On the Road with Puppet the Psycho Dwarf
An intrepid AAJ Writer goes behind the scenes with the little men who are willing to bleed for your enjoyment
By Gus Garcia-Roberts
The sight of four-foot-four-inch Steve Richardson—or as he’s known professionally, Puppet the Psycho Dwarf—emerging from Bar Chicago’s storage room wearing a tight red bodysuit, flanked by an escort of white-shirted bouncers, sends the roughly 250 patrons of the Gold Coast bar scurrying in two directions. Some flock to the human ring of bouncers that has formed in the center of the dance floor, where Puppet will soon perform. The rest rush to the bar, and return with Miller Lites in each hand, or miniature pitchers of Long Island iced tea with straws stuck in them. Nobody, it seems, wants to be caught sober on Midget Wrestling Night.
“Who wants to see a midget bleed tonight!” demands Tony Elliot, a three-foot-eight-inch dwarf standing on top the bar. His stage name is Teo, which stands for “Total ‘E’ Outstanding.” He’s one of six wrestlers on the active roster of the Half-Pint Brawlers, a touring dwarf troupe founded and managed by Puppet, but tonight he’s only the MC.
Like a caged pit bull, Puppet paces his enclosure as the audience cheers and takes photos. Tattooed gothic letters run down his forceps, reading “Psycho” on his right arm, and “Midget” on his left. The bar lights highlight his short bleached-blond hair and the small hoop earrings in each ear. He’s shadowed by Nate “Spyder” Webb, the Half-Pint Brawlers’ gangly, perpetually hyper six-foot-two roadie, who is filming the show for an upcoming DVD.
Teo introduces Puppet’s opponent: “The master midget of the martial arts! Standing four-foot-six, ladies, he won’t tease ya, he’ll just please ya: Lil’ Kato!” Lil’ Kato, whose real name is Chris Dube, charges from the back room, wearing a jersey emblazoned with red and yellow flames and a matching scull cap. He takes off the hat and flings it to Teo for safe-keeping. With a clean-shaven head and a neat goatee, Kato resembles a miniature version of pro wrestler “Stone Cold” Steve Austin.
“When I say fuckin’ ding, these midgets are going to go at it,” Teo says. “Fucking’ ding!”
Puppet and Kato run at each other, and Kato swings his elbow to a centimeter from Puppet’s round nose, setting off a rapid exchange of fake punches and leg grappling. This is the mild first match, designed to whet the audience’s appetite for the truly violent second event, and the fighting is hammy to the point of being good-natured. They roll cartoonishly along the bar floor, or hurl each other into the feet of security guards. At one point, a mesmerized drunk guy shuffles forward and attempts to pet Puppet on the head, before a security guard slaps his hand away and shoves him back into the crowd.
After the match, I follow Kato and Puppet and their escorts to the back room, but before I can enter, an imposing security guard steps in and blocks my path. When I explain that I’m writing an article, he’s perplexed; he’s never had to grant press clearance to the beer storage room before.
After allowing me to tentatively step in, he looks to Puppet and asks, “Is he okay?”
Puppet hesitates for a moment. I had met him before the show, for a perfunctory interview. I don’t think he was expecting for me to follow him around. Still, he gives a reluctant thumbs-up, and I move in. Puppet and Kato are sitting on stacks of beer cases, facing each other. When I pull out a notebook, Puppet eyes it suspiciously. Kato is oblivious to my presence.
“How you wanna start the next one?” he asks Puppet.
“We’ll start it with my back turned to you,” says Puppet, swigging a bottle of beer. “I’ll be talking shit, and you surprise me.”
“I’ll try to pick you up and slam you,” Kato says.
Puppet reaches into a duffel bag and fishes out a silver staple gun. “When you staple me, do ‘boom, boom, boom,’” he instructs, indicating his cheeks, chin and the bridge of his nose.
The wrestlers have given the audience outside thirty minutes to drink more, and they guzzle more than a few beers themselves. Now it’s time for the hardcore match. Puppet heads to the door, but then hesitates. He scans the room, locates a mop bucket stashed in a corner, and rushes over to relieve himself in it. When he’s finished, he pulls the spandex straps of his bodysuit back over his shoulders and picks up the staple gun.
“See you out there,” he tells Kato, and heads out into the crowd.
***
The show is over and the wrestlers have retired to the backroom to change into their street clothes. I ask Puppet how he thinks the show went.
He registers me blankly for a moment, and then scolds me with all the relish of Barry Bonds berating a post-game interviewer.
“Don’t ask me how the show went,” he says. “That’s your job as the writer, to decide that. I perform, and you write about it.”
“But, I don’t have anything to compare it to,” I protest.
“No. Don’t ask me to do your job for you,” Puppet says. He takes a large swig from his bottle of beer.
Kato is absorbed in the task of stuffing his clothing into his duffel bag.
“This wasn’t a real show,” Puppet continues. “We didn’t have a ring; we only had too wrestlers. If you write the article on just this show, I will find you…” He stops in mid-sentence, leaving the threat dangling. After a pause, he changes tone. “We’re going to Indianapolis in a few weeks,” he says, “for a big show for Camel cigarettes. Do you want to go?”
My heart fairly leaps with joy. “I’ll check my schedule,” I tell him.
