OFF CAMERA: Italy (two days before losing the ACW Women's Championship)
On her own insistence, she was alone at one of the fanciest hotels in Italy— the room having been comped to her by CWF management as she was in town to take part in yet another battle royal for another title opportunity. Matt was busy, training for his own upcoming World Title defense against Simon Swinger in FTW. He'd been next to useless to her over the past few weeks, pushing himself so hard that he almost didn't notice she was even there. She'd pulled away from her friends, fearful that they'd see how close things were to coming unraveled for her. She felt like a bad person for letting Mikaela twist in the wind, knowing that she needed her now more than ever. Mired in that mental soup, she couldn't even bring herself to log in to Twitter. She hadn't sat down to draft something— anything to say against Vixen. The whole game of cat and mouse had grown tiresome in ways she couldn't really explain.
There was no other sound in the hotel room, besides the faint pounding in her head. Once again she had a migraine brewing; she'd been crunching aspirins dry all afternoon. It was most likely stress, she knew, but the less rational part of her mind was fixated on compressed discs and cracked bones— she'd become a hypochondriac, it seemed. The fact that she was going to be going into her first title defense in ACW didn't do much to help matters, especially when it was against the likes of Vixen.
"Shut up," she muttered, leaping off the bed and stalking across the room towards the mini fridge, against her better judgment. What Matt didn't know certainly wouldn't hurt him. Odds were that he wouldn't even notice if she was half in the bag by the time he dragged himself back from the gym and rolled into bed. She rummaged inside; the sound of glass clinking together filled the thick silence. She was becoming unhinged, reverting back into the unstable psycho bitch she'd been last fall— not that she noticed. She'd always been pretty oblivious to that aspect of her personality.
"God, this sucks," she murmured, pawing through the bottles inside the fridge, trying to find one that struck her fancy.
On the screen of her laptop, the cursor blinked at the end of a few paragraphs of a blog she would probably never post.
Once upon a time I thought it would be cool to have friends in this business. Friends and family. I wanted to have an entourage, a group of people that I could hang out with, go shopping with— people I could call if I needed to chat. And then I hooked up with Matt Ford, my debut with CWF happened and it all fell apart.
There are things most of you don't know about me. And then there are things that everyone knows and recites like gospel: Nessa hates to lose. Take it one step further. She will do anything to win. It's true. I will do anything to secure a victory. I will break my bones. I will put my body on the line. I will double and even triple-cross friends, family members— doesn't matter. There are no friends between the ropes.
I'm not sure I even know myself anymore, let alone anyone else. I've become some deleted scene of overblown proportions. Some psycho bitch that makes everyone cringe. One thing is certain: if I fail spectacularly in my very first title defense, they'll be nodding and laughing because it was expected. I can't let that happen. I can't fail. I can't stand the thought of looking that ridiculous.
The laptop's screen went black as the green symbols of the Matrix code began to trickle down from the top. A moment later it fell to the floor, thankfully landing amid discarded pillows as she swept it aside before sprawling across the bed. She held an open bottle in each hand, both beer— one an imported Heineken and the other something called Nastro Azzurro. The pounding was growing worse, accompanied by a loud buzzing that she couldn't figure out the source of. Daylight was fading fast and the buzzing was inside her head.
She took a long swallow from one bottle, downing the contents in one shot. Her eyes drifted closed, as she tried in vain to shut out the relentless noise and the pain. The buzzing got louder, and she realized, finally, that it was her cell phone, buried beneath the pillow she lay on. Fishing it out, she glared at the display. Three missed calls, all from the same number with an unfamiliar area code. Jackson? Mikaela?
She didn't have time to ponder it too much before the phone danced in her hands, almost squirming from her grasp as it rang again. Groaning, she rolled over, knocking the empty beer bottle to the floor. "Hello?"
"Where are you?" The voice was gruff, definitely on the business side of pissed off. Jackson.
"What do you mean?" She snapped, staring up at the ceiling. "I'm sitting in my hotel room, pretending to be something I'm not."
"I know that, dipshit." There was a protracted inhale, and she knew he was lighting one of his cancer sticks. "And I'm downstairs in the fuckin' lobby, waiting for you—"
"Crap."
"Forgot, didn't you?" He didn't really seem surprised.
"Keep your shirt on," she mumbled, "I'll be there in five." Ending the call, she sat up slowly.
