The goody inserts the lead of a PlayStation controller into the baddy's anus. The baddy - no longer in control of his actions - dances badly before attacking his own tag-team partners. Or it could be the baddy controlling the goody. After a while it gets difficult telling the technos (good) and the rudos (bad) apart. We're talking men with the lean, long, muscled torsos of steroidal whippets; contact lens-wearing ginger blokes with the pot bellies, muffin tops and flabby muscles of real people; and wolfish, 7ft tall oaken-thighed old-skool fortysomething retro-brutes clad in jackboots and Judas Priest-style studded black faux-leather S&M knickers.
Then there's the guys in masks. Like Delirious, who starts each bout crouched and scared and, when the bell rings, starts shrieking in Biblical tongues. Or the Colony, comprised of Worker Ant, Fire Ant and Soldier Ant. Or Los Chivas, who wear goat masks and the shirts of Chivas FC, the Mexican-supported deadly rivals of David Beckham's LA Galaxy. Then there's my favourites, Los Ice Creams. These shrieking cowards wear truly disturbing insect-eyed Grand Guignol horror masks resembling scoops of raspberry syrup drizzled ice-cream and move like ballet dancers in the middle of a grand mal seizure.
Welcome to the strange world of Chikara wrestling. "It's like if you took Mexican, American and Japanese wrestling and comic books and you put them in a really big blender," says long time wrestling villain Mitch Ryder. It's hard not to stare at Mitch. He has a polar bear buzz-cut, pale blue eyes, a voice roughened by cigarettes and whisky, and the dark orange skin of the professional bodybuilder. He wins one fight tonight by hiding a razor down his unitard. But we don't see any blood. There's no gore or cussing in Chikara.
Six hundred fans have packed out the Alhambra arena in Philly. Wandering around the a pre-fight meet 'n' greet wearing a blood-stained white coat is Dr Cube, the infamous Nazi plastic surgeon, super villain of another (even stranger) wrestling federation Kaiju Big Battel (which also features a toxic waste-flinging pile of New Jersey garbage). Also present tonight are fans of much bloodier (and cussier) schools of DIY wrestling, where the barbed wire wrapped around the baseball bats is real, even if the totally unexpected mid-match invasion by a "local ninja school" probably isn't.
The last time I looked in on pro-wrestling, the US was working out its Reagan-era psychosexual issues by beating up on unitarded Russians and Arabs. Time before that it was Kendo Nagasaki being battered around the ring with an umbrella by an 85-year-old Big Daddy fan-granny. The last fighting event I went to was a mixed martial art event in England where I reckon just about everybody in the audience could have kicked my ass. Tonight I reckon I'm cock. I could probably take anyone here.
Except the wrestlers. Last night's highlight was a trio of East London boys - Sha Samuels, Terry Frazier and Martin Stone - who fight as The Firm. They pretended to be "pretty stereotypical pissed football hooligans", says Stone, taunting the lone German in the crowd with "two world wars and one world cup", singing Always Look On the Bright Side of Life when getting battered, and telling the laughing, booing, yelling crowd to "hush your gums".
"They're the best villains I've seen in a long, long time," says indie wrestling expert Arthur Shimko Jr.
To my left sits a 30-something chap wearing the soccer style promo scarf issued by Billy Bragg backing band Wilco. To my left are a couple of Mexican guys. In front is a row of people with Downs Syndrome. And in front of them a row of youths in garish green, yellow and red luchadore masks. They are all doggedly fixed on the action.
Behind me are a bunch of smart-arse white students, already drunk on the plastic beakers of fizzy fake beer they're clutching, desperately trying to impress the only female in their party with ironic comments designed to shatter the willful suspension of disbelief of those around them. They're tedious in the extreme. And racist. Japanese wrestlers are called "Charlie" and invited to show their green cards. Mexican wrestlers are treated even worse.
But these boors are not typical. This is a sussed crowd who knowingly contribute to the punk rock DIY atmosphere. Many of them might bear an uncanny resemblance to the Comic Book Guy outta The Simpsons but these dudes are way smarter than the average rock fan (still obsessed with the incredibly silly notion that showbiz should be "authentic").
The line between fake and real is not so much walked as criss-crossed willy-nilly. Indie wrestling is the first truly post-modern sport. For all its cartoon daftness, in indie wrestling reality is subtly layered - a fact emphasized when Chuck Taylor lies on his back and shakes, mocking a wrestler who was seriously (and really) injured in a previous show (the official Chikara cover story is that he had a car crash). And there's the spectacle of fans competing with masked wrestlers in a Chikara video game where the wrestlers manipulate virtual icons of themselves. Sport will eat itself.
There's even a patina of politics. I ask mohawked wrestler Erik Cannon who wears an anarchist A on his keks and enters to the Sex Pistols Anarchy in the UK, if he is in fact an anarchist. "Well I believe in each to his own," says Erik. "So in that sense, yes sir, I am."
Bless.
The there's the Southern Saints, a tag team containing two African American wrestlers from Memphis who wear redneck "The South Will Rise" T-shirts and Confederate flag capes. It's a joke that works on many levels, nearly all of which are probably lost on those who come to sneer. A bit like indie wrestling itself, in fact.
