Authors note:
Hey all, just a quick one from me this week, RL has been absolutely kicking my ass and I've barely had the time to plot out the next story steps, so this one is a bit of a filler in the overall contuining arc, but has some feel good stuff in it- so hope you guys still enjoy
<3 Jazz
“A cockroach has no soul. Yet it runs and eats and shits and fucks and breeds. It has no soul, yet it lives a full life. Just like you.”
― David Wong, John Dies at the End
Sun Princess Cruise Liner
Somewhere At Sea
18.07.2021
10:47pm
Adrenaline.
God, it had such a funny way of numbing and heightening the senses at the same time. Seemed like only seconds ago that Amber had first walked through that curtain- the weight of the company on her shoulder and all the pressure to perform. It wasn’t as though there were any secret that the nerves had been relentless coming in, that she’d barely managed to sleep the night before because she knew that closing her eyes would set into motion the inevitable million ways she might just go out there and fail.
Except she didn’t.
At least, that's what the titles draped now over both shoulders suggested. Drowning in gold never seemed like such a reality, the belts dominating her frame like a redhead pack mule to the stars and the flush in her cheeks barely subsided as her breathing returned to some form of regularity.
Now, the crowd surged just beyond where she stood as her husband… as possibly the only person in her life since Grizzly Parker not to walk out on her the moment things got rough… as the man she fell in love with over and over again was out there trying to do the unthinkable.
No one had even considered that Oblivion might end up being draped in gold, their collective name almost foreign on the tongues of many- a private joke between them on their wedding day, there had been no bustle and bluster that another married couple might soon dominate the industry once more.
It wasn’t supposed to happen.
But neither was Amber ever being champion to begin with. Neither was Mac being champion. Neither was them relentlessly tearing each other to pieces before falling in love for exactly the same reason that would have torn them apart.
God fucking damn, she couldn’t even put into words how much she loved that man… and now he was out there proving to the world what she’d already known.
Someone passing by mentioned a congratulations, but Amber could barely find her voice to respond- their complimentary tone lost to the thunderous rush of blood that pounded in her ears. Everything tingled, cold and hot in equal extremes- she could barely stand still, but forced herself not to pace for fear of wearing a hole through the floor. Thick matted red clung to the side of her face, sweat like a slick adhesive that glittered on her skin- she probably could have gone for a shower, could have sat down for a few moments however this felt farmore important and whatever happened… she’d be there when he came back.
She had to be.
Another murmur in the background framed as a question in her general direction, she waved off politely despite not being able to make out the words- more sound in a growing cacophony that didn’t quite penetrate past the sheer wall of her pulse.
Nearby by, familiar faces and a few less so gathered out of intrigue to watch the growing crescendo of violence- a loud gasp punctuated by vague approval followed ‘The Bar’, that thunderous spear absolutely devastating in its simplicity… and a move she’d been intimately familiar with in another place.
She knew what Cross must have been feeling- his insides as though they were somewhere on the other side of the ring, the breath in his lungs lost to the first row and his soul somewhere in the cheap seats. Every part of her wanted to scream, and yet everyone else seemed to collectively suck the voice from her throat as she stood by almost internally pleading for the universe to allow them this boon.
Admittedly she’d never been much for religion, but a small part of her prayed fervently for something that mere hours ago seemed almost impossible to everyone except them.
It wasn’t over. Cross was a resilient fucker and Amber felt that racing shiver go down her spine as Cross’s foot landed on the rope.
“Oh god, don’t do anything stupid darling…”
She hadn’t even realized she’d spoken until the words seemed to tumble off the edge of her lip, past where the skin threatened to break as she bit down that little harder. Desperation had a way of taking rational men and turning them into bumbling fools, strategists into simpletons within the blink of an eye- Mac had no need to resort to desperation, however she knew it wouldn’t seem that way in the ring.
Nothing was worse than someone kicking out of your best.
Swarming. Buzzing. It was starting to get crowded now.
Opinions were like flies and everyone had something to say- yet ahead of them all and as close to the curtain as she might dare without passing the threshold stood the one person with the most riding on this match outside those in the ring.
Another spear, devastating and driven- it was a wonder Cross hadn’t been torn asunder on impact, Amber gripped her belt straps as tightly as her fingers would allow as their weight seemed to slowly surpass the adrenaline. Her body ached, her head splitting and eyes almost burning as she forced herself not to blink for fear of missing anything.
