“you son of a bitch, she said, I am
trying to build a meaningful
relationship.
you can't build it with a hammer,
he said.”
― Charles Bukowski, Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit





Oblivion Garage
Las Vegas, ND
08.03.2021
9:03pm



… “Hey Red, when will you be home?” …

Amber didn’t want to admit that it was a good question, nor that the answer despite her best efforts was the same- it’d always be the same. Still, staring through the fluorescence trying to make the digitalised words of a text message into something far more meaningful was just another layer of procrastination and indecision. A reason, albeit a nonsensical one, that she might somehow force reality and its consequences from this space for just a little longer.

… “Soon. I promise.” …

It wasn’t as though it was a lie that made her thumbs feel as though they were filled with lead, that her deliberate vagueness was more than just insecurity manifesting into avoidance. Soon wasn’t real or quantifiable, and Mac knew that her choice of words had nothing to do with the passage of time- just something to fill a void rising in her throat that she had no strength left to swallow. It was just a sound to pass silence and words on a screen.
If nothing else, her promise was genuine- but even that had become brittle, the hairline cracks tracing through its surface and deepening as further pressure was applied. No one could deny that Amber’s famously glacial facade was cracked and whatever fearsomely scared and determinedly fiery little girl was left behind those walls could be seen peering through.

Idly rubbing at the splatters of grease and oil that had started drying into her skin, Amber surveyed the wreckage she’d created. Oblivion Garage was their pet project, their life beyond wrestling, their solace and sanctuary outside of ropes of a squared circle- the end goal was to open properly, to go into business that didn’t involve spilling the better parts of themselves across a sweat soaked canvas.
At this rate though, Mac would be lucky to get through the fucking door as the remnants of a 2012 Hayabusa’s engine lay strewn haphazardly across grease stained concrete.
Much of what Amber could clean had been thrice over by now- still, there was something else that could be blamed for the splutters of acrid black smoke filling the space and dirty, harsh rattles of the engine struggling for breath.

With hours of work in the rearview, Amber slumped against the metal wall and to the ground with forearms resting across the tops of her knees- perhaps further from a solution than ever from when she’d limped the bike in the day before.
A small part of her knew that maybe in trying to bring it back from the brink, she might somehow drag herself back with it. That maybe in tearing the engine apart as best she could, reconfiguring and scrubbing till her hands were angry and raw while the wrong flicker of light met set friction into flame- she might put herself back together in a way that made looking into the mirror a little more palatable.


That very question had repeated on her like verbal heartburn she couldn’t just push back down inside. To many the bike was just an object- replaceable and superfluous, and at a glance it didn’t look as though it’d be a great loss to anyone. Scratched and dented the paint had been scraped away in places while metal was exposed where errant stones of gravel had torn it's way through. She couldn’t deny she’d dragged the bike through far more hell than it deserved- but she’d maintained it where it truly mattered and even now it still purred like a kitten in idle and screamed like a fucking banshee when she got to open the throttle.

It used to.

Past tense.

That could take some getting used to.

Maybe it was just a bike- but for someone who didn’t hold a lot of things dear, who’d kept most of her life confined to what might fit in a duffel bag… Who’d been too fucking terrified to drive a car for veritable years after dying in one.
Eight years was a long time- lives changed, people were supposed to, but somehow never did. 

That goddamn Hayabusa had been a part of her life longer than anyone else ever had- and she was supposed to just shrug it off and move on cause it was just a bike.
A thing.
A possession.
Material and monetary nothingness.
Metal and fibreglass in a construct of fucking meaningless bullshit.

Amber pitched the closest wrench across the garage as adrenaline flooded her system, clattering loudly off the gaudy yellow Dodge that her adopted father had dropped by. She fucking hated that thing, and she had almost no doubt that he insisted she be the one to work on it cause spite was a powerful motivator and she straight up refused to let that piece of shit get the better of her.
Maybe later she’d explain to him the gouge through the paint- a  lie perhaps that he’d been reckless bringing it in. Or maybe she wouldn’t and just tell him it was the fucking worst and that setting it alight would be the optimal improvement.

Trialing a grease stained hand through her hair in frustration, Amber wanted to scream herself hoarse in hopes she might no longer be able to hear herself think. Normally Mac would have been there, he’d have been the light at the end of her tunnel- proving there was one to begin with and that she hadn’t just hallucinated in the face of an oncoming train.
He’d reassure her, he’d make her remember that there was good… and that she was allowed to embrace that good as her own and most importantly- with a soft smile, he’d make the world seem a little less shitty for awhile just by being there.

… and right now, she couldn’t have that.

Not that he’d allow her to say it, nor that he’d ever believe such a farce. They were opponents indirectly, mirror images on teams touted to go all the way- and it seemed almost disingenuous to cry into the shoulder of the man she’d hoped to leave in the Blast From The Past rearview on the way to the final.
Despayre had proven himself beyond expectation, and over time Amber had come to admire and appreciate his perspective on the world- skewed but always towards the brighter side, something she’d wished she’d allowed herself to embrace more in the limited time they’d had.
Despy saw things for the way they could be, Amber saw them for the way they were- and some days she wished she’d never seen any of it at all.

As her gaze travelled across the scattered pieces of engine across the floor, to the pans of fluids dripping at the edge where she’d been too slow to stop an overflow and onto to the skeletal frame of the Hayabusa as it armour lie in a pile nor much further away- she couldn’t stop the welling in her eyes from seeping down her cheek.

On the inside she swore profusely that it was just the black smoke and fumes that had left her eyes bloodshot.

God, she didn’t even wanna breathe- everything made her so irritable. In the back of her throat where fumes danced, screams of rage and frustrated grief seemed to die before the sound ever touched her lips. She felt as though she might be torn asunder inside to out, that direction had no meaning when all she wanted to do was figure out which way was up- she wanted to rampage at Christina and laugh with Despayre, she wanted to love alongside Mac and despise everything dredged up from her past. However rampage couldn’t be quelled with just laughter and love could do little to drown the demons determined to crawl out from the depths

Like confetti in a hurricane, she was everywhere and gone all in a moment.

Despayre deserved her best and she was struggling to pull herself from the rut. Two more possible matches- they’d gone so far it’d be almost criminal to fail now- and when it was all said and done Amber could finally take all that blunt force trauma of derision and dismissal, the sheer fucking hunger she had to be champion- and allow it to bleed from her pores and stain the canvas with something far more valuable than anything Christina had ever contributed.
Two more matches. Nothing was guaranteed, but that didn't stop her from considering the worst case scenario- wait, no best… best case scenario.

Yeah, that.

Blast From The Past. Amber and Despayre weren’t supposed to make it work- it was supposed to be a beautiful tragedy, a fucking comedy of errors watching two ‘forces of nature’ drive each other off the edge of a cliff. Their path had been nothing short of dominant and now everyone expected them to win, or to fall at the last hurdle…
Part of her wanted to believe that she’d dispelled some of the dark clouds above her head- that she’d be a turncoat at the first sign of things going south, a traitor when she inevitably crossed paths with Mac. Amber motherfucking Ryan might have been a lot of things, and less of them good than she’d openly admit, but she wasn’t a traitor and she wasn’t a coward.

… nor was she about to start.

“Red?”

In the midst of her anxiety peaking and insecurities pulsating through every raw nerve, trying to stare her way through a far wall that refused to blink- she hadn’t heard the lock click or the door open, Mac’s voice sounded far more distant than it was and nothing about anything quite sunk in beyond skin deep.
One look at the scene was enough for Mac Bane to piece together what Amber couldn’t- a mess of thoughts and feelings entwined with something very tangible, a problem the redhead couldn’t simply smile and grit her teeth through.
After all, dead ends didn’t get their names from simply being difficult to pass through. Amber was throwing up walls as fast as they were falling, not to keep the world out anymore, but to keep everything she could no longer contain within.

“Come on sweetheart, we’ll get this sorted tomorrow. Together”

She didn’t want to fix this tomorrow. Hell, she didn’t want tomorrow at all. She didn’t want the sun to rise or the world to look at her as anything other than what she chose to present it. Biting her lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood, Amber allowed the breath she’d been holding to escape from her burning lungs, filling them with something acrid that stung all the way down into the writhing knot at the centre of her chest.

“Mac…”

He wanted the best for her, and she just wanted to throw everything into the fucking sun.

“... I’m not sure I can do this.”





******



“I tried to tell myself that I wouldn’t give a fuck about this match.

That I could walk out there and just not try, allow Mac his rightful path of conquest towards the goal while very reluctantly watching Myra tag along sheepishly for the free ride. I tried to tell myself that we’d win either way- that Mac’s success was just as important as mine and that I could be happy enough with how far we’d gotten if things went south.
I tried to tell myself that Despayre would understand somehow, that I’d be making the right decision for all parties- I mean after all, I have my shot at Blaze Of Glory.

I tried to tell myself that I didn’t need this.

I just can’t lie to myself though Myra, I can’t pretend like I don’t care. More than anything I want to see Mac standing atop the mountain, but knowing that it means you get there as well leaves me a little more bitter than I’d usually like to admit.
Maybe I’m being selfish- that's the easy, low hanging fruit that I’ve got no doubt you’ll swing for cause minimum effort for maximum outcome seems to have become your modus operandi these days. Do as little as possible to get where you are, and do just enough to stay there.

But I fucking care Myra.

I care more than I thought I would, more than I thought I had any right to…

Of course, I don’t expect you to understand it cause it conflicts with every fibre of your being as though you’re somehow allergic to empathy and being a fucking decent person. I mean, heaven forbid people be more than just sycophants and supporting players in the Sin City Wrestling: Myra Rivers experience- well, the ones who’ll no doubt stick around to the end waiting for a goddamn punchline that's not coming.

Not enough hours in the day I suppose for that, after all you’re too busy being a record setting Internet Champion right?

Five defenses now. Colour me as impressed as I am bored- if only cause the reason I remember is that you repeat it every opportunity you get, repetition might make you stronger, but it makes every poor bastard who has to listen to it wanna scrunch their face up into a ball and throw it down a shredder.
Fact is, for a woman with alot to say… you really don’t manage to say all that much.

Don’t get me wrong, that title is an accomplishment and I’m not gonna stand here and try to piss all over it when I plan on seizing a title of my own- besides, my aim with a moving target just isn’t what it used to be. What you’ve done is nothing short of incredible Myra- particularly for consistency in your level of competition. It's really quite astounding how you manage to get defenses against people who really shouldn’t be punching that high that to begin with, padding out your resume to the point that no one wants to get buried in the fluff whilst looking for a shred of talent on the list.
It's not that you haven’t earned it, that you aren't talented enough to have kept it- but I gotta ask… Does it get exhausting looking down on everyone all the time?

Fact is, and you know this as well as I do- you’re a very big fish in a very small pond. Hell, I’d go as far to argue that a side step across to the Roulette title scene might be considered almost demeaning and the idea of stepping up to the world title? Well, that just exposes the chinks in your armour against a ‘better’ class of competitor…
Air quotes are for a reason kiddies, look at the last little hot potato run and who’s getting a shot- once again before me, you know as though I didn’t make it fucking crystal clear before that I’ve beyond earned my shot.

Christina Zdunich. Keira Johnson. Jessie Salco.

Excuse me while I go and throw up in my mouth a little.

No, here's the thing that I truly wanna admire about you Myra. Since our first match, you’ve managed to stagnate in such an impressive manner it's a wonder you aren’t growing moss and algae in your eyebrows. You’ve taken all the momentum you’ve earned and you drove it into the fucking ground just to stay right where you are- you’re comfortable, you’re cozy and most importantly Myra… you’ve gotten lazy.
You talk this big fucking game about redemption and bettering yourself- but I’ve not seen you do a damn thing towards actually achieving that.
Match after match it's colour by numbers and every shade is fucking beige.

Every word out of your mouth is dripping with contempt despite your promises to do good, and you treat everyone exactly the same way, but expect them to react differently cause you’ve got a new attitude and you turned a rotting leaf over just to expose further decay.

Of course, you’d be remiss not to bring up that you are one of two people on this roster with a singles win over me. That's real lofty company you’re keeping, it's easy to get a little light headed up there and say something stupid though…
I’ll be the first to admit that you were better on that night and I walked in thinking that having a little momentum would be enough to carry me through- thing is… I’ve learned, I’ve grown and I’ve adapted since that match. In the same amount of time Myra, you’ve won a trinket, had disappointing matches against people well under qualified to take that belt off you and talked about how old you’re getting.

See, at age 36… NO ONE FUCKING CARES.
Literally no one.
Stop it.
You could be 26, 46 or even 76… actually scratch that last one cause 76 would be pretty damn cool, but when it's a part of every other sentence not talking about how many title defenses you’ve done or how much you’re ‘redeeming yourself’, well people get a little tired of the schtick.
As far as I’m concerned- you break and you bleed so therefore you can be beaten... although maybe your bones might be a little more brittle, but that's what we like to call a ‘you problem’.

I have a reputation you see- one that dictates that not a single fucking person currently in this industry has a win over me that I haven’t gotten back. Except you. We could talk about exceptions to the rule, but that implies that the rule book hadn’t been thrown out the window long ago.
Singles, mixed tag, clusterfuck. I’m not fussy- cause as much as I’d love to be the one personally putting an L in your column, I’m more than willing to accept my boy Despayre doing what he does best and pulling a ‘surprise’ upset over a far bigger opponent.

When it comes down to it Myra, and I wish you’d just admit this and save us all some hassle, Blast From The Past has absolutely no impact on your life- you could have gone out in the first round just as easily as you’ll go out now and nothing would have changed.
For you this whole thing is just a means to an end where you’re already planning the victory celebration before Mac, once again, does the dirty work and scores your team the victory. You only want to win this tournament so no one else can, so that you can add another meaningless paragraph to your resume while somehow managing to leave out everything factual and basically worth reading- you don’t care about Mac just as much as you don’t care about anything except making your spotlight a little brighter.

It’s why Despayre and I are the favourites to win- despite plenty of people not wanting us to. They want you and Mac to succeed, but that's out of spite so that they can say I fell at the final hurdle, not cause they thought you were somehow capable all along.
You’ve shown up week after week talking this big game, but Mac’s been the one carrying your team through while you stand on the apron talking smack instead of contributing anything worthwhile.
There are those out there who think I’m about to turn, that I’m the piece of shit traitor looking to spoil the party- but if I can be honest, I think you’re a far more likely candidate… Temper tantrum Rivers when the entitled brat doesn’t get an easy win handed to her on a fucking platter, of course you wouldn’t dare berate Mac…

Not for fear of him, but for fear of me.