True to her word, she was out the door in less than five minutes. He stood in front of the window in the lobby, one foot propped on the ledge, leaning on his knee. His hair was getting shaggy, long over the ears, getting more silver every time she saw him. They were both getting too old, although he had eight years on her. With absent motions, he brought the cigarette to his lips, taking one last drag before crushing it out in the crystal ashtray on the ledge. He blew the smoke towards the vaulted ceiling, his brow furrowed in thought as he watched her walk towards him like a ghost in the reflection.
"You look like shit," he began, the voice raspy as he pulled out another cigarette, lighting it quickly, "how you holding up?"
"Not so good," she muttered, reaching out and taking the cigarette from his hand. She slipped it between her lips and took a long drag. "I have to ask you this, not because I'm trying to... get a handle on this whole champion business, or because I want to use it to cut a promo..." her eyes slid in the direction of the glass, almost as if she was paranoid that they were being watched.
"Then ask." He turned those dark eyes on her, staring.
"How do you do it?" her voice cracked, "how do you stay on top so effortlessly? How did you manage all those almost year-long reigns?"
"I don't know." He said slowly, shaking his head, "there's no easy answer to that. Shit, I've been struggling lately myself."
"You don't understand-" she started, but he cut her off with a look that would melt glass.
"First title. Yeah. I understand. My first was a fluke. I kept it for 295 days." He shrugged, "you were there. What did I do so different? I don't fucking know. You get it in your head that you're the champion, and you make that important. You breathe it. You fuckin' dream it. You jettison the baggage that doesn't matter and you keep your focus. Maybe not so easy for you. You're too worried about being a bitch on Twitter. Too wrapped with that self-righteous asshole—"
"Don't," she cautioned.
"It's true, Ness. He's a shitbag and he's gonna break your heart. The image doesn't matter; quit trying to be this good little girl just because you're hanging off his arm."
"I don't—"
"You do. This is who you are, Ness. A snarky little bitch who thinks she's a genius. You're not some puppy kissing sycophant. You go out there and you put ACW on notice instead of playing the touchy-feely respect shit your boyfriend gets off on."
She flinched, eyes narrowing as she opened her mouth to rip a strip off him for the audacity, and then giving up. There was no use in arguing. Brad Jackson was the only one on the planet who knew her inside and out and she had sold out completely.
"Tell me something," the words came from his lips along with a cloud of smoke, and she stiffened, wondering what he was going to ask, "you actually happy with this asshole?"
She groped for an answer, but the words died on her tongue as he reached out and grabbed her hand, dragging her towards the door.
"C'mon," he snapped, "there's booze in the bar calling my name."
Half a minute later she was seated across from him, already sipping from a glass of red wine. The music wasn't that loud, just the sounds of some woman singing a sad song in Italian. It seemed fitting somehow. She toyed with a strand of her hair while she stared off into space.
"You know you can tell me anything, right?" Jackson said with that familiar look on his face. He was trying to read her, trying to dig beneath her walls.
"Yeah," Nessa replied, "but some things probably shouldn't be said."
"Yeah, not as long as you and that prick are attached at the hip. Where is he anyhow?"
"Shut up!" She shouted, cutting him off, "don't. Don't get in the middle of this, Brad. Please? I just... I needed someone to talk to and... I can't talk to Matt about this. I can't let him see that my confidence is all for show."
Jackson snorted in derision, and lifted his glass of Scotch to his lips. "If you can't talk to him about your feelings, your little love-fest is a trainwreck waiting to happen. You know that."
"Don't," she snapped, "don't talk about my love life, and I won't talk about yours. Just tell me how to beat her. I need to get inside her head. Tell me how to get under her skin?"
"Don't be stupid," he growled in response, "you want to beat her? Really? No-sell her as hard as she's gonna do you. Piss her off. The little egos can't take that and to me she seems pretty small-time. Big fish, little pond. I mean... SCW? RMP? Any place in the NWA is a backwater dive, babe. You know that... hey, talk about RMP— she was one of the few who remained after the mass exodus— shit, that's all I know of her, really. I know she gets around. Think she's actually wrestling in that other Sin City Wrestling where Amy Marshall works."
"Not helpful. I knew all that already from ten seconds on Google."
"Fine, shit. Whatever. What the hell do you want me to say? She's not invincible, Nessa. Right now, you are. You're the woman to beat. You're the one who hasn't been pinned clean or submitted since you started. It's all coming up roses and you're fixated on the shit that fertilized them. Snap out of it."
