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Blood, Pain, Wrestling

In America the soap opera of the ring can become a satisfying horror movie

I put on the clothes of pain, I put on the costume of suffering. Nothing was too tight, nothing scared me. I powdered myself with blood, I tattooed myself with nails and glass, I exalted myself among tables and barbed wire.

It was all so real to be fake.It was all so fake to be real. I remember the beer-flavored screams, out of tune and angry symphonies that intoxicated the air. It didn’t matter if I was in a remote provincial bar, a brightly lit arena, or a dated casino.

Icon Collection Juventus
Icon Collection Juventus
Icon Collection Juventus
Icon Collection Juventus
Icon Collection Juventus

That was my martyrdom. That was my show. My body, a canvas of scars and anabolics; my Gimmick, a personal story to be interpreted inside that ring. Near those ropes I was actor and athlete, human sacrifice and organized chaos.

They called it Hardcore, it was the extreme of wrestling, its ultra-violent, ultra-choreographic drift. Every match was a death match. It wasn’t the classic TV soap opera, it was a late night movie, a fascinating X-rated horror film. Every weapon used against my skin led to a roar, every wail to a collective ecstasy.

It was my life, it was my death. It was my death, it was my life. It was a small cog in America’s thirst for suffering. It was a quick sip for the atavistic human thirst for the torment of others. A thirst that continues to exist. A thirst that will continue to exist. Like that ring.

Icon Collection Juventus
Icon Collection Juventus
Icon Collection Juventus
Icon Collection Juventus
Icon Collection Juventus
Icon Collection Juventus
Icon Collection Juventus

Credits

Richard Wade

IG @richwadephoto
richwade.com

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