You do that man dirty, and I swear on everything I have worth swearing on that I’ll leave you in a worse puddle than the one Christina is leaving in her pantsuit when she catches a glance at my oncoming reflection.

Just remember there's a damn good reason why I’m challenging for the Bombshells Title at Blaze Of Glory and they’re throwing darts at a board trying to decide which bone to throw you. Blast From The Past doesn’t change our trajectories, your rollercoaster is headed 140 feet straight down regardless- and if I’m honest, I’m far more pissed that I’m about to be sending Mac down that line with you.

Sure this match might just be a semi-final but Despayre and I are looking at this like we’ve looked at every match so far- as the one that could put us out of the tournament.
Arguably, this should never have been a semi, it should have been pay per view premium content and the highly touted final collision of the dominant Flamin Hot Cheetos vs Mac Bane and his vestigial tag team partner, instead we’re getting dessert before dinner, even though we all know you can’t have your pudding if you don’t eat your meat.

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again- it's not up to us to win. It's down to you to beat us… and if that means that I have to stand across from my soon-to-be-husband and press pause on his well deserved ascent to the World Title, if I have to be the one that hold him back so that I might take a further step forward…

So fucking be it.

Cause in my heart of hearts I know, just as well as Mac, that anything less is just a disappointment.”



******



Undisclosed Bar
Atlantic City, NJ
12.03.2021
7:17pm







Amber still wasn’t sure why the phone call came as a surprise, it had been months since her last conversation with Grizz in his trailer- asking her for a dead man's errand so that he might somehow make peace for his failings. Months that he wasn’t supposed to have.
Time had gotten away from her in a way she was struggling to acknowledge, trying to recall anything these days left her in a technicolor haze of contempt and violence- part of her had always known that time would soon be running out, but that didn’t mean she liked the taste as she swallowed those truths whole.

Palliative care. That was the end of the line- even the grizzled old bastard himself couldn’t ignore the ominous nature of his declining health any longer. Staring through the bottom of a glass of something whos afterburn was barely now memory still bitter on her tongue, Amber tried to wade through the mire behind her eyes while dodging the glances of everyone who thought she’d walked into the wrong establishment.


Those weren’t the exact words- she couldn’t replicate the flowery language and saccharine tone that was supposed to disarm as readily as it was to inform. Somehow all the sweetness and delicacy was supposed to mask the lingering malodour of what this really was, that Amber was supposed to feel better in it's wake cause the voice over the phone really sounded like she cared.
Part of Amber, the part she found herself most disgusted by when looking in a mirror, preferred that she wouldn’t know at all- let life and death take its course without dragging everyone else's into it's swirling vortex of grief and exorbitant flower arrangements.




She hadn’t meant to be so blunt, even as the syllables fell from the precipice of her lips she regretted their existence- it wasn't the voice on the phones fault that she couldn’t fucking sleep at night, that she found doubt and indecision dancing in the shadows of her mind.

Blast From The Past.

Blaze Of Glory.

Mac.

Despayre.

Christina.

God, she’d have vomited if there were anything left in her stomach to wretch.

Inevitably the question of loyalty would arise- and when it did, Amber knew she didn’t have a definitive answer. Trying to quantify her relationships made her already tumultuous mindset further muddled and murky- how could she even just sit by and try to make sense of things she barely understood.
For some god forsaken reason, she mused while curling her fingers softly around the glass, people loved broken things- they thought they could be fixed or changed, improved upon perhaps. They’d say they saw potential up until the point things just got too hard and suddenly broken didn;t mean damaged- it meant impossible.

Amber had become impossible in her own head and now it was a matter of time before everyone else caught up.





Maybe another drink would help, maybe it wouldn’t. Even now, Amber couldn’t help but chuckle slightly at the idea of anyone calling Grizz ‘Mr Parker’ without him making a face not unlike a ripe passion fruit, his thick scraggly beard almost puffed up at the indignation and the heavy wrinkles of a lifetimes work sinking lower into his face.
Possibly the most unprofessional professional Amber might have ever had the pleasure to know- a compliment the man himself would outright refuse to accept out of the principle that he could always have been better at being an absolute cu---

“Another drink?”

A twitch at the corner of her lips and what sound amounted to a murmur seemed enough acknowledgement for the bartender as he whisked the empty glass while the unrelenting need to keep hers hands busy left her fingers tapping incessantly on the faintly sticky surface.
Mac would have told her to slow down, to think about what she was doing and all the other ways she might process whatever this influx of feelings was that left her throat dry and chest aching if she thought about it for too long. Despayre probably would have been too busy making friends with the ‘first in, last out’ crones huddled silently over their half empty drinks, with Angel in tow of course, ever the silent and judgemental type.





Amber vaguely recalled choking on her words a little, a harshness in her throat scraping each word raw before it left her tongue a bloody mess.

There was no denying the way she felt about Mac- hell she’d agreed to marry the man- and  in just over a month as well. Yet another clock ticking in defiance of the passages of time. He’d been the angel on her shoulder and the devil in her ear, the support system that kept her upright after one too many nights getting drunk on everything her demons might have dredged from the recesses. God, that man deserved far better…

Another glass. Ice cubes clinking that she didn’t remember ordering the first time as a faintly amber hued liquid sloshed momentarily inside before falling still- by now though she realized she didn’t even wanna get drunk, she just wanted to get numb.
Numb was far easier, it didn’t have to make sense. Amber could go around like seemingly everyone else pretending that the world and everything in it was just fucking fine… fucking fine indeed.


Despayre was a different story though- what Mac brought out in love and living, Despy had brought out laughter and joy, he’d shown her what a clean slate looked like and all the ways she didn’t have to conform to what her reputation seemed to demand. When it came to despayre, Amber didn’t have to be what she hated- the monster that had become a defense mechanism against shitty opinions and shittier people. A force of nature with a guilt reflex and inability to know when enough was too much.

He didn’t care who she was- only that she cared at all.



Words twisted, their edges as sharp as they were blunt. Another glass rested at her lips that she hoped not to remember in an hour. Maybe she;d dull the edges, but blood would flow all the same… Mac and despayre both deserved her best and yet she barely had it in her to give them all she had left… An unprofessional professional in the truest of senses, it’d be funny if it wasn’t so true.

Still, that's what this godforsaken match… this life demanded from her- and yet all she wanted to do in this moment was tear herself apart at the seams.

“The eye of a hurricane is a real Cyclops, and confusing a blink with a wink can be deadly. Sometimes I flirt at 100 miles per hour.”
― Jarod Kintz, This Book is Not FOR SALE


Undisclosed Fairgrounds
Somewhere in Arizona
12.02.2004
8:17pm



“A quarter for extra sprinkles?!?”

Amber had never seen a 13 year old so incredulous as she barely restrained her own grin, the sheer defiance that radiated off Cassidy Parker in this moment  would have been far more astounding had she not also been pouting stroppily.

“Come on, that's a rip off.”

With an easy smile, the young local charged with minding the ice-cream van leaned further into the makeshift window, clearly finding greater purchase in these negotiations than his opponent, even now the edges of the soft serve started to dribble down the edge of the waffle cone- however Cassidy was less than moved.
Stubborn was an understatement, maybe that's why Amber had come to love the younger girl- a willingness to fight, to scratch and claw for what she felt was deserved… even if they were only a goddamn quarter.

“Maybe so, but it's half of what I’m charging anyone else who doesn’t have their last name plastered all over this shit show.”

Amber shook her head slightly in reaction, he wasn’t exactly wrong- from the moment they’d rolled into town it seemed as though the universe had conspired to force them to leave again. There was that damn stubbornness again though, this time Grizz and his ‘show must go on’ mentality that would just as easily see them all in jail as it would under the accursed glow of neon.
Everywhere they went- Grizz believed the people wanted to be entertained, they wanted to be amused and amazed, they wanted to be dazzled and most importantly- they wanted to empty their wallets, even if they didn’t know it yet.


Even now, Amber could recall the times when locals gave them sideways snarls and furtive glances as though eye contact might be infectious-
Burning the lot… Grizz had mentioned the term a couple times, mostly in the context of when the law enforcement showed up on arrival into town with the strongly worded urge that they carnival should keep moving instead.
Thinly veiled threats did little for hostilities and less for peaceful reconciliations.



“How about… a dime.”

With some indistinct rummaging, Cassidy pulled a lint covered dime from the pocket of her jeans as though she might have just found the key to perpetual energy or world peace.
With a raised eyebrow, the surprised glance travelled from Cassidy to Amber and back again with a certain comedic slowness.

“Let's put it this way sweetheart... Even the Queen of fucking England ain’t getting extra sprinkles for a dime.”

Petulant but determined, Cassidy straightened up and reflexively fixed the ponytail of boundless curls that fell like tendrils at the base of her neck. Amber tuned out slightly, her mind wandering and distant as the negotiations continued heatedly- besides, Amber knew Cassidy had at least five dollars strewn between pockets and socks.
Perhaps being surrounded by scum and pickpockets had made her paranoid, even though no one would ever dare try it.

“Thought I might find you sweet things near something sugary and delightful.”

Sticky sidled up beside Amber, hell even his presence made her itch uncomfortably. With his baseball cap slightly tilted as though he saw it once on a rap video, Sticky gave Amber a very obvious up and down look before turning his eye to Cassidy…

“... Don’t you dare even think about it.”

Amber's low growl resonated from deep within dredged from somewhere beneath her diaphragm, slathered in bile and venom and audible only between them as it reverberated through both their souls simultaneously. Sticky shuddered with a soft groan as though subtly and single-mindedly trying to make literally every interaction as disagreeable and galling as humanly possible.
Leaning in, he lowered his tone to match only finding something more guttural and insincere crossing his lips.

“Ooohhh, I like that. Do that again, but say my name....”

Amber edged closer with a look that stopped even his advances col- whilst the thought passed between them whether looks truly could kill. Sticky brushed a few tresses that had almost matted into dreadlocks away as his face regained some semblance of colour.

“I’m serious”

“So am I, you should talk to me like that all the time”

“I’d rather put you in a hole and piss in it.”

“If I knew that's what it would take to get you to piss on me, Red I’d have dropped dead years ago.”

Amber recoiled violently, the back of her tongue caked in bitter bile as she swallowed hard, just in time to watch Cassidy secede in neotionations and dig into her pockets to pull out the remainder of the quarter she owed- making sure it was in as much small currency as possible. Most would have considered the act petty and impolite, but that mattered less than ever as her hand became quickly stained with ice-cream and wayward sprinkles.

“Let me be clear Sticky, I hope you live forever- only cause I think death is far too good for you. Given the opportunity I’d reincarnate you as a fucking ant if only so I could have the distinct pleasure of crushing you into the dirt and no one caring.”

Sticky contemplated for a moment, his gaze travelling over towards Cassidy as she approached then back to Amber before falling somewhere in between.

{color=orange]“Y’know Red, one day… she ain’t gonna listen to you anymore.”[/color]

Amber said nothing as they both watched as Cassidy happily licked away at the diminishing soft serve while, perhaps thankfully, still out of earshot by the time Sticky murmured something under his breath that made Amber see white.

“... and I can only hope that when that day comes, she’s gonna be sucking up my cream like that.”

Sickened to her stomach, Amber turned on a dime and drove her left fist through Sticky’s jaw- woefully unhinged, she wanted to vomit just as badly as she wanted to put his face through the centre of the Earth. Cassidy was her little sister, maybe not by blood, but by heart… by spirit… by sheer goddamn force of fucking will… and if Amber could help it, Sticky would never get within 5 feet of her ever again.
It took a few moments to reconnect with her body, but in those missing seconds she could only presume that she’d driven her knee into his chest and tried to swing wildly at his face as Sticky pitifully tried to cover up.
Whether she was hitting or not seemed irrelevant- she just wanted him to understand in no uncertain terms just how far he’d chosen to cross the line, and that a simple sheepish grin wasn't gonna make that go away.

“Fucking hell Amber, whats gotten into you?!”

Small hands gripped at her shoulders, trying to drag the raging redhead from a quarry that might have resembled Sticky under a bloodied and beaten facade. Only now did her fists ache- a cut from one of his teeth coming loose had sliced into one of her knuckles while her jaw throbbed from having been clenched to the point her teeth might turn to dust.
Shocked and dismayed, completely oblivious to everything beforehand, Cassidy managed to pry Amber off and into the dirt where she skidded slightly- blood and sand mingling across her half-clenched fists.

“Have you lost your goddamn mind?”

Amber stuttered slightly, unable to articulate her fury. Somehow it was the waffle cone now sideways in the dirt and melting fast and the multitude of sprinkles now disappearing into the grassy like crappy sugared confetti, that drew her eyes first… A sudden wave of guilt followed by a renewed sense of indignation.
Cassidy, clearly shaken, eyed them both warily as Amber tried to straighten herself up.

Perhaps it was the universe or just her eyes playing tricks on her- but behind the bloody bubbles in the corner of his mouth and the fast rising swelling of his right eye, Amber could have sworn she saw Sticky fucking smile.



******



“I do love me some irony kiddies.

Not the irony of 10,000 spoons and no knives, but the kind where we take names in this business that we have no justification towards- but be damned if we don’t cause they sound cool.
I’ve been doing this a long time, probably far too long according to my doctor and likely everyone who’s ever had the known misfortune of sharing a ring with me when I’m having a rather shit day.
Spoilers, for those inclined, that's more often than not these days.

Stay off fucking social media, that's your tidbit of advice for the day.

Fact is, I’ve thrown hands with leviathans and living legends, spat thumbtacks into the eyes of beasts and beauties- maybe that's all made me a little blase, a little embittered beyond reason cause I’m so sick of everyone thinking that their name means more than what they do in that ring.
We take up our mantles as representation- that's the appetizer, that's what gets everyone enthused and excited but so many think they have to sound ‘cool’ as though that changes the fact they exude as much determination as a toddler doing a sudoku.

Don’t laugh, those things are hard.

Here’s the thing though Krystal… I never gave myself my own names, I didn’t decide that this was going to define my existence. I used my real name cause I take responsibility for my actions and suck up the consequences regardless of how they might burn on the way down.
I didn’t get called a hurricane cause I hit like a gentle autumnal breeze, I didn’t earn the mantle of a distorted angel cause I’m the type of girl you bring home to mom and dad in the fucking suburbs.
I could have been anything in this industry- I could have walked in calling myself ‘BitchFace McBadass’ from day dot and still done everything I have, but it wouldn’t nearly have meant as much cause Amber Ryan… she’d have been the second best face I wore.

