“Already today I hit you twice. Once I knocked the wind out of you, once I knocked the consciousness out of you. Here you are back the third time. You call that smart?”
― Richard Stark, The Jugger
Undisclosed Bar
Somewhere in Southern California
17.05.2009
10:03pm
Amber had never considered it possible to be so in love with someone, and yet still manage to despise them with every fibre of her being.
Yet here she was, sipping on something that had far more alcohol content than what it tasted like and tinged an unnatural pink that she knew would leave her with cotton mouth in the morning, watching Dominic Del Gado schmoozing it up like he’d done it all his life.
Maybe he had. Not that it mattered, everything seemed so heady and indistinct around the edges- bass thundering and drowning out whatever sound they’d tried to pass off as music and a thin veil of artificial smoke seemed to waft through bodies without a source.
Business and pleasure weren’t supposed to mix, but damn it was hard not to find pleasure in business when everything felt so… so …ugh, words. It’d almost become a routine by now, the last two or so years spent almost perfecting the art of wrecking havoc before the dust settled. Jacks of all dirty hands trades, keeping those with more expensive manicures out of the mire for a quietly pretty little fee…
That was the thing with most businessmen of a certain level, they wanted for nothing that money could buy and yet couldn’t stand to see anyone else rise to their standing along with them- as though the idea of shared wealth and influence were offensive.
No, the mountain top was a solitary place and every broken dream left beneath their feet only seemed to elevate their opinion of themselves.
Amber didn’t mind the work so much, running her tongue across her teeth idly, after all she’d spent years playing off petty theft and minor criminal convenience as extra pocket money while cage fights, pit fights and every other malevolent form of entertainment came later as money had become tighter.
Dominic had connections, ties to those with interests in services they might render- and Amber had just enough lack of a conscience to oblige when necessary.
Besides, professional wrestling wasn’t quite paying the bills she’d expected yet- sure a few promising results had gone in her favour, but bookings weren’t frequent enough and the pay packets seemed a little lighter than she’d been promised.
For now, just on the side… maybe she’d be able to stomach the hungry looks and demeaning side eyes that lingered a little too long on a hem line not quite long enough. Long enough to make every lingering stare worthwhile despite the fact no one had come within 10 feet of her since she’d walked through the door- and not cause she was still a month shy of turning 21… but because she’d shown up with him.
Laser focused, but wearing the lazy kinda smirk that just begged for all the wrong kinds of attention- she watched Dominic sidle up between some businessmen , their tie clips glimmering obscenely as an understated gesture of wealth while carefully groomed jawlines seemed a half second faster than the top half of their face. Small talk, introductions- if she weren’t so hazy, she’d probably have tried to lip read whatever spout of bullshit flowed from his lips like sweet honeyed wine- as though she didn’t already know the ‘script’.
Business and pleasure, such a forbidden and profitable taboo.
Yeah, they were using each other. They both knew it- but revelled in it’s profits regardless.
Deep down, while swallowing another sip of sugary facsimile pink, Amber mused about the eventual day he would come crawling to her doorstep, just begging for what they once had all the while she revelled in hard earned successes fought between rope and canvas.
One day she’d no longer need him in the same way he’d said he needed her breathlessly amid tangled sheets.
One day, she’d be able to take all of this… and throw it back in his fucking face.
Across the bar, an errant sideways glance dragged her posture back towards upright from the cliche ‘pretty, bored girl in a bar waiting for a mysterious stranger to approach’ trope that she’d lazily fallen into automatically. Flanked by two of the seemingly enthralled clients that he’d woven is web of promises and potential over-exaggerations, the group approached with drinks in hand and conversation flowing freely.
Straightening up, she still found herself dwarfed despite being in uncomfortably high heels that may or may not have been stuck to the floor- their smiles remained expensively generic and yet something about them simply oozed something oily and smug.
Dominic sidled up beside her, his fingers lacing around the edge of her hip. Flinching beneath his touch, it took almost everything Amber had not to bite through the edge of her lip in annoyance- a fact not lost on Dominic as his fingertips seemed to dig in a little further against the satin of her dress.
“Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet my associate…”
Associate. If she thought her voice might escape her throat- she would have screamed in fury and thrown the remaining dregs of her drink across the front of Dominic’s linen shirt. Without her, he had nothing… without him, at least she still had a burgeoning career and an opportunity to do better.
Which only left her with the bitter after taste of the question of ‘why hadn’t she’.
