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Years ago, there lived and rough necked in the Midwest a pro rassler named Sputnik Monroe.

Known as "The Original Sweet Man," Sputnik could be identified in the squared ring by his oil-black hair with the white streak going down the middle. The coiffure reminded many paying customers of a riled-up polecat. Besides the hairdo, Sputnik could also be picked out at show time by the blood on his face.

See, the deal was back in those days the rassling impresarios would pay an extra $25 to competitors who would end a match with a mug that looked like it had just gone nose-first into a barbed wire fence. The tycoons weren't much interested in whether the blood got there by fair means or foul, long as it was real.

Ambitious not to mention greedy tough guys such as Sputnik would often do self-damage to collect the extra dough in their share of the evening's cash receipts. This technique was called in the trade a "hardway." Guys had their own methods of getting the gore going and Sputnik's was to head-butt the 6-inch diameter steel ring post.

After a career-worth of such collisions, you can imagine that some of these fellows had visages that even a mother would be hard-pressed to love. Such apparently was the case with Sputnik.

But that didn't stop a young entertainer from Louisiana named Sherri from setting up housekeeping with him in his trailer in a burg called Williamston, Mich. Now Sherri was a real talent, renowned for her expertise in all arts hoochie-coochie. She came to this high station in life despite some, shall we say, physical deficiencies.

Sputnik was aware of her shortcomings and sensed with his well-honed show business instincts that said blemishes on her beauty may interfere with her future earnings potential. That might be a real problem when the trailer rent came due. An investment was in order.

So Sputnik footed the bill for generous helpings of silicone and an operation to tame a wandering eye that had interfered with her sight lines since birth.

Her gratitude for such magnanimity: She split town at the first opportunity.

Sputnik's pals tried to console the big guy. One of them kindly pointed out that once Sherri's eye got fixed and she could see straight for the first time and got a good look at her boyfriend she fled in horror.

A good-natured sort, Sputnik thought that explanation was a hoot. But he had a better reason for her flight.

"I guess shooting five holes in the trailer's floor with my pistol just before she left didn't help the situation."

The commiserating friend voiced shock at such behavior, not to mention the waste of perfectly good ammunition. Sputnik would hear nothing of it. The reason he shot holes in the floor instead of the ceiling was because he didn't want water dripping on his head when it rained.

"I may be crazy, but I'm not stupid."

This account comes to us courtesy of Jimmy Valiant, aka The Boogie Woogie Man, the sweetest guy in all of suburban Alleghany Springs and far beyond. See, Jimmy has just penned his autobiography, "Woo ... Mercy Daddy!" More accurately, Jimmy sat on the sofa and dictated to his beloved Angel, who also answers to Mrs. Valiant. Angel as it turns out is a recently discovered wordsmith who shares her husband's instinctive gift for storytelling.

These labors at the computer lasted for a full five years, a disciplined six hours a week without fail. There was a lot to cover seeing as how Valiant had rassled professionally coast-to-coast and pillar-to-turnbuckle for 40 years, a distinguished career of head-knocking that landed him booted feet first into the WWE Hall of Fame.

Now 63, he's still Handsome Jimmy. That was what the flacks once called him and it was just as true in his younger days as it is this very morning.

See for yourself from 3 to 6 p.m. this afternoon at the Christiansburg Wal-Mart. He and Angel will be selling books, $35 per, and autographing same for the masses. The literary celebration continues from noon to 4 p.m. in the same place Saturday.

The only other way you can get the book is to see the Valiants in person from noon to 4 p.m. every Sunday at his college of neck-wringing, Boogie's Wrestling Camp, which adjoins the family residence overlooking the sparkling waters of the South Fork of the Roanoke River just up the road apiece from Shawsville. Give them a call, too: 268-9868 or check out jimmyvaliant.com.

Me, I'm no literary critic, but I know what I like. This material is history like you'll find in no dusty library. Nobody, not William Shakespeare or James Frey, could make this stuff up.

Dick the Bruiser could have broken all eight of my fingers and both thumbs and it still wouldn't have prevented me from turning the pages.