“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
Undisclosed Diner
Atlanta, GA
21.07.2009
9:57pm
It was heavier than she expected.
Although it was becoming increasingly more difficult to tell whether she referred to the CWF Impact title that lay over the top of the worn out duffle bag that she’d kicked under the table, or the breath in her lungs that seemed to amplify with every passing minute.
Even now, with the match more than a hour in the rearview, the sheen of sweat still clung to her skin and slicked back some of the fearsome mess of red hair that fell around her face. It was intoxicating, the way the faint scent of leather and metal polish seemed to linger on her skin after she’d held it close enough to force between her ribs.
Achievement. Ecstasy. God, even just the edge of it brushing against the skin of her ankle as she fidgeted nervously was enough to send those chills through every nerve again. With an agitated sigh she checked her phone again, the luminescent display reflecting little more than her impatience and mounting guilt.
She hadn’t even bothered to change, just a whirlwind of elation and furious guilt rushing out the door pushed by the fear that even showing up on time would somehow amount to being far too late. Cassidy would be delighted, she’d hoped with each pounding footstep on the pavement.
After all, she’d just won her first real professional wrestling title… she did it… all on her own… everything she’d worked for now felt tangible, that price for sacrifice held in outstretched hands. It was real, and more importantly- it was hers.
Regardless what that asshole Dominic Del Gado might have said.
So why did it feel as though she were breathing molten lead?
Maybe cause she’d arrived five minutes before promised, dishevelled and faintly sticky, sporting the beginnings of what would bloom into the fairer shades of a black eye for her efforts. A champion in name and nature despite the fact no one in the diner could bother to look up and care. Breathing heavily through exasperated gasps and the murmuring of a half practiced apology…
No Cassidy.
That had been 40 minutes ago.
Still nothing.
“Would you like me to switch that one out for a fresh one, sweetheart?”
Patchouli and musk wafted as the waitress leaned over the table, removing a half cup of coffee from the edge of Amber’s loosely held grasp. A mothers gentle resignation and a smile of thinly veiled pity followed before Amber had the wherewithal to notice it were even gone. On arrival they’d made small talk about things they couldn’t relate about as Amber tried to ignore the nagging urge to ask about a young blonde girl, with thick curls that bounced around her face and bright eyes that had become bloodshot red with tears.
A girl that was supposed to be here.
Why didn’t she come?
Coffee had been ordered in as many words, no charge made cause maybe it looked as though Amber needed it. A sweet gesture, no milk please, in a place and time where she felt as though she had little right to accept such charity or generosity. Going cold as fingertips tinged in red and the remainders of adhesive where she’d taped her fists tapped against the laminated tabletop- every sound resonating like a fucking gunshot in a church. A scraping of a chair on linoleum may as well have been torture, the opening of the door sent a surge of adrenaline she couldn’t control and the idle chatter of those seeking caffiene and brief complacency seemed honed in on her despite the fact they spoke distinctly of weather and office gossip mongering.
Maybe, in spite of the title belt that had so quickly meant so much, she was wrong.
Maybe she should have just fucking listened.
Forgone an opportunity when someone really needed her. Surely there would be other title shots, right? Other chances to prove that everything she worked for wasn’t just some pipe dream… other chances to show that everyone was wrong about her. That Dominic was wrong about her. No matter which way she tried to look at it, she couldn’t shake the way that pleading desperation tore her definitively in two.
“Just let me know if there’s anything else I can get you…”
She didn’t have to say it. Words were secondary when a picture spoke a thousand words.
Pity, the kind that seemingly fell from one's lips like an errant drool before it could be reined in, was followed by a soft yet reassuring squeeze on the edge of her shoulder.
Maybe if she just waited ten more minutes. Cassidy could just have gotten caught up, gotten busy or lost on her way from point a to point b by detouring through point z twice over. Hell, maybe she was just outside that door trying to muster up the courage to walk on through…
Or maybe it was just some elaborate albeit shitty ruse to make Amber feel like shit, some kind of sick justification for the abandonment she’d felt when the redhead chose to look the gift horse straight down it's throat for fear of never seeing it again.
