“You have to decide who you are, little girl, she told me once. Once you know that, everyone else will too.”
― Megan Abbott, Queenpin
Amber's Apartment
Atlantic City, NJ
20.05.2020
6:24am
Rain seemed to fall differently in Atlantic City.
Amber had spent the last half an hour or so watching the darkening clouds roll in, trying to be threatening and ominous like a thinly veiled threat from a stranger on the interwebs. It was always the way though, the promise of a cleansing rain that might wash the after taste of poor mans Las vegas from the tip of the societal tongue- only to be left with downpours that felt more like the last dregs of water being squeezed from a dirty sponge, disappearing before they ever really made a noticeable difference and leaving a thin film of disappointment and residue on everything it touched.
Leaning back into the plastic chair, she felt it groan and protest beneath her but paid little heed- instead forcing it to balance on it's back legs while contemplating the survival odds of taking a nosedive off a fifth floor balcony if only because it was something to do.
In reality she had no intention of it, the easy half smile painted across her features allowing something darker beneath her skin to peep out from between the cracks in her facade of control.
She had a reputation. Or so she had been told...
Apparently she was vicious, destructive and dangerous. Apparently she could kill a man on the street and sleep just as soundly as if she had kissed them- of course that wasn’t true… Amber wasn’t at all fond of kissing strangers.
She’d always been told she was a lot of things- most of which consisted of four letters and negative connotations, they were crude and obscene because it took far less effort to spew vitriol than admit equality.
It wasn’t as though she ever made an attempt to hide or alter the perception of the horrific things she’d done to get to where she was, nor the heinous acts she’d committed to stay there.
Besides, even if she tried, the woman staring back at her in the mirror would surely never let her forget.
Years of reckless abandon and ultraviolence had taken their toll, and Amber wore those scars like armour against a world who just wanted her to be more… palatable. She wasn’t the prettiest flower in the proverbial garden, not the type to fish for likes with scantily clad photos on social media nor reeking of desperation to have her existence validated by men looking for a pair of nice tits to rub one out to. With thick tresses of crimson pulled away from her face into a messy ponytail and steely blue green eyes that never quite fell into one colour or the other- she couldn’t quite captivate a room with a single glance but could surely stop anyone dead in their tracks with a dead eyed gaze.
Her nose was faintly crooked if looked at from the right angle following too many breaks set in crappy hotel rooms and her cheekbones sat a little too high for conventional beauty standards but highlighted her mischievous trademark smirk that had set chaos into motion a thousand times over.
She favoured cargo pants and odd converses over leather and lace because comfort trumped wolf whistles and pockets held an unlimited amount of little carny secrets. Scars traced across exposed skin- some faded and dainty like thin gossamer webs, only seen in just the right light while others had healed angry and deep, the edges still slightly puckered around unnaturally smooth gouges.
Most of them she could hide with ease, beneath t-shirts and oversized hoodies few would ever see the true extent of damage- the way scar tissue far outweighed virgin skin, the knots and deformations in muscle when she moved certain ways and the days when she struggled to look in the mirror and accept the decisions written across her skin.
Amber could smell the rain now- that thick, heady aroma of rising humidity mixed with the saltiness of the ocean breeze and the cheap yet obnoxious waft of desperation for relevance. She wanted a tsunami to just flatten the place so that there might be the chance for a clean slate, however the tainted core would always be rebuilt over the cities rotting corpse while being milked for sympathy and those precious GoFundMe dollars…
All she wanted was a new beginning but would have to settle for dirty rain.
Rubbing her forearm reflexively, she was reminded that she was down to her last nicotine patch. In actuality she had managed to quit smoking months earlier however she’d found the patches helped to take the edge off her usually abrasive personality which seemed like a win-win situation for everyone. Being agitated and mildly paranoid were the norm for the redhead, perhaps a side effect of basically having been a piece of shit human being for so many years- however between the lockdown and infrequent bookings in Carnage, she’d found herself slowly becoming a seething and virulent caricature of herself.
Despite being the Carnage World champion- she still had this itch…
Not the kind you pay way too much for in a Thai massage parlour, but something more metaphysical. It was the kind of itch that seemed to sink deeper the more you tried to scratch it, the kind that begged to be torn at feverishly in search of momentary relief, the kind that forced you to dig with broken fingernails until you found bone then it sunk a little deeper still. Persistent and neurotic. Everpresent.
Everyone had always told her it was just in her head, to just pretend it didn’t exist cause realistically it didn’t and that with a little mind over matter it would just go away… Ignore that desperate need for self-destruction cause it's not real- except that it is.
They were right, cause they always were.
However exceedingly poor decision making was a classic Amber Ryan special and mind over matter didn’t mean all that much when it was the mind at fault.
