"How can I clearly see what’s wrong with someone else, and then look at myself as though I’m standing in front of a fogged mirror?"
— Jarod Kintz, The Days of Yay are Here! Wake Me Up When They're Over.
Undisclosed Motel
Somewhere between New York and Connecticut
27.08.2006
9:02pm
Motels were an occasional luxury when things were going well.
To most luxury meant more than beds that usually stank of sweat and cigarettes in the height of summer and bathrooms that promised a corner of abyssal mould that spread in tiny flecks across a ceiling stained with 30 years of mildew and steam. Still, the beds were softer than those worn out in a caravan and less sharp than the stones that would jut through a sleeping bag as sleep finally came through the makeshift campgrounds. Bathrooms weren’t mandatory but only recommended and a TV that showed a picture through the static just often enough that you could tell when an actor was on the screen- little things would bring a smile to the most weary of travelled faces.
Problem was, as Amber pulled up across the gravel in a small spray of stones, things hadn’t been going well recently and no one was smiling.
Competition was higher than ever, a proliferation of carnivals on the circuit had worn many of the routes thin and trusts tenuous- forcing many to go further and spend more for little to no better return. Bankruptcy to stay in business seemed to be a growing trend, one that Grizz had seemingly managed to quietly sidestep while many contacts had opted out before they hadn’t anything left to salvage. Amber had never been one for the business side of things, her strengths lending themselves to the practical side- making things work with what they had rather than balancing the books to replace what wouldn’t.
That being said, it wasn’t as though it wasn’t obvious- less locals were taken on in towns while more work was demanded from those who stayed, the draws thinner and interests dulled from overexposure to a product designed to be distinctive despite it's common cliches.
Of course, everyone would pull together under the promise that things would get better- cause they always did.
Until they didn’t.
Excitable faces had become bored, the carnival wonders had lost their lustre. Towns had been razed of interest, burnt to a cinder by those desperate to glean every dollar they might with little thought to consequence outside of where the next pay day might come from.
Maybe that's why Amber had found herself less than surprised by the small congregation outside of Grizz’s room- the man himself was silhouetted in the doorway as the grey in his hair and beard aged him unnecessarily under the low light. Even with the slight hunch in his posture, he still managed to tower over the three other figures before him- their crisp power suits would have blended them into the shadows if only for the yellowed glow of the room and faint, radiating air of grease and smarm.
Amber made no secret of her approach, her sneakers crunching loudly as they turned. She didn’t care for their blank stares, and tried to ignore the trickle of blood that seeped from a small cut along the top edge of her cheekbone.
Every town she could, she’d tell Cassidy every night she wasn’t needed on site that she’d be going to a local dojo for some extra training- that the bruises and cuts she’d come back with were just errant punches and kicks from sparring sessions, that the time she fractured her wrist was just a badly thrown punch and the time she sprained her ankle so bad she couldn’t wear shoes, was just a misstep.
Hell, maybe she’d even go occasionally if only for the sake of the ruse.
In reality, she got enough training from Grizz and the tattooed Phillipino twins who’d taken her under their collective wings. No, when things had become sparse- Amber had begun to supplement her own strained incomes, and Cassidy’s slightly haphazard spending style with bar fight, cage fights and any form of altercations that might earn a few extra dollars for a night's work.
Of course there were far more legitimate forms of quick income, but many were hesitant to offer the redhead an opportunity, they couldn’t begin to trust a carny despite the fact juvenile criminal records weren’t made public.
Fights were easy, they didn’t care who you were. Only that you could throw a punch and take one in kind. Amber was a spectacle, a curio in their banality- even at 18 years old she was lithe, wiry and most importantly… unassuming. Vastly underestimated, the odds were always placed high against- and as such to place a bet on her would surely have been risky for most… but monetarily advantageous for a redhead with little to nothing to lose. Ten dollars here, twenty there would quickly become multiple hundreds and she’d summarily disappear into the night with her winnings as quickly and silently as she arrived before they’d realized they’d been fleeced.
As such, Amber could recognize a loan shark from a mile off. Preying on the desperate, those just needing a little help back to their feet before their kneecaps were taken back for failure to live up to unreasonable expectation- if she didn’t already feel a little light-headed from the evenings extra-curricular activities, she’d have felt downright nauseous watching Grizz even acknowledge the parasites on his doorstep.
Staying back, allowing them their space- Amber watched Grizz’s gaze shift from them to her and back, both of them in quiet deliberation and judgement of the others' circumstances.
Sure things had been rough, but this?
“I trust we’ll be hearing from you in due time.”