It wasn’t as though she’d put it past Cassidy to try. Last time they’d spoken before this, Cassidy had been screaming obscenities through streaming tears on her family's doorstep- swearing on everything that she was worth that she never wanted to see Amber again. That Amber didn’t have the right to walk out on them, even for the opportunity she’d worked so damn hard for, only to show up unexpectedly with a stupid fucking grin and sheepish shrug anticipating that time would heal all infected wounds.
They didn’t and they wouldn’t. It was absurd to have ever considered it an option…
Another cup of coffee. Burnt and swirling lazily in a different cup stained similarly. Amber emerged briefly from behind her tousled facade of indifference to acknowledge and show thanks before ducking back into safety before the waitress could make heads or tails of the frantic, guilt-ridden child that played beyond those guarded walls.
“I thought it might be different this time.”
It wasn’t directed anywhere or towards anyone, just a tumble of syllables that slipped off the edge of a razor edged tongue. There wasn’t any need for context, no spider-webbed backstory of tragedy and despair- just another smile that sagged a little at the edges as though unable to fully commit to joy.
No, it wasn’t different and that wouldn’t change despite how much Amber had tried to convince herself otherwise as she hunched a little further over the table.
She’d had every opportunity to make this time different, to change course and do better. Be better. Cassidy’s voice echoed soundlessly between snippets of conversation in the booth behind- this was a cry for help in the most literal sense and somehow it had been lost amid the ‘it's just a bad time’ files to be stored away under emotional lock and key.
Bittersweet, like her coffee if the sugar caddy wasn’t caked with hardened chunks. That's what this title had quickly become- she’d been champion for barely an hour and already she was questioning whether it was worth the sacrifices that came with it.
Of course, the answer came simply.
More callous than anticipated.
Part of her just wanted Cassidy to waltz on through that door and unleash a torrent of loathing into her lap- somehow find a way to justify that her decision was right or wrong instead of somewhere in between. She wanted to see Cassidy running towards her from just beyond a bus stop as she stepped out into the night air, lightheaded with caffeine and swallowing the bitterness that she’d allowed to accumulate on the back of her tongue. She wanted nothing more than to reach out and seize all the hurt she’d created, drawing it through Cassidy’s skin in hopes that she might be able to burn that hatred as fuel instead of watching it fester in someone else…
There was no torrent though, there’d be no cries from a bus stop or expressions of gratitude when all hope seemed lost. There’d be no sorry for everything that came between them, no promises about change- no opportunity for her to lie that she could make everything better.
Amber wanted to be able to look her in the eyes and tell her that everything would be fine… however no eyes rimmed in scarlet found hers, only the hollow nothingness of realization that too little too late had long since passed her by…
Maybe she’d never learn, never quite able to find the line where two rights blurred into something that felt a little less… wrong.
Still… at least she had the title.
That had to mean something, right?
******
“I consider you to be an individual Seleana.
Sentient, with thoughts and feelings all your own.
Of course, it’d be easy to equate you to little more than a puppet that for too long has danced on the end of one of your wifes many tangled strings… a marionette with little more to stand on than the legs given to you by someone else.
Of course, Christina would love nothing more than to hear me spout her name and make this all about her- cause as well all well know, she is the very centre of the universe and all actions and spoken words must revolve around her and what she feels as though she is entitled to.
However, like many other far greater things of importance… this isn’t about her.
No, she gets her soap box at High Stakes to tell everyone about how fucking delightful she is- when in truth her own family resents her and her consistently selfish decisions. 15 minutes is far too long, but the company loves their nice even time increments and so the 17 seconds I’ll willing to dignify her with gets an expansion when it matters.
This match, this isn’t about her.
It's about you though, and the way that you have let everyone else around you dictate your career trajectory.
See, I’ve heard stories. Murmurings even, tales told that you were once someone around here- not just Christina Rose’s long suffering spouse, you weren't just someone else's mother or cousin or dogs aunt twice removed for political reasons.
