Swipe left and a Face enters, all purple metallic pants, supportive boots and a baby oiled hairless chest. He’s ready to fight any Heel the café—our ring—might offer. Enter the ring so one day you might receive a gold ring. You’re either supposed to be a star or a star-fucker. Your mother will settle for a star-fucker. Prove yourself by landing the Face of her dreams. The kind who fights for the common man, the underdog, the underprivileged. This Face wants a lovely valet for life, not just a few seasons. In a culture that values shiny new features, the fact that he’s looking for forever means he’s a unicorn. It’s enough to make you swipe.

But something’s wrong. Your attention keeps getting drawn to the hard-earned, sweat-twisted dollars in his fist from the fulfillment center. Surely, they don’t pay him in physical dollars, so why is he using a prop on you? And as you’re thinking this, another man in shiny pants enters the café and points at your date. “I’m calling you out!” The man’s voice fills the room like he’s already been mic’d.

Look, you agreed to a date with a wrestler, but you did not agree to attending a match. Not in a café. Not without fucking ropes and foam padding and referees. Context, boys, is king.

He continues, “You’ve been helping the boss man bust our union for your own selfish benefit! Did he promise you Supervisor? Don’t you know that ill-gotten gains can only rot you from the inside?”

Of course, the Face you swiped on is actually a Heel. This always happens. No one’s who they say they are. Everything’s a scam. You’re fuckin’ sick of it.

The Heel rises from his seat and points at his challenger. “It’s not ill-gotten if you worked for it!”

“You don’t know what hard work is!”

The Heel lunges and punches the new guy, clearly an actual Face, five times in a row, stamping with each blow as the Face howls in pain. Everyone in the café is transfixed. A child does a spit-take. A woman has a croissant halfway to her mouth. And you are unimpressed, chewing this pumpkin spice nightmare coffee cake. How long do these things usually last?

The Face presses the Heel’s arm across his chest and falls backwards. The Heel lands face-first onto the dirty tile floor. He acts like it’s covered in anthrax. Grips his shoulder like it’s been dislocated. Not ready to let it lie, the Face struggles to get to his feet, pulls up the Heel by the neck and slams him into the dreaded café floor. The Heel appears defeated as the Face does a victory lap high-fiving the child and absorbing the adoration of the crowd. Your date twitches on the floor. It’s night of the living Heel. He rises from the grave of a floor, shaking and red from rage. “It’s not over yet!”

The Face twists around as the Heel charges and clotheslines him. They both fall backwards and hit their heads. The match is over, and these dudes are idiots. If you have to enter the ring—and you don’t have to, really, the audience is fun enough—you won’t be a valet to a third-rate villain not even entertaining enough to make it to the big show one day. A local douchebag with big dreams and a loud mouth. You’d rather sit on the sidelines. Or better yet, avoid the ring all together. Stepping over the Heel, you delete the app you met him on, grab the rest of that woman’s croissant, and listen to the barista call a couple of ambulances for the heaving, panting, moaning drama queens on the floor. Everyone applauds.