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She smiled. "Hey... at least we won't have to oil up tonight, and I'd rather sweat my ass off than freeze it off."

I grinned. "You should try being a guy."

She briefly tickled my package with a smile. "I don't recall you ever having a problem."

Beverly, our costumer and floor manager, was adjusting the fit on Harlow's shorts and top as Colt and Justin stretched, getting ready for their bout. David was doing some light stretches with them, already dressed in his referee uniform of dark blue pants and black and white striped polo. It was fifteen minutes to show time and Steve was in the ring working the crowd into a passion as heavy, thudding music blasted over our sound system.

I'd just returned from closing the ticket sales, and Antony, Mike and I had taken the show's cut from the box's cash receipts. HWE handled all the credit card ticket sales, something I sold as a courtesy to the promoter, but in actuality we did it to make sure we didn't get stiffed. Processing the credit cards also gave us an excuse to have one of our own in the ticket booth to verify the cash count. HWE was a cash heavy operation. While ticket sales were billed to credit cards as Ron Misson Entertainment, a lot of people were squeamish about charging show tickets to their card and preferred to pay cash.

After we stopped ticket sales, having Antony and Mike flanking me, silently watching while I signed the receipt book and paid out the fifteen percent we owed the promoter from the credit card sales, tended to ensure the transaction went smoothly. Now, with our cut securely locked in the safe in my coach, we were ready to start the show.

"How's the knee, Ivan?" I teased Justin. During his last bout he'd landed hard and stung his knee. "You're sure you're good to go?"

Justin Bailey grinned at me as he flexed his knee. "Knee no hurt," he replied in his comically stereotypical Russian accent. Eighteen months ago, when Justin joined the circus, we'd created Ivan Cumalotov because of Justin's ability to make everyone laugh with his fake accent.

"Great," I said slapping him on his shoulder. "How about you, Colt? You ready?" Colt grunted as he glared at me. I said nothing, nodding as I turned away. Fuck him. "I'm going to get setup. We've got full house tonight, so kick ass guys."

With David's help, I wriggled my way into the Steadicam rig, snapping harness locks and hooking up power before I shrugged and twisted, getting the rig comfortably settled, and then panned the camera around to make sure I had full range of motion. Satisfied everything was ready, I made my way to ringside like a robotic soldier geared up for war. When I reached the ring, I clicked my camera on and began slowly moving around the ring, taking close-ups of our excited and screaming fans. Greg was already in the other rig taking crowd shots as Steve pumped up the audience.

With my camera now in play, the second and fourth of the eighty-six-inch televisions mounted on tall stands behind the audience, where our lights were located, came to life, along with the one at the sound board. There was no sound, as the dedicated sound system took care of that, but my camera fed two of the screens while Greg's fed the other two. We wanted to sure everyone could see what was going on at all times, either in person or on one of the screens.

Greg Long was responsible for our media and promotions, in addition to being our primary camera operator. I'd learned to operate a camera when HWE was just starting out, and I'd kept it up after hiring Greg so we'd have more footage and angles to choose from when cutting together our DVDs. Being seen operating the camera also allowed me to surprise and delight the audience if they hadn't seen the show before. I operated the first four bouts before I turned my camera over to Justin for the final match.

Justin had almost as good eye behind the camera as Greg, and he often got some our best shots. Showered, with his hair neatly combed in his normal style instead of the wild hair of Ivan, dressed in an HWE staff uniform, and of course without using his Ivan voice, it was surprising how few people recognized him as Ivan.

"Where is American pig!" Ivan roared as he stomped down the aisle toward the ring wearing nothing but his wrestling trunks. "He have something that belong to me!"

Greg backed down the aisle in front of Ivan. I let Greg do the backward dolly shots because I couldn't walk a straight path backwards while operating a camera to save my life.

Last week we'd celebrated Justin's twenty-sixth birthday. Six foot two, and 218 pounds of pure muscle, Justin was a stud, like all the men in the show. Because of the nature of our show, the guys had to be big, both physically and between the legs, ripped, and athletic. Justin had that covered in spades with his bulging chest and arms, thick corded legs, and his big cock forming an unmistakable bulge in his tight red trunks. He was one of the nicest guys you could meet, which made his Ivan persona that much more amazing. Lis said that between his body, dark hair and soulful brown eyes, sense of humor, and his shy smile, he was a walking wet dream, and she had plans to move him into a hero role when we started the second show.