Your name Seleana, it used to mean something around here- I mean, you don’t get to be World Bombshells champion without showing a fucking shred of talent and determination. Believe me, I should know. Your name used to carry weight, that a match against you meant something.
It was an elevation for those looking to make their mark, a challenge for those seeking one and a benchmark for anyone looking to go anywhere in this division to pass…
I believed all those things when I was first matched against you.
I really thought that maybe you’d show me something that I’d only caught glimpses of from many others. That this division wasn’t all overly ambitious Jessie Salcos and selectively amnesiac Bea Barnharts. You were supposed to be one of those diamonds and instead I walked away trying to wash the soot off my fingers.
From the moment I walked through the door of this company, you’ve barely even managed to underwhelm me. Do you realize how difficult of a task that is to do, you could literally have walked out there and fucking had a heart attack and I’d still rate you more highly as an opponent than the absolute void you’ve otherwise presented yourself as.
Blank. A laminated sheet of paper has shown me more insight and will to be acknowledged than you, and the laminated paper also has the extra benefit of being shiny, as well as cheap and otherwise useless. You’ve shown nothing in the past 6 months that has given me any indication that you want to be taken seriously, that you have any intention of doing any better than where you are in the pecking order right now… Equally contant to be watching from the back as you would be slumming it for a chance to mix it up in a dark match.
That's what really shits me Seleana, it's not that you were a never were- cause you’ve proven that you could do better. You have previously shown that you cared, that you had even the tiniest iota of ambition.
It's the fact you're legitimately a has-been by choice.
You knowingly accepted a role as a trophy wife to the walking epitome of why participation awards are a thing, allowing the Zdunich name to define you instead of anything you ever did in that ring. I mean you know it's an issue when your last name means more to you than the sum of your hard work and god given talent.
Yet I’m gonna sound like an asshole for bringing it up, when it's just a readily known thing that everyone acknowledges and no one bothers to question. Like hummus sitting out all day in catering- by the time you remember it's there, it's integrity just isn’t nearly good enough and you can only long for what it previously was.
Don’t get me wrong, I can't take away everything you’ve done- I just wish you hadn’t gleefully handed it to someone who could so thoroughly tank it, then claim they were doing you a favour when they realize you’ve got nothing left for them to bleed.
You are a former World Bombshells champion who can barely hold her own against the best that catering has to offer, preferring to fall into the shadows of everyone else's pageantry bullshit cause it obscures from the real truth that you just don’t have it left in you anymore.
Just holding onto this ideal that maybe you’ve got anything left to salvage- like winning a hard fought match you should have fucking walked, then thinking you can come start swinging at the top like there aren’t consequeces that come with it.
There’s a phrase for that, you know, it's called ‘bitch, please’.
Ma’am, please return to your assigned seat. You had your chance and you squandered it time and time again for the favour of someone who has done everything they can to actively prove what a fucking terrible idea that was.
I get it though, love rules over all. People kill for love, they die for love. They sacrifice everything for it… even when there's no chance of getting it back. It's a toxic cycle and sweetheart, you’re straight up more septic than my grandma's untreated kidney stones- and she’s been gone for longer than I can remember.
However- that's not an excuse to just stop trying.
Regardless of the way you look at it.
Detritus, Seleana. Skin flakes and dust, that's the mark you’re leaving on this division. A little mess of nothingness settling for the lowest possible level cause you can’t possibly disappoint anyone else if there's no further left to go.
I wanna sit here and tell you how much I hate you, how much I hate this husk of a Bombshell that you stand in front of me as cause it's such a fucking waste of time and good resources. I am legitimately wasting tape and time, and the wear of my sneakers to enter this match knowing that you couldn’t commit to anything more than a solid 60% effort.
I want to just tell you I hate you- but that would require an effort on my behalf that I know will never be reciprocated in mind. It's pretty fucking sad really, you failed at even eliciting any kind of emotional response. I’m not even disappointed anymore…I’m just indifferent.
