Journal Of A Professional Wrestler

[Jack "The Ripper" Tillman]

Chapter One
May 8th, 2009
Omaha, Nebraska
AGE 13

-It's been three days since father passed away from a heart attack. I have no more tears to shed as I look at his grave. The funeral has just finished and everyone is gone. I'm the only one left as I just stare at dirt and a head stone that reads his name. Mother is next to him in the ground, passed away five years ago from a car accident. I've missed her since she passed, just like how I will miss father right now.....mostly because I'm all alone now.

-Father drove off the rest of my brothers and sisters. Pushed them to hard to follow him into the wrestling industry. I don't mind the training, but from what I heard, my training was lighter compared to the rest of them. None of them showed up to the funeral. Many people showed up though. Allot were wrestlers. Old rivals. Old employees. Past students. Everyone had a story to tell about my father at the wake. Some funny, some sad, but all honest in saying that he was a loyal friend and a true legend in the industry. They all told me that if I ever needed help or wanted any training in the business to call them up.

-A nice lady from child services told me that I can stay as long as I want as I just stare at the grave. The patter of rain drops hit my hair and I know it's time to leave......but I don't want to. I'm not ready. Just a couple more minutes. All of these emotions, just swirling around my head but I don't know how to handle it all. I'm lost. I'm confused. I'm scared. I'm angry. I'm.......I'm.......I'm......

-And then a hand is placed on my shoulder. Rough and tight as it squeezes my right shoulder. Looking at the corner of my eye, I see a familiar face. One that I haven't seen for awhile but one that my father always smiled to when he came to visit. Over my other shoulder, I hear a familiar voice that always brought a smile to my face when he came to visit. The man on my right is Chris Constantine, a former student of my father who later became a manager. The other man to my right is Kurt Newman. A former student who's still in the business today. Both men will mold me into what I am today. I don't know this yet though as Kurt does his best to help out a child that just lost his father.



Kurt Newman: "Jackie boy.......this world is that of chapters to a story. Today is the end of one chapter and the beginning of a new one. Chris and I will there to help you write this next chapter of your life. Would you like that?"

-I don't know what to do or say at this very moment. My mind is that of darkness as the rain begins to come down a little bit harder now. But I don't want to go now. Not just yet. Another minute please. I just want to burry all of these feelings into this cemetery.....because I never want to feel like this ever again.

-End Scene

[Jack "The Ripper" Tillman]

Chapter 2
12 June 2012
Mexico City, Mexico
Age 16


I hate flipy shit. I hate high spots. I hate wrestlers flying all over the place. Super fast and extremely agile. That's the best I can say about Mexican wrestlers. The Lucha style is a form of wrestling that I really don't care to much because at any moment you can break your neck by your own form of offense. To many ways to end a career with their style of wrestling because it's nothing but flying in the air and landing awkwardly on your neck, spine, or legs. It's all based on the here and now and fuck about your future. It's all about getting that adrenaline rush. To hear the crowds cheer and get that satisfaction when they pop. It's just like putting that needle into your arm with your drug of choice.....those fans will eventually kill you at the end because the fans will never be satisfied with what you put out. They'll want more each and every time they step in that ring. That one time that you don't feed their addiction.....you're hated, vilified, and looked down on.

One good thing about about their wrestling is that their mat skills are some of the best around the world. It's like dancing when they apply an arm bar on someone. It's all in the hips. It's also all about the transition. One minute they can go from your arm, and before you can think of a way to get out of the predicament, they've moved to your legs and you didn't even know it happen.

Kurt sent me to Mexico for the summer to train under Senior Red Demono and his students. Kurt said that he trained under Demono when he was younger so that he could master the Lucha style. But I'm not here to learn the Lucha style. I'm here to learn how to defend myself against it. To find the weaknesses of it and defeat it so that when I do face a Lucha Wrestler in the future that I'd be able to defend myself.

Problem with all of this is that Kurt never told me how to defend myself against Lucha wrestling. He also didn't tell me that Demono and his students don't speak a lick of English and hate Americans. And of course they aren't going to tell me how to defend myself because fuck you whitey. So for the past two months I've sweated my ass off in the Mexican heat while getting my ass kicked on a daily basis by guys that don't want me there. Each morning I wake up sore with dry blood formed around my nose. Each night I draw up game plans in my head on to how to defeat them. It's a slow process but I'm improving each and every day. Plus I love the challenge. The pain fuels me. Let's me know I'm still alive.

I'm starting to finally get it though. I'm able to find their tell signs. I'm able to understand that the best way to defend myself is to keep the Luchas down on the ground and to cut off momentum, the main source of strength of Lucha wrestling. Work on their backs, necks, and mostly legs.....because legs are the only way that they can move and jump around. The problem with trying to keep them down is what I said before hand about Lucha wrestlers, their technical skills on the mate is on par or even better than American or British mate wrestling. But like I said before, it's all art. It's all about showing off. So when they show off to the crowd, that's when you attack. Use my body weight to my advantage because most of the Lucha wrestlers are small compared to me.

