Killer Miller's corner man shoved his mouthpiece into place. The Killer worked his jaw a bit and clamped the hard plastic into position around his teeth.
With the hard bite the Killer’s eyes flew open.
“I’m deaf!” he said touching his ears.
He looked at his cornerman. The old geezer was standing in the gate, frozen, his mouthpiece placement hand still held eye-level to the Killer.
“Hey!” Killer Miller said, “What is this?” He looked at the crowd. It was row upon row of statues.
Out of shape, ordinary people, wearing dumb t-shirts, frozen in various poses. The crowd noise disappearing so suddenly it was like a reverse gunshot.
The Killer turned and walked out onto the mat with the bare feet of a champion mixed martial artist. The latex treated canvas a cushioned pad under his tough feet.
Miller thought crickets would sound like lawn mowers in this silent world.
Then there was sound. It was the monster Godzilla’s movie theme.
Someone Killer knew used that theme for their entrance music. Gonzales. Of course.
Then came a sobering thought. “I killed Gonzales in the ring. It's why they call me Killer.”
Then Killer Miller saw him walking down the aisle. It was Gonzales, his eyes, hollow sockets.
“You're dead. I killed you!” Miller screamed.
Gonzales reached the ring and the Killer could no longer move. As paralyzed as everyone else in the arena except Gonzales.
He shambled forward, his skeletal smile awful to see, drawing back his rotten arm to strike.
“Get ready champ.” his old corner man said, halting the relaxing muscle massage.
“Wake up champ.” the old man said, slapping Killer’s rear. “Nap time’s over.”
Killer Miller never woke.