Post by Sloane Taylor on Jun 29, 2019 10:20:09 GMT -5
If you Google the name “Richard Taylor”, you'll come up with all sorts of historical and/or marginally famous figures from an American planter, politician, military historian and Confederate general to a British-American mathematician to a creative director and head of a New Zealand film prop and special effects company.
What you won't find is Richard Taylor the business consultant who had the seemingly glamorous job of traveling all over the country. If you did happen to find that Richard Taylor, I can guarantee it wouldn't tell you about how he had plane tickets to use, but drove instead and cashed them in so his family could have just that little bit more. It won't tell you how it became a ritual for his son and daughter to mark off every day on a calendar in the living room of their small Chicago apartment, counting down until he was home again. It won't tell you how their mother watched them indulgently from the entryway to the kitchen, even though secretly she was with them in their excitement as that day neared.
It also won't tell you about how much of a wrestling fan Richard Taylor was or how he made it his mission to never miss a big event with his children; the way he'd come home, ready for them to dive off on him like little spider monkeys, the way he never failed to catch them and somehow always remembered who got to “pin” him last; the way they'd all sit together in his big recliner, his coltish daughter with her lovely blonde locks and big blue eyes on one arm of the chair and his pre-school age son with cherubic cheeks and curls on the other, all three sharing a big bowl of popcorn as they watched their favorites on the TV with anticipation. It won't tell you how he sometimes watched them, enjoying their rapt attention in something he so loved, more than he watched the event.
It also won't tell you how devastating it was when he didn't walk through the door, on that fateful night in 2005 when their mother received a phone call that brought their entire world crashing down. It won't tell you how she collapsed in the kitchen, her back sliding down the wall, the strangled cry she uttered or how she went through almost every one of the stages of grief within seconds of each other. It won't tell you how her children found her like that, and how fear and sorrow gripped her heart when she looked into their expectant little faces.
There won't be any mention of the sparse funeral Richard Taylor received, though that's what happens when death comes to the young who still think themselves invincible and don't plan ahead properly. There won't be any mention about how his widow struggled to make ends meet and had to hold down two and sometimes three jobs, silently crying herself to sleep at night so she didn't wake the children who shared the one bedroom apartment she'd had to downsize to. No footnotes on how, even though they'd moved and even though they'd understood their father wasn't coming home, the children still found themselves congregating around the front door at times, as though he might at any moment.
Maybe it was a “work”, that happened in wrestling, and Dad so loved that sport. Maybe he might burst through that door in some elaborate turn of events and surprise us all. I'd even have let him get the pin.
But that's not how life works, and my Dad never made his surprise return from the dead. Car crashes as bad as his don't tend to leave much behind for that sort of thing. I was seven years old when he made that dramatic exit from life, and my brother, Beckett, was four; even at those tender ages, we vowed to remember Dad in the only way we felt we could, and as cliché as it sounds, that way was through wrestling.
I won't bore you with every inane detail of my life, or every sliver of how I got to where I am today. Just know that when I walked into the UGWC headquarters in Chicago for my tryouts and signed those documents that granted me admittance into the WrestleStock Open, it was the proudest day of my life.
I've been working toward this goal since I was ten and learned that not everyone is a natural at free-running, or parkour as it's sometimes called, nor do they have a sense of balance that has been described as “unnatural”. I will tell you that I've scared my mother to death a few times, particularly when Kit felt he needed to discover if these traits were genetic.
They aren’t.
I will tell you how I counted the days until I was sixteen and could take on a decent job so I could afford to pay for wrestling lessons and proper training. All of my mother's efforts went toward keeping our heads above water, and while I felt selfish for using my money for the lessons, I knew one day I would pay her back. One day, she won't have to work two to three jobs and collapse into bed for a few meager hours of sleep. One day, my mother won't have to worry about a damn thing.
Yes, I've struggled to be where I am today, even if that isn't much to many of you. I've put blood, sweat, and tears into what I know to be my destiny. I've gone through every free wrestling camp Chicago has had to offer, every class I could find and get to, and I've been paying my way for my own lessons for fives years now.
