.  

“Who’s the bad boy now, Charlie?!” Jon shouted, cupping his hand towards the audience who exploded once more. A senton bomb in the corner left Roo dazed, but his survival instincts started kicking in. The marsupial managed to side step a swing from a bat - likely for the best as it had been rigged with c-4 charges, bringing his own built in bruisers to bear. A one-two combo saw the actor once again in trouble. Roo retrieved a broken tube from the pile he was once a part of. He felt the eyes of the crowd upon him, urging him to deliver the finishing blow. The lights overhead glinted off the jagged edges of the shattered glass as Roo raised the tube high above his head, ready to strike. The crowd's chants grew louder and more frenzied.

“Roo! Roo! Roo!”

But as he went to bring the tube down onto Cryer's skull, his grip slipped. Instead of striking the actor's head, the glass sliced open his neck, sending a spray of blood arcing through the air. Roo froze in horror as Cryer clutched at his throat, his eyes wide with pain and horror. The crowd's cheers fizzled away, replaced by a stunned silence as they watched the grisly scene unfold before them.

"Jon?" Roo called out, his voice barely above a whisper. But the actor only gurgled before collapsing to the ground in a lifeless heap. Roo fell to his knees beside him, staring in shock at the blood-soaked scene before him. The smell of iron filled his nostrils as blood began to pool around Cryer's head, seeping into the mat beneath them

“Jon!?"

From ringside, a thick New York accent called out, urging the kangaroo to finish the match. In a daze, he pushed the man’s shoulders down and the referee, going through the motions because that was the only choice that remained - stoically began his count.

“One. Two. Three.”

The man’s hand grabbed his wet paw as Roo stood. A siren in the distance snapped the audience back to attention - remembering where they were and where they suddenly needed to be. As the crowd cleared out, he held his hand still in the air, even as the droplets of blood began to splash across his face.

He couldn’t believe it.

He won.

Harper closes one eye then the other, squinting down skeptically at Zaza. 

"You're telling me that a kangaroo killed Jon Cryer in an underground wrestling match behind a Waffle Shack," he asks.

Zaza shrugs, pushing off the bar causing his seat to spin.

"I didn't say that," he replies, smiling slyly. "All I'm saying is that things got a little wild that night but in the end Roo was willing to do what it takes and that's what separates winners from losers.”

“I’m still not seeing your point.”

“Well…” Zaza says, nodding his head. He gestures past the bar at a large poster tacked to the wall. It depicts an upcoming wrestling match between JC and Roo the Kangaroo. JC, a muscular and intimidating wrestler with long braids, wears a fierce expression on his face. Meanwhile, Roo the kangaroo wears a red Everlast hoodie with white boxing wraps around his front paws. Along the bottom, in a bold and daring green and gold are the words ‘UGWC: Survival of the Fittest. Night #1. Beast vs. Bogeyman.’

“Whoa…is that Jon Cryer?” Harper asks, squinting towards the poster. After taking careful time to review its contents, he nods his head, clearly impressed. 

“Well, I've never heard of a wrestling match between a human and a kangaroo before," he admits. "But if that's Jon Cryer right there, I have a feeling it's going to be one hell of a fight."

“Tell ya what pal, when I get back, I’ll clue yous in to a place where you can put that money where your mouth is, if ya know what I mean?”

Shoveling the last of the fries into his mouth, Zaza slides down his chair, his little feet kicking in the air for a moment before plopping down onto the floor. He mumbles something about a man and a horse before waddling off towards the bathroom. 

The entrance opens once more, the man turning with anticipation, only to see the kangaroo, not a single scratch on him hop through the door, pulling the hood back over his ears. Propping himself back up into his barstool, Roo crosses his arms, tucking his massive shoes underneath once more for safe keeping. Harper turns towards the door, looking for any signs of the fighter known as Killer. 

Giving in to his curiosity, he leans over, nudging Roo on the arm. His hooded head turns towards the man who smelled like gin and canola oil, grinning his way. “Is it true?”

Roo tilts his head to the side, curious.

“Did you used to be a pussy?” the man asks. Just then, the front door opens and Killer stumbles through. His white shirt is now dirty and disheveled, his face already beginning to swell. Roo looks over his shoulder and Killer averts his eyes.  The kangaroo scans the smaller man, whose mouth is now open wide, raising an eyebrow. “Jesus son…what did you do?!”

“Oh well,” Roo says, picking up the shot that’s set in front of him, nodding his thanks, “That’s simple.”

The large kangaroo tosses the shot back, winking down at Harper who now leans away, both out of fear and respect. Roo sets the glass down with a thud.

“I just punched him right in his face.”