“The biggest challenge after success is shutting up about it”
― Criss Jami, Killosophy
Stockton Arena
Stockton, California
15.01.2023
10:17pm
“... And new … ”
Amber’s ears were still ringing, a side effect of the background tinnitus flared by the arena’s static feedback loops and determination to use resounding bass to mask everything else. All of that had melded together to create a cacophony of sound that seemed to cling to every backwards firing synapse, lighting up the space behind her eyes like an illegal backyard Fourth of July display.
Part of her consciousness was still in the ring- the wall of sound crashing down around her almost trapping her as though it needed to soak up every lasting second of precarious validation. Arms wide, applause as prevalent as the jeers as the realisation dawned that the cycle had begun once more, that the reaper had claimed her prize back and now it would have to be dragged once more from the cold dead hands it had always belonged to.
Another part seemed to be left waiting anxiously just before the curtain, a shadow of doubts and insecurities- all the questions she didn’t have a reasonable enough answers for, simply left in the wake of everything that she’d needed to become. A flutter of curtains, the hustle and bustle of production more focused on getting their product out to the masses, rather than what might be left of said product to scrape together for the next showing. As much as they might have been little more than bees to the wrestlers, the wrestlers represented a little more than a paycheck and a distinguishing line on their collective resumes- none of them had any stake in her shadows, in the way they seemed to step beyond her body as though urging the rest of her to follow.
None of them would lose sleep about what would become, none would lay awake at night contemplating their unmistakable part of the atrocities being committed.
Amber, with the fractional scattered psyche that she found herself piecing back together in this aftermath, knew she’d already lost enough sleep for all of them before the bell had even rung.
Even now, victory… redemption hurt all the way down to her bone marrow while fingertips disassociated from the rest of her seemed to slowly trace across a nameplate that appeared too gaudy besides the flecks of dried blood that still seemed to fall away from it's ridges.
No, those letters didn’t mean anything yet- familiar and strange in equal measures, syllables spelling out a reality that fuelled the fearsome headache pulsing down through every fucking vertebrae. It was hers, just as it always had been, an extension of self like a jigsaw piece from a different puzzle seemingly falling perfectly into place.
With pulse pounding in her ears like a waterfall of blood cascading through every space it could find, Amber tried to compose her hands as they shook whilst caressing the edges of the Bombshells World title as it rested carefully across her thighs.
Of course, those who had never held it could never understand the attraction, the devotion that it demanded. Those who had, well those were the ones who would spend their whole careers chasing it… Some might have called it an addiction- however an addiction had the ability to be broken down, compartmentalised and regimented into something constructive. It could be taken into it's simplest pieces and recreated into something meaningful…
There was growth in addiction for those who were willing to seek it, and a sickening comfort for those who said they didn’t need it.
No, this wasn’t an addiction.
This was everything.
Or it usually would have been. Tainted, spoiled by the events that dragged everyone involved kicking and screaming to this point- what should have been a crowning achievement left a sputtering ashen taste on her tongue. Fulfilment had taken a distant second place to guilt and redemption, how many lives had been changed… warped… distorted… for five months and ten pounds of leather and metal draped across her knees.
Masque had taken the one thing she’d held closest and left it irreparably changed, like trying to replace that hole in your chest with a collapsing star and just accepting that it's the best anyone could have done. Masque had made a point of taking everything- but that's not what had hit the hardest, it was the fact that it wasn’t the same to get back…
Amber had built up this division around her- whether anyone liked her or not, she had made people better by facing them, forced everyone to step up when it was easier to stand still. Resetting the bar that others had lowered because sometimes the limelight wasn’t nearly as glamorous as made out to be.
No one wanted to admit that it was work, that being the champion was a commitment and not a fucking hobby- it wasn’t a hyper fixation to be discarded when the costs started to tally and when the dopamine started running in the opposite direction.
A city promising stars- only to be razed on a fanciful whim cause the skyscrapers weren’t quite the right shade of concrete corporate misery.
Yeah, five months was a fucking long time in an industry constantly shifting, constantly in flux and as fickle as the day might have ben long. Of course, it quietly should have been longer… a few terse strings pulled and arrangements made with people paid enough to know better and paid more to agree than concede to ethics, had made sure of that. Unhelpfully, Amber was constantly reminded of the fact as her left arm slumped at her side, almost pooling against the wooden bench beneath, sharp twinges radiating only when she breathed and when she didn’t.
Five months debating whether she was making the right decision, knowing deep down that there wasn’t one to make. She’d chosen to step away, to concede for the sake of others- but it just wasn’t enough. It never seemed to be enough.