"Who are you?" Steve shouted into the mic as the crowd screamed in excitement. The villain had arrived.

"Ivan Cumalotov! I here to find Tatiana Kiska and take back to mother Russia!" I couldn't help but smile. The name was one of Lisbeth's ideas. Kiska was Russian for pussy. "I search entire country for this Six Shooter!" Ivan snarled as he climbed into the ring. He fake spat on the canvas covered floor. "Six Shooter! What stupid name! Not good name like Ivan," Justin snarled, jutting out his chest before slapping himself heartily. "I look for him and now track him here!"

"Six Shooter?" Steve asked, glancing around like he was looking for someone. "I don't know anybody called Six Shooter."

"He here!" Ivan snarled. "I know he here. You can't hide him from me. I smell capitalist pig. I come to take back what is mine!"

"You're mistaken. There's no Six Shooter here."

"I know he here! He kidnap Tatiana from Russia and bring to America. I come to take Tatiana back!"

"I don't know any Tatiana or Six Shooter. You're at the wrong place."

"I at right place! This his wrestling show! I pose as wrestler to get into show, and now I smell his capitalist stench!" Justin leaned into Steve. "You tell me what I want to know or I—"

Steve was our master of ceremonies, play by play announcer, and the show's accountant. Seen alone on the street people would realize that he was an average sized guy, and while Ivan wasn't that much taller, he was much more imposing. Steve took a step back as if intimidated by the Russian's size.

"You'll what, you commie?" Colt bellowed from the back of the crowd. Greg whirled his camera as if surprised while I stayed on Justin and Steve.

"Colt?" Steve cried into his mic. "You know this man?"

Colt charged down the aisle and slid across the ring floor before popping to his feet directly in front of me. Colt had style, I had to give him that. Like Justin, Colt was huge. He was less than inch shorter than Justin but slightly more muscled, his massive arms and chest rippling and twitching as he flexed. Where Justin was wearing red trunks, Colt was wearing his trademark blue trunks with a red waistband and white lightning bolts radiating out from his crotch. Like Justin, Colt's trunks were tight and left no doubt he was packing a lot more muscle between his legs than the average guy.

Colt glared at Ivan. "I know his kind," he snarled. "He's part of the Russian mafia, the same Russian mafia that keeps women like Tatiana trapped in a brothel with no hope of escape." Colt jerked the microphone from Steve's hand and began stomping around ring, playing to the crowd as Ivan glared at him. "I was on a charity motorcycle trip around the world with my buds to bring hope to kids everywhere. While in Moscow I heard about this place where women were being held against their will and forced into prostitution. We couldn't ignore that, so one night, when everyone thought we were asleep in our rooms, we snuck out, raided the place, and rescued the women."

Ivan stomped across the ring and jerked the mic from Colt's hand. "You say rescue, I say kidnapped."

Colt snatched the mic back. "You can't kidnap someone begging to go with you."

Ivan grabbed the mic. "Never! Russian women strong! Never beg weak Americans!"

Colt yanked the mic from Ivan's hand with an ugly smile. "But they did. When we arrived, we knocked out the guards and then offered to set all the women free. Instead, they begged us to take them with us, to bring them to America where they could be free from the likes of you, so we did." Ivan snorted in disbelief. "We rode away with them on the back of our Harley's, not stopping until we reached Zilupe, Latvia, where—"

"Latvia!" Ivan spat. "Traitors to mother Russia!"

"Or freedom loving people who rose up against Russian oppression!" Colt sneered. "Once we were safely across the border... they begged us to take them another way." Colt smirked. "We showed them what real men were. After that, they begged us to never leave them." Colt's smile became even nastier. "That's when Tatiana started calling me Six Shooter. Now they're free and safe in America, the greatest country in the world, living a life they could only dream of before."

Ivan smiled back, his smirk as cold and humorless as a Siberian winter as he wrenched the mic from Colt's grip. "You wrong. I find other five girls. Send them home where they belong. Tatiana last one. Now I take her home."

Colt stepped in closer, trying to intimidate Ivan. "You're not taking her anywhere!" he growled, standing so close the mic could easily pick up his words.

Ivan refused to back down and stepped in closer still. "You tell me where Tatiana hiding and I not hurt you. I take Tatiana and go. Nobody get hurt," he rumbled in return, his voice like an approaching storm.

"Never! I'll never tell you where she is!"