I've been biding my time. I'm ready. I'm hungry. Sloane Taylor is coming for that WrestleStock Open Cup, and I'm going to make everyone who has ever doubted me, everyone who has ever told me I'll never make it, that I don't have what it takes, and dismissed me out of hand sit up and take notice. And maybe I'll thank them after I win, after all, their words only served to fuel my fire. I truly wouldn't be where I am today, standing ready to slingshot my career into the stars without those who said it was impossible and a hopeless dream... and my Dad.
I love you, Dad. This one's for you.
“Hey, you ready yet?!” I danced back and forth on the balls of my feet, my entire face lit up with excitement as I stand in the archway to the small apartment kitchen. Kit leans against the counter, the smell and sound of popcorn popping filling the room.
“You mean am I ready for my mind to be mastered? Fuck yeah,” he snorts, already blocking the blow he knows is coming as I swat at him with a dish towel.
“Watch your language!”
“Mom's not even home, fuck! Stop, Sloane!”
I land a few more playful blows before tossing the towel on the counter. It had been ten hours since Mastermind's promo had uploaded to the UGWC servers, and Kit had made me promise I'd wait for him to watch it. Ten hours later and he was off from his job as an overnight stocker for a well known supermarket chain (which I won't mention here since the local branch laughed when I asked for a sponsor) and here we were, making popcorn and preparing to watch my very first promo from an actual opponent.
Reality sets in and I take a deep breath, Kit looking up from pouring the bag of popcorn into a bowl, knowing our mother wouldn't appreciate another unnecessary dish to wash. I make a mental note to wash the bowl if he didn't.
“Second thoughts?” he asked, popping a fluffy, buttery kernel into his mouth.
“And third, fourth, fifth, and sixth. I think the butterflies in my stomach have mutated into some other species and they're fornicating like rabbits,” I groaned, my hand over the baby pink tank top I wore and my belly beneath it.
“Don't let them see you sweat. You're a natural, Sloane. Dad would have been proud,” Kit says, holding the bowl out toward me in offering. I smile, curling my fingers around a few kernels, munching on them as we make our way into the living room, dropping onto the couch. My phone chimes and I pull it out, nails clacking distractedly over the screen enclosed by the bright, lime green case.
Kit rolls his eyes.
“NO PHONES!”
I roll my eyes and slip it back into my pocket, Kit queuing up the promo to begin.
“Are... you... READY?!” he asks excitedly, not waiting for an answer before starting it up. I draw my legs up beneath me, sitting cross-legged, attention rapt.
Five minutes later, it was another story entirely. I begin to absently pick at a loose thread on the knee of my leggings, and I notice Kit's attention beginning to wander.
Ten minutes later finds us sitting on the couch still, but our eyes are glazed, slack-jawed, drool threatening at the corners of our mouths. Kit turns to me, his eyes still glued to the screen as if determined to make it through.
“Is this what he means by mastering our minds?” he asks in a whisper.
“I don't think so.”
Twenty minutes later, Kit has fallen asleep hung upside down on the couch and I'm throwing cards into a hat, though I have no idea where I got said cards or hat from. The door to the apartment opening and closing jolts Kit awake.
“Itchy feet,” he mutters, swiping a line of drool from his chin, blinking blearily. “Is it finished?”
“I have no idea. I think I had a stroke at some point,” my voice is dull, lifeless.
Mind. Mastered.
“If your feet are itching, Kit, you should pick up some of that powder for athlete's foot when you go into work tonight,” Mom calls from the kitchen, prompting us to stare at each other blankly, realization reaching us at the same time.
“No, not mine, Mastermind. He gets itchy feet when he wants to wrestle. Or something,” Kit grumbles and I can't hold back the laugh.
“Oh, is that the man Sloane is fighting in Cincinnati? Let's start it over...”
“NO!” I don't think either of us have ever said that word so vehemently before in our collective lives, and meant it. Still, I could hear Mastermind droning on and on and on as our mother joined us in the living room. She takes a seat in her chair, kicking her shoes off, wincing at her aching feet as her eyes flit to the screen.