… and that's far worse than any love or hate.”
******
Undisclosed Downtown Bar
Philadelphia, PA
16.10.2021
10:06pm
Nobody was looking, yet it felt as though all eyes were on them.
It wasn’t as though they could just blend into a crowd- with her shock of crimson barely tamed and cascading down her back, Amber lazily drummed her fingers against the edge of the glass in hopes that maybe the booze would kick in soon and she’d stop caring so damn much. Mac on the other hand just drew an imposing image, his sweet nature buried beneath the harsh Texan exterior of a man prepared to take absolutely no shit. Even in heels, Amber barely scraped Mac’s shoulder although her resting bitch face seemed to make up more than enough of their difference.
A few stares were drawn as they arrived, the low lighting and mood music giving way to the faintly sickly sweet scent of cocktail liquors and faux lemon scented cleaning supplies. Sure, there were the usual murmurs between those who recognized them- trying to decide if they had enough health insurance to cover them should they try to approach Oblivion. Amber more so than Mac, if only for her seemingly ‘unpredictable’ reputation.
It wasn’t so much that she was unstable though, as many who’d cracked through the glacial exterior had come to know- it was the fact she just struggled to relate on a meaningful level with those outside the business. They smile and make small talk, their questions a variant wording on something she’d heard a thousand times before and everyone expected their answer to feel customized to them, that for a brief moment they got to see behind the curtain.
In truth, there was no curtain. Just a blunt and acerbic tinged nothing that came across as a little stand-offish and blasé.
After all these years, she contemplated in time with a lethargic jazz-esque tune, it still seemed almost foreign to the redhead that anyone might actually be excited to interact with her. She barely wanted to deal with herself most days and others were willing to pay for the privilege.
A few brave souls had approached as they’d set up camp at an elevated circular table, one against the wall where Amber could continue to survey the room and Mac could lean when the booze finally started hitting home. They’d introduced themselves as fans and mentioned off-handedly a couple of matches, moments that had become sentimental and contributed to their appreciation before waiting for a reaction as though Amber could rub together two brain cells and remember what she’d had for breakfast that day.
Smiles and small talk.
Fuck, maybe she really had died. That this was to be her eternal penance.
At least there were drinks. Granted they were way too overpriced for the amount of alcohol they presented- but this venture was never about getting fucked up. No, she could have done that cheaper and more efficiently in her hotel room and without the distinct prospect of rolling an ankle.
No, she’d asked. Insisted even, that they go out together. Veiling it as a chance to spend some time together in the midst of their chaotic schedules- Mac had been back and forth to Texas more frequently, since the funeral, it seemed like he spent more time saying goodbye to her than saying goodnight these days.
He’d been distant, a man on a mission without a word to share. Just lost, like he was now, staring through the bottom of a half-finished drink like the glassy surface would provide him with more than just a neon-induced headache.
Amber had tried to be supportive, her World Title hadn’t been displayed as prominently, instead stowed away until needed for public appearances and moved into her carry on luggage for travel. Salt in a wound that wasn’t healing- they hadn’t discussed it, but the air between them became thick anytime anyone asked for a picture or wanted to talk about how closely she was approaching that all important title defense record.
It hadn’t been her intention initially, coincidence perhaps that the matches kept stacking, that she hadn’t quite cracked entirely beneath the pressure yet. Win after win though, four… five… six… and now seven. God, it was becoming almost unheard of.
“Are you drinking that or staring at it till it empties itself out onto the floor…”
Swirling the remaining ice in her glass distractedly Amber knew that attempting levity wasn’t her strong point, her humour had always been based out of sarcasm and straight up venom. Dry and macabre like her reputation had become, Mac didn’t respond though- too busy having a deep and meaningful conversation with the bottom of his glass.
It had been her idea to come here. A step out of her usual comfort zone landing somewhere between a hare-brained attempt at keeping up appearances in the public eye and a hail mary to soothe her mounting paranoia.