Wolfe. Apex predator. Alpha.
Not the worst choice you could have made- I mean plenty have been worse, there are those out there who change their identity on a weekly basis I can’t even tell if I’m fucking dissing the right person when I try to @ them.
Hey Christina Crystal Rose Disappointment Hilton Zdunich, hey yeah… Go shine up my title real nice and then fuck yourself.
Seriously though, it's just a shame that such a defiant and hard hitting name now refers to, what is essentially, a goddamn rookie.

That's not your fault of course, everyone has to start somewhere.
We all need to have that match in the beginning of our careers that tests us to our limits, that sets the bar for what comes next and possibly unleashes an unseen potential that will carry you on for months, maybe even years to come…
This match is not that match. This match is the one where you learn that some people aren’t meant to be beaten at this time, that you’re allowed to be woefully out of your depth while still swinging for the skies in hopes of striking lucky with god’s pinky toe.
This match is a fucking exhibition, it's the match that either makes or breaks your career cause the fact is- if you can survive a match with me at the moment, then you’ve got something inside worth bottling and selling on the dark web.
You’ll lose, but you’ll do it with your head held high, right? Cause optimism… Yeah, optimism is fucking toxic and I don’t want you to get any of it on me.

Don’t think any of this is cause I don’t like you- obviously the name Krystal might need a little work given the shared company, and frankly I think you deserve a little better than that association, if anything I’m pretty indifferent to your whole existence.
Despayre trained you. Mark Cross is teaming with you. I should feel a little more intimidated considering I’m the proverbial odd man out- but the truth is, when we step in that ring… Everything you’ve learned, everything you’ve soaked up from GO Gym like a precious little rookie sponge- it's getting tested against battle hardened, no nonsense, hard hitting reality.
I might be known for my hardcore antics, but I can throw down wiht the best of them- you don’t have to dig far into my records to see that having weapons is just a plesant bonus.
I handle my shit and I do it on a level that you’re aspiring too…

Instead of being inspired though, you’re absolutely fucking terrified.

Hell, I mean you’re running scared before you ever come face to face- all those cute gifs on Twitter, the passive anxiety ridden tweets and the fact you’re literally advertising the fact that you’re terrified before I’ve ever thrown a punch- which, by the way, is very flattering however I’m still gonna make you swallow a few teeth just as a memento.
You’re turned me into the goddamn boogeyman, the monster under your bed and a disappointed parent all in one… while that's highly amusing and increasingly irregular, it doesn’t make me pity you, it certainly doesn’t make me change my outlook.
Tournaments have always been a favourite of mine, and I’m known to be pretty damn good at them.

Whether it was you, whether it was that ineffectual excuse for a bombshells champion or even any other woman who signed up for this absolute shit show- I’d approach this match the same way. With the mentality that I’m winning this whole damn thing.
I’m not taking you lightly Krystal so let's not get that idea all twisted- I’ll deal with Christina when the time comes and when I decide it's worth doing, she’s not a factor in this match and if she tries to be then she won’t fucking make it to Blaze Of Glory. No, I’m laying out the facts as you’ve presented them sweetheart- and you’ve lost this match before my music ever hits…

That's not disrespect though, that's the most honest I’ve ever had an opponent be with me.
Frank. Harsh. I like it.
You’re taking a swing at the reaper hoping that you don’t hit, that I’m gonna take this with a grain of salt and you might sneak out with your life- reputation is one thing but it's not everything.
When it comes down to it Krystal, you’re dead weight before the match ever starts- and maybe concrete boots don’t bother dragons all that much, but you gotta think it becomes a hindrance on that rise to completing the double.

I mean it’d certainly be impressive, wouldn’t it?

Dragging the dark horse into the light of success only to watch her flounder under the pressure. You’re not above taking that weight on yourself, at least you certainly strike me that way- problem is, you also strike me as someone who uses blunt humour to dissuade his insecurities.
Maybe it’d be triumphant even, a story to be regaling across the bar for years to come- yeah that's all well and good until you wake up and realize that you’re somehow missing a chunk of your dignity and also a pant leg cause wrestling is weird.

Call it a trial by fire if you want a little wordplay, a test for the great Mark Cross to see if he can defy the odds and drag a determined bright spark through the mire without her pristine attitude getting stained by all the fucking assholes who’d rather see her fall within their ranks.
I just wanna see what happens when you start tearing away the layers, all those defensive mechanisms and defeatist attitude- maybe there's something underneath or maybe you’re far more fucked than when we first started this little dance.
 
In the end, I don’t need a knight to slay this dragon- your partners gonna do that well enough by herself. Cross, sweetheart, you’re already chained to the mountain of expectation and your partner has openly admitted to tightening the collar.
Despayre isn’t some goddamn schmuck in all this, it's a team effort and I might be a fucking piece of shit down to my bones, but I’m gonna stand by my partner until the end- whether that's now, which it won’t be, or at the end of this tournament with our hands being raised side by side.

Loyalty is a lost art, and I’m a lot of things but a traitor sure isn’t one.

Don’t get me wrong, in the end we’re all gonna tear this fucking roof down, but the problem is that you’re getting left under the rubble and we’re crawling out with a little dust on our t-shirts ready to face the next pair of whoevers trying to avoid us in the brackets.

I get Despayre might be different, hell he might be out of his goddamn mind and off his rocker- but that little bragging right achievement you keep waving around trying to overcompensate Cross? Yeah, you’re not the only one looking for the extra notch in the belt…
Only difference is that he managed to do it with a far worse partner against better opponents- whereas you’re about to trip at the first hurdle cause your partner tied your fucking shoelaces together. Face down in the dirt ain’t so bad at first darl, after awhile you get used to it and never wanna leave- hell, I’ll even come back around and kick a little dust in your face after the final just so you can say you got a taste of victory off the bottom of my sneakers.

Despayre. Amber.

Yeah, it turns out that your esteemed partner had it right all along, Cross.

Cause it’s not up to Despayre and I to win, that's just the most beautiful thing about this all, it's up to everyone else to stop us.”



******



Undisclosed Diner
Reno, ND
17.02.2021
8:33pm



“... and both with extra sprinkles?”

For a moment, Amber seemed to have lost herself in a haze. Everything recently had become far more blurred at the edges, her perspective on the world in a constant flux that she couldn’t quite pinpoint the source of- it seemed like everything in her head was moving and she was starting to get a little seasick.

“Yeah, as much as you can manage. If they’re not drowning in them, it's not enough.”

Amber shot the woman a smile and hoped that it didn’t come across as false as it felt, maybe she was just overtired these days. Planning a wedding had been one thing, the travel another and then trying to wade through the growing fog between her ears left her a little more irritable than she dared to admit.
Shrill, it was just another night she might have to simply grit her teeth through the discomfort of simply living and accept that some things… and some people… were just a little more important.

They must have seemed like something out of a movie well passed it’s meagre budget- a hard boiled, relatively attractive redhead in an oversized hoodie with what looked like a resting bitch face that had voluntarily swallowed razor blades and a young, pale and borderline emaciated man with facial piercings and a demeanor more commonly seen in a 6 year old on ecstacy talking rather animatedly to a large stuffed teddy.

It surely couldn’t be scripted any better.

When they had arrived, Amber caught a glimpse of the waitress behind the counter making the sign- something that Amber had never felt so giddily in the place she was sure used to hold either a soul or caffeine reserves. Reseating herself at the table, whilst making very brief eye contact with a less than conspicuous man watching the proceedings from three booths down- like Despayre’s father, if research had done her true justice, Amber watched Despy and Angel fall silent… as though Angel had contributed much to the conversation to begin with.

Yeah, there was that judgemental teddy bear side eye again.

Moments passed as the ever fidgeting Despayre looked to Amber, back to Angel, waved at a random stranger who’d taken the wrong moment to glance up from a newspaper and then back to Amber with an almost concerned smile.
Amber barely restrained herself as Despayre, in a not so quiet whisper, leaned into Angel.

“Quick! Say something smooth! This is awkward!”

Maintaining composure as much as one could in this situation, Amber cleared her throat slightly while trying to find something relevant to say.

“So… Blast from the past.”

Yeah, well done Amber. Not clumsy at all.
In truth, she wasn't really used to dealing with many people outside her rapidly shrinking social circle. Most of the time she relied on those around her, Mac especially found greater purchase in social interactions whereas Amber simply smiled and pretended like she didn’t hate it. It wasn’t as though she hated them per se- unless she did which was usually entirely valid- it was the fact that she’d spent so long deliberately disconnecting from people in hopes that maybe she’d simply fall off the face of the Earth. When that hadn’t happened, or when someone had found enough reason to drag her back from the edge of the void, she’d found it difficult to reconnect in a way that didn’t feel hollow or forced.

Smiles were feigned and interests dismissed the moment they didn’t resonate. Fact was, at least to Amber- she’d have rathered be alone if only cause she knew she could trust herself.

Except more recently, she couldn’t seem to do that either.

“So I’ve got two ice cream sundaes…”

Amber flashed another smile, the kind she’d seen others use with ease  all the time, as the glass sundae bowls chinked against the coated chipboard surface.

“... extra sprinkles. Coffee won’t be long.”

Extra sprinkles was a damn understatement, Amber was almost sure there was more cheap, coloured sugar confetti than there was ice-cream. God, even the look of it made her want to throw her stomach out of the nearest window…
Subtly, not that Despayre noticed as he ferociously dived into his own, Amber shifted the glass bowl in front of Angel whom she was sure gave her the first semi-approving look since they’d first met. God, what the fuck was she thinking… it was a bear. It wasn’t like it was real.

Between mouthfuls, Amber was vaguely aware of Despayre trying to communicate back, a dribble of ice-cream falling from the corner of his lips as the waitress arrived back with coffee for the redhead. In spite of professional instinct, the waitress did little to hide her confusion about a full sundae sitting in front of an idle teddy bear while the young man shovelled ice cream like a six year old being rewarded for a good report card that absolutely wasn’t faked. Nonetheless, she left the mug of coffee along with cream and sugar that would be shoved aside the moment she turned away.

“Yeah. So… I mean do we have a strategy going into this? Still kinda wrapping my head around this whole ‘not intergender’ thing admittedly, I’m used to just throwing hands at whoever stood in the way. Man woman… or teddy bear I suppose.”

A flash of panic crossed Despayre’s eyes as Amber followed up as quickly yet calmly as she could get the words out- almost as if she always intended on doing so.

“Not Angel of course. I doubt I’d last a minute…”

Typical, Amber mused silently as she sipped away at coffee barely warm enough to still be satisfying. In a few minutes it’d be damn near undrinkable, and yet she’d down every drop if only to get through the night without finding herself in a psych ward or jail cell.
Without a word, and before she could even catch herself doing so, Amber had unfolded a poorly aligned napkin and reached across the table to catch the dribble of ice-cream that had now become a small stream at the corner of Despayre’s lips.
It was difficult to tell if Despayre was surprised or scared as Amber settled back into her seat, scrunching up the napkin half-heartedly and tossing it onto the table.

“Look, I get all of this is probably a goddamn nightmare. I won’t lie and pretend like my heart didn’t skip half a beat when I got paired with you- mostly for the fact that I didn’t really know what to expect. I just...
I know what Christina did, and if she didn’t already have an anvil of karma hanging over her head then I’d love to drop one on her just for that.
You probably still have no idea of anything about me- and that's fine. Maybe it's better than fine. I just want you to know, as weird as it probably is, I’m not like her. I’ve got your back whether we win or lose- if only for the fact that you didn’t immediately dismiss me cause of my reputation from the get go.”

Another silence, although less awkward than the last. Amber was sure she caught Synn shifting in his seat as she spoke, however Despayre seemed a little less moved- after all, there was still a lot of ice cream there. Still, if nothing else it was nice not to be spoken down to or demeaned cause her reputation had poisoned the proverbial well…

Like a shot, Despayre’s head shot up

“Is that… Is that a Cher impersonator?!”

Whether it was or not was irrelevant it seemed, as within seconds he had disappeared to the other side of the diner with an ungainly spring in his step and renewed ice-cream trail tracing down his chin- leaving Amber and Angel alone at the table.

Angel wasn’t ‘real’, yet something about it…

“Let's be blunt here, shall we?”

Amber sighed as she lowered her voice, as though talking in the direction of a stuffed animal wasn’t conspicuous enough to begin with.

“You definitely don’t like me, and that's fair. I’ve probably earned that distinction. I mean you’re a fucking teddy bear so I’m honestly pretty indifferent but Despayre, well he seems to hold you in the highest regard and I guess that means I should too.”

Amber raised an eyebrow as though expecting something back, though finding only dead air, a little bit of dust and the fast melting remains of an icecream sundae between them.

“You’re looking out for him, but in this tournament- so am I, hell- he might be the only person I’ve met in a long time that didn’t outright dismiss everything I’ve done or shit all over it for the sake of some hype. That means a lot, and maybe I’m just a body in that ring to him, a partner to get through a match or two… but I dunno, there's something about him, reminds me of someone I used to care about a lot.
Not that you care, you’re a goddamn teddy bear, you know?”

Returning with less pep in his step, Despayre flopped back into his seat whilst looking wistfully into the last dregs pooling in his bowl.

“What’s wrong? Wasn’t it a Cher impersonator after all?”

An almost mournful, disappointed sigh followed as Amber leaned in closer with a distant attempt at comfort.

“No… It was Cher.”

If disappointment had a definable facial expression, you’d have been sure this was it. Leaning back into her own seat, Amber took a few moments to compute everything although strangely less than surprised at the turn of events. Sure enough, the coffee had gone cold enough that the bitterness clung to her tongue and that faintly acrid burnt taste became it's best attribute.
Perhaps sensing that there was nothing really left to achieve from the ‘meeting’ as such, Synn approached the table quietly- a sight which immediately perked up Despayre who practically scrambled to his feet. Leaving an assorted jumble of notes and coins on the table, Synn gave Amber a knowing nod as Despayre took Angel up into a tightly clutched hug.

“Thanks for the ice-cream Flamin’ Hot Cheetos chick!”

How it was only then that Amber found Angel’s bowl to also be empty, not even so much that- but practically licked clean, was almost as confusing in itself as was the smear of ice-cream staining Angel’s fuzzy muzzle.

“Yeah, sure. Anytime… I think?”

Maybe this was finally it.
Maybe she’d finally gone mad
Maybe she’d finally and verily lost it completely.