A third spear and Cross stopped moving- the crowd almost deathly silent in wondering if they’d quickly become accomplices to murder, or maybe Amber’s eardrums had finally burst from her skull and she’d found herself in an unearthly ignorance of pain and bliss.
She could feel her muscles tensing, trying to mirror the motions as she saw them unfold- everyone seemed to be getting excited, celebrating and patting her on the back and yet she seemed to be the only one left still waiting.
One.
Amber took a deep breath, despite the fact she wasn’t sure the last one had even left her ching chest.
Two.
She couldn’t even hear her pulse now. Had her heart stopped?
Somehow that didn’t even feel important.
Three.
Noise.
She couldn’t even describe it- the tsunami of force that seemed to ripple outwards from the ring like a nuclear explosion of anticipation finally being released. An open valve on everything they’d worked towards. More people tried to interact with her now- pats on the back and clasps on the shoulder, smiling face after smiling face weary with excitement passing through her field of vision like technicolor toothy blurs. Even now, she found herself rooted to the spot, coiled like a spring and set on a hair trigger for the moment the curtain moved…
She had to be here.
One by one, personality after personality made their way back through as the crowds started to filter away- their curtain ripple distinctive and the only thing that kept Amber on edge.
She promised she’d be here- all the conversational nothings and polite congratulatory pleasantries could fucking wait.
… and then she saw it.
Even in the moment, she couldn’t be sure, but she just knew. Maybe it was in the way the world stopped, that everyone around her started moving in slow motion and sound seemed to dissipate like she’d stepped into a hollow bubble without ever moving.
Slipping both belts off her shoulders and haphazardly tossing them onto a nearby production table- no doubt to the chagrin of the poor bastard trying to pack up the equipment, Amber sprung forward like she’d been shot forth from a cannon. It was only a few feet, but to anyone watching it seemed like an eternity as she rushed forward towards the elated and exhausted figure of the new World champion.
Whether he expected the ambush or not, Mac seemed instinctively aware enough to catch the redheaded blur that threw herself towards him- her knees locking in at his sides as her arms wrapped fiercely around his neck. Emotionally drained, the two SCW World champions held onto each other just beyond the curtain, an intensely private moment almost on display for the world to see. Amber buried her face into Mac’s neck, not caring that the World title still draped across his skin… No, in this moment the titles were the second most important thing in both of their lives.
A sense of achievement weighing far heavier than all their leather and gold.
Pulling herself up, the sheen of sweat transferred from skin to skin- Amber and Mac came forehead to forehead as the Painted Hurricane loomed just slightly over the One Man Wrecking Crew, her fingers laced through the back of his hair and his arms wrapped tightly at the small of her back.
Bruises meant nothing, pain didn’t exist- and a hundred staring eyes saw nothing except a white hot melding of souls. Breathing hard, neither of them could find the right words to say- everything in the moment seemed to steal whatever voice they had left.
With the brush of lips, a quick kiss was exchanged as Amber loosened her grip slightly, drawing her hands back to Mac’s shoulders as she slipped back down to the floor- their height differential startling and yet oddly powerful. His looming gentleman wolf form and her natural disaster aura in such a harmony that those who could understand it might have started to bleed from the ears.
“You did it.”
Breathless, the words escaped like a sigh as Amber's legs found their strength once more as Mac’s hands traced up to her shoulders and around her face, cradling her chin on the edge of his hand.
“We did it.”
A shared small chuckle broke their eye contact momentarily, both of them trying to figure out just what words were and why they seemed to be so elusive.
“We did. Didn’t we...”
Mac leaned down to her level, his hand planted softly between her shoulder blades as their hearts raced as one, their kiss far more fuller, hungrier this time as reality slowly seeped through the numbness of adrenaline and expectation.
Breaking away for air, Amber rested her hand on Mac’s heart- delighting silently in the way it’s frantic rhythm continued to mirror her own.
“I guess that just leaves us with one question then..”
People started to move in now, sensing that their moment might be safe to intrude upon- their endorsements and encouragements laced between the pounding of their collective pulses. Mac gave her a brief quizzical expression in between accepting the graceful words of peers and potential predators alike.
“... whats next?”