When it came down to it, Amber needed something more to scratch the itch… To chase… To bring down to her level and smother with apathy and bitterness.
Sin City Wrestling.
It was trying to rain now.
Clean slates in this industry were hard to come by, simply walking through the door of a company and no one knowing who you were was becoming a scarcity, cause everyone wanted the world to know their name, their history and their fucking star sign as if being a Sagittarius cusp Capricorn made you any better of a professional wrestler.
No one wanted to be an underdog and the only ones who embraced that status only did so cause they didn’t have anything else worth putting their name to. It was somehow a slight, degrading someone by telling them they hadn’t heard of them despite the fact they were likely studying their self-edited wikipedia two minutes earlier to perfect name pronunciation.
To Amber though, anonymity was more tempting than ever.
Being a world champion made that difficult on the best of days, and she had no doubt that even the mention of her name had already poisoned the well before she’d had the opportunity to slake her growing thirst.
Not that anyone would openly admit it, not without following it up with a lame insult at least.
Achievements held little value if they didn’t carry the right name and hauling around a big gold belt only served as a bullseye for the next wannabe Robin Hood trying to pad out their resume.
So quickly the masses would discredit because it wasn’t good publicity to put over another companies best- busy proclaiming superiority as though literally thousands of others weren’t doing the same fucking thing.
Besides, proclaiming yourself as the best kind of lost it's lustre when you realized you were just going through the motions like everyone else...
Many who knew her just wanted her to be content with what she’d done, just be happy for once instead of seeking out the next opportunity to crash and burn, allow herself this moment in the sun before the next asshole wanted their 15 minutes.
They didn’t get it though, the blood and sacrifice was only a small part of the journey and happiness was little more than a carrot to dangle in front of faces too caught up in the idea of a reward to see the strings attached.
It wasn’t as though she didn’t appreciate the gravity of what she’d done, she was just observant enough to see the strings.
Maybe that tsunami was a little too much to ask.
Easing the chair legs back to the ground, Amber quietly slipped off the chair and padded barefoot back into her apartment before the slick of dirty rain left the residue of a poor mans Las Vegas soaking into her pores. Releasing the sigh she had been holding, her easy smile softened into something more contemplative as her fingers found the cold metal edges of the Carnage World title laying on the kitchen bench.
There were a thousand words that they could have used to describe Amber however there was one that always seemed to be overlooked in favour of something more… flashy. Adjectives were thrown around this industry like cheap confetti and the masses vied for creativity and extravagance in equal measures.
The thing was- she wasn’t gifted with the most technical prowess nor could she take to the skies and innovate with body contortions as though gravity no longer applied, she wasn’t some beastly powerhouse throwing people around like paper dolls in a hurricane and she wasn’t known for cripplingly outlandish submissions that turned bone into splinters…
What Amber Ryan was though, and had been for almost 15 years, was very fucking successful.
******
“Do you like ice-cream?
Seems like a rather banal question to start off our impending confrontation, right? Maybe I should have started with a poorly worded insult designed to make you feel inconsequential, stripping away everything that makes you unique before exposing what is more than likely a rather generic core.
I could proceed to take everything you’ve done in your career and make a mockery of it, sniping every achievement off your proverbial shelf with a well placed rocket launcher.
I could do all those things and not blink an eye.
Instead, I rather know what your favourite ice-cream is.
To me Jessie, you strike me as a vanilla kinda gal… Sure there are variations but really it's the same thing dressed up with a fancy title masquerading as something far more important. In the end though, vanilla is exactly that.
It’s not really anyone's favourite but no one outright hates it either- you don’t go out of your way for it, but when presented with it then it's a perfectly acceptable option. A true neutral in terms of dairy dessert alignment.
Me? I’d call myself more of a boysenberry ripple if you will, although a dairy free version admittedly cause even someone like me has to have a couple of chinks in my proverbial armour… See, many have never tried it and therefore write it off as simply not liking it. It's niche yet highly acclaimed among those who can appreciate what it brings to the table. A chaotic neutral if only for the fact that it's a little out of left field and a lot to handle.
I guess this is the point where I’m expected to talk about why the fuck I think I’m so special, all the ways I’m going to make you look stupid in that ring and then my masterful evil plan to knock Roxi Johnson off her pedestal on my way to winning literally everything ever.
Or I could just not…
Granted I’ve never been the best about talking about myself in flattering terms, I’m not much of a self-promoter if you will cause I’ve found it's much more time efficient to just punch someone in the face than tell them all the ways they plan on punching them in the face…
Maybe that's my issue Jessie, I’m so quick to resort to violence instead of talking about my feelings and how I wasn’t hugged enough as a child.
