BG East just dropped Catalog 169, and it’s full of exciting new matches and several new faces joining long-time favorites of mine. I immediately took a shine to the newbie babyface, so proudly from Canada, Mickey Knoxx, debuting in Jobberpaloozer 22.

This will sound like bullshit, but I’m going say it, and I absolutely mean it. The first thing about Mickey that entrances me are his eyes. They’re dazzlingly pretty, like impossibly so. Some joker who wrote the match description for the website calls them “piercingly ice blue,” but I’m not even sure if that’s right. They’re fluorescent gray somehow, but I don’t think that’s a physical possibility. Does he have white irises!? Is that anatomically possible? Fuck. I can’t stop staring at his eyes. And, fuck, yes, I’m the joker that wrote that match description, so I’ve been mulling this question over for a while now.

Okay, to say that I can’t stop staring at his eyes is, actually, bullshit. I definitely start with being riveted by his eyes, but, yeah, pretty quickly I’m staring at his ass. It’s a really, really beautiful ass. I’m not the only one who thinks so. In stars and stripes trunks, representing the classic American lack of even the barest wisp of cultural humility, even uber-patriotic Chase Addams confesses “You’ve got an ass that wants to make me sing ‘O Ca-na-da!” He drives home the point by spanking Mickey’s cheeks with each syllable, while our neighbor from the north is strung up helplessly in the ropes. Fuck, I get that, Chase. That is a spankable ass!

To start this match, Mickey is just exploring the place he’s long longed to be, BG East. Chase is already in the ring, nursing a little bitterness from being stood up for an earlier scheduled match. It all starts out remarkably cordial; so much so, that I start to wonder if these two are going to wrestle or just walk off arm in arm to grab a beer together. The first spark of heat is struck when Mickey, unsolicited, offers his opinion that he brings a certain “je ne sais quoi” factor to contribute to the BG East bench. “Someone’s got beginner’s ego,” Chase chides him, seemingly bristling at the French language. “Calm down there, Mr. Canada.”

The spark erupts into a full-blown wildfire (BTW, sending my best to all of you Canadian firefighters), around the time that Chase declares that the only worthwhile Canadian contribution to the arts is Celine Dion. Mickey asks, incredulously, “Celine Dion?! I hate her.” Somewhat hilariously, Chase is visibly offended, in defense of Celine. “She’s a national treasure,” he insists. Mickey snorts derisively and snarks back, “More like national trash.”

A legitimately hot shoving match sets off Chase, who unleashes 25 minutes of what Chase does best. Always innovating new ways to crush, cripple, and humiliate an opponent, woe betide the unlucky international visitor who finds his hot ass in Chase’s sights. Mickey munches on a lush, long dragon sleeper, with his face buried in Chase’s armpit, that shows off the newbie to perfection while demonstrating the veteran’s total command of his opponent’s body. Chase is fucking cruel when he gets on a roll, and he steamrolls right over hot bodied Mickey. Knees to the gut (and lower) repeatedly drop Mickey to all fours, only to be dragged back up by his ears a second later, to do it all over again. Mickey spends a boatload of time on his knees, staring at Chase’s crotch, struggling to catch his breath, teetering, dizzy on the brink of collapsing to the mat in a heap, and reconsidering a whole lot of life choices that led up to this relentless, soul crushing rookie wrecking.

Everything is classic Chase, from the expansive use of every corner of the ring, every rope, every turnbuckle to heap on piles of crushing punishment, to the speed-up/slow-down whiplash pacing of his blinding speed interspersed with long, lingering, luxuriously held holds. And Mickey sells like he’s been doing this for years. He rides that edge of helpless whimpers and blinding panic in a way that grabs me hard. There’s this almost betrayed tinge to his grunts and groans, as if he’s bitterly thinking “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” as his dreams of taking BG East by storm come crashing spectacularly down around him. Like every babyface hero, his demolition is a brutal object lesson, disabusing him of the notion of justice. Ignore the brochures, Mickey. The U.S. is not the meritocracy we like to pretend it is. You didn’t deserve any of the insane punishment Chase doled out to you, and yet, that’s exactly what you got. Fuck clean breaks and fair play and Canadian nice.

Leaping off the top turnbuckle with Mickey in a headlock, Chase plants that handsome face into the mat in a decisive bull dog that finally puts the rookie out of his misery… at least until he wakes up and realizes he’s still stuck on the wrong side of the Peach Arch. And I totally agree with Chase’s (albeit sarcastic) assessment of the newbie, as he’s covering the sleeping canuck with an American-themed pride flag. “I think you’re going to do great at BG, kid!”