Be careful what you wish for, that's how the proverb went…
No, this time would be different. There would be no further sacrifices to the cause, no ghosts or shadows left to chase from the deepest corners of her psyche in hopes the absence might convince her body to accept ten pounds of leather and metal as a suitable proxy for the heart missing from it's bloodied cage…
Fumbling for her phone on the bench nearby, trying to repress the shake that seemed to permeate her hands, Amber cleared her throat in hopes that the leaden weight in her throat wasn’t about to drag down what little sentiments she might be able to dredge. An ever-present ember glowing at the back of her throat threatening to char what few syllables might squeeze by on their way to tethering connections otherwise left to rot.
A faint tapping of finger tips on glass broke the monotony of silence, beyond the riot of sound that seemed contain just under her skin, that she’d allowed herself to be enveloped by. Maybe if she was lucky, she might never emerge and find contentment in solitude…
Mac would never allow that to happen- he cared more than he had any sane right to, standing by her through everything and being her greatest strength while equally enabling the absolute insanity of her chosen path.
Maybe he understood, or maybe he’d concluded that forces of nature weren’t prone to a change of perspective, even with a well constructed Power-Point presentation and stern tone.
A small pang of guilt shifted Amber’s focus as her freckles illuminated from the iridescent blue-light backed glow and the stormy blue-green hue of her eyes seemed to pale to a distant horizon grey. Cassiopeia Mares, the last time Amber had tried to call her was almost a week and a half earlier… it rang out though, asking for a voicemail to be left in the professional yet cautious tone the younger blonde had employed when they first met.
Maybe she was just busy, after all it was just before a supercard and SCW Talent Relations was likely a mess on the best of weeks. Maybe she was upset, in which case- with an unconscious shrug, Amber knew she had every right to be.
Cassie didn’t want her to take this match, she’d feared the repercussions- these things don’t come without blowback, the blonde had explained thoughtfully. Nothing just ends because there is a sensical point to do so, the stories always continue until there is nothing left to be told- to keep digging… Amber had tuned out at that point, as though her mind hadn’t already been made up for the prior 4 and three quarter months prior. Now, she wished she hadn’t… looking for that logical, level-headed tone to somehow smooth her edges and justify that a wrong decision might still maintain an okay outcome.
Ring.
But if she could just end this… Those were her last words to Cassie before the match, trying to promise something she wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep without ever committing beyond hearsay and good intentions.
Ring.
If Amber could just end this goddamn fucking nightmare… Wouldn’t that make everything better?
Ring.
Except she already did…
Ring.
Tossing her phone away, Amber leaned back into the metal lockers behind her with an echoing clang. Each ragged breath seemingly forced by a weight that she couldn’t shift, like a swinging anvil on a dangling thread above her that tickled the edge of her periphery with every pass.
Amber was the World Bombshells Champion again, as her phone tumbled across the floor with a muffled clatter, and whether she liked it or not…
“... You have reached the voicemail of …”
God, that had to mean something…
******
“Lightning is an interesting phenomena.
Imagine so much built up static anticipation and energy, and the only place it has to go is down. A sudden, violent release of pent up crackling rage sent forth as though Mother Nature was tired enough of our shit to stop simply threatening and start doing. Lightning is fascinating cause it can do so much damage and yet most of the time- we watch it at a distance marvelling at its sporadic beauty and finding ourselves grateful that it isn’t any closer to us.
Here’s the important thing though- not every strike hits, not every strike leaves a catastrophic mess in it's wake. Fire and fury don’t simply explode from contact, sometimes it's banal… ineffectual even. A flash of brilliance in an otherwise overcast landscape.
It doesn’t matter how many times lightning might strike, if it does nothing.
In the wrestling industry lightning might strike a thousand times in the same place- and somehow you still end up in catering blaming everyone else for your continued lack of effort to try and overcome your own self-sabotaging pity party bullshit. It's always someone elses fault… it has to be, cause accountability is hard, guys. Bitter pills don’t taste much better if you suck them down to nothing, they just give you more of a reason to complain that you have a bad taste in your mouth when the option to swallow was always there.
Georgie Porgie, pumpkin pie.
You are quite the curious little lightning strike, aren’t you?
Underdog doesn’t even begin to describe what you managed to pull off at Inception- a highlight in an otherwise vanilla ice-cream kinda Sin City existance. Just don’t anyone let Jessie get a hold this, lord knows we won’t hear the fucking end of it for another three years at least. Bitch has got worse PTSD about an ice-cream comment than the 15 thousand times I’ve beaten her in the ring…
No, what you did… Well, it's seemingly unthinkable really.