A brusk New York accent wafted in the breeze as Amber wrinkled her nose. Even from where she stood, far enough to stay within shadow, close enough that she wouldn’t be considered hiding, the air felt heavy as though slicked with grease and muddled ambition.
“We have an agreement, don’t we? I told you, just as I told you’re boss… I’m a man of my word. Take me at that or don’t not bother darkening my doorstep again.”
With a cursory nod of agreement, the men dissolved into the night- giving Amber several wary glances on their way past while she restrained the urge to violently vomit into the nearby rose bushes.
“You know, it’s not becoming of you to eavesdrop.”
Grizz leaned in the doorway thoughtfully, an eyebrow raised as Amber closed the distance and the cut materialized into greater focus. It’d probably need a couple of stitches, easily explained away with feigned clumsiness in the dark- the bruises on her ribs and wrapped around her forearm might have taken a little more creativity though.
“It’s not eavesdropping if you can see me. Not like you were being all that subtle either- may as well have told everyone your business.”
Grizz scoffed softly as Amber paused, scuffing the toe of her sneaker in the rocks distractedly.
“How much do you owe them Grizz?”
She didn’t want to make eye contact, she didn’t even want to have the conversation but to leave it lingering would have only let it fester into contempt and scorn.
“Enough that they wanna check in. Not so much that they didn’t wanna take my kneecaps.”
A pause fell between them, crickets somewhere nearby chirruped as though determined to put their two cents in.
“Cassidy doesn’t know you’re doing this, does she?”
Amber wanted to lie, to throw his question back in his face- but couldn’t manage more than a sigh.
“You know she will eventually, she ain’t dumb. A little naive and maybe a bit overzealous at times, but she’ll figure it soon enough… and then what?”
“Don’t you dare try and turn this on me- you’re the one who has introduced fleas to the proverbial kennel. What if everyone else finds out what are they gonna---”
“--- They’re gonna be happy enough that there’s still money coming in- one way or another. I swore I’d look after everyone who looked after me- and that hasn’t changed Bambi, especially you. You’re like my own blood, and you want me to turn a blind eye while you whore your potential out in exchange for what, a few dollars and some blood in sand and sawdust?”
Grizz stepped out of the doorway, his heavy footsteps echoing across the gravel as his bear like hands cupped Amber’s face gently. Fatherly even, as though she were his own.
“Promise me that I won’t be the one to bury you before your time Bambi.”
Amber stepped away instinctively, as though his touch burned against her skin and the words struck through her chest.
“I’m doing exactly as you would- making my own way by blood and bone. Damn it Grizz, I don’t wanna spend the rest of my life looking in a mirror and seeing bruises and blood splatters, lying to myself that I love the way it feels if only for another couple hundred dollars.”
Amber goes to rummage in her pockets, even in the wake of the night- there's still sweat and blood on the crumpled notes in her jeans.
“I will though, if it means that everything and everyone I care about is a little better off for it…”
“Save your money… and your speech. Someday you’ll need them both on a far grander stage. If you really want to help Bambi… Pray. Pray for us all...”
Leaning down, Grizz planted a soft kiss on her forehead before turning away back towards the harsh yellowed glow in the night.
“... and don’t make the same mistakes that I have.”
******
“Maybe this question makes me sound bitter…
You know, as though the general opinion has shifted at all since last time I talked down through a camera and told everyone exactly the way the world worked, and why they were going to hate it.
But, does being THIS positive all the time get exhausting?
Cause if I’m honest, I’m fucking wrecked just watching you pair bounce around spewing pleasantries like this suddenly became a popularity contest for class president. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for enthusiasm as much as the next person with a deathwish and enough booze to knock an elephant on it's ass- it's just that… it's so constant.
For the love of god, find an off switch and give the rest of us who prefer misery a chance to wallow peacefully.
See, the thing is a lot of what we do is mind over matter- beyond the whole ‘I don’t mind and you don’t matter’ cliche that I have no doubt was telegraphed three seconds ago. We structure our careers around a placebo effect and place our futures into the hands of people who really don’t care all that much if we actually have one or not.
Being optimistic isn’t a bad thing, but it gets a little worrisome when you start looking at your win loss records through rose colored glasses and start chalking up all those L’s to just ‘bad luck’ and ‘difficult circumstances’.
I know I’m legitimately going to kick myself later for saying this- but I don’t hate you Candy. In all fairness, I don’t hate a lot of things and less people- I find you incredibly tacky and about as enjoyable to be around as having a root canal without a general anaesthetic, but I don’t hate you.