"That's it? That's the best you've got?"
"Sorry, babe. I'm not Yoda." He rolled his eyes and downed the rest of his drink, "shit or get off the pot— there is no try."
"You think he'll still love me if I lose?" She blurted the question so abruptly he almost jerked in surprise.
"No," laughter came from between his lips, "no fuckin' way I'm getting dragged into this conversation."
"Please, Brad. If it was Lyv sitting here, asking you the same thing-"
He shook his head, lips thinning down into that hard line as a furrow carved a slash between his dark brows. "She wouldn't, because if you have to ask yourself something like that, it's not love."
Nessa moved to her feet, striding towards the door. "God, you're so useless! I don't even know how Lyv stands you."
"Whatever," Jackson said, shrugging his shoulders. "Run off half-cocked like you always do. Nothing's changed— you're just a basket case with a title belt now."
"Shut up," she whispered vehemently, pressing her fists against her temples in childish frustration. "Stop being so....." she groped for a word but none came.
"Reasonable? Whatever, Ness. Do what you want. Let them see what they want. Frankly, I don't even fucking care anymore. Just remember my offer: I'll have your back when the time comes." He chuckled sarcastically. "You want advice. Here goes: I used to have this little thing... a mantra. Never sold any shirts with it... but it was good enough for getting that spark going. Rebel. Revolt. Riot. Buncha tired bullshit I used to say to psych myself up. Somewhere along the way it lost its meaning for me, but maybe it'll help you."
"Rebel? Against what? What's my revolution, Brad? I just want to be the best." She groaned, "rebel against the idea that Vixen is better than me?"
He laughed softly, leaning back in his chair, "right now, she is. I bet you dollars to fuckin' donuts that she isn't ripping herself to shreds over the prospect of facing you. She's probably already written you off. She's going to rip you apart and eat you alive and you'll be sitting on your ass with a stunned look wondering what the hell just hit you."
"I can beat her," her voice was small, "I did it before. I can..." swallowing hard, she continued, "do it again."
"Gonna have to convince me, because right now I see a sorry little bitch, sitting here whining about how much it sucks to be champion. Defending the belt is part of the deal, babe. Depressing, isn't it?" The words came from his lips as he shrugged, "revolt, Nessa. Take those words and put them in your heart."
"You make it sound so easy."
He smirked. "I don't expect this to rock your world." His voice was raspy, a throaty grumble, "this is your title reign. Make it what you want. You want to be known as a joke, so be it. You want to be the one who didn't hold it past the first defense— the transitional champion, then that's what you need to prepare for. You build your reality one brick at a time. Is this where you want to stay? Do you want to be the most feared and respected woman in ACW or is this just a passing thing?"
"You know I do."
"Then prove it. Not to me. To them. You can't run your mouth on the Internet and then expect them to take you seriously. It's not all about the mind game, Nessa. You need to slap the bitches back in line. The second they start to pick at your flaws— real or imagined, you need to be ready. You need to let that shit roll right off your back and be ready with a counter. Counterpoint. A fucking move to put them on their back. Whatever is necessary. You need to remember that pride ALWAYS comes before a fall. Perception is reality. This game, almost as much mental as it is physical... and you know you've got pretty much everyone in this locker room beat with that. Rockin' body. Brains galore. You outwitted all those bitches to win the thing in the first place, remember?"
"Yeah," she bowed her head, feeling like a child, "I just... I take this too seriously. I want to make him proud."
"For what it's worth, I'll be cheering for you. I'm sure there are others out there who will too."
Nessa opened her mouth to reply, but at that precise moment, both of their cell phones began ringing. They exchanged a look and burst out laughing as they pulled out nearly identical phones. A familiar face flashed across her screen, making her grin— Matt! "I should probably take this," she said, already thumbing the button.
Jackson nodded, checking his own display, "yeah, me too," he replied.
Nessa was already moving away, talking quietly into the phone with a blush creeping over her cheeks, and the sappiest grin ever on her face. He watched her go, shaking his head. There was definitely something wrong with her, and it wasn't just that the pressures of being a champion were getting to her. He just hoped she managed to pull her head out of her ass before she cracked up completely.
==================================
(Against The Wall blog posting || 08-09-2013)
So here we are. The streak was broken in ACW. I have LEGITIMATELY lost a match. Figured I'd bring that up so you won't have to. No, Virginia— there isn't a Santa Claus— but there is someone out there feeling pretty benevolent. When I read that there was an open challenge extended to the women of ACW on Twitter, I jumped at the opportunity. I bet you're wondering why. Go ahead and ask the question since it's apparently only rhetorical to me.