Lets just, for a second, look past the glaringly obvious aberration. Lets just briefly ignore the fly in the ointments status quo if you will. Lets ignore that terribly messy business with my perpetual darling best friend Roxi Johnson, shall we?
Instead, perhaps we should focus on the fact your win-loss record looks marginally more impressive than the scrawled efforts of a disabled child's finger painting you feel obligated to display on a fridge.
Yes, that's nice. You’ve done very well… That's what you wanna hear right?
You wanna be validated and acknowledged for the bare minimum you’ve contributed, as though your presence has been a defining quality instead of a side effect of the over-priced contract you’ve been doled out for being glorified cannon fodder. You wanna be spotlighted as an up and coming talent, a future champion with absolutely no credibility or worthwhile body of work to back it up.
Let us also ignore that you’re still green enough around here that you’re still not entitled to the Krispy Kremes in catering cause you have to be at least this successful to have one. I mean seriously- why do you think Mercedes is always moping around backstage in catering these days?
Bitch is just waiting to be left alone for long enough that she might be able to spill some stolen validation all down her shirt… again.
One big win might make a statement. One lucky break might change your trajectory. One step wrong might change your life…
A win over me in this company is like winning the fucking lottery, it's doable and some might even be lucky enough to manage it more than once in their lifetimes but most? Most will consider it a pipe dream, an impossibility cause they themselves are unable to even fathom achieving it- so they dismiss it and say that it doesn’t mean anything to them.
You’ll grow to hear a lot of that, if you end up sticking around long enough to be more than another disappointing footnote in the SCW annals, you’ll hear alot of Bombshells telling you that you’re gonna fail before you’ve attempted anything. Hell, you won’t even be able to get the words ‘... a match with…’ out of your mouth before someone is gonna be putting your self-esteem through the floor verbally.
Why?
How many of those Bombshells do you think have given up.
How many of them swallowed their pride after their first major loss and just chose to wallow, to simply never recover and become flaccid in the shifting tides? How many stopped giving a fuck when they got proven to be far less special than they claimed to be…
How many of them thought that they wouldn’t lose to me.
Losing a match to me isn’t the end of the world like everyone makes out, sweetheart- it's the goddamn beginning, but only if you let it be. By all means, you go down the track of being jaded and bitter that you lost against the most dominant World Bombshells Champion that this company has witnessed in god knows fucking how long, losing a head on collision with a certifiable train wreck while you’re behind the wheel of a tricycle. Become one of the already numerous Bombshells who found discretion to be the only part of valour that they cared about, by all means you just join the queue and complain that Roxi is getting ANOTHER shot at me- as if she didn’t go out there and pretend like she actually wanted it.
By all means Georgie girl, go out there and take your ass kicking like a good little rookie- and become better for it… cause lord knows I don’t think I can stand another minute of listening to Bombshells whining about the fact they don’t like the direction their career is headed- as though they didn’t choose to drive it into a ditch cause they didn’t fight hard enough for the result they wanted.
Shock and horror kiddies- actions have consequences… Whoever would have thought such a thing?
No- let me make this abundantly clear Georgie girl so that even you might begin to understand it…
This isn’t an opportunity. This isn’t some unearned comeuppance. This isn’t the payoff of your mediocre work ethic and dismal failure to live up to the very low expectations set of you by our bloodthirsty fan base. This isn’t *your chance* to do something incredible- and while I wholeheartedly believe that lightning has the capability of striking twice, I’m not under some great illusion that you have the mental capacity or sheer ability to actually make anything of it…
While I’m sure you’ll have some exceedingly important nonsense to dribble incessantly like some last minute extra from Lady and the Tramp, all you’ve shown so far was your ability to stumble across success accidentally and capitalise on my best friend Roxi having a bit of a rough night…
Unfortunately for you, whether you realise it or not- it's not nearly as impressive of an achievement as you might have been led to believe…
See, this isn’t the gold at the end of a rainbow- this is the storm that flattens your house and throws your car fifty feet down the street. This isn’t some fairytale dreamscape where happily ever after comes to those who wish hard enough on the right falling star- no, this the fever dream that sends you willingly tumbling off a remote cliff cause the voices convinced you that it would be the only way you’d ever be able to learn to fly…
So fly for me, little Georgie girl, fly…
Just be careful though, cause rumour has it that there's been some lightning about…
... and I'd hate to see you get struck down in your prime.”
*******
Bane Ranch
Las Vegas, ND
12.02.2023
10:42am
“Huh, I thought that piece of shit was dead.”