Amber extended a hand politely as she quickly realized that Dominic had left her high and dry- normally he dominated the conversation, laced his tendrils through every facet of interest that might be expressed and squeezed them for every drop that he might extract.
One after the other they spoke politely and without emotion, handshakes firm without being crushing as though their masculinity wasn't defined by how hard they could squeeze, the only distinct thing about them remained their composed demeanors as the night continued to throw temptation to the wind.
“Amber… A pleasure I’m sure.”
Asher and Elijah. Quite possibly the only men who didn’t seem disappointed as Amber once again played tug of war with the hem of her dress and lost dramatically. Returning their pragmatic smiles, Amber cocked her head slightly while silently hoping that she managed to convey that from beneath the heavy facade of makeup- cause apparently ‘bruises didn’t inspire confidence’.
You know, as if she’d had much say in the matter to begin with of course.
“Amber... sweetheart…”
God, it was almost ugly the way the word rolled off his tongue and yet she didn’t dare slip from his grasp.
“These gentlemen have expressed somewhat of an interest in some of the services we provide, on behalf of their employer.”
Neither Asher nor Elijah responded, their larger frames seemingly making Dominic insignificant in comparison despite barely being an inch taller than the swarthy silver tongued devil. Expressionless outside of their polite smiles, it was becoming borderline unnerving however Dominic seemed oblivious- if only because he was a shark that smelled blood in the water.
“Well, that does seem very fortunate and opportune for us… doesn’t it, darling?”
Amber dargged the last syllable while lacing her fingers across Dominic’s hand, sound rolled off the edge of her lips drenched in passive aggressive vitriol as she dug her fingernails into the skin folds of his knuckles. All the while, Amber maintained her polite yet aloof amusement. To his credit, Dominic didn’t react openly, however every small win mattered in such a war of attrition and this was a blow well struck- one that would no doubt help her sleep for the next week should she be so lucky.
“So it seems, and these delightful gentlemen are willing to set up an appointment for us...”
Amber paused, she’d gone over what felt like a thousand times with Dominic that she had important matches upcoming, bookings that seemed like blue moon occurrences that could be a potential foot in the proverbial door and yet… a small part of her almost sensed in advance that Dominic was about to get his notch on the bedpost back from her fingernails stunt.
“I was thinking maybe Monday in two weeks perhaps?”
Clearing her throat, Amber subtly drove her fingernails a little deeper in hopes they might soon be stained crimson.
“Ah, it might just be an appointment you attend without me then as I have prior arrangements- that we had already discussed.”
Sweet and entirely murderously, Amber caught Dominic’s eye with a glare that matched the malice that soaked through every word.
“Oh, but were you not saying just the other day how we should jump upon every opportunity that presents itself?”
She hadn’t said that. She hadn’t said anything close to that, but now she couldn’t deny it without looking like an asshole. Clenching her teeth, Amber bit her tongue and hoped that the force of her growing fury might not split it in two.
If the men standing across from them, drinks firmly clenched in hand yet untouched, had noticed the blatantly destructive social cues then they had very politely ignored them in favour of businesslike professionalism.
“Mr McCrae would be delighted to make your acquaintances, no doubt.”
“Well, it’s settled then. Shall we discuss the finer details somewhere a little more… well, fitting?”
“It's been a pleasure Miss.”
Asher was the first to respond as Dominic finally untethered his hand from her hip, while Amber silently clawed at every millimeter of flesh she might catch with her nails. Placing an unscathed hand on the back of Elijah’s shoulder, Dominic gestured the pair of men away- murmuring something about fruitful partnerships and potential networking connections leaving Amber to try and adjust the bottom of her dress and unstick her stilettos from the floor.
Watching the men disappear through a different door, Amber allowed herself a much needed scowl as she forcefully swallowed down the last blush tinted saccharine dregs- slamming the glass down onto the counter top as it smashed to pieces in her grasp.
McCrae.
Amber couldn’t quite figure out why the name tickled at the back of something resembling memory, a sugar rush no doubt clouding whatever judgement and decision making ability she’d had left. Resonating a fraction out of time with bass that seemed to vibrate through her bones- the world seemed to cock a little to one side without her ever moving her head, the floor slanted in just enough of a tilt that she found herself white knuckling the bar to stay upright for a fleeting moment.
Perhaps something a little stronger might eventually pry something free…clear her head… unfuck the room a little.
Or at the very least help her find wherever the hell her spine seemed to have ended up.
******
“Grand slam Jessie.
