Sandra Anderson Wrestling Champ

There's a secret island in the Gulf of Mexico that people in-the-know call the Shithouse. To get there you need to find the one barbecue place in Galveston that sells chili with beans, and attack the waitstaff. You'll be thrown in jail, and the next morning they'll put you into a barrel with some cornbread and a plastic bottle of purple drink. Or you can take a boat.

Sandra just wanted to know where her son was going on the weekends, and now she found herself stuffed into a barrel. It reminded her of her sorority's hazing tradition of nailing pledges into coffins and stacking them up like dominoes. She never let her sisters know how much she hated it. The year she found herself in charge of nailing the coffins, she left a little gap so the pledges could breathe. She caught some suspicious glances when it was discovered that not a single person died, but nobody had the courage to outright accuse Sandra Anderson, wrestling champ.

There was a knock on the lid of the barrel. After some time, Sandra pushed up and the top popped off. Sunlight flooded her prison. She shielded her eyes, and while they adjusted to the brightness, her ears tuned in on the sound of laughter. Visions of children playing faded into view. All around here were young men playing trading card games. They were having the time of their lives, enjoying their youth to the fullest. Without a care in the world, they slammed cards into the sand and shouted triumphantly. It was disgusting.

Sandra panicked and scanned the island for any sign of her son. Her heart skipped a beat. There he sat between two coconut trees, shuffling his deck.

"Shubert Anderson!" she shouted. Everyone froze.

She and her son locked eyes for a solid hour. Nobody dared move, until suddenly a coconut fell from a tree with a thud.

With almost alarming discipline the boys formed a wall between her and Shubert. She tore through them like paper dolls. Some boys tried throwing cards at her, but she caught them. She threw the cards back, shearing the children into pieces. Those brave enough to try and wrestle her down found their bones shattered, if they were lucky. The less fortunate were shoved into each others' orifices.

"Stop," said Shubert, putting an end to the chaos. "Mom, I'm done with wrestling. I just want to play card games--."

Sandra rudely spoke over him, not allowing him to finish. "Did you quit wrestling?"

"Yes," he said. "That's what I'm trying to tell--."

"This is a wrestling family," she said. "I'm bringing you home."

Sensing that his mother wouldn't listen to reason, Shubert pulled a card from his pocket. The surviving boys around him shouted. *No! You're crazy! Not that card!*

Shubert revealed the card, and Sandra's eyes widened. Before anyone could react, they could hear the bombers approaching. They stood without saying a word. As the bombs came whistling downward, Sandra fell into the sand, looking up at her baby boy.

"Was I bad mother?" she asked.

"You were the worst."

As the world fell apart, she lunged out for one last strangle, which Shubert confused for a hug.