"So, you know?" Ivan snarled. "You tell me where she hiding or I beat location out of you!"

Colt stepped in closer. "You can try," he sneered.

The two men glared at each other, their noses almost touching as their faces twisted in mutual hate. "This your last chance," Ivan growled.

"Come on and have a go if you think your dick is big enough."

I knew Greg was on their faces, so I zoomed in on their crotches, giving the audience a good look at their bulging packages less than an inch apart.

"American dicks tiny... Russian dicks big," Ivan sneered, flexing and posing to make his muscles pop. "Russian bear bigger than American eagle. Ivan crush you and take Tatiana home."

Colt smiled but there was no humor in it. "Then come on and let's see if your dick can back up all the shit coming out of your mouth."

Steve reached between the warriors and pulled the mic from Ivan's hand as he tried to separate the men. "Colt? You sure about this? He's probably in the country illegally. We should call—"

"No!" Colt barked as he began to back away from Ivan toward his corner. "This is between me and Ivan! He's not getting Tatiana!"

"Weak American can not stand up to Ivan!" Justin snarled, slapping his chest again.

Colt reached his corner as David climbed into the ring to referee. "Then come on and show me what you've got!"

Steve glanced between the two combatants as Justin stomped to his corner and turned to face his opponent. "I hope you know what you're doing, Colt," Steve said.

"I know," Colt growled.

"Weak American..." Ivan snarled. "Prepare to be defeated! I beat you and prove to whole world Russia better than United States of puny America!"

Colt flipped Ivan off with both fingers and then waggled them, calling Ivan to him. That was new and I smiled behind the camera.

"In this corner, wearing blue trunks, standing six foot one and one-half inches, weighing 222 pounds, Colt Glea—"

"Six Shooter!" Colt yelled, cutting Steve off as he formed his hands into pistols that he fired across the ring at Ivan while making gunfire noises. While the wrestling was serious, the first round was played for some laughs to get the crowd in a festive mood.

To ensure we had good sound for our DVD's and so the audience members in the back could hear was being said in the ring, along with the sounds of the bouts, we hid small, sensitive, hypercardioid mics in each of the corner posts to feed sounds to our recording equipment and the sound system. With seven mics to choose from, the four directional mics in the corner posts, plus one each on the cameras themselves, in addition to the portable mic Steve used, we had plenty of sources to choose from to ensure we had clean sound for our DVDs and that everyone could hear everything happening in the ring, no matter where the action occurred. Greg's girlfriend, Rita, was sitting at her recording station, located next to the dressing room, watching the action on a pair of small monitors while running our sound board.

Steve paused as if confused before continuing. "Colt, Six Shooter, Gleason!" The crowd went wild. The good American versus the evil Russian schtick never got old. Steve turned his attention to Ivan. "And in this corner, wearing red trunks and standing... err... tall and weighing a lot, Ivan Cumalotov..." Steve paused as if he expected Ivan to say something, but instead, Ivan turned to the crowd, waving his hands in encouragement as they booed him enthusiastically. "The Russian Bear!" Steve finished as if making it up on the spot.

Colt and Justin continued to work the crowd as Steve crawled out of the ring and sat at a small table. On the corner, mounted to square of ¾-inch plywood, was a bell with a small steel hammer attached by a length of chain. David called the fighters into the center of the ring with a wave of his hands and pretended to give them instructions, keeping his voice low so the mics wouldn't pick up his words, but it wasn't as it appeared. David was actually asking Colt and Justin if they were ready to rumble. After making sure the combatants were ready, he backed way and pointed to Steve.

Pausing a heartbeat, allowing Colt and Ivan to glare across the ring at each other after they returned to their corners, Steve struck the bell and then prepared to do play by play for the crowd. The two men approached the center of the ring and circled slowly, sizing up their opponent before attacking.

Greg and I moved slowly around the ring as we recorded the action. The moves were all carefully choreographed by David, working with the performers for maximum visual impact and safety, so Greg and I had a pretty good idea of where we needed to be at any moment in the match to catch the best angles. Later, after we sorted through all the recordings, picking the best matches from all the shows we did, David and I would record play by play and color commentary voiceovers for the DVD, but during the matches we recorded live sound.

It was hotter than hell in the warehouse, and sweat was trickling down my back, but I wasn't nearly as sweaty as Colt and Justin as they grunted and strained, throwing each other around the ring as they bellowed in effort and pain... at least as far as the audience knew.