“Oh my. Well, that smirk is quite infamous, isn't it?” she comments, looking to the large man seated in the chair on the screen.
“... what?” I asked eloquently. I'm not proud of my response, but in all fairness, I was still out of it.
“Hey, Sloane? What's the Woodstock Open?” Kit asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me,” I begin, throwing my hands up, already anticipating Mom's reaction.
“Sloane! Watch your language!”
“Yes ma'am.”
The promo ends, thankfully, and Kit turns the entire TV off rather than just close out the app. He didn't want to risk it starting over any more than I did.
“You working tonight?” Mom asks, looking over at me, as if Kit and I weren't just grasping at reality.
“Yeah, don't worry about dinner for me, I'll get something. And before I forget, for some of the bills.. yes, Mom, stop telling me no, take it. I'm an adult and I live here, I can help out,” I push the cash into her hand, closing her fingers over the wad of bills, looking to her protesting face. “Let me help.”
Mom sighs. I know she hates it, but she takes the money. It's not much, but what I give her keeps her from having to work three jobs instead of two. Every little bit helps. I carefully school my features, ready for the gasp of surprise that comes as Mom sits forward in the chair, looking at the amount of money I've given her.
“Sloane... where did you get all of this?” she asks, looking up at me, and there it is, there's that fear I didn't want to see.
“Relax, Mom. I got an advance on my pay for WrestleStock. It's all good,” I smile at her, but I can practically feel Kit's eyes narrowing on me. He always knows when I'm lying, swears I have a tell or something, but I think that's complete bullshit.
I turn to him, canting my head to the side and offering him a placid smile that I know he doesn’t buy for one second.
I swear I could still feel Kit's accusing eyes on me as I left the apartment and caught the bus that would take me across town to my job as a hotel's night clerk. A chime from within my purse draws my attention, and I fish out a bubblegum pink, bedazzled phone, trepidation filling me as I check my messages. I groan, my eyelids sliding closed, and I find myself staring out the bus window. At least I was going in the right direction.
I type a message back and drop the phone back into my purse, pulling my green phone from my pocket. It was the fourth time I'd called out at work and I wouldn't be surprised if the manager fired me this time, though really that job was nothing more than a cover, albeit a convenient one. I could find others if need be.
The bus stops and I slip off, walking in the opposite direction of the hotel I was supposed to be working at, approaching a newer model, high-rise apartment complex. I punch in the code and gain entry, moving swiftly toward the elevator. A few minutes later, my keys are jingling in my hand, and here I am, walking into my other life that happens to be a secret from everyone.
The apartment is sparsely furnished, what some might call a more modern approach, but for me, it was just being frugal. It was as comfortable as it needed to be, considering I only utilized it a few nights out of the month. I push down the twinge of guilt as I toss my purse onto the white breakfast table, this apartment that was my shadow shelf's twice as large as the one I stayed in with Mom and Kit.
I repeated what I always told myself in my mind. It had to be this way. I was helping.
And I needed to get my ass in gear. I disappear into the bedroom, a punky, pink-haired Gen-Z reject, and when I emerge almost two hours later adjusting diamond hoops in my ears, the pink has been washed out and my more usual blonde hair flows down my back in waves. Gone are the leggings and the tank top and in their place more elegant and tastefully sexy attire. I lean down, adjusting the strap on the silver stiletto heels I wear, reminding myself that this was for him and he’d specially requested the footwear.
I check the texts on my pink phone again, perusing the profile I'd been sent, my heels clicking across the floor as I make my way into the kitchen to drop my gum into the trash. None of that tonight. Tonight, Sloane Taylor was another person, entirely, the most pleasant, gregarious version of my authentic self.
Yeah, it disgusts me sometimes, too.