Every couple argued. Every marriage had days where they’d barely exchange more than a couple of syllables, each trying to out cold shoulder the other. For Oblivion though, the days they shared were numbered to single digits a month it seemed- Amber had been so busy with travel, with corporate publicity bullshit and trying to keep her demons from encroaching on the rest of her life… and Mac had grown distant. Time at home was spent mostly at the garage despite the fact they’d taken less projects on otherwise he’d be out somewhere in Texas trying to find peace to grief among the ruins.
They were fine though. They had to be.
There wasn’t another option.
Amber had hoped that maybe this would soften Mac’s edges, that they could maintain their place as one of SCW’s ‘golden couples’ continually setting the standard of what a successful relationship in this godforsaken industry could look like. Instead though, he’d barely uttered more than a few words since they arrived- and most of them had been directed at the fans. Physically he was here, sure… but his mind, and maybe even his heart were deep in Texas.
Not that Amber was helping much- match after match had kept her on her toes, the match for High Stakes was weighing heavily despite the fact the odds still lay in her favour. She’d beaten both of them before, soundly, so why did it feel like the sands were shifting beneath her feet?
Five defenses had become six, and six had become seven.
She wasn’t prepared to lose it yet. Amber knew she;d worked too fucking hard to get this far, in the beginning the idea of taking on records had been spoken to generate hype… Make people believe that she took this shit seriously, that she wasn’t gonna be another paper champion falling to pieces in the first real storm they faced.
Except she kept on winning. Challenger after challenger, main event after main event. Snowball effect and now all of a sudden she was on the cusp of something that she’d spoken about simply to be a cocky asshole.
She’d never held a World Title this long before. It’d been unprecedented territory from defense two onwards- although she’d never dare admit that aloud for fear someone might see that her facade of cocky assurance was built on a cracked and crumbling foundation of ‘I have no fucking idea what I’m doing’.
Mac had always been so supportive- even on her worst nights when she couldn’t sleep or keep food down cause the nerves were so bad, when she could barely walk the day after cause she’d left half of herself splattered across the canvas, when she had nothing but doubts in the face of otherwise near guaranteed success- provided she could just hold it together a little longer…
Now it seemed like he cared from a distance, detached from their reality into an offshoot of his own- determined to right whatever wrongs plagued him and even more committed to doing it without her involvement.
Maybe Amber Ryan was the best wrestler in the world right now, but that was only because she had Mac.
Now it seemed like she had to start figuring out how to approach what was arguably the biggest match on the biggest show of the year, without him.
“I’ll get you another.”
If he responded, she didn’t hear it. A soft smile followed as her head drooped in brief resignation, she could poke and prod all night in hopes of him opening up- but she dared not chip away at the ice wall that seemed to be solidifying between them… instead, she reached across the table, her fingers gently prying his apart so that hers might slip through the cracks, drawing the first flickers of a smile from a man otherwise deep in thought.
“Soon.”
They’d be fine.
They had to be, and if Amber had her way, the world would never stand to know any differently.
******
“There are people that think I’m going to go out and use this match to send a message.
It's not one of those scrawled in a public bathroom stall about calling a number for a good time, it's not a message that drips down a subway wall in hopes of eliciting something from one of the thousands that barely even glance long enough to read someone's heartache slicked in stylised neon.
Maybe it's not even a message stained with the blood of someone who should never have gotten in the way…
Or maybe it is, that's really up to you to decide Seleana.
If I’m honest- I shouldn’t have to telegraph anything. I’m the fucking World Champion kiddies, I’m the one everyone else should be trying to vye for the attention of- all those sob stories and pity parties trying to make me well up, just so someone elses can bring me down at the knees.
It's not up to me to make anyone remember what matters- they already know.
I could easily do a lot of things, Seleana- I won’t pretend like I haven’t threatened to create orphaned children and widowed men from a sideways glance. I don't proclaim innocence of any violent charge levelled at me- to do so would be trite, a lie slipping through gritted teeth.
No, see I own every shitty thing I’ve done to get where I am… and I’ll continue to justify everything I’ll do to keep it.