Got a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? A familiar tinnitus as that's all that seems to be tied to your name in a positive light these days- personally I hate to shit on peoples aspirations, however if I stood here and told every opponent how great I thought they were then I’d likely have given up my right to the title long ago.
That being said, you’ve come a long way from our first encounter- although just seeing a tub of ice cream still gives me this warm sense of pride deep within the cold, heartless void of my chest.
No, credit where credit is indeed due. You’ve done more, been more since then… or so I’ve been told.
I mean you’ve made great progress right? Finally set yourself in a direction and heavens almighty are you sticking with it- heres the issue with directionality though that seems to get a little overlooked.
It’s not always forward, surethats the connotation but in reality backwards or sideways are equally viable, or in your very special and very specific case Jessie… so is straight down.
It's no secret that you’ve been here basically longer than damn near anyone else on the roster- it's just a shame that you’ve basically turned that into a punchline. You know, someone new walks in the door and you tell them to make sure you don’t pull a Jessie Salco. I believe that’s where you become a lifer, but have so little to show for it that you might as well be a custodian or part of the ring crew for all that it really matters.
You know as well as I do how we got to this place- match after match, title shot after title shot and just when it looks like the tides might be turning, you remember just who the fuck you are and come careening back to the bottom of the barrel again.
I mean it could be a lot worse- you could have short term memory loss like Bea Barnhart who talks such a big game against absolutely everything with a pulse, gets obliterated by a ratty broom then promptly disregards the fact the match ever happened.
Yeah, pretend like that world title qualifier didn’t happen.
Don’t think I haven’t forgotten the utter garbage you rambled about, acting like anyone- including your husband who seems capable of winning the occasional match- believed that you weren’t just cannon fodder for the masses.
No Jessie, you haven’t quite stooped that low yet.
Maybe if you’re lucky you won’t ever.
That being said, right now- you’re at square one wondering just how many more times you can pull these big time contingencies and hope spots from between your cheeks before your left standing at catering by yourself wondering why your hands smell off-putting.
You’re running out of good will Jessie, as endearing as your story might be- but feel good doesn’t do fuck all, as I’ve so very well proven since I walked in here and took my shot at Roxi.
Besides, you know as well as I do that some of the girls are getting bitter- I mean you cut in on a line they didn’t even realize they were in and the worst part?
Worst part is that it's going to be for absolutely nothing.
I’m sure it’d be real easy to be like ‘third times a charm’, something something law of averages. Stranger things have indeed happened- like real audience members have actually cheered Christina Rose despite the fact her identity disorder is very obviously a cry for help. Not even just the thousand and thirty six members of her and her wifes extended family- REAL FANS Jessie.
That's some stranger than fiction shit right there.
… that's the thing isn’t it.
You very well could beat me.
But you won’t.
… and I can tell you exactly why.
Odds are, you probably havent even realized that you even do this yet.
Before the match has even taken place, before you even peek out from behind that curtain to embrace and accept what is surely a forgone conclusion- you’ve already made a backup plan. You’ve already accepted that theres a chance of losing and you’ve created a contingency for what happens next.
What that tells me Jessie, is that even you don’t fucking believe you can beat me… You’re already worrying about which heavy metal album releases next, who’s nipping at your heels in the SCW Bombshell pecking order and whether another run at the Internet title might be on the cards.
Oh, don’t get me wrong… I think it's absolutely delightful that you’re so organized.
It's just… it means you don’t take this seriously. Not enough anyways. You’re so much more concerned with your image and the fallout that you haven’t even braced for impact, choosing to stock a storm shelter you’ll never userather than taking cover back in your house of straw.
You’ve taken the opportunity to move on before the match has ever taken place. How do you expect me to consider you a real threat to my title when you’ve already mentally checked out in favour of something a little more… achievable.
When it comes down to it- you’re another ‘aim for the moon and land among the stars’ analogy, except you forgot to pack a space suit and you’ve got about thirty seconds to give me a reason not to rip you apart in a vacuum before your existence is snuffed out.
Most of that locker room will argue that you don’t deserve this shot- and arguably, ona fundamental level, they’re probably right… but see they aren’t the powers that be and they sure as fuck aren’t the champion otherwise I have some serious issues going on upstairs.
If people who ‘deserved’ a shot were the only ones to ever recieve them- then it’d be the full time dregs with their sob stories and underdog tales of rising to every challenge would take centre stage, everyones pity party laid out on the table to be rifled through to see who is the most tragic. It’d be the assholes who seem to win on a minor stage then blow it under the spotlights repeatedly getting chance after chance cause they won just enough matches to keep them ahead of the next try-hard doing exactly the same thing.