Bring on the white jacket and padded walls, she silently mused, as she too gingerly exited the confines of the booth- still nursing confusion and doubt in her eyes and an oddly serene smile across her caffeinated lips.

… Maybe, and most oddly, she realized she’d never been so goddamn happy about it.

“You can’t focus on death, or failure. Otherwise you’re surrendering greatness to all the people too dumb to contemplate it.”
― David Wong, Futuristic Violence and Fancy Suits




Undisclosed Suburb
Las Vegas, NV
22.10.2020
7:12am



Suburbia in the fall always had such a distinctive scent.

Crisp morning air and exhaust fumes because time management and pumpkin spice still hadn’t found a middle ground, the twang of metal barbecues starting to rust at the edges while the memories of summer faded into the territory of nostalgia and the faintly sweet pungency of decay as piles of fallen leaves that were supposed to be raked days before, start to rot from beneath.
Amber had always imagined far more picket fences in this scenario admittedly, more minivans with school endorsement stickers like they earned instead of being handed out… more, what was the word… mediocrity perhaps?

Leaning against the rental car, she knew she must have been a sight to see for the neighbours. Intentional of course- her beat up leather riding jacket somehow made her 5’8 frame seem far more imposing, thick heavy boots almost leaving indents on the sidewalk with every step as she paced back and forth and torn jeans exposed just enough of her thighs to give errant teenagers a lot to think about. Suburbia's worst nightmare with red hair falling around her face like she may actually be one with the devil.

Perhaps sensing her impatience, Mac Bane uncoiled from the drivers side of the otherwise inconspicuous looking car, as if Amber didn’t already touch upon an unspoken loathing enough. Towering over the redhead, he’d dressed similarly for the occasion, unable to hide his wry grin as he sensed blinds and curtains being hastily peeked through and hidden behind again with a frantic precision. Across the road, both of them captured this almost predictable course in action as Josephine Murphy obviously huffed angrily before disappearing behind a floral curtain.

“10 bucks says she cusses at me within three words.”

Casual yet with a knowing smile she tried to suppress, Amber half extended her hand to the bigger Texan. A raised eyebrow clearly punctuating some serious calculating.

“You plan on paying up this time Red?”

With a false incredulity, Amber almost recoiled to the point of falling off the sidewalk and into the street.

“I did pay up, even though you won on a technicality that shouldn’t have been exploited.”

“Yeah, you took the money out of my wallet…”

“You never specified where the money had to come from, darling.”

Before Mac even had the opportunity to respond, Josephine in navy suit jacket and pencil skirt sans shoes stormed across her front yard, already mumbling furiously under her breath as Amber set to cross to street to meet her- Mac at her side, no doubt witty response at the ready.

“In three… two… one…”

Amber's words disappeared on the breeze, drawing the smirk further across his face and quelling the witty discourse- at least for now.

“Are you out of your fucking mind Amber?”

Through gritted teeth, Josie hissed irritably towards the pair as though anything spoken above a tempered whisper might capture further unwanted attention.

“Fucking damn it, what was that… Five? You let me down in a big way, Josie.”

Despite mentioning her name, Amber spoke exclusively to Mac who bordered on smarmy with another victory.

“Just add it to the total.”

“I’m so paying you in pennies”

“So long as they’re coming out of your wallet, I don’t give a fuck what you pay me with.”

“Well, there goes that suggestion…”

Josie looked between them incredulously as though their feigned ignorance and determination to continue their own conversation was almost as offensive as them being there to begin with. With a grimace, she tried to adjust her stance however the squelch of rotting leaves beneath her bare feet did little but irritate her further…

“You are un-fucking-believable, you know that?”

Again, deliberately and mockingly of course, Amber looked back up to Bane with feigned shock.

“... Seriously? Why couldn’t we lead with that?”

A resigned sigh echoed as anger and frustration dissipated into something a little more dejected and defeated, an acceptance that this would be entirely unpleasant and would happen regardless of her attempted aggressions.

“Amber, what the hell do you want…”

With a nod, Amber dug her hands into her jacket pockets. There wasn’t anything to find but she’d seen it on movies before and somehow it always looked cool.

“What I want is a million dollars, a starbucks unlimited refills card and a holiday somewhere warm and tropical so I can get sunburnt on the beach and complain about mosquitos.”

“Oh, I know just the place…”

“I knew I loved you for a reason.”

“Except for when I’m right…”

Amber groaned with vague annoyance, brushing her hair out of her face as a particularly persistent breeze tried to keep her sight obscured while turning her attention back to Josie, her smile hardened into something more serious, the thick lines of scars partially covered by makeup making their presence known in angry pinks and whites.

“What I in fact have though- are questions…”

“I already-”

With a nonchalant wave, Amber cut Josie off before the syllables even fell from her lips, her stare through the accountants soul rattling and destructive in it's path.

“Yeah. yeah I get it... You already this, that and the otherwise… You already lied to me Josie. Granted it shouldn’t have taken me this long to figure it, that's on me, however some things you said before. Well, lets just say we’re putting two plus two together and getting a proverbial sine wave of half truths and whole bullshit.”

“Amber please… not here.”

A plea to her better nature as if she possessed one, that deer in headlights look like when they were teenagers. God, Amber pictured it even back then, peeking out from behind a caravan in hopes that Amber didn’t bring down her teenage existence around her… Life as they knew it, or what little they’d had of it, somehow resting in the hands of a girl who hadn’t yet learned one of the most valuable truths in the world.

People were shit.

Slow walkers in the supermarket. Parking lot scratch and runs. That guy in a midlife crisis convertible top down when it's 60 degrees cutting you off in traffic leaving you to cringe at his bad hair implants. Egocentric half talents relying on the other to keep their names in lights and names on contracts for a few months longer. Karens with overdyed hair and underdeveloped sense of human decency. Traitors. Liars.
Absolute bastards… all of them.

Josie stared a few seconds too long to remain genuine and sincere, flashbacks of determined trouble making and casual recklessness wracked the redheads memories as years of bad ideas and their consequences falling on anyone's shoulders but the instigator.
She’d taken Cassidy under her wing, shown her a path seemingly free of recourse… and now it seemed like it was happening all over again.

“My husband… my kids… my neighbours… They’re all going to have questions.”

“Well, I suppose you best answer them then… I’m happy to wait.”

Crossing her arms, Amber straightened up, her back cracking with a couple of satisfying pops. Josie glanced around nervously, gossip travelled fast like a verbal herpes in an orgy. No one cared where it came from, only that it got to everyone before anyone could explain it away.

“We’ve got time, yeah?”

“Sure do.”

Mac nodded approvingly, perhaps while silently lamenting the lack of available popcorn to watch this trainwreck continue to unfold.

“What the fuck is it you want me to say Amber- I don’t know anything.”

Shifting her feet, Amber dropped her arms a little in surprise. She shouldn;t have been admittedly, denial was natural and comfortable. A low point to easily settle and hole up in the face of a glaring, potentially harsh truth.

“You know, I thought so too… Until you asked what she’d done this time, initially I thought you meant like when we were teenagers however the context, the tone… You told me you lost contact not long after I left, so how the fuck would you have known if she’d been in any trouble recently?
Even in the last five years, 10 years even… I doubt you guys talked on the phone about boys and nail polish colours that looked just the right shade of slutty, nor would you have had sleepovers reminiscing about lost loves and future plans.”

Closing the distance, Amber leaned into Josie with a paralyzing glare, her voice a harsh and foreboding whisper that cut through the dancing breeze.

“You looked me dead in the eyes, and you lied to me. You have seen her… my guess is within the last few weeks. Months at most. Go on, tell me I’m wrong…”

Josie looked back towards her house- just a quiet, average, normal house. Everything a life on the road promised at the end, sanctuary in a burgeoning commonality. Everything she’d built, the husband she loved and the kids who smiled when they called her Mom and she made them breakfast before school…

“Amber, it's not what you…”

With a loud scoff that startled Josie to the point of flinching, Amber recoiled aggressively.

“It's not what I think, that's what you were gonna say wasn’t it?”

A chuckle escaped into the cool air, the thickening smell of rot and mediocrity heavy on the senses.

“What is it you think that I don’t get exactly- I didn’t get out and spend my savings on an education that lets me frame a certificate for my wall- but that doesn’t make me a fucking idiot. You might have degrees out the wazoo darl, but right now you might be the fucking stupidest person I know.”

Rage wasn’t constructive however Amber allowed it to flow out from beneath the rubble of a very successful career getting the ever-loving shit kicked out of her and getting to wear a trinket if you do it better than the next sadomasochist. It was easy to forget sometimes the way that society valued success- being a multi-time world champion in combat sports somehow didn’t seem to mean as much as a failing accountancy firm or strip-mall lawyer trying to stay off the legal radar.
Violence in any degree was seen as cheap entertainment, a scourge as though it hadn’t existed longer than far more choreographed displays- people were bloodthirsty but still looked down their noses towards those they virulently cheered.

“I’m trying to do some fucking good Josie, and you’d rather worry about what your neighbours might think cause I don’t go to the right hairdresser or herd my kids to a school whose principles I don’t agree with. If this were about you, I’d already have knocked your goddamn teeth out… It's not. It's about Cassidy, it's about Grizz and it's about what I feel I owe them…”

Amber softened her expression, perhaps it was meant to be a smile, but instead came across as a forced painful amusement.

“So maybe stop acting the…”

Stopping herself short, Amber refrained from the word she’d intended. Even Mac seemed momentarily impressed that a C-bomb had been miraculously avoided.

“Look, tell me and I’ll never darken your doorstep again.”

Josie paused pensively, a slow realization sinking through built up layers of behavioural expectation and morality of sharing potentially confidential conversation.

“Look, almost three months ago she shows up just like you did at the office. I hadn’t seen her in probably 8 or 9 years, looked like a hot mess and is talking LLC’s and  start ups like she'd just spewed out whatever she'd read in some business journal, didn't seem to care that I'm an accountant and not a lawyer or real estate agent.
I should have asked but I didn’t, she seemed very distracted and twitchy like she hadn’t slept because she’d been... you know...”

Josie trailed off, the thought lingering between them longer than either dared admit. It had always been a possibility sure, the idea of drugs and addiction had been a very real temptation within the carnival industry. Long drives, longer nights, trying to keep up an enthusiasm that could line your pockets enough to get to the next town… Amber didn’t want to believe it, but Josie’s recollection…

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have...”

“You said she talked business… Did she mention any specifics, a name or place. Anyone affiliated, hell I’ll take a stray dog she might have petted and the homeless guy on the corner who probably has a mercedes in the next parking lot over.”

With the most confidence Amber and Mac had seen since she’d first stormed from her home, Josie shook her head as though she’d expected to disappoint them before the question had been completed.

“I mean I tried to make small talk but she just wanted to play business… when I couldn’t help, she got up and left.”

Frustratedly Amber scuffed her boot against the pavement surface, she wracked her brains for reasons and logic however they came few and further than ever between.

“I honestly don’t know what else to tell you Amber…”

Maybe this was it, maybe Amber could just let sleeping dogs lie. After all, there was a verbal confirmation and a known sighting. Grizz might accept that, knowledge was power after all and both of them needed more of each than they’d dare admit aloud.
Cassidy was up to something and it burned just under her sternum, stuck like a misshapen ember being forced through a penny sized hole- still, it made the redhead feel incredibly…

“Hell, the truth would have been a great start.”

Sarcasm was an automatic defense mechanism, like trying to defuse a bomb wearing oven mitts.

“Not everyone is like you Amber- we all don’t get to just spin the wheel and see what morals we have any given day, we don’t get to wake up and just punch people in the face cause they acted like assholes. There are rules, there are obligations and most importantly- there are ethics…
It might be fine for you, but the rest of us actually have consequences to deal with.”

Josie goes to storm away, however only gets three steps in the opposite direction before she turns back towards the pair.

“I hope it's everything you ever wanted Amber, that whatever you think you’re gonna find in all of this is worth it. You want someone to harass, go talk to ‘Sticky’ cause I can tell you that sick asshole spent more time around Cassidy after you left than anyone else… Go knock on his door and piss in his cereal, just leave me the hell alone.”

As Josie stormed away, a couple of leaves stuck almost comically to her feet, stomping furiously across the yard and onto the front porch where she flipped the pair off emphatically.

“Well, that seemed constructive.”

Amber didn’t reply at first, that glowing ember like now like ice between her ribs and spreading fast. Veins and arteries seemed to freeze over, perhaps her connection with hell finally acting as karma.

“I gotta ask though… Who the fuck is ‘Sticky?’”

Clearing her throat, Amber was the first to cross the street trying to avoid looking back at the glaring eyes peering through the blinds, her hand resting on the passenger side door handle as she finally brought herself to look back at Josie’s house. Perfect and pristine in it's utter averageness, the dreamscape of normality and all it's crappy stereotypes.
As Mac reached the drivers side door, he caught her looking back almost regretfully, mourning something unspoken that perhaps had finally been allowed to die.

“Well?”

“Well what…

“Who are they?”

“Someone I hoped I’d never have to speak to again.”



******


“Consistency is key in life kids.

It's one thing to do something well, it's entirely another thing to continue doing the same things well time and time again, especially when there's a whole legion of people waiting to see you make that fateful and inevitable misstep that sends you tumbling off the pedestal.
What can I say, most people are just fucking awful.
To remain on that top level, to keep performing to a predetermined expectation- it's certainly not for the faint of heart, not for flukes and off chance spins of a stupid wheel.

Did you think that was where this was going?

That I was just gonna come to you live from my high horse and talk down to The Black Sheep cause their name connotation kinda sucks and really could have taken five more seconds of reasonable thought to improve.
Of course a name is just a name, right? Expressions of grandeur in an industry that demands us be more than just Amber, Mac, Kris or Mikah… We don't just get to be who we are, we have to tell the world we’re more than that, even if hurricanes can’t be painted in red, even if single men can’t possible be wrecking crews… Even if both of those things are proven commodities.

A name tells you everything you need to know- and Black Sheep… Well, that's the least most impressive thing about you guys, it's astounding really how you’ve managed to find a moniker that makes you sound more bland than initially thought.
I think the idea is to make an impression, not bore people to death with it- sure it might get you over cause a win by default is still very much a win, however when records state that most opponents were comatose or dead cause sucking the personality out of them through a straw is still rather frowned upon.