To make you some kind of ‘message’ would insinuate I have any reason to draw further attention to myself- like I’m not already a beacon for assholes. It’s short sighted and small minded to think about, there is no gain for me to beat you any more decisively than I already will.
I’d call it the equivalent of beating a dead horse, but kiddies…we all know that horse really deserves better. Besides, it's clear that the only person coming to save you is far too wrapped up in these fascinating delusions brought on by bleach osmosis that she couldn’t stop me if she tried- and I doubt you’ll do little more than throw your hands up and pathetically bleat from behind them begging for mercy as though that's not what I’m already doing.
See, unfortunately for you, I’m not like the postman… cause I always fucking deliver on Sundays.
Bad joke, still probably got a couple laughs cause it's true.
Truth is though, you really need this. Not just for your career, but to prove to yourself and your family that this is still worthwhile. That you still belong, not just a tired relic of a time when fucking anyone could be champion if they cared enough what anyone thought. That you still have something to offer outside of the last remnants of a decent legacy pinata…
You need a win in this match, or at the very least a showing that doesn’t make me wanna splatter your grandchildren's future DNA all over my breakfast. You need to save some kind of face in the same way that I need a coffee in the morning- minus the threats of homicide of course- cause I save those for the ring.
I just need to show up.
I wanna see you bring the Seleana Zdunich who used to walk around with her head held high, instead of waiting for someone else to do it for you… cause recently you’ve just been a wooden doll waiting for someone to stick their hand up your back so that you might say something worth listening to.
Ventriloquism is a dying art, don’t go ruining that for us as well…
That's the Seleana that I wanna see show up- not this bullshit facsimile. I wanna know if there's still a heart that still beats in your chest or a soul that screams for release cause lets be honest- I like to see the people kick and thrash when I’m pulling them out of their chest.
Maybe I’m the angel of mercy this place really needed- going out night after godforsaken night and ending the agonizing suffering of those left to otherwise rot in the annals of a rose-tinted past.
You give advice freely to those you still consider beneath you- tell me though, do you think yourself better than me… Morally. Ethically. It's no secret Seleana that you used to have quite the pedigree, but where did all that ‘do good’ ever get you?
Seriously though, I’m looking for a reason to give you the time of day. I want this to be more than just a throwaway on the path to a bigger showcase, more than another stepping stone ground to dust beneath my converses- what you need to understand though is that I can’t keep lifting everyone else up to my level either. Generosity only goes so far and I can’t wring blood from every stone I come across, just like I can’t pull a good match from someone who doesn’t seem to have the will to try.
What you need to fundamentally understand is that I want the best for this division, I have done so since I won this title and have made the same claim with every goddamn defense since- after all, there's no point being at the forefront if everything in my wake is withered and dying. Every person I have left in my wake has been better off for it, they’ve found that extra gear or a side of themselves they forgot existed- when it comes down to it, razing this division to the ground has been the best thing that's happened to it since Alicia Lukas remembered that she was actually a badass. Yeah it's been a little while, hasn’t it, kiddies...
See, come Climax Control I want you to bring all that fire you spit at Bea Barnhart last week… just maybe expect more than a few massacred idioms back. It's perfectly fine if you’ve already resigned yourself to losing- by now we can just consider that your natural state, like the multiverse version of Jessie Salco where she actually wins the big one for once.
You’re skipping down the garden path looking for something to revitalise your career and I’m the big bad wolf waiting for you to stray after you promise not to.
Maybe you could be the one to do the unthinkable- it could be you, it could be anyone to tell me what a big head I’ve gotten before you cut it off with a woodcutter's axe.
Except… Well, I’ve had more title defenses this year than you’ve had wins… so maybe let's just slow down on the hypotheticals before you actually start believing you have a chance.
You’ve been sinking faster than you can kick… so kick for me sweet girl, kcik while you still have the chance before I loose another anchor around your neck.