I should, cause you represent so many of the things that I’ve grown to resent about what we do and the way we’re perceived as Bombshells- you’re a walking stereotype that needs to acknowledged as such, you’re so hit and miss these days in that ring that I worry whether you remember that winner isn’t the one looking at the lights.
You take everything that someone like me is trying to build- and you paint it pink and glittery, tuck it away in your fucking purse next to your yapping bathmats and skip on through the flowers towards yet another goddamn loss. All while the world can’t wipe the smile from your face.
I didn’t join Blast From The Past just for the title shot- I’ve got that already, but I wanted to see if something as cutthroat and demanding as a tournament could bring out something more… something better in people that it's expected from.
Krystal Wolfe came and showed up, she went out there and did a damn good job… but she was a long way out of her depth, swimming with the sharks after someone had taken her legs off at the knees. She tried, and she bettered herself- but the result was always inevitable.
Whereas you Candy, I watched your first match… and you were exactly the same as you’ve been since I walked through that door.
Same stupid smile, same endearing nonsense in the ring. Yeah, you won… Cause your partner wasn’t absolute garbage.
I happen to think you’re damn talented- when you want to be. More than once, you’ve proven that you can be something better than the happy-go-lucky, smiley faces and rainbows, everyones my best friend… You’ve proven you can be a champion, you can be more than the punchline to a joke no one asked.
On your best day, you could beat me.
But you won’t.
So busy worrying what everyone thinks, whether you live up to moral expectations and whether your hair flicks just the right way on camera- that you forget that standing across the ring form you is someone who stopped caring what others thought, who realized that moral expectation was an anchor wrapped around a set of concrete stilettos and who realized there was more to stardom and fame than the way she presented.
Fuck opinions, fuck expectation and fuck stupid fucking hair flicks- I joined Sin City Wrestling to prove I was still good enough to call myself one of the best. That everything I did to get where I am meant something and that the things I do will simply be another chapter in a book that maybe no one will ever read- but they’ll know to be true.
I’ve straight up beaten you before Candy, this isn’t just a case of deja vu. It's a regular occurrence cause a match between us can only go one of two ways- pin or submission. I’ll be honest, I don’t even have a preference cause I’m pretty well caught up after Inception with both…
You watched everything unfold with Roxi, you got caught up in the webs and for that I feel a sense of guilt- you were never supposed to be involved and yet suddenly you found yourself in the crosshairs. Now, again, without meaning to- you’re back where you don’t wanna be and part of me almost feels bad for what I’m willing to do to go further.
That's the difference, isn’t it?
I’m willing to do anything it takes, and you’re still trying to wrap your head round the idea of colouring outside the lines.
It’d be almost cut and dry if this wasn’t a dance for two, if there wasn’t some variables to keep things a little more interesting than fight and win.
It’s Coby, right?
Third most important member of a two person tag team.
I should show a level fo reverence cause you know, being a champion and all but it's difficult for me to do anything except wrinkle my nose in disappointment cause you got fucking handed the title when Kris Ryans realized he had far better things to be occupying his time with.
World title problems, and all that I suppose.
Good for him, there's nothing better than a step up- but man does it make you look kinda like a chump. I mean, Mikah at least earned her half of the titles- and before she wants to pipe up, yeah you and Kris beat Mac and I in a fucking random swamp match that had literally no bearing on actually fighting for the mixed tag titles- but if you wanna talk shit, by all means come see me one on one.
In the meantime though, man Coby… For a guy with a title, you’re still looking a little lacklustre. Underground boy hits the big time and realizes that he doesn’t have a lot of time to start measuring up. Maybe if you were teamed with Mikah in this, her snark might have kept you guys afloat a little longer but instead you’re teaming with a woman who would paint over a title plate cause the colours don’t match back with her bedroom rug.
You aren’t idiots- but you’re young and inexperienced teaming with someone almost incapable of taking things seriously until she’s in legitimate danger- after all, look what happened last time.
Candy wasn’t the prize last time, she was bait.
Now it's being dangled out there again like I’ve won the fucking lottery and all I have to do is hand over my bank account details and social security number. Don’t think for a second that this is me writing you guys off before you ever get a word in edgewise- you’ll have your say and you’ll probably say that while I’m a great competitor, that I’m not as good as I think and that last time was just lucky… you know, generic small talk from people who don’t like to look at anything below the surface.
You’re shallow, you’re immature and you just don’t get that this isn’t a carnival game where you win a crappy toy for participating- the further you go, the most desperate everyone gets to be the winner.
You might be desperate, but not quite in the way that gets you past us.