Brushing a few sweat soaked locks from her eyes, Mac scoffed loudly- attracting a few passing side glances.
“It never really is enough, is it?”
Hazarding a glance back towards the table where her titles lay glinting in the low light- Amber couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt among the swell of pride, maybe what everyone was saying was right… that she’d never just be satisfied being champion.
It’d never be enough, no matter how hard she tried.
******
“There are some things in this industry I don’t ever expect some people to understand.
Advanced calculus. Philosophical theories about the meaning of life. What that stuff was in catering was last week. Jessie Salco’s inordinate dislike of vanilla ice-cream. The weird symmetry of Mark Ward’s face. Hell, the reason literally anyone ever thought it would be a good idea to wrestle on a fucking boat...
You know, the real mysteries of the universe.
… and while those are still being pondered by the minds that actually work kinda alright, I have this little mystery of my own that seems to come up on occasion, inexplicably when the bar for who qualifies for a main event match is lowered to the point of near non-existent ground clearance.
See, how the fuck is it that there is such an exorbitant sense of entitlement that comes from those who have literally done nothing but show up, expecting that this time they’ll do good.. That this time everything changes cause history can’t possibly repeat 1500 times in a row.
I mean sure, lightning can strike from a cloudless sky… however to rely on such odds, such near impossibility is worth humiliation on it's own.
Bea, I get it. You’ve been here awhile… congratulations on continuing to achieve the absolute bare minimum being asked of you on any given night. You showed up, fantastic. Maybe next week you’ll pull off a wrestling move without making half the audience vomit in sympathy of the poor bitch getting her arm gnawed on.
You’ve been a stalwart of this division to the point of being part of the furniture, the problem is Bea… you take that literally and act like the ratty old floor rug that no one has the heart to burn, despite the fact it's full of fleas and smells like it's been pissed on by eldery cats. Hell, maybe that's just the smell of your gear- who the fuck am I to judge when I’m walking around with mist capsules and thumbtacks in any given pocket.
Now I just gotta remember which one has my keys.
Seriously though, the way you carry yourself makes you seem like you’d be a force to be reckoned with- but outside the catering line, you’ve made no real impact since showing there really can be worse wrestlers than your husband. You walk and you talk like you’ve done more than collect a paycheck for staying on your back- getting only slightly less than people far better at it, but managing to keep your clothes on much to everyone's relief.
Beauty might just be in the eye of the beholder, but that eye is probably also full of cataracts and likely got pulled from a homeless guy when he fell over in an alley three weeks ago. You might be called beautiful, but you also have to remember that even the Troll’s mother called him handsome at least once in his life… It's not exactly a high bar, and you’re still tripping over yourself before you get to it.
You’d think someone so far below average in literally every marketable skill would have a redeeming quality- but this might be one of the few times you find me speechless in a subject of opinion. I’ve been here a little over a year now Bea, and somehow it's the first time we’re meeting… so I was wondering why that was, and all I’ve really got so far is that it's far more expensive to pay out someone's life insurance than hospital bills.
Responsible business practices and all that…
This week though, that all changes. All that bullshit and bluster you’re mustering to throw vaguely in my direction, every lukewarm playground insult and half-derisive half-nonsensical gargle that escapes your throat hole- you get to put it all to the test.
Some would call this the opportunity of a lifetime, others have already started a betting pool of how long it’ll take for me to rip your arm off and beat you to death with it.
I’ve got a solid 3:1 in under five minutes cause frankly I like to play with my food a little too much at times.
Seriously though- every time someone hasn’t taken you seriously, every merciless beating and derogatory slur that you haven’t quite understood cause sometimes words are just hard. You get to feed off it, use it as fuel- do just fucking anything besides piss it down a toilet cause you like the sound it makes when it flushes.
Let me make something perfectly clear Bea- I’m not taking you lightly, I’m not fucking around, I’m not throwing pulled punches or play kicks cause you’re just a doughy little nothing preparing for your next existence as a smear on my converses. To me, you’re as serious as a heart attack… not because of who you are, but because of what's on the line.
I’m not handing out freebies and there are no charity cases when you come calling on my doorstep sweetheart. If you think you’re challenging for a chance at MY world title, then I suggest you get your affairs in order and notify your next of kin to bring a paint scraper just so that they can get all the little bits in the cheap seats.