A miracle though, now that's something the masses can sink their teeth into.
I mean honestly, who doesn’t love the idea of a higher power taking mercy on us stupid assholes once in awhile just to prove they’re really not as much of a dick as we thought. Miracles give us hope, they give us something to believe in, they show us there is still benevolence and decency in a world where those things had long since lost their value as moral currency…
… Then you take that concept and you paint it across what could potentially be the most generic, pigeonholed version of ‘nearly good enough on his own’ and put it out into the universe with a jaw hinged half way open all the time.

See, I like to think I’m smart enough to do some research and get the lay of the land. I’ve done enough tag wrestling, won enough tag titles and put my foot through the back of enough skulls that not seeing canvas afterwards through the hole is a disappointment.
Mac and I, we’re no strangers in a strange land, and while there's a proven formula of throwing two relatively successful singles competitors into a team and them dominating every established team who’d built a division… That's not us.
We aren’t some throw together flavour of the month trying to keep you guys as lukewarm as the shallow talent pool you’re pissing in, we aren’t here to make your record look vaguely more impressive than ‘showed up and won the belts cause literally no one else wanted them’.

We aren’t miracles, but we never needed to be.

So why would we care about mixed tag then, I mean Mac has a guaranteed shot at the Roulette title and you best believe the Bombshells division has their head on a fucking swivel trying to keep an eye on what I’m doing.
In the most logical sense, we don’t actually need this. We aren’t relying on a swimming in a puddle and hoping for rain, we aren’t holding things together in a division that sparks less joy and inspiration than having a conversation with the Barnharts about the obvious lines of incest in their family.
You said it yourself Kris- you are champions in a division with no competition, no one left to beat. It's really fucking difficult to be considered the best when you’ve got no one to stand over and gloat towards… Simultaneously you are legitimately the best and worst, might as well add that to your list of accomplishments alongside ‘ate avocado toast and still had enough money to buy starbucks’ cause basic is, what basic does.

We get it, you’re a veteren. A hall of famer. Must have been a bit of a lean year, huh? Not that you’d ever admit it of course- and I suppose I shouldn’t shit all over it cause I haven’t done anything in SCW yet in terms of achievements…
I’m a patient woman though, I take advantage of opportunities when they arise rather than complaining about them being late as they pass me on by. Hell, I’m nothing if not resourceful- cause while you guys might be champions… It's Mac and I that are being talked about, the ones being booked in high profile matches while you guys end up facing who exactly…

Throw togethers just to say they didn’t forget to put you on the card.

Must be a little insulting- everything you’ve given, and no one but you thinks that gold means anything. You’re placeholders- dominant and successful, sure… But all you do is fill the space until a better team comes along to do what you’ve failed so fucking hard at.
Relevancy.
Mixed tag is supposed to mean something and every week you guys fall further between the couch cushions, great teams have held those belts and now… Now it's just you guys bearing that weight of expectation while your knees slowly buckle beneath you.

All while no one cares.

I’d say you both deserve better but lying, well lying has never really been my forte.

Not so much for you though Mikah, huh?

Dirty little girl only if you’ve been rolling in the mud, I mean honestly. Is this the best you can do- the bombshells division got so stacked so quickly that you realized there was no place left for someone like you. Good, maybe even better than average… but that upper echelon, it's a little out of your league.
How long were you trying to punch up before you realized you were only going backwards, resigning yourself to the mixed tag division cause at least you could be the alpha bitch for a little while instead of playing third fiddle to women with far more talent.

I guess that would beg the question why I’d bother with it then- it's no secret I’m eyeing off that Bombshells world title, one of the most anticipated matches in the company to date is Alicia Lukas vs me. When was the last time someone spoke like that about a match you were in, hype around more than whether you could go a whole match without tagging in cause the opponents are just utter fucking garbage and it's not worth wrecking a manicure for.
I guess that's the thing though- not everyone can be a star otherwise the top of the mountain seems a little less special, there's only room for so many at the top and exclusivity is an earned right, not one that comes with tenure but work ethic and results.

Let me be real blunt, like force trauma but I’ll save that for the match…

You step in there with me, this match is already over. I’ve been in this industry, killing myself between those ropes in far greater matches for longer than you’ve been perfecting your blowjob technique. Maybe I’m not as pretty, sometimes my technical wrestling is a little rough around the edges, I don’t speak like I’m expecting the world to get on it's knees before me and I can assure you my partner doesn’t spoil me by carrying the weight of the team on his shoulders.
What I am is a certified fucking sociopath Mikah, straight up don’t care kinda monster- between those ropes blonde hair and blue eyes make you just like everyone else, scratching and clawing at the facade in hopes that you might be the one to find something underneath worth needling.

Oh, I lost to Roxi at the Supercard?

Yeah, and I beat her at the one before. Nice try, do come back when you have something more original than a pointed stick.

I’ve got wins over names in this company you don’t even wanna share a ring with, when it comes to this place I am the unspoken woman to beat. I’m the one putting everyone with a title on notice, while you’re shining yours up thinking I might just look straight on past cause theres not enough meat on the bone…
I’m an equal opportunity predator sweetheart and the fact is everyone's guts steam the same way when torn open on a cold winter's night.

What we are as a team, is what you strive to be. You might be the champions, you might have beaten everyone in your way- but until beating Trenton Tigers and the fucking Barnharts becomes an accomplishment worth bragging about again, I’d probably advise you to avoid talking about having beaten everyone.
Until you actually beat everyone, you’re the cast offs in the reject pile. A crappy little pile of foreskins in a castration clinic that everyone would rather forget is starting to go mouldy in the corner. What the mixed tag titles have become in your hands, is exactly what your opinions will happen to mean when you can string them together in a coherent sentence between lightly shitting yourself and screaming into the void. Absolutely worthless.

One man's trash, is another man's treasure though.

Maybe you should be grateful for what we’re about to do guys- cause WHEN we win at Climax Control, when we come after those Mixed Tag belts... you’ll beg us to keep them so long that your names fade from the records. That no one will remember the utterly embarrassing job you’ve done as supposed champions and how you managed to take something that Wolfslair made memorable into scrap metal.

You’re lucky we’re so fucking generous, if it were just up to me I’d wipe you both from the face of the Earth and take the titles at Climax Control… however Mac is a little more reasonable than me, he levels me out a little so it's him to thank for your upcoming continued shuffle along this depressing mortal coil.
He understands that this is a marathon, not a sprint. Hurricanes don’t tend to consider longevity you see, but he's so very good with the long term picture… One that sees us draped in gold, and you both scratching at the door trying to remind people you’re still under contract.

Until then, until Climax Control and until the impending and merciful end to your lacklustre run of tag team infamy… Take a deep breath, cause oblivion… Oblivion is waiting.”

(Apologies in advance, this had to be a bit of a rush job cause things IRL have just been all over the place recently, will try to be around in the next week but please don't be too surprised if I'm a little bit absent for at least the next few days.
Thanks for understanding and all that- I promise you'll get better from me as things calm down a bit

<3 Jazz)





“Something about her is so tempting to look at. Her anger has a childish aura as if she isn’t made of real evil; just a bratty princess playing with her toy fangs.”
― Cameron Jace, Snow White Sorrow




Local Fairgrounds
Monterey, IN
23.02.2006
7:04pm



“Why’d you leave?”

Amber’s guitar string twanged noisily, silently she cursed the stupid thing for never staying in tune, trying to ignore the vaguely persistent tone in Cassidy’s voice. Busking was an easy way of making a little extra money around the carnival, admittedly less profitable than freeing someone's wallet from their back pocket and relieving them of their extra cash- it was safer for the state of ones fingers negotiating blisters versus losing them entirely.

Of course, busking also worked far better when there wasn’t a 14 year old hanging around and blocking her open guitar case.

“Cass, you know I love you and all but this really isn’t the time…”

A forced pout came over the younger girls features, her boundless blonde curls struggling to free themselves from the hair tie holding them in a low, messy ponytail that fell in spiraling tendrils between her shoulder blades.

“It's never the time.”

She was right although Amber would never admit it aloud, curiosity was indeed known to kill cats however the redhead silently wondered if that could also be applied to bratty, entitled teenagers. With fingers lightly curled around the fretboard of the beaten up acoustic, the 17 year old Amber Ryan plucked away at a couple of strings in hopes that the one out of tune didn’t sound as obvious as she first thought.

“You’re right, it isn’t. Now, unless you plan on throwing me a few coins I’m gonna need you to move out of the way.”

Amber did her best to ignore the disappointment in Cassidy’s eyes as she relented, shuffling in typical sulky teenage fashion to sit just behind the redhead to the left on an upturned milk crate. One day perhaps she’d understand, Amber mused, that not every question required an answer…
How the hell could she explain that to a 14 year old anyway, especially when her father, ‘Grizzly’ Parker was just the same way- relentless and frustratingly determined to a goddamn fault.
Hell, Amber could barely restrain the chuckle as she recalled the first time she kissed a local boy behind the Gravitron hoping silently that she wouldn’t accidentally step too close in her temporary euphoria- someone had told Grizz and he had hounded her for four days straight it seemed for details that she could barely recall outside how the guy smelled like Axe Body spray and tasted like cheap cotton candy.

Eventually she made up some nothingness if only to get him off her back…

“Dad told me it was cause you were in trouble with the law.”

Amber scoffed as her fingers fell still- someone aimlessly threw a couple of coins in the general vicinity of the guitar case with only half actually landing inside as Amber gave them a cursory wave they likely didn’t see before turning her attention to Cassidy sitting almost smugly on her shitty little milk crate.

“Well, why are you asking me then?”

Amber called her bluff bluntly, Cassidy was fishing and doing it poorly as though she might somehow trigger the older girl into slipping up with a wrong word- however she seemed to forget that Amber had made a decent enough living in the carnivals by messing with people's minds while removing them from their monetary possessions.
Leaning over the guitar, Amber brushed some errant dust off the front of her jeans as a few more coins landed in the dirt nearby… she’d grab them later if she remembered, not before liberating some crisp notes from those stingy motherfuckers first though.

“I mean if he already told you that then you obviously have no use hearing it from me.”

“So it's true then?”

“If that's what you wanna believe Cass, then sure… Robbed a bank at gunpoint, stole a car and drove it off a cliff Thelma and Louise style before parachuting into the middle of goddamn nowhere and meeting your Dad. Is that exciting enough for you?”

Cassidy screwed her nose up in annoyance, those warm brown eyes giving away the level of frustration about being figuratively shrugged off. Amber returned to her guitar, contemplating maybe one day if she could get into wrestling properly she might be able to buy a new one… One that didn’t have a string permanently out of tune or a crack along the back cause she got a little heated and launched the case into the side of a trailer that one time…

A wry smile crept across young Amber’s features, ones not yet haunted and scarred in places form wars to come. Eyes not yet hollowed and a tongue not yet drenched in venom, fuelled by spite.
Kryptonite by Three Doors down came easily to her muscle memory while the familiar riff was easily digestible to the masses- people liked things they could recognize, familiar and safe even if the alternative was far more interesting.

“Why do you have to be such a bitch about everything?”

It was easy to forget that Cassidy was still at an age where calling someone a bitch actually felt like it meant something and wasn’t just a colloquial terms used alongside other profanities as adjectives rather than insults. If the 14 year old knew how to scowl effectively, Amber was sure she would have but instead had the closest approximation etched into her skin.
Amber said nothing at first, she’d found her groove as such and contentedly played away- while she knew all the lyrics off the top of her head and likely backwards, she didn’t have it in her to sing anywhere outside of a car or shower.

Maybe Cassidy was right again though, Amber contemplated thoughtfully as the chorus fell into the away into comfortable repetition again, right but not in the way she had intended she supposed. A family lingered nearby as she played, capturing her attention almost subconsciously- the mother pointing out the girl playing guitar to a son and daughter nervously crowding around their parents feet trying to avoid eye contact, while the father tapped his foot knowingly as though urging the children to do the same.

Something inside her chest tightened and if she’d been singing perhaps she would have momentarily forgotten the lyrics- they seemed so content, unknowing of how easily everything could change. So very suburban and Amber craved that more than she dared admit- she wanted that mediocrity, that boredom that came with comfort and a sense of knowing and belonging that didn’t come from being considered among outliers and outsiders.
Family. This was the closest she’d had in a long time and standing less than 10 feet away was perhaps what could have been… what should have been… what might have been if only things were different.

“Do you miss them?”

Cassidy’s demeanour had changed even though Amber still had her back to her, a softness in her tone replacing that bratty whine she’d adopted to little effect. Perhaps she’d seen the way Amber twitched upon making eye contact, or heard the sudden uptick in ferocity that her fingers danced across strings- she more than likely didn’t understand it but that didn’t make it any less noticeable.
It was a question Amber hadn’t expected as the daughter approached nervously, the trepidation written as though in neon across her small forehead- she couldn’t have been more than seven years old in a disney princess dress and brown hair that fell well past her shoulders accentuating her tiny frame.

Pausing before the guitar case, she shot a look of uncertainty back across her shoulder although Amber doubted if she knew what she were doing beyond reflexively seeking validation, her fist clenched tight around a couple of coins.
In that moment Amber wished she had something poignant to say, that her ten or so extra years of life could give this little girl something to cherish and remember… However before Amber could even find the words, the coins trickled into the bottom of the guitar case with tinkling thuds and she was gone running back to her parents.

“Sometimes. Some days more than others…”

A pause fell between them as the strings fell silent, Amber's hand gently falling away from the fret board as her fingers ached.

“So why run? Why leave if you didn’t want to go...”

Some moments the world has a way of falling silent even when it seems so noisy and crowded, moments where a room stops and takes a collective breath that lasts for seconds longer than it has any right to.
Amber waited as the family disappeared into the growing crowd, perhaps silently hoping they might look back one last time, that the endorphin rush wasn’t just a figment of her imagination and that she’d made some kind of connection where one previously hadn’t existed.

Except they didn’t turn around, perhaps starstruck by harsh flashing lights and pumping rock music that disguised the mechanical creaking of rides that desperately needed an overhaul… or perhaps that connection hadn’t struck them in the same way it had done with the redhead.
Pensively Aber sighed, turning her attention back to Cassidy- a twitch in her curious smile betraying something a little deeper although Amber couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was.

“Things just… I never really wanted to but we don't get that choice sometimes and just... you know what Cass, sometimes we don’t run for the sake of running though that may seem like what it is. We aren’t fleeing to or from anyone… Sometimes we run and we hide cause we just don’t want to be found.”



******



“Let me be blunt…

You know, as if I’m not already so much so they may as well have made my middle and last names ‘force trauma’ for the sake of it.