Deserving a title shot is a revolving door of inevitability.
I don’t believe people deserve a title shot for showing up- I believe in giving it to those who prove they want it badly enough. Who are willing to give, who are willing to sacrifice just for the chance to say they tried and failed. I’d much rather eventually lose to someone who absolutely worked their ass off to be better than me on the night, than just keel over out of fucking boredom and let some lucky asshole on their fifteenth attempt get a sneaky little pin while the medics perform CPR.
So make the most of your shot Jessie, really savor everything it has to offer cause whether it's a food fight, ultraviolence fight, standard catch as catch can fight or some fucking petting-zoo-glitter-bomb-chocolate-pudding-rainbow-sparkler-upsidedown cake-extravaganza match… It doesn’t change fact. It doesn’t change who you are, what you’ve done and the direction that you’ve already pre-chosen.
I mean, I won’t lie… I’m fucking pissed about the stupid goddamn gimmick and I’d tell Candy to her face if she didn’t run screaming everytime she saw me down the far end of a corridor- but it doesn’t change the here and now. Besides, I’ve got plenty of time to be annoyed about it after I’m done scraping the last of the whipped cream and sprinkles off my title plate…
In the grander scheme of things, this little ‘stipulation’ means absolutely nothing- kinda like the perfect analogue for your career to date and arguably the subtitle for your 23 page career autobiography where you detail all six of those wins you’ve had since the last time you were champion.
See, you’ll come into this match as the odds on underdog, a house of fire with nothing to lose and everything supposedly to gain... and you’ll leave just the same way- only with a few more bruises on your ego for the fucking gall of it.
Keep on shooting your shot Jessie, just don’t point it towards someone who outguns you on every meaningful level maybe...
Breathe in and breathe out, yeah deep breaths just to make all this feel real. I want you to really take this all in and revel in what could one day be- cause this really is it… This is your proverbial freebie, your pity opportunity, your bluff called and raised on the table, your golden chance to take everything anyone has ever said about you and your incredible choke artistry and shove it straight back down their throats.
This is what it comes down to… everything you’ve ever wanted.
… and honestly? I’m not even going to feel bad when I turn those hopes and dreams to cinder between your fingers. Again.”
******
Vegas Airport
Las Vegas, NV
26.08.2021
7:28am
Just smile with your eyes.
It isn’t that hard.
Surely.
Amber adjusted her facemask slightly as fervent and ecstatic thank yous and middling praises were left hanging as another pair of fans disappeared back into the terminals midst. She couldn’t help but quietly admit that she at least appreciated the subtle artform in only having to emote from the cheekbones up as fans threw up hand gestures with broad grins hidden behind fabric facades.
It wasn’t as though she hated the fan interaction, if anything the idea that anyone considered themselves a ‘fan’ of hers to begin with still remained a foriegn concept, if only cause they’d unlocked the secret to liking her that she hadn’t quite figured out.
Across from her, quietly content with watching the world pass them by, Mac sipped away at a coffee cup that seemed far too small in his calloused hands. He seemed to enjoy the road life as much as she did, his ability to socially adapt somehow made the more daunting aspects of travel feel far easier- and her vaguely control freak nature kept them efficient and targetted.
While they both loved working out of Vegas, if only for the fact that they’d had some semblance of time occasionally to devote to the garage, the idea of stepping back out into the greater landscape filled Amber with a sense of exhilaration and independence.
It's just the whole belt thing was a bit of a nuisance.
Not that she’d have changed it for the world, her foot nudged softly against her carry-on bag finding the faceplates upper edge. Fans always asked to see it, as though in disbelief that they actually carried a physical embodiment of their achievement, while others were determined to live out a fantasy that seemed all too far out of reach.
Mac was always the more agreeable one on such matters, as if there were any surprise. Dragging his SCW World Heavyweight title from the clutches of his beat up duffel (that she’d told him more than once to just throw out cause it was practically falling apart at the seams) always got the reaction and admiration it so properly deserved- the ohhhs and the ‘can I touch/hold it’ questions seemingly endless.
He endeared himself in the way a champion was supposed to.
In the way that Amber couldn’t bring herself to oblige.
Deer in headlights stares would follow as her reluctance would bubble up to the surface, perhaps so used to the request just being acquiesced to- many couldn;t comprehend why the answer wasn’t automatically what they wanted.
