Jerry Lawler was, simply, the King of Memphis. Still is. Still makes appearances there, still WRESTLES there on occasion. People know his name. He's not Elvis, but he's close. He was the most popular man in that area in the 80's, bar none. What was interesting about Memphis is that, there was also Dutch Mantell. Dutch Mantell was kind of Stone Cold Steve Austin before Stone Cold Steve Austin. A short, stout Yosemite Sam-ish character with a permanent winter coat who hailed from Oil Trough, Texas. And he was a total bad ass. One of the few men who could toe the line as an opponent for Lawler, while still keeping fans. More importantly, one of the few men with a clean win over Lawler.
He was never content being the King's second fiddle and two days prior to this match he demanded a Loser Leaves Town match on their weekly studio show to settle things once and for all. After 10 minutes Dutch tried to call a truce. He said that the First Family (Jimmy Hart's stable) were in the back laughing at them, because they're beating on one another instead of beating on them. With the support of the audience, Lawler extended his hand. Just like the outlaw he is, Dutch blindsides him, and delivers a piledriver and his patented elbow drop. He counts his own pin and leaves with the Southern Heavyweight Championship.
A lot of people don't understand the barbed wire match. Or they've seen a thousand hardcore matches in Japan where people do everything short of sodomy with it (though I wouldn't be surprised to be wrong about that). You think of it physically. Barbed wire doesn't just exist as a prop to bleed though.
When I grew up on the farm we used to have lines of it going down the road. Behind it was open fields where you'd see cows spread out every 20 feet or so, but you didn't see a single one near the barbed wire. I didn't know any better and I'd make a game out of climbing in between the strands every now and again. The strands were just far enough apart for my tiny frame to pass through unscathed. I'd dart back and forth until someone swatted me on the head and told me to go inside. The cows never seemed to care that someone was infiltrating their broad homes. They'd never even look my way.
Further down the road, another half mile is where they kept the bulls. A bull. In particular. His name was Hombre. He'd stalk the barbed wire like it was his greatest enemy. There were about 8 bulls spread out over a mile and Hombre would be the only one you'd see because he'd look you straight in the eye. It was notable that he had cuts all over himself that had slowly sealed up leaving scars along his front.
"That's the only god damn bull I've ever met that won't learn a lesson."
That's what my Grandpa used to say. I moved up just outside of the barbed wire in front of those bulls. The wire here was weaved around with a thicker consistency. There were horizontal and vertical strands, like some kind of deadly tic tac toe board. I gave it the once over, and surmised that this would be a challenge. As a child of the 80's a foolish, deadly outdoor activity was kind of the 20-kill Call of Duty streak of today.
I stuck the toe of my shoe through one of the tiny squares and aimed it at the ground on the other side. I swore I felt the ground shake. My shoe leather brushed the ground and I turned my gaze to it. I saw one of the bulls give me a cursory glance, then turn his nose up at me. I ducked my arm through next, up to the shoulder. My head followed next and then, there it was again. I could feel my shoes shiver around my foot. I lifted my head, looking for a jackhammer or a tractor around somewhere. It began raining, my hair was quickly getting soaked. I checked the skies but they were clear. I reached up to dry my head but it was thick and syrupy. My hand was crimson. That was my first brush with barbed wire. I did what any kid would do I cried and tried to pull myself out quickly, but my sweater was stuck on the steel barb. I couldn't even feel the one that cut open my head but now it burned like a volcano spewing out thick dark lava.
As I dangled just outside the bull's domain I saw the cause of my questioning. Hombre was at the fence glaring at the threads of my sweater. Up close I could count how many times he tore down this bladed fence that was holding me currently. One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six. Each cut was just a little bit further back on his body, indicating increasing success. With one stroke he sent his horns at the wire and murdered half of my sweater. I was on my butt just outside the wire staring up, bewildered. I could hear gruff screams of "GOD DAMMIT" behind me as the farmers were running to meet me. Hombre took another swipe and another swipe; his head was bleeding and now sticking through one of the holes. He was wearing the fence like a masochistic necklace. He thrusted again and again until his horn was at my chest. He looked drowsy and dazed. His stare went from gruff to grimace. I was picked up by the scruff of what was left of my sweater. Hombre was passed out. Bloody. Exhausted. The fence now looking like it gave birth to a 3000 lbs. bull. Blood dripped from the cuts just before his hind legs. A new personal best.
My Grandpa pulled me face to face with him. I thought I had blood caked into my eye, but when I wiped it away his face was still that red. He was angry. He put an old handkerchief on top of my head and pressed down. He was looking for a couple of the few non-cusswords in his day to day vocabulary.
"God D....Son of a.....Boy, I hope you know now."
I nodded. That Barbed Wire isn't a fence. It's a line. And when you cross it, you pay.
When Dutch and Lawler step in, and they wrap the wire around, that's the line. Nobody is in and nobody is out.
The match is much less a match than a fight. The crowd is raucous. Firmly behind Lawler, but you can hear a ton of Dutch supporters as well. This is a blood feud. They don't start off with headlocks or arm wringers. They punch one another. And hard. And when one of them is on the ground in peril, they get dragged to the barbed wire in an attempt to maim the other.
As they're exchanging shoulder blocks, full speed, Dutch takes the upper hand when he uses a Thesz Press. Lance Russell points out that Lawler's attention was diverted as he hit the ropes, being careful of the wire, thus giving Mantell the advantage.
With it, he gets the first cut, pulling the wire and poking a hole over Lawler's left eye. As Dutch stalks him in the corner, Lawler turns the tide with a boot to the face. Lawler immediately goes for his revenge dragging Dutch right over to the ring ropes and yanking the wire up to his face, stabbing at his forehead with it. Both men bleeding profusely, Dutch is a man backed in a corner now and he's not afraid to fight like one, kicking Lawler low to take the advantage back.
The finish is Rocky without the gloves. The two men rip into one another with the biggest, stiffest looking punches you will ever see in Professional Wrestling. They both fly to separate sides of the ring, bouncing off the ropes only to swing wildly. Finally, they slam into one another a final time. Dutch falls, Lawler, wearily, stumbled into the ropes and falls on top of him for the pin.
Bloody. Exhausted. The line crossed.