I have worked harder than anyone in this division to make this title mean something, time after time I have reached deep into the mire of this division and pulled out fucking diamonds lost among the muddied remains of love life tragedies and self-sabotaged legacies.
I continue to work harder because I'm fighting gravity as well as the hands of every woman in this division staking their claim to the gold that I represent- there is no multiverse, no reality, no manifestation of imagination where you out-grind me.
Maybe you’re the ultimate lesson in perseverance, but all that good-will means fucking nothing the moment you open your mouth and speak outside of your goddamn paygrade.
I’m the World champion for a reason Bea, I’m not meant to be liked. I’m not meant to have swooning fan girls in the back worshipping my every move, the crowd thinks I’m an asshole cause I’m just as willing to kick someone's face through the back of their head as I am to give a compliment.
Unfortunately for you, I ran out of my monthly quota so all I’ve got left are those really hard to swallow pills… a little bitter, probably in hindsight a suppository.
I’m proven on every level, whereas you’re a perennial underachiever. I’m everything I always said I was- and you’re still struggling to get into the building cause your name is an inside joke that only you don't seem to get. I’m on a level you can only dream of, and even when you close your eyes you still manage to disappoint everyone by waking up.
I’m the World champion because I have earned it.
I’d like to see you say the same without the words turning to ash on your tongue.
Come Climax Control- you’ll wish opportunity never came knocking, that you were left in the bottom of that barrel to rot peacefully. You’ll wish I never took you in my hands and dragged you, kicking and fucking screaming, up to my level…
Maybe if you’re lucky your lungs will give out before the rarefied air cuts the last of the oxygen off to your brain- although I don’t expect your mouth to stop moving cause those with the least to intelligently say usually do the most talking.
Maybe if you’re lucky you’ll know a few moments of dizzying heights and sweet, sweet relevancy in this division- the stream of utter fucking nonsense that dribbles over that clown smile of yours slowing just long enough to appreciate how brief your time truly is.
Maybe if you’re lucky I’ll let you revel in the warmth that comes with achievement, even though it's still not yours and in that brief expanse when time stops- you’ll finally understand what it means to be better than nothing.
… and the moment you think you could get used to this, is the same moment I kick you back down the fucking mountain.
Enjoy it while you can, cause it's the only free ride you’re ever getting off my name.”
******
Bane Household
Las Vegas, ND
02.08.2021
2:21pm
Amber had never been much for homesickness.
For creature comforts and sentimentalities. Such things implied that there was a place to feel forlorn for to begin with, a place that evoked such a reaction beyond a bed with sandpaper sheets and a bathroom faucet that dripped insipidly.
For the longest time the closest place had been her apartment in Atlantic City, almost a mausoleum of sorts to her personal self-destructive tendencies. It had been, and to a degree still was, her sanctuary and asylum- the one place she could disappear to and know that no one could get to her high in her house of cards.
However, time had changed that. Mac had changed that.
While still her hideaway, it felt less and less like ‘home’.
No, home had become a place surrounded by neon lights and raging ambition. It had become a place where excellence was held in just as high esteem as luck. A place where she’d been given the opportunity to be more than just another carny gore-whore with a couple catchy nicknames and a tendency to stick her foot in her mouth at any given opportunity to make friends.
Home had become a place where she’d found life beyond wrestling, and somehow that wasn’t a bad thing for once.
Couyon, Amber’s beloved Cane Corso had bounded out to meet them- refusing to leave either of them alone for more than a few minutes since the moment they got in the door and the faint smell of cinnamon and motor oil was yet another pleasant reminder of what it really meant to be home.
Family and friends had been in and out the door with well wishes and expressions of excitement, the garage seemingly having an uptick in business because, as you know… being a world champion made you better at dealing with people's dodgy attempts to fix and restore their vehicles.
It was okay though, cause Mac didn’t seem to understand it either.
Somehow, someway they’d home from ‘loosely associated’ to an SCW golden couple overnight. As though anything in their relationship had fundamentally changed besides the addition of an extra near 20 pounds each side. All of a sudden, people seemed to care far more about their personal lives- interviews delving into racier topics, magazines begging for interviews on what it was like to… well… you know…
Raunchy belt photos. Articles on everything except the one thing they’d made their names in- somehow the fact they were great wrestlers had somehow become the least discussed thing about them.