Dropping my keys into a much smaller clutch that matches my dress along with the pink phone, I slip out of the apartment as quickly as I'd entered, making my way to the restaurant I'd been sent, firing off a text of my imminent arrival. As soon as my Uber driver pulls up to the curb, a distinguished older gentleman in a suit steps forward, conversing with the driver quietly and paying my fare before coming around to open the door for me. Once that door opens, I have a megawatt, blinding smile in place, my hand held out to him as he helps me from the car, bestowing a kiss to my knuckles along with a gentlemanly bow.
It was all very perfunctory.
“Ms. Talbot, you're as lovely as your profile purported. It's a pleasure to meet you. I assume you know the role you're meant to play?” he asks politely, offering me his arm. I slip my arm within his easily, giving it that little squeeze that we women do when men flex their bicep in that pose, our nonverbal communication that we appreciate how fit they are, even if they aren't.
Stroke his ego. Nothing else.
“Of course, I'm to be your arm candy for the evening and make all of your friends positively green with jealousy,” I murmur smoothly. Normally, I had more warning before a night like tonight, but I'd been told the money was substantial. With that in mind, I cast a beaming look up at him. “And please, call me Sheridan.”
I bet you weren’t expecting that. Yeah, me neither, but things happen.
On to more important things, like the WrestleStock Open Cup rapidly approaching in Cincinnati. My opponent in the first round felt himself confident enough to make “bold predictions” based on little to no evidence or research of his competition, but then he refers to WrestleStock as Woodstock so I can't say I'm terribly surprised.
I have a few “bold predictions” of my own.
The name 'Vain' Alan Wallace yields quite a few results immediately upon searching him out. We all know the type, an ego-maniacal wealthy man with a body from the gods who believes himself heaven-sent in all he does. Except, with Mr. Wallace, these delusions only seem to carry him so far before he begins to wallow in his own seeming ineptitude and self-pity. From what I've been able to glean, it's a repetitive cycle that can be brought on fairly easily for someone with so many accolades. It does make me wonder exactly how truthful this whole ego business is, or if it's just a mask he wears.
It seems Alan Wallace has recently come to terms with the fact that he has to let go of his past and all the things he's accomplished in it because no one cares about the past. Not only is that far from true, but it's an epiphany he's had many times over if my search results can be believed. If past accolades mean nothing, then beating someone with them means nothing. Saying that the past means nothing is a fallacy used by those who wish they had the skills, talents, and accolades that Mr. Wallace does. I have no desire to denigrate his achievements. Mr. Wallace, you may be the one I'm most looking forward to stepping into the ring with, a legend and a true great in this industry, and I'm excited to test my skills against someone of your stature.
But that can only happen if you take Robbie Bourbon down in the first round. Now, the little I've been able to find on Mr. Bourbon, he's a part of the same company as my first round opponent, Mastermind, and it seems he's beaten someone of note who UGWC is familiar with and has a history with WrestleStock- Sarah Lacklan, former WrestleStock Open winner from a couple of years ago.
That's important.
Because while I can't find much on Mr. Bourbon, that win is significant. Sarah Lacklan has already done what I'm setting out to do, and this man stopped her in her tracks. It would appear that this particular first round match will be a battle of the egos, seeing as how Mr. Bourbon feels that WrestleStock just wouldn't matter without him. I can't seem to find any instance where he's participated before, and they all seemed to matter just fine, so I'm not sure what he's basing this information off of.
My prediction and hope: 'Vain' Alan Wallace takes the win after a hard fought battle. Mr. Bourbon is a large man and I don't doubt his skill, but Mr. Wallace seems to be on a redemptive arc, and that adds fuel to a fire.
The next match on the first day of the WrestleStock festival is one between Crystal Zdunich and Travis Pierce. A quick search of Crystal's name (I'm not even bothering to try to pronounce or continually type that last name, I have no desire to make a fool of myself this early in the game) shows that she's a fourteen-time world champion, a four-time hall of famer, owner of Rose Productions (whatever that is), and she also owns a team in the LFL, the Detroit Rampage. She's quite the successful entrepreneur and businesswoman, it seems, talented to boot, but a quick perusal of her Twitter account shows a different story, one of a woman very much in need of validation and frequently prone to mood swings.