You don’t really know who I am Tallyn, more likely than not you don’t care either and if I’m honest I actually don’t blame you. It’s a big roster and not everyone can be champion, not everyone can be the star of the show- in order for there to be people on the top, there has to be those scratching and clawing beneath to make their position feel far more important.
Being on top only means something if there are people to beat below you, climbing the ladder only means something if you can be ahead of someone else and winning doesn’t mean shit if someone else doesn’t lose.

Right now- you’re one step off the floor and talking shit like you’ve got a title shot headed your way. I mean obvious kudos for the level of balls and all that, I mean it's a brave thing to act like you’re actually someone when you’ve done literally nothing of note.
I suppose this is the point where you get all shitty and ask just who I am to judge you- who am I to declare your worth among a stacked roster of women who all should be champions at any given time… Except Jessie Salco of course cause ice-cream really doesn’t do well under pressure it seems.

Hell, even Roxi deserves a nice belt sometimes cause something has to make me beating her again just that little sweeter...

See, this is the point darling, where you tell me who you think you are and why you’re better than me. Rattle off your reasons cause I’ve got nothing but time- run your mouth while you have the opportunity cause if I’m honest I’ve had a really rough couple of weeks and I could go for just belting the ever-loving fuck out of some smarmy know-it-all rookie who thinks her worth on a roster like this is based off the people who trained her.

Tell me all about where you’ve come from and what you’ve done to get here- all the fucking ‘hardships’ that you’ve endured to make it to a stage as grand as this and I ill take every one of those stupid words falling out of your face and I’ll ball them up in my fist so that when I knock your jaw around the other side of your head I can tell you how I was able to make you eat your words.
Oh, that's right… You’re trained really hard, you’ve overcome obstacles and now you just wanna be better right?

Cue up the alligator tears and give me a sob story that’ll make me keel over in laughter.

I’ve been at this far too long Tallyn, I’ve seen girls like you say the same daft things more times than I dare recall for fear I might give myself a goddamn aneurysm. You get this swell of confidence after a win and think you’re well on your merry way- then you hit a few roadblocks, you lose a few matches and disappear back off the face of the earth cropping up in the next company where you promise it’ll be different this time… That you won’t disappoint everyone anymore.

I’m well acquainted with disappointment, I’ve been letting people down my whole fucking career if only cause I have the absolute audacity to keep breathing.
I show up to shows and can practically hear eyes rolling and muttered sighs of annoyance that I haven’t simply chain smoked my lungs out of my chest yet or drunkenly fallen off my apartment balcony in a self-imposed rage about something insignificant.
That’d be too easy and I doubt many would want to garner a win over me like that- especially Roxi cause Queen Passive Aggressive in the corner there can’t fucking decide if she wants to scold me or knock my head off my shoulders.

We both know the answer and we also know that you just don’t have it in you right now, Hero.

That doesn’t make you better than me, just deluded into thinking that getting a little pissed off somehow gives you an edge.

Perhaps I should finally properly introduce myself to you then Tallyn, you know since I’ve already threatened certain death and dismemberment towards you on multiple occasions already.
I’m everything wrong and right with professional wrestling, deathmatch legend if only in my own mind and frankly what constitutes the nightmares of rookies like you…Technically proficient enough to pull your limbs off then sick enough to beat you to a bloody pulp with them. Hell, I’d just roll out my resume but there's so much blood on it you might mistake it for a red carpet to walk all over…

I’m a woman who doesn’t need to be in a stupid fucking battle royal to make her intentions very clear towards the gold- see, theres a reason people like you and I don’t get put in these things… Cause they are fucking terrified that we might win.
Only difference is they’re worried a champion will slaughter you, while they worry about not having a champion to bury if I get my hands on them…

Maybe I seem a little edgy but truth is, I am. I’m beyond on edge, I’m a little red writhing 5 foot 8 pile of bad intentions and franky even worse attitude, I am a beaten and broken former champion on the warpath towards something that maybe I don’t even deserve but I need all the same.
What you are Tallyn, is bait… They wanna feed the animal, sacrifice one for the sake of many while making my win loss record look a little more spiffy for the effort. They wanna see what I’m capable of when motivated, when pissed the fuck off and when I’ve got nothing left tethering me to the thin threads of sanity that hadn’t quite frayed through yet.

This isn’t an exhibition or an opportunity sweetheart, this is a message to Roxi Johnson, a message to whoever the Bombshells champion is following Climax Control and it's a message to management.

If you thought this was just fun and games before, that I had shown you the full hand I’m playing with… Don’t blink, don’t breathe, don’t move. Just sit, watch and hope that life insurance still pays out when the remains have to be scraped into a fucking mason jar.

So Tallyn. Roxi. Hell, any other bombshells who think now is the perfect time to start squaring up let it be known loud and clear...

… Lets just say I’m done playing.”



******



Jack Michaels House
Las Vegas, ND
23.08.2020
5:08am



Sunrise in Vegas used to feel like it meant more.

That first light peeking over a dusty horizon with a dull orange glow, Amber always far preferred this to the garish neon and forced facade of importance that the place usually carried- no, it was moment of peace among the distant chaos that resonated the deepest.
No doubt her adopted father would be milling around soon enough, he too, a career insomniac with a body clock so far out of whack it was a wonder they saw daylight at all… Amber however has forgone coffee and small talk, instead finding a solace in the gnarled branches of a large tree in the sprawling land stretching into the near distance.

As a child she had used to climb trees, get lost among the thick twisting arms and nestling into spaces designed for creatures far smaller and more agile- no one could reach her here, no one could find her if she didn’t want them to. Part of her, somewhere deep inside where she refused to admit stille existed- she was a child, a child denied a childhood, a child who chose to grow up quicker than she needed to cause the alternative left her feeling more hollow and alone.
Snaking between thick boughs, Amber maneuvered her body as best she could with bruises blooming in angry purples and blacks, her right sneaker untied and hanging loosely cause her ankle was so swollen she couldn’t get her high-tops over it…

It had been a rough couple of weeks for the redhead no doubt, the stitches in her face and the ones healing along the back of her head like a constant painful reminder- some might have argued it might have been karma, that she deserved everything she’d been given and the hands that she had been dealt were a mere consequence.
Of course, those people only ever had half of the story cause anything else would skew their perfect narrative in a factual direction…

No, Baltimore hadn’t exactly been kind to her recently.

Vegas at least still held some hope.

There would be those still condemning what she’d done to Roxi as though given the opportunity they wouldn’t have done it themselves, that they too had at one point thought about doing exactly as she had done. She’d made a promise before Summer XXXtreme and now it seemed people didn’t like the fact she was willing to keep it…
Maybe it was easy for people to forget why they were in this industry, why any of them stepped inside that ring and put their fucking bodies through hell- it wasn’t for the love of the sport, and sure the money might have been nice but even that lost it's lstre after awhile…

It was to make a difference- and if making a difference meant doing some heinous things, meant hurting people who may or may not have deserved it if only to prove the hypocrisy of someone who’s vision of the world was black and white with shades of red ambiguity in between.
Amber didn’t hate Roxi, she fucking cared more than people realized… she just wanted Roxi to admit, openly and freely that she wasn’t everything she claimed to be, that heroism wasn’t real and that she was just as self-serving and ruthless as anyone else out there.

Amber wanted to hear Roxi admit that she was just like the Distorted Angel… and that it was okay.

It wasn’t the slander or the insults that hurt Amber the worst, that drove her in the direction they had taken- but Roxi’s insistence that being anything like Amber was an insult, was something to be frowned upon and shamed as though she herself wasn’t part of the world that had created someone like her. Roxi could stand on that pedestal and tell everyone they were wrong however couldn’t admit within herself that she too housed that same visceral nothingness.

A branch beneath her cracked loudly, however didn’t bow beneath her shifting weight, although she didn’t dare linger in one place for too long for fear of a visit to her childhood and the emergency room. Wrestling reminded her of the branches of a tree- some could take the weight of the world upon them and no one would ever notice cause they act as expected, many cracked under a pressure far underestimated and subsequently fell away noisily and the rest… well it's a tree, what the fuck else could be expected?

One day she’d learn, although Amber doubted today would be it and she imagined tomorrow probably wasn’t promising either. Perhaps the more pertinent question would have been- what will it take for Roxi to understand.
No longer was this a simple mind game, perhaps it once was but things evolved faster than either of them could ever have prepared for. No longer was Amber simply interested in proving Roxi to be a fraud and a liar cause she’d done a far enough good a job of that herself.

No longer would she stand and be told she wasn’t good enough- when all she’d done since walking through the door was impress... A stacked rostered full of women wanted their shot- not at the titles but at the redhead with the big mouth and fists like concrete, they wanted to test their might against someone who didn’t care enough about anything to lose.
Of course- the bombshells title would be on the near horizon- though admittedly, Amber contemplated tearing a crunchy leaf from a nearby twig,it would be quite the shame to have to liberate it from someone she was quickly considering a firm friend in Evie Jordan.

When it came down to it though, and what many seemed to forget a little too easily these days was in any given match, they’d get Amber at her best.

Put a title on the line though, and they’d get absolutely everything…

‘Just a matter of time’ or so they said… Oh, how they’d come to regret it surely when the time came.

 “She was the one who showed me all the dark wonders of life, the real life, the life I’d only seen flickering from the corner of my eye. Did I ever feel anything at all until she showed me what feeling meant? Pushing at the corners of her cramped world with curled fists, she showed me what it meant to live.”
― Megan Abbott, Dare Me




Undisclosed Location
Elizabethtown, NC
20.08.2005
4:36pm



“Come on Red, you can’t tell me this isn’t kinda cool…”

Amber kicked the shards of a brick across the rotten floorboards in protest, the thin powder of brick dust exploding like a pale rain around her worn converses. Derelict and decaying, the musty aroma mingled with something faintly coppery and alkaline as Amber tried to put from her mind how it reminded her of the taste of blood in the back of her throat.

“It's just like in movies, you know?”

Amber’s clear lack of enthusiasm did little to temper Cassidy Parker’s overt excitement at exploration, after all they’d been travelling for several days straight- cooped up in a van with adults far more invested in staring at the backs of their eyelids or too busy trying to talk over her head with stories of an illicit nature like she hadn’t heard them all only with far more slurring and the stain of whiskey on their breaths.
Truck stops did little to break the monotony- deep fried nothing and gasoline fumes, the magazines were all months out of date and even the newspapers seemed to curl at the edges as though trying to quietly disintegrate.

However when Cassidy spotted the abandoned house not far from the fairgrounds, she had immediately set to work pestering Amber about going exploring. Four days she’d managed to keep Cassidy at bay, four arduous days filled with excuses and avoidance, four days of being worn down by the sheer energy levels and eventually her patience wore so thin she knew she might not sleep a wink if she didn’t relent.

At 14 Cassidy was Amber’s junior by three years- somewhat akin to an annoying little sister with far too much energy and a startling charisma, thick blonde curls fell around her face and cascaded over her shoulders as warm brown eyes studied the world through a microscope.
Pale skin stretched over her sinewy form as she swept from room to room, her frame like that of a ballerina without the function muscle mass, like a praying mantis perhaps made of all limbs and earnestness.

“Yeah, and in those movies pretty little things like you end up looking like a sleeping bag full of cranberries that got run over with a tractor.”

Part of a floorboard crumbled beneath Amber’s foot as she caught herself, sweating profusely under her breath about the stupidity of this whole venture, Cassidy however seemed far more enamoured with some of the rough graffiti that had peeled away in places, her fingers traced over where the letters had faded- perhaps a proclamation of simply being there or the curving strokes of a short term relationship sprayed with a lustful and equally short term sincerity.
Amber appreciated the artform, when done well at least- which this had not- however it was the way the word forever seemed to be thrown around so freely, that it could be intended as something infinite and yet last only three days cause some people aren’t mentally equipped to handle monogamy.

Metallic and caustic gave way to something more acidic, an unmistakable tang of built up ammonia and perhaps bile if she really thought about it for long enough. She tried to avoid making eye contact with what she presumed was once a mattress, it's remains scattered and soiled by rats or something slightly larger, she couldn’t even begin to think of what it's use might have been before… and perhaps still.
Amber gagged slightly, bile tickling at the back of her tongue as though trying to negotiate for an exit. Even though the windows had been broken out, shards stuck and weathered in their decaying frames, fresh air still couldn’t permeate the space- an air lock of acrid malodor, the atmosphere so heavy that there wasn’t any room for oxygen to move.

“Hey Red, what if there's a dead body or something?”

“It smells like there already is…”

“Oh come on, it's not THAT bad.”

“I’d rather hang out in a truck stop toilet getting propositioned by lesbian truck drivers than breath in some dead person DNA. Come on Cass, let's just get out of here otherwise the next dead body might just be yours.”

Cassidy mockingly poked her tongue out, while Amber wrinkled her nose up so hard it was a wonder that it was still properly attached to her face.

“Jesus christ, put that thing back in your head before I rip it out and use it to clean my shoes.”

“No you won’t. You like me too much, and besides- who else would put up with your miserable ass?”

Cassidy ventured towards the front door, well where the front door used to be Amber had presumed, now only a set of hinges hung precariously as the wood seemed to fall apart around them.
It wasn’t the gasp that set Amber’s heart racing, nor even the fact she could see Cassidy frozen, partially silhouetted in the front door by the sinking afternoon sun.

It was the voices. Multiple. Angry.

Closing the gap, Amber could start making out words now- mostly curses mixed with the occasional accusation, a cacophony of sounds spewing with a determined vitriol. Female. Young, probably teen. A vicious whine like a hornet, only with far more hormones and a shittier attitude.

“... saw you carny slut. Think you can just get away with messing with me, you got another thing coming.”

“Fuck her up”

“Yeah, she’s got it coming”

Maybe they didn’t know Amber was there, maybe they just didn’t care but none of them reacted much when the redhead leaned almost leisurely on the door frame, trying to avoid having to get another tetanus shot in the process.

“Problem?”

Cassidy was the first to acknowledge Amber- the knowing look of guilt and realization plastered across her face. Amber hadn’t noticed how heavy the smattering of freckles across her nose was until now, framed by the glazed over deer-caught-in-headlights look in her eyes.
She was looking for hope, for validation perhaps, for something… Something that Amber wasn’t even sure she could provide.

