It’s 2001, in a badly lit corner of the Levin Cosmopolitan Club. It has become apparent that “Cosmopolitan” is an ambitious name for the club. There is a stage in the corner, a mic and a lot of farmers staring at P-Funk Chainsaw, my professional wrestling alter ego.
P-Funk is dressed in tights and flared jeans and talking in an African American accent. The crowd consists of hardened men who’d prefer to watch