It wasn’t as though they didn’t deserve to see her SCW Bombshells World title, it was the fact that the belt deserved a far greater spotlight than shitty airport lighting. It deserved to be centre stage, the prime focus rather than some fucking novelty pulled out for a quick rubberneck. Eventually she’d cave in- and always after a knowing glance from Mac- and the fans would leave with their pictures and stories about how much larger than life the ‘golden couple’ really were.
Back into her bag the title would then go, nestled atop her gear. Earlier in her career, she’d probably have just checked it all in and given a non-chalant shrug- however a gear mishap with an airline losing her luggage within the first few matches in her career left her scrambling to fit into someone elses sparkly hot pants in hopes that she didn’t jeopardise future opportunities.
Admittedly it had also been at a distracting time- when personal and professional lines were blurred beyond the point of a recognizable change. Stardom and success seemed laid out at her feet, stretching into the distance and little things like ‘keeping ones gear with them’ seemed so incredibly minor in comparison to the side business scheming and in ring notoriety building.
“Y’know you’re actually allowed to smile under there Red.”
Garnering a little half smirk, Amber said nothing at first, allowing the man in her life to revel in this easy victory.
“Give me a reason and I’ll consider it.”
A small chuckle followed, unable to stay morbidly serious for too long in Mac’s undeniably charming presence. He put her at ease, made her a better person… a better champion. If it wasn’t so fucking obvious, she might have tried to pinch herself in the hope it wasn’t just another concussion.
“You mean spending time with me isn’t enough?”
In mock offense, Mac took a long sip of coffee.
“Seems like I need to up my game.”
Running her fingers through the tangled mess of hair trying to hang over the side of her face, Amber gave Mac a knowing eyebrow raise.
“We’re married remember, things aren’t as easy as they used to be. Besides- bullshit gimmick week seems to have finally caught up with us. Well, me at least…”
A loud exhaling laugh emanated from somewhere deep in Mac’s chest, hearty and warming as though filling the air around him with delight.
“Ha! You trying to tell me you’d rather do the glitter nonsense… even after that match with Roxi.”
She didn’t need reminding, but he brought it up regardless. Amber’s last encounter with glitter had also been the site of her last singles loss in the company- the second of three matches against the hero, cementing her place in the Bombshells hierarchy.
Glitter. Ugh. Even now the memory left a bad taste in her mouth, worse than the sludgy mess no doubt left in the bottom of her coffee cup now she’d let it start to get cold.
“Least yours gets to be a death match. Besides, a few hundred showers and you’ll get that shit off…I always did wonder what your beard would look like with a little sparkle.”
Gimmicks were a part of wrestling. Always had been, always would be- simply a way to drum up interest in something that could otherwise be seen as pedestrian in a world where violence was the status quo. Most of the time there was a reason though, something undeniable in the way that two people wanted to hurt each other for a perceived disagreement.
“Food though… I could be smelling like cake and mashed potatoes for weeks potentially. Nah, fuck this bullshit- I’d have rathered all this just to be straight up and let the limelight shine on where it really matters.”
Violent Conduct. Myra Rivers. Again.
It wasn’t as though Amber was looking past Jessie, but the looming shadow wasn’t exactly difficult to miss either.
“Never would I thought I’d hear the day that you of all people would be upset about a match without rules.”
“That's the thing though, it's not really a match, is it?
A food fight isn't inherently related to what we do- it's an exhibition you put on when two people aren’t good enough to stand on their own and make magic happen between those ropes. In this case it's a crutch for two people who are perfectly capable of walking without assistance- we’re being hobbled in the same way the gimmick would usually be wielded to help and disguise.
Death matches I understand- it has history, it has meaning. You say those words and you know what to expect, even if there happens to be glitter on literally everything.”
A long sigh escaped the Bombshells champion, her foot idly tracing against the edge of the faceplate inside her bag.
“I get it. I really do, the fans are fucking weird like that… I guess just for once I’d have liked something a little more… conventionally macabre?”
A slight inflection at the end of her sentence caught even Amber a little off guard.
“Like, we’re going into the most violent Supercard of the year… I’m going out there and defending my world title in a fucking prop match. If they wanted things to get a little crazy- all they had to do was ask…”
With her eyes falling back to her coffee cup and a new set of fans approaching, nervously excited while practically tripping over the words in their head, Amber murmured quietly with a faint hiss.
“Besides, a little blood never hurt anyone.”