“You wanna tell your girl here how you think you’re a clever little bitch, you didn’t think I’d remember your face after I caught your sticky fucking fingers in my bag last night?
Well, guess what…”

Amber tuned out slightly as the slurs continued to pour, groaning internally as Cassidy could do little more than give her something amounting to a sheepish affirmation of wrongdoing. It was Amber’s fault, she’d been teaching Cassidy how to pickpocket and more importantly… how not to get caught.
She wasn’t supposed to be going off by herself trying it, Amber swore loudly under her breath capturing the attention of the lead antagonist.

“Look, I’m sure theres some kind of misunderstanding or something… Cass, just apologize. Get it over with and then we can all move on, yeah?”

Operation peacemaker was in full swing, however it didn’t stop the redhead from sizing up the girls. All of them seemed built from the same familial stock, although maybe that was more a small town breeding issue rather than anything else- none of them particularly menacing despite their best efforts, the type of girls who’d tell everyone they smoked behind the bleachers and played truant when really it was mommy and daddy letting them have a day off and not keeping contraband out of reach.
Snickering became full blown laughter in a matter of moments, the girls looking to each other in comical disbelief.

“You think an apology fixes this, you think that's good enough? Nah, that's not how we do things around here.”

Amber presumed she was trying to square up, that she was trying to look intimidating however she was heavily flat footed, her fists curled awkwardly in a way that would break her thumbs if she threw a punch and her smile was… way too easy of a target. With a deliberately methodical pace, Amber drifted down the concrete steps allowing each thud to resonate for a moment before the next until the muffle of hard ground and dust tempered the noise.

“How you do things… Huh, well that's a bit of a problem in itself then, isn’t it?”

Without breaking eye contact, Amber placed herself between Cassidy and the group while allowing a sly half smile to cross her face. It was a few moments of awkward silence before Amber cleared her throat, trying to clear the last residue of mildew from her throat.

“Cassidy. Get out of here.”

“Amber I-”

“Go.”

Terse and commanding, the guilt only sunk deeper into the blonde as she sidled off to the side, at first a walk and then breaking into a run in the direction of the fairgrounds. One of the group made a move to follow, however Amber's hollow dead eyed gaze kept them all planted firmly in place.

“I dunno who you think you are standing up for her but-”

“No buts, your problem is with me now. Not her. Whatever she’s done, you take it up with me or you fuck right off and leave us the hell alone.”

Another few chuckles rumble through the girls as though they’re on the same wavelength, Amber presumed that since they likely didn’t have a lot of brain cells between them that it greatly reduced the difficulty.

“Her. You. Same difference really.”

Amber saw the punch coming before the girl even reared back, there was something so oddly satisfying about watching someone with no clue telegraph their shot while still thinking they had any element of surprise. Years of muay thai kept her on her toes, years of panantukan ept her footwork difficult to read… and years of just straight up fights forecast the outcome like standing outside and predicting the weather two minutes into the future.
Four versus one.
Shitty odds. Still didn’t stop Amber coming in and headbutting the lead antagonist between the eyes with a satisfying crunch, cartilage snapped beneath the pressure and Amber caught some of the first spurts of hot gushing blood as it poured from her nose.

Stumbling backwards, Amber knew she left herself open however the message had been sent. Wild fists with poor technique made contact, each not doing much but their sheer combined weight beat her down towards the ground- sometimes a lucky strike might connect with something more fragile like a liver or kidney.
Crumpling to the floor, Amber covered up as best as possible while still lashing out when opportunity arose, one girl stomped at her face and caught her in the nose, the viscous blood tricking into her mouth as she fought for a breath not contaminated by dust.
Metallic on her tongue, she wanted to be sick until an errant kick caught her in the stomach and forced a dry retch from her body. One girl got caught with a nasty kick to the thigh, stumbling backwards the obscenities were followed by a kick to the spine that sent a tingling down Amber’s arms.

She didn’t know how long they were at it for, huffing and puffing angrily above her with insults that failed to do more than wound their own intelligence. Playground nothings, threats of violence trying to look cool when their punches did little more than crack knuckles.
Eventually their contemptuous onslaught gave way, satisfied with their work they helped each other limp away as the leader, still cradling her face- everything below her crumpled nose bathed in thick, crimson blood and mucus, spat venomously at Amber as she tried to drag herself out of the dust.

“That’ll fucking teach you.”

It wouldn’t. She’d be over it in a couple of days, superficial wounds although her pride was only slightly more damaged as Amber wished she’d knocked a few teeth out to do with it.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry… I just- I’m...”

Despite Amber’s determined stance, Cassidy hadn’t gone far.  Kneeling in front of the redhead, she seemed momentarily lost for what to do, her shame and culpability reddened in her cheeks and sunken into the crevices of her grimace.
Amber quietly dusted herself off as she pushed herself up to sitting, she could still feel the trickle down the edge of her chin while trying to ignore the warmth trying to creep between her lips. Using her t-shirt, Amber tried to wipe away the worst of it, only succeeding in smearing it further as Cassidy tried to help her up- Amber waved her off though, unsteadily finding her feet as the younger girl tried to search for something meaningful to say.

“Amber, I’m so-”

Another dead eyed gaze cut her off abruptly.

“... They won’t bother you again.”



******



“You know, I’ve heard that possession is supposedly 9/10ths of the law but I can’t imagine whoever came up with it ever intended it for this context.

Curious, don’t you think?

A mechanism of protection in the same way that split personalities form and function like an emotional armour, protruding spikes around ones fragile psyche with the distinct intention of impaling everything within proximity. Mental illness certainly isn’t something to be joked about, as I’m sure a vast majority of our peers in this industry are either wired wrong, or pretend to be cause they think it makes them look cooler.

Really, the only voices those ones should be listening to are the ones telling them to fuck off out the door.

It's not a strength though, nor is it a weakness- it's just a part of you. Yin and yang, two halves to a whole even if the split is creeping into 80/20 territory. You might be the original, sure… but you aren’t in control, are you?
Some might compare you to Jekyll and Hyde but the truth is far more banal, theres no dramatic transformation by candlelight, no screams of disgust and terror as you morph into an uncontrollable killing machine.

Lights come on, and Melissa Aki switches off.

I wonder though, am I a threat to you?

Does someone like me bring out the worst, that darkness deep inside that's just begging for a chance to put the stupid big mouth redhead in her place. Does someone like me draw out something in you that you loathe, that leaves you feeling hollow in its wake and covered in someone else's blood… which certainly isn’t exactly sanitary in this pandemic.
See, this is the part where you do one of two things…
Your demon side will tell me that I’m no threat, that everything I’ve done up to this point is entirely irrelevant and that I can’t possibly be on your level when it comes to ultraviolence and generally being a piece of shit human being.

In which case I tell you that you’re one head twist away from being a poor mans Exorcist and that ya’ll really need some Jesus.

Or two… You’ll make it sound like this is a big deal to you, that you’ve either heard of me or seen my work and that you really respect me cause that's just what you do, you hope we’ll have a great match and in the end be respected rivals without having tried to bleed each other dry.

In which case I’ll still tell you that you’re one head twist away from being a poor mans Exorcist and that you most definitely need to invest in some serious Jesus.

I’m sensing a pattern here Maki.

I want to believe you are everything you’re made out to be- that your reputation of sheer carnage isn’t just because everyone else has been subpar and would consider a chair something of an exotic weapon… and I have no doubt that if you truly set your mind to it that you could absolutely splatter my future grandchildrens DNA all over your breakfast and still have an appetite for destruction.
All I’m getting though is that you wrestle a bit of deathmatch, talk a bit of cray-cray cause everyone loves a psycho till they start leaving body parts in their freezer and crawl on all fours cause it looks more animalistic and visceral, you know until you blow your knees and wrists out.

Might be the first person to do such things without having their head shoved under a table, so kudos on that I guess?

Still you feed into the cliche, a maligned and desperate cliche worn down to a painful nub on the middle finger of the wrestling industry and for what exactly?
A reaction, a cheap pop for some shock value- humans by nature are macabre creatures in that we abhor violence and yet are drawn to it like moths to a tyre fire. In one breath we refuse to condone acts of depravity, yet we turn on the television or shell out dollars for tickets to shows promising that someone will be hurt.
Somehow the greater the violence, the more attractive it becomes.

Fucking shock value Maki.

Ultraviolence isn’t just some kooky buzzword, it's not flavour of the month cause somehow blood is only barely thicker than a melting gelato. Deathmatches aren’t just some throwaway gimmicks proposed to get a few extra asses across seats- this isn’t a game for edgelords and emo’s desperately needing a haircut cause no one understands the pain of being them.
You wanna talk about pain Maki, about giving and receiving in kind like somehow stubbing your toe backstage is equivalent to digging shards out of your forearm weeks after a match cause you can feel it scraping against a bone, or comparing a paper cut to stitching yourself back together in a shitty hotel room cause the local nurses just think you’re taking the piss now.

You wanna preach destruction when in fact the only thing you’ve likely destroyed recently was a public toilet and the last shreds of dignity after an especially bad Taco Bell

We’re supposed to be better than this, but we aren’t… Maybe Seleana is our saving grace, that she might save this match from the quagmire it's becoming, but you’re just smoke and mirrors when I wanted you to be more. It's my fault though, I set the expectations to a level you could never have hoped to reach in that I admired your work only to realize it's just parlour games, smokescreens and a shaky hand for applying facepaint.

Demon Maki held some promise, regular Maki just wants to do good right?

She’s somehow pure and decent in comparison.

… which does absolutely nothing to stop me wanting to plant my converse sneaker through the back of your skull via the front door.
Ugh, I always forget how cringe this stuff sounds until I say it… Must make me sound like a big ole hypocrite right, deriding everyone else for their bullshit and then spraying venom like I’m marking my territory.
Hell, maybe I would be if I wasn’t just like the postman and always goddamn delivering. Win or lose kiddies, someone’s eating that canvas or the soles of my size 9’s. For you though, unlike the postman, I’ll even bring it on Sundays.

There are those that would compare us like we’re been cut from the same cloth- but you gotta think that's like trying to compare thousand thread count luxury with a square of used one ply. We’ll just try and ignore the brown stains this time, say it gives character.
Credit where recent credit is due- I mean you beat a former champion in your debut. Candy, you know, who happened to lose an inferno match recently, who lost her title recently. So, you beat a broken down, slightly charred version of someone who first walked into SCW thinking it was just a really violent My Little Pony convention.

Only reason she’s stayed this long is cause she’s still really determined to get Rainbow Brite’s hoofprint planted squarely between her eyes.

God, if that's not a deflating start to your tenure then I don’t really know what else to tell you…

Okay sure. You’ve got a demon inside of you… that's great. If you could just go over there and line up behind everyone else who walks into a company telling everyone they are, in fact, a badass… That’d be just lovely.
What you need to start comprehending real quick though, is that I’m a sick amalgamation of all the worst things Mother Nature herself could muster, and pre-packaged in a cage of skin and terrible decision making. You might summon power from the underworld, but I’m a dying star going supernova in slow motion determined to drag everyone down with me simply for being within the proximity.

By all means though, continue to make your empty threats and tell me all the ways I’m about to get scattered across that ring, the peculiar way you plan on using chunks of flesh for a terrible jigsaw and that my eyes might look nice in a jar overlooking the scenic barren hellscape.
It ain’t special, it certainly isn’t original- I mean I hear worse on a typical Tuesday and thats even before I get on social media- the best of your cutting verbal jabs wouldn’t even crack the top 10 on slow day of ‘You Mom’ jokes and poorly sexualised innuendos.

All I ask Maki, is that you give me something I can at least roll my eyes at cause I’ve still gotta prove that I haven't fallen asleep or just straight up dropped dead out of boredom from this grandiose show of imitation badassery and rampaging mediocrity.

Come Climax Control- it's the ever classic story of angels and demons… Hang on, someone call Dan Brown and tell him I’ve got a fantastic novel idea.

One he can massacre just like I’m about to during this stupid fucking triple threat match.





******



Carnage Arena
Baltimore, MD
22.06.2020
11:43pm




Amber hadn’t hurt like this for a long time.

As a veteran of ultraviolence, a delightful oxymoron if there ever was one, she’d endured far greater pain than most people should ever have had to endure- but this was different. This wasn’t shredded flesh oozing blood and muscle tissues twitching under bright lights, this wasn’t pulling shards of broken glass from skin nor retrieving an errant thumbtack from the underside of one's tongue.
Hell, this wasn’t even broken and splintered bones left to repair awkwardly cause the idea of someone else stepping into your place as you healed was a far more wounding prospect.

No, this was an ache that resonated from the inside of her bones. Radiating outwards as though nuclear fusion spontaneously erupted between the calcified layers of her 5’8” frame. It was fearsome, unending spasms that mimicked the thunderous pulse inside her chest- her forearms finding traction on the beige tiled wall in an effort to keep her semi-upright.
It was still being a goddamn fucking world champion. It was breaking a voodoo that had haunted her entire career, the anvil above her head falling around her like confetti instead of the usual crushing impact she’d grown to expect.

Until tonight, Amber Ryan had never successfully defended a world title.

In her nearly 13 years as a contracted professional, Amber Ryan had only ever been a world champion on three occasions. World class, but never enough for a shot at the best and constantly chased by the moniker of ‘one of the best never to be world champion’. So many people had wasted their breaths telling her how good they thought she was, but when the time came to put up or shut up- those same people changed their tunes cause people like her, people with a storied history in ultraviolence, with authority issues, with being a constant liability…

They looked great on a marquee, right next to a world title match. Right below a main event. Left of centre cause she couldn’t be trusted not to kill or be killed despite their insistence to just ‘be herself’.

Through gritted teeth, Amber arched her back further into the rushing water in hopes that the searing heat might somehow slough the skin from her bones, that piece by gruesome piece she might wash away every doubt and every insinuation ever made about her down the drain.
Bruises bloomed in sickly blacks and purples, scars blanched by the dull fluorescence- she’d worn every terrible decision she’d ever made like a macabre suit of armour, proud and flawed in equal measures.
Thick tresses of crimson hung lank around her face, the water dripping through as her hand fumbled for the tap- there was only one she’d needed to turn, after all many said there was plenty enough cold inside her that her shower wouldn’t require any assistance.

For a moment she watched the last splashes of water disappear around her feet, swirled with what remained of her self doubts and career uncertainties. In the locker room, she could hear the text notification go off- obnoxious and tinny as though it might somehow motivate her not to simply ignore it for fear of repetition.
It never worked though, and she’d never gotten around to changing it.
Grabbing her towel from the rail, she gingerly wrapped it around herself, the bruises protesting angrily as the material grated against her blossoming skin- no doubt the notification would be about an upcoming Sin City match, another opportunity many would have called it…
Opportunities though implied that they had direction- and right now… the redhead with a world of hype and reckless nature seemed to be adrift, grasping for something tangible that might prove she was worth what everyone said she was.