Despayre and I, we might be oil and water. Hell, we might be blood and sand- but we understand what it takes to get a job done and all the ways the human body can be broken down to achieve such results. Despayre is a firecracker, a rabid animal who forgot to clean under his nails between maulings and fucking toxic in such a way that I wish I could bottle and sell it at an exorbitant price. Whereas I’m like creeping death, the reapers mercenary when things start getting a little too out of control- I hold my head up when the world wants me to bow in shame cause I’ve done things that they wish they had the courage to admit their jealousy that they didn’t do it first.
Blast From The Past- it's not about the end result. It's about the journey, it's about taking limits and flushing them down the fucking toilet cause that shit just doesn’t apply here. Candy and Coby- maybe against any other team I might have you pegged as favourites but you drew the short straw and tried to drink from a tall glass that's always halfway filled.
You pulled us though- you pulled a team who doesn’t have ethical limitations or a trigger in their brian to tell them that enough is enough and you can’t kill a person any further once they’re dead. Despayre might be a lot of things- but he’s my partner and, whether the world believes it or not, I’ve got his back till championship match or crash and burn.
I might not be considered trustworthy by many, but look at the sources, people who earned the wrath that befell their doorstep… Those who’ve drawn my attention did so by being blatantly disrespectful cause they believed reputation was far greater a litmus test than what they saw before them.
Win or lose, Despayre is my partner, and he’s one of the only fucking people in this place who doesn’t act like I’m a fucking monster cause I’m willing to be honest about my intentions. Loyalty is worth more than gold and if it came down to it, I’d be willing to bleed out on that canvas if it meant Despayre got his title shot...
Try and tell me that either of you would be willing to do the same thing.”
******
Madame Tussauds Wax Museum
Las Vegas, ND
02.03.2021
5:12pm
“These things never fail to give me the creeps.”
Amber mused idly while staring into the weirdly lifeless eyes of Tiger Woods. Profoundly fake, and yet real enough look that you wanted to reach out just in case- god, it was almost as though they’d taken inspiration from the pro wrestling industry and proceeded to make a fortune by recreating pop culture iconography with it.
Temptation dictated that she reach out and touch, just to satisfy curiosity but there was something immensely off-putting- even just in the ways the lights captured changes in complexion and the faint microexpressions etched into features that looked as though they changed the moments the lights went down.
Fascinating and yet incredibly unsettling, Amber even had to admit that she was enjoying herself far more than she expected- maybe it wasn’t so much the setting as it was the company though. Despayre, in spite of the obvious quirks, seemed to have taken enough of a liking to the redhead that he didn’t run off the moment she entered a room or say something disparaging simply cause that had become the status quo for those still figuring out how to string a competent insult together.
Despy, for what it was worth, made her feel normal.
Around him, she wasn’t a monster. She wasn’t a force of nature. She was just some redhead chick who shared a ring with him on occasion and had proven herself to be pretty cool- under the right circumstances. Maybe he didn’t care what she’d been known for, maybe it didn’t even matter- but there was something that invigorated the darker recesses of her chest to know that for once… for fucking once in a very long time…
She wasn’t being judged.
It was strange, she found herself contemplating, as she tore herself away from the golf players waxen visage. Something about Despayre put her at ease, as though the idea of expectation had been lifted the moment that he didn’t really know who she was- many would have taken such a slight as insulting and derogatory, but for someone who spent their career trying to change the way they were perceived… Well, it was almost as though she’d been gifted a brand new start without having to burn ever chapter that came beforehand.
Around Despy, Amber got to be… someone else.
Not necessarily herself, cause in truth she wasn’t sure what that even constituted anymore, but someone who’s reflection she didn’t internally hate.
“I dunno, it's almost too lifelike you---”
Perhaps as should have been expected as Despayre and by proxy Angel, had managed to disappear among the figures with as much subtlety as one might imagine a hyperactive toddler would walking into a Build-A-Bear workshop on International Teddy Bears day.
Pale complexion and shock of dark hair on a small physique, it wasn’t difficult to spot the imposter among fakes while he had a startlingly multi-faceted conversation with a Lady GaGa figure comparing her to someone called Delia that he reminisced upon quite fondly.
“--- know.”
Shaking her head with a warm and knowing smile, Amber began her rather leisurely pursuit of her tag team partner who seemed rather intent on integrating himself with the figures rather than simply spectating as others might. Pausing, Amber's smile twitched upwards as she restrained laughter as Despy had tried to mimic a rather sassy looking Beyonce pose- only succeeding in looking as though he’d developed scoliosis and a hernia in the same blink of an eye.
If nothing else, it was a welcome distraction from the demons she found herself trying to outlast- his carefree nature rubbing off even just a little bit on the redhead who’d found herself retreating further back into her own head by the week.