Not because I don’t wanna see you do better, quite the opposite in fact- I want the very best that you can give me, I want everything that brought you to this title to begin with cause when I beat you, and I sure as fuck will, I want there to be no doubt and no opportunity for your wife to drag your name any further through the mire than she already has.
I want better for you Seleana, even if you don’t want it for yourself- and if it means disassembling you piece by bloody piece, so that someone might put you back together in an actual meaningful way, then I’ll gladly get a little more blood and grit under my fingernails for the sake of this division.
If you don’t bring your best, if you happen to show up on Climax Control and dare to stand across from me and fucking disappoint me- I can promise you that you’ll wish you never took this match.
This is your opportunity to save some face Seleana, and I’d suggest you actually try- before I Picasso you so badly that even reconstructive surgery would no longer be a viable option.
Have a think about it, what else have you really got to lose?”
******
Oblivion Garage
Las Vegas, ND
14.10.2021
12:27pm
“I’m hearing a lot of jargon, all corporate doublespeak… You wanna dumb some of this down for us with the brain damage?”
Cassiopeia Mare smiled broadly in response to the familiar voice emanating from beneath a grey 1970 Dodge Charger, clearly still growing accustomed to the ‘blunt force trauma’ perspective that Amber wore like battle worn armour. In reality Cassie knew that the redhead was far more clued in to everything than she let on and that the messily thrown verbal jabs were simply to cut through what she considered overwrought pretentiousness.
Optimistically, Cassiopeia straightened up and cocked her head to the side, trying to ignore the heavy metallic waft that seemed to mingle with the everpresent diesel fumes.
“As much as I appreciate your concerns and respect your intentions to proverbially ‘cut through the bullshit’...”
Amber summarily slid out from beneath the grey charger with a raised eyebrow as though expectantly waiting for the finish of the sentence. With tangled red hair pulled into a messy bun and her hands and arms streaked almost to the elbow in automotive filth, it was safe to say that Amber looked far from being World Champion material. Thankfully for her perhaps, wrestling as an industry had long since surpassed being a goddamn beauty contest.
“As much as you… yadda yadda… Let me guess something about my image and how important it is to show people I’m relatable in spite of the fact that you and I know that's very much the opposite. I built my image already Cassie, I’m not going to pretend to be someone else for a fucking Morning Show slot or magazine spread cause they don’t think I’m ‘family friendly’ enough.”
Uncoiling from her seated position, Amber found her feet unsteadily and drawing her forearm across her face to wipe away some errant beads of sweat dripping down the edge of her nose- only to accidentally streak whatever greasy, dark smear across her nose like war paint.
“No, wrestling at its core isn’t family friendly. We aren;t going out there putting on PSA’s and puppet shows- I’ll tell you now that the same parents that rebel against wrestling in the mainstream, R rated movies and sex education in schools are the ones with brats cyber bullying and selling shitty half-cut drugs to other teenagers. There is no rainbow filter to out over what we do- and to pretend anything else is absolute garbage.”
Another cheery smile followed that made Amber want to smack the blonde off Cassiopeia’s head. God, even just thinking about that name brought back a flood of memories- Atlantic City. A girl in a dirty flower dress. An angel with only one wing and a face worn indistinct. Five years was a long time to hold onto anything.
Cassiopeia. It just didn’t make sense…
“Whoever walks with the wise becomes wise, but the companion of fools will suffer harm. Proverbs 13:20.”
If five years were a long time, then nearly 15 was an eternity ago. Plainly dressed, Reverend Alistair McCrae exuded a charisma so fierce that it made Amber wanna go sit in the corner and punch herself in the face for half an hour just to cleanse her palatte. Otherwise unremarkable, Alistair circled around the edge of the Dodge Charger taking a few moments to admire the handiwork while still managing to keep Amber pinned to the spot.
“I hope you don’t mind the intrusion, however you have become quite the distinctly difficult young lady to find.”
“That's probably for good reason.”