Mac, as with everything had taken it all in his stride- his affable nature and dry pragmatic sense of humour seemed to make everything he did seem frictionless. Interviews and articles made him come across so genuine, praise heaped on his down to earth nature- hell if she weren’t wearing the ring, Amber would have sworn he’d have women hanging off every inch of skin.
Amber however, despite being World champion for longer, hadn’t adjusted quite as easily. More than once she’d been described as ‘prickly’ and ‘abrasive’ despite her genuine attempts to be personable, her lack of patience for dead-end conversation and inability to hide the fact that she found questions regarding her intimate life profoundly uncomfortable had made it difficult to settle into a rhythm.
Part of her at times wished she’d remained an ultraviolence self-saboteur, watching the faces of interviewers as they came to realize that she was far from the powderpuff lingerie model that they’d expected would have made all the demoralizing banality of it all seem worthwhile.
No, she’d been determined to grow beyond it though. While it would always be a part of her repertoire and a massive part of her history- being a world champion meant she now had limits, she had expectations to fulfil and somehow everything she’d done to get this far was now too far.
She had a reputation to uphold, a company to represent- and unless they truly wanted her to stroll back down that overgrown path, that place would remain but a memory to those sick enough to have reveled in it all. Being the ‘face of a company’ was more than just some cheesy cliché used by fan friendly sweethearts and propaganda spewing power players looking for their next 15 minutes or 140 characters, more than just a marketing ploy cooked up in a stuffy boardroom by starched suits in ugly ties.
It had quickly become their everyday life.
To Amber at least- being a world champion shouldn’t have changed anything. Well, nothing but their schedules- yet these days they were lucky to spend more than a few hours together, calendars overflowing with events and appointments. Media, photo shoots, interviews- somehow the wrestling part of it all was becoming the easiest part of the fucking job.
Mac lay sprawled across the couch, a few cushions piled haphazardly behind his neck while others lay crushed and disfigured, little more than collateral damage beneath the World Champions frame- meanwhile Amber had chosen to curl up with her feet tucked beneath herself on a nearby armchair. Couyon, content that no one was moving anywhere for the time being, had laid his large frame at the foot of the armchair, determined to be the first to know if anyone so much as breathed in the wrong direction.
Both of them scrolled through the garbage fire that was Twitter, and whatever other social medias didn’t make them want to throw themselves into the sun on any given day- before duelling notifications pinged.
Amber and Mac looked at each other expectantly, a silent game of chicken with neither willing to be the first to blink- after all, every good relationship was built on a healthy foundation of respect and transparency, as well as an incredibly unhealthy competitive streak.
Each of them intimately aware what the notification entailed- but neither jumping to eb the first to check what their latest assignment would entail.
“Ladies first”
“You say that a lot darling, one of these days someone will hear you and start thinking that you don’t wear the pants in this relationship.”
A less than subtle attempt at sarcasm and smart-assery sees Mac quickly glance down and confirm that he is in fact wearing shorts, before turning back to his wife, a coy smile creeping across his features.
“You should be grateful I’m wearing pants at all.”
Amber returns the smile with one of her own, before quietly murmuring under her breath.
“Jesus, don’t let those magazine vultures hear you say that.”
Amber makes the first move, although only by mere moments before catching Mac’s eye as he registers his own proverbial dance card.
“Do you remember…”
Amber trailed off slightly, trying to disguise the little bit of smugness in her voice.
“... after you won your match, and I asked you what was next?”
“I recall you nearly ruining quite a lovely little moment, yes.”
A cushion flung from behind Amber careens into Mac, who barely gets his hands up in time to not take it straight in the face.
“.. asshole. Anyways, I think we finally got our answer.”
Rolling onto an elbow, almost intrigued, Mac surveyed Amber as she shifted slightly in her seat causing Couyon to lift his head inquisitively.
“Go on.”
Clicking her tongue softly, Amber contemplated for a moment before unfurling till her knees reached her chest. Cocking her head to the side, the first hints of her renowned sadistic little smirk pulled at the corners of her lips.
“Maybe it's about time we started getting back to our roots a little, you know? Feels almost like an invitation to get our hands a little dirty again and after all, we’ve been playing nice for quite long enough..”