Hell I’m so used to being called a piece of shit that I’m the first to admit it cause it makes people uncomfortable- whether I am or not at the time has become irrelevant.
Thing is, when it comes down to brass tacks… I’m actually not all that special, not at least in the usual spectrum. I can’t do anything that hasn’t been done before, I’m not going to go out there and impress the world with extraordinary feats of humanity cause that's just not my scene.
What I’ll do Jessie is exactly what has gotten me to where I am in this industry, it's the reason I’m considered top level and you’re scraping the bottom of the barrel looking for something to help keep your head above the fast rising waters.
I hurt people.
It's that simple.
I go into that ring, and I fucking hurt people. There's no magic formula, no illusions or carny tricks to keep the world guessing. I go out there night after night and I do the one thing I’m really, really good at.
See, I just have this rather unusual knack, if you will, for being able to outlast. I’m like a human crash test dummy, you can’t kill me cause lord knows greater men and women have certainly tried… Time after time, fialure after repeated failure. You know what I did to those people? I got up, I laughed at them, spat on their boots and then I drove their faces through the floor.
Maybe you’ll tell me I’m wrong, that this is SCW and that means it's different to anywhere I’ve ever been and you’re different to anyone I’ve ever faced- and between you and me… I kinda hope you’re right.
Honestly.
I mean, you won’t be because that's not how this works, but the idea is nice.
SCW isn’t different, and neither are you.
You pose as much threat as a blank piece of paper that's been laminated, just cause it's shiny doesn’t make it good. It's still fucking useless and it's still boring- I’d rather read the bible and throw up black bile cause lord knows I’m probably the goddamn anti-christ by now.
Hell, I’d compare you to a puddle of piss but in all honestly I find that there's more satisfaction in playing with that than throwing you around like a rag doll- and it’d likely give me the same amount of warm and fuzzies.
You aren’t a bad person though, you don’t deserve any of this.
Jessie Salco, nice girl with a great spirit.
Shit, that came across like a yelp review… 2 stars, wouldn’t recommend. Only reason it doesn’t get one star is cause there's a modicum of effort put in to be more competitive than the puddle of piss from earlier.
That's the thing though isn’t it- you have all this fire, this determination and guts to just go out there and do your best… people fucking love that.
I'd call it admirable if it didn’t make me wanna heave, although it's my fault for substituting food for coffee cause caffeine is a girl's best friend and I need to stay awake long enough so that whatever you say about me can put me to sleep.
Who knows, maybe I can get a solid eight hours and wake up to find they didn’t just put me against the first name drawn out of a hat… or even better, I can sleep through our match and find out I still managed to win because that's just the way the universe works.
Okay, so a little too much hyperbole but the point still stands- at the end of the day, people like you are here to make people like me look like animals because whether society admits it or not… they love a good bloodbath.
They love watching wildebeest getting tackled by lions, they love watching seals get thrown around by orcas, they love watching crocodiles drag down whatever poor beast steps too closer to their waters and most importantly… They love watching people like me kick the everloving shit out of people like you.
Hell, even David Attenboroughs never seen anything quite like this.
What you represent Jessie, is bait.
See, the powers that be… and likely all the other bombshells in the back… want to see what they are investing in, they want a preview if you will, a little taste to make sure that their judgement is still on point. They wanna draw me out like I’ve been hibernating for six months so they can watch me tear apart a rabbit caught in a snare.
Between you, me and the walls cause you know they have ears… I have no issue with you, my fight and reason to show up isn’t to make a scene and cause a ruckus in the wrestling world.
What happens at Climax Control is strictly professional- and as a professional I can promise you the quickest, cleanest loss of your career. Blink and you’ll miss it kinda schtick cause as far as I’m concerned- the bloodbaths, the violence, all the Amber Ryan trademarks…
That's all pay to play. I don’t get down and dirty just for exhibition matches and no great star blows their load during the foreplay, kiddies…
No, Climax Control is a formality- it's paperwork and punctuation, you know crossing I's and dotting t's. Don't call this a message cause that implies there is anything to be learned or gained from the experience for anyone- this is inevitability at it's worst- like a choose your own adventure where you know all the endings are the same…
When it comes down to it… You aren't an Evie Jordan, you aren't an Alicia Lukas, you aren't an Andrea Hernandez and you sure as fuck aren't a Roxi Johnson…You're the low woman on the totem pole trying to pass as an analog of someone much better.
Tick. Tick. Tick Jessie… Whoever called it 15 minutes of fame set the bar way too high cause you’ll be lucky if I give you a moment over 5. Really though, all I need is three seconds or about the same amount of time it takes me to ask you what your favourite ice cream is…
See you Sunday, sweetheart… and don’t forget to smile, cause you never know who is watching.”