When you fall, you get back up and you try again.
Failure isn't the end of things. Nope. It's a learning experience and that ACW Women's Championship was my very first time holding a belt. EVER. So, I didn't make it past the first defense. I'm still in the record books as the first woman to hold it.
We'll be honest here. I actually lost a match before that one but I never really counted it because the guy who pinned me in BWF hit me with a FOREIGN OBJECT to pull that off. Not really one you want to chalk down in the column without that explanation in brackets next to it. Sounds pretty catty when I write it that way, but it's never my intention to be maliciously mean. I can't help but dwell on that niggly little thought in the back of my head. As far as battle royals go, I've won every single one I have ever been in.
In Femme Fatale Wrestling's Future Shock, I even won go-kart racing and bull riding. I think a little scuffle above a swimming pool is going to be easy enough.
It's a bit like déjà vu all over again when I stare at the names on my computer screen. Every last one sparks a memory, little tidbits of history coming into my head. The champion: Necra Kane. I've seen her mentioned before. I know that she held a tag team championship with Amy Marshall. I've heard whispers that she's tough but that's nothing more than hearsay until I see it for myself. Sure, I've reviewed tapes. I beat Emma Rose and Vixen to win my very first belt— I know Emma well— and then I fell flat on my face. The great ego strikes again. Not that I'm saying I screwed myself, because we all know Vixen is one of the best in the business. Hell, every woman in this match has been saddled with that particular moniker at one time or another; I'm sure even Laura Jackson has. I can't be bothered to keep track of all the personal lives of the women here, but I expect that if you're here, in this match, you probably deserve to be.
I'm thinking this is a good chance to reclaim that lost momentum. History repeats. I've been here before. I guess that makes me the most desperate one in this match? Probably not, since I know that Jessie Salco wants this belt back so bad she can taste it. I'm sure Laura and Mercedes have held belts in SCW too, although I don't really feel like resorting to Google out of sheer laziness. Hell, take that one further: they've ALL held belts here except me, right? Again, I might be wrong, but my guts tell me that's true.
I guess that means this is MY TURN.
Right, so last hurrah— in all seriousness— that's what this is. If I fail, I'm done. End of story. Unlike some of the other girls here, I do not (contrary to popular belief) get off on the drama. I don't want every facet of my life analyzed. I do not crave the spotlight 24/7. These days, I'd prefer to be invisible. Before you scoff and laugh at that, rolling your eyes while you remind me that I've been a spotlight hogging little bitch for more than ten years, I'll level with you. I enjoy crushing egos. I love the roar of the crowd, and reveling in the fact that I can, and most times do successfully defeat someone who's riding high on a cloud of hype (*cough-cough*Michelle Levinsky*cough*). I look at this opportunity like it's a sign— everything's been building to THIS moment— and now that I'm here it's do-or-die. You know? If I fail and someone else walks out with that belt, then I know I'm not really cut out to do this and I should go back to the media side of things. It'll be time for me to hang up those hot pink boots for the last time and leave this thing to the younger generation— girls like Emma Rose and that 13-year old bitch in CWF.
I keep asking myself how I could give it up, and it always boils back to one thing: the victim factor. I'm sick of ending up in that position. I remember the last time I was on a cruise— it was last October and the man I was dating proposed to me. Funny how things change. A month later I was voted off Future Shock and he dumped me like yesterday's trash.
I'd like to forget the number he did on my self-esteem, but I can't. The scars are still there, aching beneath the surface. I'd love to forget about all the people who've been destroyed in the wake of my passage. I'd list all the names, but they all know who they are, and the people reading this probably don't care. I could become a model. I've posed for pictures since college. I could do the model thing. I could sell juicers at four in the morning with a perfect Colgate smile while I talk about how awesome the product is. It's just sales. I do that crap in my sleep. This business is the same thing, except I'm selling a concept. I'm selling a belief— almost a religion— as I bounce around on your television screen, asking you to buy into me. I'm a bad girl. I'm CANADIAN BITCHSAUCE, and you're supposed to hate me. I put Hannah Collins in her place, forcing her to leave CWF in disgrace. I beat Emma Rose and Vixen in my very first ACW match. I beat Edwin Kerrigan. I threatened Michelle Levinsky and pissed off Chrystal. I....
