By Baron Lawrence Alegdrop
Some time ago I was talking over professional wrestling carny lingo and I was told something that I found somewhat demeaning. I was told that in true carny lingo, a mark was anyone who followed the shows, angles, storylines and business fanatically, while a smark, or smart mark, was really only those who have had some sort of experience in the ring, whether it be ring announcing, setting up rings, carrying bags, calling matches, or even wrestling.

I did not hold this to be true at the time that I heard it. I had been following the sport for over twenty years, and had been what many call an "insider"for almost ten at this time. What could I possibly not know by just because I wasn't "there?"

Then I got my big chance.

Seymore Snott of Southern Championship Wrestling told me he was planning to make some changes to his character. He wanted to get a manager and turn heel, and asked Count Grog, evil doer of SCW (and behind the scenes their promoter) to be his manger, but Grog thoughtfully told him he didn't have the time to put into it.

That's where I came in. I half kiddingly suggested myself as his new manager, and we eventually came up with the gimmick that I would be Seymore's manager, cousin, and chess partner, Ulysses S. Snott.

So here I am in the middle of the manager of North Carolina's Heavyweight Champion. In my first show Seymore was facing Danger Zone Heavyweight Champion Caesar Augustus for the title. My man gets introduced to his usual reaction, and then true to what Augustus told us in the back, Caesar gets a great babyface reaction.

"Here's my chance to make or break this match," I think to myself, and I start trying to hush the crowd from cheering Augustus. Like almost any other fans in the entire world who've seen even one pro wrestling match in their lives, the crowd cheered louder for Augustus the more I tried hushing them. It was at this moment that I realized what they meant by a being a true "smark."

To say Seymore had more confidence in my abilities than I did would be an understatement. In the back he built the whole match around my interference, and we
got a great heel reaction. Half way through, I was to spray the Snott mainstay, sillystring, at Augustus' manager, Glutius Maximus. I do so and he chases me around the ring. I run into the ring for refuge, hand the can of silly string off to Seymore who uses it as a weapon for a close two-count. At this point I start ad-libbing, and pounding the mat hysterically that the ref made a slow count.

Later in the same match, Seymore slaps on the figure-four leglock, and I do a little J.J. Dillon interference right in front of the referee. He starts admonishing me, and I think, "What do I do now, I can't deny it, I did it right in front of him." Then I realize, "Hey, we're heels, I can lie." So I start crossing my heart that it wasn't me.

In the end, I had to distract the ref while my man was being pinned. Then Caesar grabs me and Seymore tries to hit him from behind, but Caesar ducked and I got
nailed! And the crowd popped!!! I couldn't believe it, they actually popped! Seymore wound up getting rolled up for three.

I was nonetheless invited back for future shows.

For my next venture I had two roles. First I had to be another body in a battle royal, and then I was back in Seymore's corner.

I have a habit of telling those in the back that I don't really "work" (meaning I'm not trained), and that what I do I do very loose (in other words, just touch me and I'll sell like crazy). This becomes important later.

So here I come down the aisle when my name is called for the big battle royal. I get on the apron and do the Scicluna salute in homage to Baron Mikel Scicluna (who had a 30 year career in professional wrestling and never took one bump). I enter the ring and hit some giant yellow body. The body turns and it's none other than Major DeBeers.

About thirty seconds later DeBeers sent both me and Seymore over the top, eliminating us.

In the back I'm told Seymore will be teaming with Scab to meet the team of Sex, Love, and Money later on. I also notice they have a blonde, voluptuous valet named Brandi Richardson. I've seen enough wrestling on television to know exactly where this is headed already.

My man pins a member of Sex, Love and Money when Brandi distracts the referee. I jump in to argue my case to the ref, which leads to an argument with
Brandi, and she hauls off and gives me huge potato slap across the face and the fans begin coming unglued. I grab Brandi by the hair, throw over my knee, and hold up the Snott mainstay, the flyswatter, to teach this girl a lesson on her backside and now the crowd is just going ape-shit. But before I can administer some
Snott-justice I take a kick to the back of the head and go out like a light.

My team lost again, but I had a moral victory. My wife and her friend were in the front row of the crowd, and when I got kicked I stayed down the rest of the match, a good two minutes or so. Afterwards, both Seymore and Scab ran over and "helped" me to the back. I kayfabed them all. THAT, my friends, is the mark of a true smark.

Sir Lawrence Alegdrop is a disgraced member of the British royalty with an affinity for pro wrestling. He is ably assisted by Bill Camp.