We were about five minutes into the bout, and it was time for my show to do what set it apart from all others. Colt grabbed Ivan and hoisted him up by the waist in an impressive display of strength, but before he could Powerbomb him, Ivan bellowed as he attempted to break out of the developing finishing move, but rather than breaking Colt's hold, he rips Colt's trunks.

Colt's trunks split along one side, the side that happened to be held together only with a strip of Velcro, and fell way. I was right there to capture it all. Colt was so surprised to find his cock hanging out it threw him off his game and his move didn't have the power it normally did. Ivan went heavily to the mat, and though hurt, Colt's Powerbomb wasn't as devastating as it should have been.

The crowd screamed in excitement as Colt stomped around the ring with wide eyed astonishment, both his hands covering his manhood as he looked for his trunks, but his trunks were nowhere to be seen. Unknown to Colt, Ivan had landed on them and they were hidden under his body.

Spared the full potency of Colt's Powerbomb, yet still grimacing in pain, Ivan slowly struggled to his feet. As Colt pranced around the ring, Ivan seemed to catch his second wind, as often happened in professional wrestling matches, and kicked Colt's trunks out of the ring as he leapt to his feet and raced across the canvas to deliver a crushing Clothesline. Ivan hit Colt so hard Colt did in a one-eighty, his legs flying high into the air as he flipped, Ivan's massive Clothesline helped along by Colt's athleticism. Colt went hard to the mat on his face and stomach, but his hands never left his crotch. As he flopped around in simulated agony, Ivan kicked him over and leapt into the air to drop on him for the pin, but Colt rolled away at the last moment and bounded to his feet. The failed pin attempt stunned Ivan for a moment, but since Colt wouldn't remove his hands from his package, all he could do was stomp on Ivan's shoulder, stamping his support foot with every blow to make it sound more dramatic than it was.

Ivan tumbled to his feet before turning on Colt, delivering blow after massive blow to Colt's face as Colt staggered back, sweat flying from Colt's sandy-brown hair with every punch. The crowd screamed for Colt to defend himself as Ivan drove him back into a corner, but Colt continued to take punishment because he was unwilling to remove his hands.

Sensing his foe was weakened, Ivan grabbed Colt by the arm and flung him across the ring in a Whip Crack, bounced him off the rope, and picked Colt up to slam him to the mat on his back in a vicious Pinwheel. I saw Colt's feet hit the mat first to soften the blow, but his scream of agony and the pain on his face sold the idea it was a devastating blow. Writhing on the canvas, Colt forgot all about his exposed cock. Ivan went in for the pin, leaping into the air before falling across Colt. The ref dropped and wildly slapped his hand on the ring floor to show the audience he was counting, but Colt got his shoulder up just before the count of three, David showing the crowd by sliding his hand under Colt's shoulder as if checking for the pin. It also gave him a chance to quickly check that neither performer was injured, allowing them to modify the stunts if someone was hurting.

Arm's shaking, the two men's thickly muscled chests and arms bulging with effort, Colt slowly forced Ivan's head back as he screamed with the effort of powering out of the pin. Ivan bellowed, trying to keep Colt down, but with quick twist, Colt escaped, rolling away as Ivan leapt to his feet. The two giant men slammed together, sweat splattering from their bodies as they duked it out, trading blow after blow, Colt's exposed cock flopping and swinging as they dueled.

Colt flung himself away from Ivan and bounced off the ropes to build momentum as he charged across the ring. Colt was clearly setting up for a Superman Punch, but Ivan ducked the finishing blow, causing Colt to charge past in a clean miss. Colt bounced off the ropes again and came at Ivan from behind as the Russian celebrated Colt's failure. Colt leapt onto Ivan's back with his legs around Ivan's head, and threw his weight forward, driving Ivan face first into the mat in a devastating Face Plant.

Ivan was stunned by the shattering move, but he was a tough bastard. As he slowly struggled to his feet, Colt stood over him, panting and sweating, before reaching down, ripping Ivan's trunks away to the delight of the screaming fans, and holding them up in triumph before throwing them out of the ring. As Ivan staggered to his feet, Colt spun the man to face him before taking him into a vicious Bear Hug. Ivan roared as he placed his hands against Colt's shoulders and arched his spine as if Colt was breaking his back. Knowing Greg was shooting wide to cover the match, I focused on the two men's crotches as their big cocks ground together.