Well, I haven't actually done much else, honestly. The truth of this is simple: my track record in matches like this, with titles, multiple competitors and gold on the line is about 99.99%. I won the ACW Championship against more than one woman, remember? And you know what? The day before I lost it, I also won a number one contender's battle royal in CWF for the Women's Championship. In my career I've outlasted and bested some of the scariest competitors to ever set foot between those ropes. And I've lost a match to a girl who EARNED respect in doing so: Vixen. In my last match, she somewhat implied that I was unworthy to be at this level right now. She acted like I was some usurper, and it's got me thinking. Maybe she's right. Maybe that's why I am banking so much on this. A lesser woman might have bitched and moaned, or crafted some catty little response. Some might have ranted and railed about the injustice, screaming SLANDER from the rooftops. Whatever. I said all I needed to say when she had to throw everything at me but the kitchen sink to pull out that win. I didn't go down easy and I never will.
God, I just read back over what I wrote, and I'm all over the place. Bi-polar blogging is what Nessa does best.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm far from ordinary. I cannot be lumped into the crowd. You know this, don't you? I rise above. That's always been my thing. I metaphorically slit my wrists and I bleed for the sake of the business. I bare my soul and I speak my mind. You need someone like me here. I keep the rest of your pathetic little egos in check. Admit it: you WANT someone like me here. If I win? Yeah, maybe I'll just decide I like Vegas more than Halifax.
The wrestling world needs a girl like me. Hell, SCW needs a girl like me. There's enough of those vapid little skanks who just sleep their way to the top. There's enough of those pretty little good girls who wouldn't say shit to you if they had a mouthful. There's enough Dawson's Creek drama to choke an iguana. I don't care what hot guy you're all fighting over on Twitter. Don't care how many of you want to sleep with the World Champion. I don't care who's backstabbing who. You need me to tell it like it is. I'm that good little bullshit meter with the smirk on her face and a sarcastic little laugh waiting in the wings.
I'm impulsive. Get to know me a bit better and that's always going to be a given. I think last and act first. Sometimes that leads to dire consequences. Sometimes it leads to me leaping without looking and almost killing myself in the process. Sometimes I bite off more than I can chew, and choke. And sometimes— the BEST times— I astound the critics. I soar like an eagle and I escape from the most precarious positions unscathed. I smash through glass ceilings like the best stunt woman in Hollywood without a scratch. Everyone knows my name: I am legendary.
And if I believed any of those things, I'd have an ego bigger than the cruise ship we're going to be wrestling on. Thankfully all I need to do is look at the belt around Vixen's waist to know that I am not perfect, or immortal. I can fuck things up royally and I have. The truth is, if she hadn't beaten me, things might be different going into this.
I might be cockier. I might be conceited.
Instead I'm filled with realism.
In a parallel universe, that probably happened. I probably beat Vixen in that timeline. I probably didn't contemplate suicide in that timeline when my fiancé dumped me and my dreams of competing in FFW imploded. Over there I'm probably perfect and shiny. Sometimes I wish I could go back and change things like that movie The Butterfly Effect. A more practical me would be worried about the consequences— thinking about Ashton Kutcher in a wheelchair— and that whole karma thing. Balances and checks and... yeah. Maybe all this garbage had to happen between last summer and now so that I'd be ready. Or maybe I'm just wearing those rose-coloured glasses again, trying to make myself feel better. I can't stand that whole "woe is me" Emo shit.
This time is for real. I need this. I'm sure the rest of you are thinking the same thing. It's not really unique thinking. I guess I'm just looking at that survival as a reward for endurance. It's easier to wrap my head around that, then to think that this is a losing battle. I hate them. They ARE the enemy. They call me names but they know I'm just telling the truth. They feel the same way.
Everyone knows that while I'm not always the first to draw down, I'm always the one to draw first blood. That's not going to change. Not now. Not ever.
Blah, so here I am, sitting alone in a room with four walls. Four sides. Could be a hotel room. Could be a locker room. Could be a prison cell. The setting doesn't matter, because I am here, solid and REAL, firmly in control. Nothing will change when we're above that pool because I finally have my head screwed on straight. I'm back to being ME and ONLY ME. Not who I think he wants me to be.
Four sides— familiar as a wrestling ring. A million ways to fail. Thankfully I know a million-and-one to succeed.
#kissykissy
—Nessa