Coldly, Amber’s rapid fire response seemed to catch McCrae off guard for a moment before the flicker of a smile tugged at the corners of his lip once more. Reflected in the wire framed glasses, Amber couldn;t help but see herself- confused, nearly alone and otherwise vulnerable. Kindly, he extended a friendly hand out towards Amber who stared at the gesture blankly for what felt like an hour.
“Never did pick you for the man willing to get his hands dirty.”
Mirthlessly Alistair's chuckle reverberated through the space, amused at the less than carefully chosen play on words.
“It is refreshing to see that in such a fast paced and ever changing world, that you’ve worked so hard not to change a bit. To most that might be considered a flaw, Ms Ryan. I tend to see it as a testament to your character, call it a gold star for determination if you will.
I’ll admit it's been quite a while and the last time… well, it turned out to be quite the messy affair.”
Amber swallowed hard, vividly recalling the night in question though there were anyway she might somehow forget it. It was the night she’d sworn she’d never cross paths with Dominic Del Gado again, swore off his kamikaze business venture and sworn off especially the way he’d done nothing but use Amber from day one, as though she hadn’t endeavored to do the same and simply got beaten to the punch. Literally.
“If you’re here on business, Reverend, then I’ll have to be the one to deliver such bad news that we aren’t taking on any further projects and jobs at the garage until potentially after new years. Although I’m sure God will be more than happy to start picking up some of the slack..”
“Business is pleasure Ms Ryan, many become addicts long after the point that the chemicals started changing in their bodies however they cannot be blamed for anything, but their crushing mainstream ignorance and warped sense of justice and entitlement.”
As spry and backhanded as ever, McCrae barely even acknowledged that Cassiopeia was still in the garage with more than just a fleeting nod of vague recognition.
“It's easy to accuse a spider of being evil however it's simply using its most base instincts to survive in the same way that a cow might chew on its cud much to the chagrin of vegans. Of course, no one expects anything different from them despite the fact their ‘choices’ might be viewed as inconsiderate or perhaps cruel.”
Something about the way he spoke seemed to carry unnecessary weight as though certain syllables were dragging, perhaps he spoke in exclamation marks while everyone else around him hushed their whispers.
“No one expects change from nature, yet it's expected from humans' cause we’re believed to be better than that. Unfortunately, it only works in theory as many fail to ever learn from their mistakes…Little birdies Ms Ryan, imagine my innate surprise when they tell me of what feels as though deja vu.”
Dominic. A list of businesses. Sabotage.
Oh god, it was all making too much sense.
Alistair smiled through gritted teeth, the distinguished and famous televangelistic exterior was far from a perfect mask for the ruthless, hard nosed businessman underneath however the cracks only seemed to show up close, where no one ever got to see them.
“No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it. Corinthians 10:13.
I cannot blame you though for considering temptation Ms Ryan- as admirable as ever, and determinedly narrow sighted as your intentions might be, I cannot simply allow them to… stand.”
Another hard swallow felt as though razorblades dragged down the edges of her throat, making the twitch under her eye visible and prominent. Uncontrollable like the bubbling in her veins.
“Consider this a charity Ms Ryan. Everything you’ve been offered, in exchange for doing absolutely nothing… Young Mr Del Gado has proven more than once that he is perfectly agreeable with leaving on his own terms- now normally the ‘God’s word’ wouldn’t condone such things- but an eye for an eye, without ever drawing blood.
I’m an advocate for peace, Ms Ryan. I trust you won’t have me show the lengths to which I’d go to keep it.”
Swiftly and without a parting word, Alistair McCrae took his leave, taking silence as compliance before she could quite fathom how he could have possibly known… even she didn’t. It was just names of places, minimal detail for maximum benefit of the doubt. Coincidence, Dominic had told her, a breadcrumb trail only for those who understood where it was supposed to lead… a trail that hadn’t even started before she found herself at a goddamn tipping point.
Fucking bastard.
It was only as Amber sunk back to the floor in a dawning realization, coiled messily in a tangle of limbs, did she finally remember that Cassiopeia Mare had witnessed the whole fucking exchange… with a bright, idealistic smile.