Tomorrow morning is a new day. Continue to learn. Use what Kurt and my old man taught me. Learn from my beatings. Learn from the bruises. Wrap yourself in the pain and welcome it as a friend. You don't lose Jack.....you learn. That's what Kurt has taught me. Thats what Chris Constantine has taught me. That's what my dad taught me. Losing is not an option......not any more.

[Jack "The Ripper" Tillman]

Chapter Three
May 20th 2015
Tokyo, Japan
Age 19


-499......500.....501.....502.......503.......

-The chops echo in the dungeon as one of the trainees gets chopped by Mark Storm. I don't bother to know any of the other students names because someone quits here on a weekly basis. So what's the point of remembering a name when they're just going to quit? Especially when we're really not worthy of a name when it comes to the NJFC Dojo. My name isn't Jack Tillman. It's Gaijin.

-519.....520.......521.......522......

-And its not really a dungeon we're wrestling in. We just call it the dungeon because it's where some of the teachers like to take us and just beat the ever living shit out of us. No windows. No air conditioning. A padded mat that should of been retired years ago because it has no give. A small room that if you were 6'5 you'd be hitting your head on the ceiling. No high flying here. Ground and pound and submission.Tears are shed. Blood is spilled. Bones are broken and tendons are ripped right off muscle and bone.

-534.........535.......536........537........538.........

-Mark Storm is great at stretching people. He knows just how tight he needs to pull and at what angle to elevate a body part just to make it hurt just a little bit more than what it should. He knows just at what point the muscle wont tear away and knows when not to hit that point of separation.

-557........558.......559........

-Marks been in the ring now for over an hour now. This is number three for him with the students and he hasn't slowed down once. He's not even sweating. He's calm. Collective. Knows what he's going to do next and knows what his opponent is going to do next. He's just a cat playing with a mouse. Me on the other hand, I'm doing squats. The goal? One thousand. After that, push-ups. Already finished my crunches. I'm already sweating up a storm but I'm not tired yet. After my turn with Mark....well that will be another story.

-603.......604.......605........606......

-And of course I'm next to go one on one with him. And he loves fucking with me, only because I'm Kurt Newman's boy. Kurt is the one that's trained me. Kurt's the one that brought me to NJFC. And Kurt's the one that's on bad terms with Mark. So Mark takes advantage of me and my developing skills. His punches are a little bit stiffer than what he gives to the other boys. His kicks have more heat to them. And his submissions are put in a little bit tighter.

-627.......628.......629........630......

-I don't mind though. I've grown use to it by now. This dojo has made me tough. Has made me look past pain and accept it as a friend. It has made me appreciate professional wrestling even more.

-651......652......653......654.......

-The snapping of a bone gets my attention as I look towards the ring and I see the student screaming in pain as he holds his dislocated finger up in the air. Some of the other students attend to him as Mark stares at me. He knows I'm next. I know I'm next. Hitting my last squat at 672, I slowly make my way into the ring.....ready to accept anything and everything that comes my way. I can only hope I can get some offense in.

-Wish me luck.

[Jack "The Ripper" Tillman]

Chapter Four
25 May 2011
Birmingham, England
Age: 15


It's been raining now for like a week. Always in the 50s. It's been non stop. I hate this rain. I hate this cold. I hate that my socks and shoes are soaked with water. The food sucks. The living quarters suck. Everything sucks here in England. I'd rather be back in Nebraska where it's in the high 70s. Why the hell did Kurt send me to England for training? Kurt knows British Style of wrestling. Why can't he train me? Why the hell do I even need to know British Style wrestling? After my time here, I'll never come back to England to wrestle.

Sir Stanley Tyler is my coach while I'm over here. Goofy looking fella with one of those old style mustaches. A receding hair line makes him look older than what he actually is. Walks with a limp on his right leg. Nasty leg break back when he was a wrestler in the 80s. The injury doesn't stop him in that ring as the asshole knows how to lay a beating on a kid. He's also the guy that taught Kurt back when Kurt was working his way up the ranks of the wrestling world. Stan likes to put a beating on me the most out of the rest of the other students because I'm Kurt's kid. Doesn't want to go easy on me in front of the other students I'm told.

I don't mind. Keeps me distracted from my old mans death. It's been over two years since he passed and I'm still having trouble getting over it. Still think about him daily. The dreams of his death grow less every night that passes. Always hearing him in the back of my head. Maybe that's why Kurt sent me away for the summer to train with Stanley. Get away from home. Keep my mind away from all that.....mess.

.............

.............

.............

Wish I could drink a beer. The rest of the other students tease me about it since I legally can't drink since the drinking age in England is 16 with an adult. Even if I was 16, I'd need an adult and the only adult I know is Stan, and he'd kick my ass if I held a glass of beer in my hand.

...........

...........

Fuck England. Fuck my squishy shoes. Fuck this rain. Fuck it all. Need someone to fight soon because this run isn't helping me burn off this anger.