A win, a no contest and a loss.

Catching sight of herself in a fogged mirror, even her reflection seemed to disapprove. It wasn’t as though she expected to simply walk in and blitz the place, no that would be far more ignorant than even she’d stoop to- however she’d allowed herself to get sidetracked, driven to distraction more than she’d openly care to admit.
She had to admit, her life was becoming more and more like a circus- and she’d never learned quite how to juggle.

It was supposed to be a proving ground, a second chance at a first impression.

Jessie Salco had been a message. Myra Rivers had been a miscalculation. Mercedes Vargas a misdirection from someone else's abuse of power and determination to squeeze every drop of goodness from the ‘deranged mercenary’ type.
Running her hand through her still saturated tresses, water trickling down her arm and back, she tried to make out the woman who stared back at her- and how that woman couldn’t possibly be her. Reflections were cruel, highlighting and exposing everything about oneself that could be rightfully despised- self reflection was even fucking worse cause that mirror couldn’t be broken, nor did it have the capacity to be manipulated.

How many more missteps could she afford?

How many more times could she fail to live up to an expectation and still have people look at her in the same way?

Curling her toes reflexively against the cool tiles, Amber leaned closer to the mirror using the side of her fist to wipe away some of the fog but succeeded in smearing and smudging, leaving a trail of condensation and residue across the surface.
There was a cut on her lip, bottom to the right… Off symmetry... which bothered the redhead more than she preferred to admit, it seemed to have stopped bleeding though leaving little more than a raw graze between cracked and peeling lips.

No, her focus had been elsewhere.

Carnage, sure. Being a world champion had it's perks but also it's responsibilities and it was no secret that she’d had falters in her objectionable confidence in the lead up to her defense, that the missteps in Sin City had rattled her cage with the tremors reaching far deeper than she let on.
She was an animal with a natural disaster confined between her ribs that she was woefully ill-equipped to control, a desperate and arguably despicable human being whose moral compass was permanently stuck in the south cause it seemed to be the fastest way to hell.

There was something far more…

She couldn’t aptly describe it, even if she tried.

Roxi motherfucking Johnson.

Parallels. Constant and yet somehow always just a hair's breadth from collision. Years had been spent comparing and contrasting them, Amber had been more than once referred to as Roxi’s evil twin despite having been active in the industry for longer. Despite having an identity outside of being a tired daytime soap cliche.
Despite being the only one willing to truly embrace what they were capable of.
Roxi thought this all an illusion, but truth be told things likely had never been so real- that the threat Amber supposedly posed was far greater than the surface deep pipe dreams she’d so readily bought into.

Amber was presenting an opportunity, time and time again as though she herself hadn’t been acquainted with the true definition of insanity. Wasn’t that what the company was about, after all? Good fortune to those who earn it, a fighting chance to validate existences otherwise meaningless and trite.
Roxi was great, Amber had no doubt about that… but she was blind. Blind and determined that her point of view was the only authentic one, she took everything at face value despite the fact each layer of their interactions had been crafted as a journey of self-discovery.

Amber’s lip curled slightly- the blind could be led, but the willfully ignorant would never learn.

Bored of a reflection that didn’t feel like it belonged, an imitation of life that only served to mock and betray- Amber tore herself away, leaving waterlogged footprints in her immediate wake. Vapor dissipated around her as the thickness of the artificial humidity abated enough that she might steal a breath that didn’t feel like 70% water.
With the towel still tightly wound, Amber moved into the larger locker room space before fastidiously dropping down onto the wooden bench- her thick tresses pulled over one shoulder and dripping onto her open duffel bag.

Beside her, the cracked screen of her phone illuminated with missed calls, messages and notifications. Mostly congratulations from acquaintances trying to be friendly, the wave of social media crumbling the moment it reached its apex.
In 12 hours few of them would remember, and less would give a fuck even if they did.
Others were those closer, their messages more than polite small talk and generic good wishes crudely disguised into looking remotely original.
Mac had tried to call her multiple times, although those were more deliberately missed knowing how strongly he’d disagreed with her accepting the match to begin with- his concerns and affections borderline suffocating and yet strangely comforting.

Sure enough though, a notification stood out among the myriad.

Sin City Wrestling Climax Control 273.

She didn’t understand why her stomach seemed to fall through the floor, or why her heart nestled so deeply into the back of her throat she might have seen the pulsating edge if she looked hard enough just beyond her tonsils.
Amber wanted a cigarette, she wanted 5 shots of god awful tequila, 14 hours of an uninterrupted sleep so deep the rest of the world might think she was dead and coffee so strong it might make her heart explode inside her chest.

All she got though, was another second chance.





******


“Congratulations, right?

That's how these things are supposed to go, you’ll have to forgive me cause most of my social interactions usually end up with me insulting someone and then getting into a fight. Although if I’m honest, I don’t really see this ending any differently.

Congratulations to the new Bombshells Roulette champion- who absolutely did the bare minimum to qualify and then finally succeeded when she had absolutely no right to.
Whoops straight to the low hanging fruit we go…

You know what, let's mix this up a little. Lets save the real obvious argument for those who need it cause there are far deeper issues to poke and prod at, and if I get to upset the proverbial apple cart you know I’m all about it.
Been a pretty terrible 2020 right, Seleana? I mean aside from being married to Crystal Insert-Last-Name-Here-Depending-On-Whether-Mercury-Is-In-Retrograde-Or-Not… In which case, you have my total sympathies.

Seriously though, must have felt pretty damn good to break the voodoo right? A win on the board, a shiny new belt on your shoulder- really good times and veryones got your name on their tongues. All of a sudden, you’re relevant again… You’ve got a face, a name and something to work for. Everyones as happy as they can be for you give the kinda bleh circumstances and then…and then your wife sweeps in, steals the spotlight cause heaven forbid she isn’t the centre of attention for two minutes...

And you do absolutely nothing.

See that, that right there is what pisses me off most about all of this.

Between you and me, I actually couldn’t give a shit what title match she gifts you cause if you’re good enough to win it and you’re good enough to keep it then the circumstances become irrelevant. What bothers me is that you LET her, you stood aside with a belt on your shoulder and a stupid grin on your face as she took everything you had accomplished and shoved it aside to make room for her ego.
Winning the Roulette title is a goddamn safety net for your career Seleana, cause lets face it sweetheart- you were beyond the point of a freefall and we’d all lost hope that you’d do anything except become another bloody smear on a canvas.

You’re playing second fiddle to a woman with a personality disorder beyond the point of classification, a running joke that does nothing but drag your name down with it. She needs validation like everyone else needs oxygen and it sickens me to the depths of my stomach that you enable this shit so readily.
If you think that cause you’re suddenly a champion that people will take you seriously then you’re dumber than even I gave you credit for, that it earns you this modicum of respect that you just yeeted straight out the window.

My problem with you Seleana… You have no fire. No backbone. The only thing keeping you upright is your wife's hand between your perky little cheeks wiggling your tongue with words straight from her mouth.
Gone is the woman who won the Bombshells World title, gone is the woman who earned her place in the upper echelon irregardless of how shallow the talent pool might have been at the time- now all we’ve got is this pretty little blonde husks who says what she's told to say, acts the way shes told to act and smiles like a puppet when the adults are talking.

What you are is an aberration in the data, a vacuum of personality in place of something or someone far more meaningful. You’ve been filter fed this liquid diet of false confidence and now you’re stepping up against two women far more willing and capable of putting your pretty little face through the floor than you would ever dare to admit.
However aberrations don’t last and nature, well nature despises a vacuum.

Make no mistakes, I’m a firm believer in opportunity… mostly for the fact that I should never have gotten one. Everyones done their research, they know my background and all the reasons that by every moral and ethical right I have no fucking business being where I am today.
I didn’t learn in a school, I didn’t graduate classes perfecting wrist lock takedowns I would never use or learning all the ways to go tell someone to go and poltely fuck themselves without actually saying as much.
People like me, we thrive off opportunities and we scratch and claw to hold onto them cause the next one might never come… and then we come across people like you, with all this potential to be talented and charismatic taking the world by storm- and instead, you’re a wallflower. A conduit for someone else's message.

You have every gift this god awful industry can provide and you do nothing with them.

I have lived and died for wrestling, I’m a walking DOA trying to make sense of why I’m still here and you take this gift- and you let someone else walk all over it like it meant nothing. You had that Roulette championship for 10 seconds before you managed to devalue it beyond repair.
Don’t get me wrong, that title isn’t in my crosshairs however that doesn’t make me any less miffed about your casualness of holding it.
Forgive my bluntness, or don’t cause in reality it's not gonna change anything I’m about to say… But either fucking care or don’t.
Show me some fire beyond the burning sensation in your crotch from that carefully cultivated yeast infection your wife couldn’t possibly have given you- they have creams for that by the way. Over the counter. Very discreet.

You leave me so underwhelmed Seleana, that it makes me wanna throw myself into orbit and scream into the void. I mean, it's not like anything will hear me any better out there than they do here.
It’s just that I’m just so fucking sick of listening to everyone try and tell me that their name is worth something, that they have to give themselves a poorly rated TED talk before stepping out in front of me like it’ll change the fact they’re about to be hit by a bus.
Blonde. Beautiful. Utterly void of anything not garnered by osmosis from your wife- everything you have to say is generic bullshit spewing out of a mouth with far too many perfect teeth and your attempts at conviction and sincerity are being betrayed by the dribble of bodily fluids running down the inside of your leg.

Don’t be embarrassed though, you aren’t the first and you certainly won’t be the last… which oddly enough feels like the story of your career. A constant middling, average and uninspiring to the point that even being wildly predictable gives you some kind of personality edge.

Maki. Seleana.

What you are and what you aren’t doesn’t really matter, does it? Be it demon or dishwater alike- I’m making it known that I did my part, I played nice with shaking babies and kissing hands. I have given respect where it's due yet my patience has worn a little thin cause I’m on an uneven spectrum where my every move seems to be ugly and reprehensible simply because it doesn’t fit the preferred narrative.

I hope your happy Roxi, truly, cause what happens at Climax Control falls squarely on you. On your choices, on your perspective and on your ignorance.

See I’m beyond the point of visible light now, ultraviolent ultraviolence with a kick in the ass and one in the head for good measure. Fuck, come Climax Control kiddies, you’ll wanna be calling me ‘infrared’ cause frankly- neither of you will have any fucking idea what’s hit you.”




******



Amber’s Apartment
Atlantic City, NJ
02.07.2020
8:51am



Even two weeks afterwards, Amber's apartment still somehow smelled like goddamn roses.

It had been a really sweet gesture, albeit absurd and mildly infuriating as Mac had her apartment literally filled with roses for her 32nd birthday. She had smiled broadly to his face, while internally questioning the logistics of such a venture and how it might have been conceived as a ‘good idea’ to begin with. God, he looked so satisfied with himself that it almost pained her to have to almost force gratitude and praise- she wanted to be delighted but could only muse about the impracticality.

No one had ever done something like this for her before… Maybe this was why, she contemplated silently as she shifted the thick strap of her duffel bag so that it might not cut so deeply into her shoulder before allowing it to fall away onto the floor with a weighty thud. No doubt the downstairs neighbour would complain, but they also had a terrible taste in 4am music so the occasional petty shot would always be taken.
Trying to breathe deeply, Amber spluttered briefly as the saccharine odor clung thickly to the sides of her throat.

Baltimore to Atlantic City. Atlantic City to Las Vegas. Rinse and repeat as required for thorough exhaustion.

Amber had brought this all upon herself, trying to use wrestling to clear her head from the other pressing issue that snuck up on her consciousness. If she could just stay busy…

Red.

It was easily missed at first glance, small enough to be lost but large enough that the crimson hue stood out against the formica countertop. An envelope sealed and without signature- as if Amber needed one to recognize her dead man's errand deciding it didn’t want to simply be ignored.
Wracking her brain, Amber tried to recall the last time she’d seen one while idling twirling it between her fingers, procrastination and hesitation leaving her already frayed nerves angry and raw.

Boardwalk perhaps, she’d played mind games with people leaving notes and paint traps for those unsuspecting enough to fall from her good graces. Before that, she couldn’t even begin to fathom. Cassidy and Amber used to trade notes in these envelopes they’d fold, mostly idle nothings and trite teenage ciphers that always felt far more significant than they actually were.

First kisses and teenage flings. Crude codes and grievances about a world that just didn’t understand them. Dreams and fears scrawled and squirrelled away into obscurity.
God it used to feel so important- as they got older though the notes grew less and the girls grew steadily apart, their aspirations no longer cohesive nor their futures in the same direction.
When Amber finally left, mere weeks before her 20th birthday, Cassidy left her an envelope.

Maybe they knew it’d be their last.

Maybe that's why she left it empty.

Amber breathed deeply, Cassidy’s envelopes had always smelled faintly of cinnamon like she’d somehow dusted her hands with spice before determinedly folding each edge to a sharpened point. A sharp ache twanged in her chest like someone had used her heart as a guitar string plucking an unknown melody through her sternum.
Perhaps she should have been far more concerned with how the letter got into her apartment, how it hadn’t been there when she left and how nothing else had been touched- that time would eventually come, for now though Amber could only bring herself to inhale reflexively as her fingers shakily pried the envelope apart.

Small, white and folded neatly in half- Amber hesitated as the envelope fell away from the note inside. She couldn’t tell if it was her thunderous pulse in her ears or raging nervous system telling her how wrong everything about this was- that had her more on edge. Barely able to even manipulate her fingers, it was as though her fine motor skills were being remote controlled from three stories down- the envelope falling onto the countertop before Amber managed to unfold the white paper, generic and cheap as though taken from a hotel notepad and torn in two.

Something inside her sank through the floor while the bile rose in her throat. A single sentence, words recalled so vividly it was a wonder that they still existed in either of their psyches- Amber barely had time to make it to the bathroom before she doubled over and dry wretched into the sink, heartache and melancholy wrenching her battered frame.
Fluttering to the linoleum floor, the note landed partially opened- handwritten in a pen scrawl as though in a hurry to get a solitary thought onto paper before the moment was lost.


“‘We don’t run for the sake of running. We don’t run to or from anyone- sometimes we just don’t want to be found.’
You taught me that, remember?”

 “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.”