“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.
… “what have you done”...
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
… “Is this Miss Amber Ryan?” …
… “That depends on who’s asking.”...
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.
… “We’re a care facility that specializes in making people comfortable in their final days.”...
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.
… “That's all well and good, but I don’t understand what any of this has to do with me.” ...
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.
… “Mr Parker put you down as his familial contact. As such it's our duty of care to inform loved ones---”...
… “--- How long?”...
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.
… “In a manner of speaking, I suppose so. Although time frames are not to be taken as gospel, we do recommend---”...
… “I don’t wanna hear ‘a manner of speaking’ I want us to talk like real fucking people.”...
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.
… “What kinda time are we talking about here? Like book your plane ticket right now or---” …
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.
… “Miss Ryan, could you be here within the next week or so? I’d sincerely hate for you to miss out on the opportunity to say goodbye” …
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.
