Monthly Archives: December 2025

Perclusio (per-clu’-si-o): A threat against someone, or something.

I couldn’t help myself. I had a rare psychological disorder. I had been in therapy for three years and still couldn’t kick it. Therapy was costing me thousands of dollars. I didn’t know what to do.

I had “Wrestler’s Disease.” I made threats like professional wrestlers make at each other before they get into the ring to wrestle each other. The first known manifestations of the disease took place in the 1950s among the professional wrestlers, Fancy Mooh Mooh, Boboo Bulgaria, Garnish George, and Killer Chester Locks. Before these four wrestling stars, “the threat” was non-existent. Wrestlers just got in the ring and wrestled—may the best man or woman win.

Then, on January 12, 1953 before he entered the ring Boboo Bulgaria yelled at Killer Chester Locks: “You’re a dead man. You’re weak. You’re doomed.” Killer had to respond: “Ok Boboo—you’re toast. Get ready to bleed. Get ready to die.” The crowd went wild and chanted “Weak, doomed, die!” It was amazing. Fancy Mooh Mooh and Garnish George were on the slate and were next up. They decided to hurl insults at each other like Boboo and Killer had done, hoping to please the crowd too. Fancy Mooh Mooh yelled at George: “You look like a blond middle-aged hooker: flabulous. I’m going to demolish your fat old butt.” George was infuriated. Mooh Mooh’s threat cut deep. He was thinking about strangling her in the ring. He cupped his hands and yelled: “Get ready to be a one-armed Mooh Mooh. Shortly, I will tear you apart like a piece of typewriter paper.” The crowd went berserk yelling “flabulous, flabulous,” and “tear the paper, tear the paper, tear the paper.” Audience members tore their shirts and blouses like paper, made eating motions with phantom forks, and blew up their cheeks like they were fat.

Of the four, only Boboo caught Wrestler’s Disease, also known formally as “Threatalossia.” Boboo couldn’t stop threatening people—from his wife to his church’s priest who he threatened to make drink the holy water at the church’s entrance. Father Peter Paul Mary Ringo John reported Boboo to the Archbishop and Boboo was excommunicated, breaking his heart. There was no way back into the church, given the gravity of what he’d done. But, his wife came to his aid. “Lay one finger on me and I’ll blow your brains out you old hag,” Boboo said to her as she approached him with open arms. She had learned that his threats were empty: they would never be acted on. She put her arms around Boboo and kissed him on the ear. They got into a waiting Uber and went home. When Boboo learned his threats were empty, he was cured. They began packing together for a vacation trip to Bulgaria where Boboo was a national hero.

That’s what I needed: somebody to call out my threats as empty. But, I owned a handgun, a stiletto, a plastic bag, and a chainsaw. These were implements of murder. They made my continuing threats to kill my dentist quite possible, not empty. So, I got rid of my killing tools, making my threats to kill my dentist empty. At my next appointment I told him I was going to kill him if he caused me any pain. He laughed and held up hid drill and told me I was the third person that day to make that threat: “It goes with the turf,” he said waving his drill around: “Empty threats.”

Just then a big man holding a handgun came through the door. He yelled “You fu*ker! I told you I would!” and emptied his handgun into Dr. Hurty’s head. This scared “the threat” out of me. But, it was only temporary. Two days later, I threatened to push a man off his bar stool if he didn’t stop eating the peanuts in a bowl on the bar. I had no real reason for threatening him, just the “threatalossia” I suffered from.

Things have improved a little. I’ve gotten a job as a debt collector for “Gotcha!” a national debt collection agency. I make threats all day long on a commission. I scare the hell out of delinquent payees. Some beg. Some cry. Some offer themselves or their spouses. When they do that, I press them even harder and tell them our truck is on the way to repossess their washing machine, or couch, or hot tub, etc. Or, a realtor is on the way to put a for sale sign on their front lawn.

Although things have improved substantially since I got the debt collector’s job, I err from time to time. Yesterday, I threatened to saw off my wife’s feet if she didn’t get better at dancing. She knew it was an empty threat, but she started taking dance lessons anyway. She loves me.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

Daily Trope is available in an early edition on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

This story is purely fictional. The citation of professional wrestlers by name is not intended as fact.