“I gotta say though, this Beyonce backup dancer might give the Queen a run for her money…”
It was sarcasm badly disguised as bemusement, a compliment wrapped in an itchy blanket of mockery. Who was Amber to tell him any differently though, happiness was such a fucking rarity in the world these days it was a wonder that anyone remembered how smiles worked.
Amber rubbed the side of her head reflexively, trying to put the other lurking shadows to the back of her mind so that she might be allowed to just enjoy doing something that didn’t make her feel pain or misery for an hour… Shadows though were unrelenting and as Despy ‘vanished’ between the figures once more- she couldn't help but swallow that lingering bitterness on the back of her tongue.
Christina had become like an unexpected splinter, like every time she spoke it dug a little deeper under Amber’s skin. It was never supposed to be that way, it was never meant to grow personal- although Amber had made the same claims when it came to Roxi but things had a way of escalating when the ‘good guys’ were determined to be proven right about their righteousness.
Christina was supposed to be a challenge, a step in the right direction- but she’d buried herself in the skin between her fingers and at the top of Amber’s sternum as though woefully determined to justify her own fucking shitty outlooks for the sake of doing so.
No, Blast From The Past was the immediate goal. She owed Despayre that respect and far more- one match in and she’d found a sense of comfort and belonging that she’d struggled to find in anyone beyond the limited social circle she’d curated.
Everyone else was too busy looking at face value, too busy making assumptions based solely on limited experience and word of mouth- it was astonishing what one might hear about themselves through the rumour mill after all. Amber had learned a great deal of things about herself she'd never known before simply because someone else's flaws and faults meant no one would put a magnifying glass to their own for a little longer.
With an easy saunter, Amber followed the excited shrieks through to the Marvel Superheroes display. A perverse attempt to capitalise on branding, although watching Despy somehow squeeze into the space in Hulk's fist was, admittedly, rather impressive. Coloured lights and the faint smell of humanity left Amber feeling a little light-headed as Despayre struck his best heroic poses beside pop cultures best- she couldn’t deny that it left her feeling a little rubbed the wrong way.
For months she’d railed against the idea of heroes and how hypocritical their ideals and the way they were implemented with Roxi, shedding blood and tears in an effort to prove that she wasn’t just fucking insane… but that she was right all along. To now, finding herself among exploited art and storytelling, wearing a smile while something inside scraped her veins raw.
Everyone had their hero phase- the do-gooders out there determined to make the world a better place with a smile and a kind word, the sketchy motherfuckers praying that some mark might buy into their facade long enough to empty their wallet and the somewhere in betweens who couldn't decide which direction their moral compass was pointing- only that ‘doing good’ justified all their actions.
Candy and Coby, they were the first example- enthusiastic, but woefully unprepared for what was about to be rammed down their necks while Christina was undisputedly the last one, acting out of alignment and using emotion and fear to reason her outrages.
Amber, arguably could have been the middle one- and for a time she was. There were many points in her background that she never hesitated to prey on the socially naive and their pity compass. Distorted Angel wasn’t a cute nickname, it was a descriptor after people who’d fallen for pitiful eyes and an insincere smile only to find their wallet picked clean and their missing watch exposing an unsightly tan line.
Cassidy Parker had been the middle alignment. Brendan ‘Sticky’ Griffiths had been the middle one. Graham ‘Grizz’ Parker- well, he’d taught the redhead that true success had to lie somewhere in between them all- the worst of all worlds and best of none.
These days, Amber could barely even tell up from down, right and wrong never felt more antiquated and outdated- Blast From The Past had initially been a means to an end, but now somehow that journey was far outweighing the destination.
Stepping out from the display a little indignant, Amber found the amused smile return and weight lift as Despayre had already surged ahead- although a little too literally as the waxen visage as a member of BTS had rolled from its body only to be replaced with one far more gaunt and animated while Angel hitched a ride on his shoulders.
It’d be a matter of moments before they’d likely be escorted out by security, no doubt, possibly banned for the vandalism as though it weren’t a vast improvement on the original. Maybe she should have been mad, disappointed that their fun would be ending abruptly- yet watching Despy attempt to place his chin on the headless figure of a K-Pop boy band member was almost enough of a distraction to make her forget the obnoxious vibration of her phone in her pocket.
“Ah, fuck it.”
No. For once- real life could just fucking wait…
With a gentle kick, the head rolled further to the side as Amber took up beside Despy as the first of the security rounded the corner- their dismay and disgust overshadowed by the display of childish happiness and stupidly relentless joy.