Thoughtfully, and with far less expression than one would associate with that particular jumble of words, Mac sipped gently from the steaming mug of black coffee nestled between his hands. Hell, the dark liquid had barely slowed it's twirling, kissing the edge of the ceramic, before he’d went in for a second. Hell, he’d barely even taken a moment of thought before responding, Amber mused as she cradled her own mug against the edge of her knee- mostly because the thought of lifting it seemed like a lot more work than she’d been willing to admit.
“Next time darling, maybe tell me what you really think…”
Amber gave him a coy sideways glance, the kind that knew that there was a story of sorts beneath the outward layer of vitriol. Although, perhaps unexpectedly for Amber- it hadn’t been the first time that the name Admiral Gomez had gotten that reaction in the mere space of days.
Reverend Alistair McCrae had spoken the name with such distaste that it seemed even he, himself, was ashamed to be associated- which said a lot for the businessman of God. No, McCrae valued business and what someone might profitably contribute towards it to be concerned by personal status- after all, a few Hail Mary’s could solve anyones problems.
Even now, with the distinct benefit of hindsight, Amber could recall the faint twitch beneath his eye as he uttered the name. Guilt flashed briefly enough that it might otherwise have been considered a trick of the light- Alistair McCrae was far too measured for such deliberate facade cracks. Perhaps absolution didn’t hold all the answers.
Yet that was the first name he’d provided, the curl of his lip betraying a disdain for the taste left in it's wake- he’d been incredibly coy, vague to the point of being infuriating whilst bluntly insinuating that Mac would be able to provide more insight into why such a man might be so tentatively on the proverbial hook. Amber despised the obscurity of it all, finding little point in asking for assistance and then refusing to elaborate- she’d waited though, unwilling to simply go straight to Mac for fear of being too forward and untrustworthy, as though McCrae himself were some paragon of virtue.
Business was business and it demanded a level of professionalism. Even if, and especially when, they were absolute fucking scumbags it seemed.
Twinging horribly, Amber swallowed her grimace as she subtly readjusted her left shoulder. Mac had been less than impressed at her willingness to accept the services of Gabriel Baal in recent times, perhaps even more so than her determination to take on Masque at Inception, however Gabriel was also the only reason she was cleared in time… with a little help. All was well that ended well, as Amber was dutifully reminded by the Bombshells World title proudly sat up on the kitchen counter, pride of place right beside Mac’s SCW World Heavyweight title glimmering in the morning sun.
Mac hadn’t seemed to notice as Amber gingerly moved her mug to the countertop alongside for fear of spilling it or worse- attracting unwarranted concern.
Just some aftermath soreness really… A month after the fact… Usual stuff.
“Death should be the least of that bastard’s concerns.”
Mac commented matter of factly, giving her a look over the raised edge of his mug.
“So we should be less than surprised to hear that he’s one of McCrae’s ‘benefactors’ I suppose then?”
Amber found herself less surprised by most things these days- between Alistair McCrae throwing whatever shifty ‘business contacts’ he could under the bus in order to try save his own reputation to learning that yet another rookie was getting fed to the Bombshells meat grinder for easy views to Roxi motherfucking Johnson ‘earning’ herself another World title match by sweeping through two other Bombshells who stopped bothering to even try months ago… to Cassiopeia Mares still not replying to any of Amber’s voicemails.
Amber had left another one just days ago, this one an apology as sincere as she might have managed.For everything she’d dragged the younger woman into, for all she’d potentially done without realising and for everything she might be yet to do in hopes that Cassie might one day understand and forgive Amber for being… well, herself. That last one stung more than Amber was willing to admit openly, swallowing a mouthful of black coffee that had started to stray into lukewarm territory.
Mac had caught the end of her voicemail, querying her afterwards and reassuring Amber’s concerns- yeah, maybe she was just really busy, maybe she’s a little upset with everything that's happened. Somehow though, Amber had missed the flash of guilt that had curled across Mac’s expression- in the same way that McCrae had tried and failed to disguise his behind an impassive wall of professional apathy.
“More surprised that the right hand of God hasn’t already obliterated him into a chunky red puddle yet, actually.”
“Spicy. You wanna fill me in, seeing as I’m the only one in this conversation who doesn’t quite understand why we hate the guy yet aside from the fact he’s filtering money through religion… or religion through money… I’m actually still not quite sure which direction I hate more.”
Amber’s tangent rattled to a halt as Mac braced against the counter slightly as though picking carefully through a flurry of words teetering on the edge of his subconscious. Despite his better nature, Mac wasn’t always the most subtle- Amber loved him wholeheartedly for it. Never any questions, what you saw was what you got and if you didn’t like it… well, not every flavour of smash mouth reality was good for you. Chewing over the thoughts as they raced, the faint grinding of gears in Mac’s head was more than just a figment of Amber’s overactive imagination, the shift in his jaw a signal that whatever syllables were to follow would surely be uncomfortable.
“How’s the term ‘war criminal’ strike you, love?”
Amber cocked her head slightly, unfettered perhaps more than she should have been, Amber contemplated for a moment the weight that those words carried. She knew Alistair McCrae was in with some shady motherfuckers- religion had a way of attracting zealots, and in combination with the absurd amounts of money that it had a way of generating… Well, those zealots suddenly became a lot more… malignant. Money spread influence like cancer, those ‘idealists’ with extremist perspectives could already convince the eskimos that they didn’t have enough snow- tied in with the type of money that would make Christ himself blush redder than the water he’d spoiled…
“It certainly strikes something...”
Fear had a way of twisting knots in the stomach, but that wasn’t this. Hatred tightened every nerve in the chest till it felt like the next beat might be the one to make it explode, but that wasn’t this either. No, this feeling flitted at the base of her throat as though trying to tempt forth bile and the mouthful of coffee she’d forced down moments before, this was something that seemed to tangle her ribs together and sucked the air out of her veins. Understanding perhaps, understanding what it meant to be considered the worst fucking person on the fact of the Earth while still being allowed to walk on it cause God had a twisted fucking sense of humour that consistently got confused for karmic justice.
“Among just being a piece of shit human being- he is the man personally responsible for the death of hundreds of Americans in Afghanistan. He is the man that sold information on troop movements in the region to the fucking assholes they were supposed to be fighting… Admiral Gomez has more blood on his hands than even God himself can absolve him of- makes people like us look like fucking saints in comparison, love.”
Perhaps he’d been reading her mind, or the facial twitch in her otherwise impassive expression as he spoke. Somehow he just knew that she’d automatically made the comparison and sought to demolish that intrusive perception before it vocalised.
“Sounds charming. I suppose you're gonna tell me he steals candy from children and pushes old ladies into moving traffic as well.”
Mac gave her a momentarily disapproving expression, to which she simply shrugged.
“Okay, it was funnier in my head. Like, that's all well and good… it's obviously not, but you get what I mean, however doesn’t explain why someone wants to blackmail him now though… Plenty of people want his head on a pike, and there's no doubt he wouldn’t win a popularity contest with the remainder…”
Pausing thoughtfully, Amber reflexively rubbed her temple causing another sharp pain to shoot down from her shoulder and out through her fingers like she might emit a blinding shock to anyone within 10 feet. Nothing happened though, except for her instinctively trying to cover up the grimace with a forced yawn.
“... Doesn’t explain why now though, and why in relation to the arbiter of God’s wanking hand, you know?”
Mac stifled a brief chuckle as he nodded in understanding. Amber could understand the man would have a lot of enemies- but those enemies would seek retribution in kind, in blood and name alike so why bother with the runaround.Hell, who in their semi-right mind would consider ruining the Reverends reputation by association a more powerful motivator than the avoidable bloodshed of hundreds due to greed?
Amber sighed loudly, the more she thought about it the less sense it was making… as if anything ever really did.
“Alistair thinks this is about him- that someone is out to undermine his reputation and business practices. I suppose associating with a known traitor is certainly off to a strong start, but it just…”
“... doesn’t make sense when it seems more reasonable to want Gomez at the end of a rope. I agree.”
"Precisely."
Mac watched her train of thought derail in real time, and promptly corrected the course as though moving on instinct- in equal measures Amber found herself delighted and horrified at how well he was able to read her.
“Which then means---”
“No. Don’t you dare say--”
“--- that I need to---”
“Red, I love you but I’m gonna have to stop you right there.”
“--- what the hell else do you propose then, Mac? I get it, the guys a fucking monster- but we've made collective livings off being not much better.”
Planting his hands on the counter emphatically, Mac exhaled methodically, whilst forcing eye contact despite Amber’s tangential efforts to drift away in thought.
"We are nothing like him, Red. Not even for a goddamn moment."
Amber gave him a knowing nod of half-hearted agreement, the most she might be willing to offer in that moment.
"Its business Mac... I have---"
“If you think you’re going and speaking to this asshole without me, you are sorely mistaken, love. This bastards got a lot to answer for…”
“It's not about making him---”
“Maybe not, but I’d love the chance to see him fucking squirm all the same…”
… Perhaps Mac’s intervention might have been a welcome change of pace after all.