There's also not one single mention on her Twitter feed of her participation in the UGWC WrestleStock Open, and she's been active. Seeing that, or not seeing it as the case may be, leads me to wonder if she forgot she was involved in the festival or just doesn't care.
Either way, it doesn't take much to foresee UGWC's own Travis Pierce as the inevitable winner in this round. Head of the Piercing Media Network and part of the elite Grand Slam winners in UGWC, he does seem to be rather hit or miss, but the man is a veteran both in and out of the ring. A former Creative Director, and it appears he has a vested interest in the WrestleStock Open, being the one who created the entire competition. What a feather in his cap, to have seen the successes of his creation all these years and then finally stand at the top himself?
In the third Open match of the day, Hide Yamazaki is my only other competitor besides Mastermind to have put something up. Imagine my surprise when I watched the man eat a series of No. 2 pencils. Yes, you read that right, he ate pencils. I'm not sure if that's a regular thing, but his manager didn't seem especially surprised by it, so....
In case you couldn't tell, the man is crazy. I try not to use that term lightly, but how else do you describe someone who sets himself up not as a pencil sharpener but as a pencil disposal system? Lead causes brain damage, folks. When watching wrestling with my Dad, there were always these types, these big, brutish, exceedingly violent guys who had managers who let you know they were “dangerous” and “crazy”, etc, and the big guys spoke in grunts or sometimes nonsensical screams to further illustrate their insanity and viciousness. Know what they didn't do? Eat pencils. So yeah, I buy it.
But he's got himself up against a man who has caused me to roll my eyes on more than one occasion since I've signed the dotted line to place myself in this competition. Ahem. Sebastian Everett-Bryce III. The little shit. Okay, he's not little and considering I've now looked at his history and accomplishments, he isn't a shit either. Mostly. Have you seen what the man posts on Twitter, excuse me, what whoever runs it for him posts on there? Of all the utterly insufferable... but I digress.
My initial search of Sebastian Everett-Bryce yielded some... interesting results. So you know, if you see what is apparently a breaking news headline on the gossip sites of “SEB III's Ex Involved in Most Brutal Handixxxap Match of All Time”, don't be like me and think it's a weird typo, and for the love of God, DON'T CLICK THE VIDEO. I did. Seems his ex likes getting double-teamed by London-based wrestlers. To each their own.
No disrespect to Hide Yamazaki, but while Sebastian is somewhat obnoxious and really, really seems to love Nando's, he's no pencil, not even a bundle of him. I fully expect Everett-Bryce to live to tweet yet another profoundly empty motivational quote for the next round.
Which leads me to my own match and opponent, Mastermind. Now, I've seen your accolades, and you've been in this industry for quite a while, and for those things alone, you've earned my respect. And so, it's with respect that I will be the one who goes on to the next round; I'm going to do what no one expects of me, the underdog, the girl who has thrown herself into a minefield for her very first professional wrestling outing.
I'm going to win.
That starts with Mastermind, and it will continue on to the next round, and the next, no matter who I meet there, no matter if my predictions prove correct or not, because you see, I have what everyone in this field seems to be missing.
I have heart, I have determination, and I have the drive to succeed. I'm hungry, and it isn't for pencils, for Nando's, for adoration, or for validation. I want this more than anything I've ever wanted in my life, and by 'this', I don't just mean the WrestleStock Cup. I want this life, I want this career, I want to be the one who fresh, new wrestlers look to as inspiration.
Sloane Taylor did it, I can too. And I'll say, yes you can, but you have to earn it.
I'm going to earn it. I'm going to make everyone sit up and take notice. You will remember my name, every last one of you.
Starting July 4th, I'm going to show the UGWC universe what the 'Sky Queen' is capable of. I'll see you all then. Just remember, the skies are mine.
Good luck.
What you won't find is Richard Taylor the business consultant who had the seemingly glamorous job of traveling all over the country. If you did happen to find that Richard Taylor, I can guarantee it wouldn't tell you about how he had plane tickets to use, but drove instead and cashed them in so his family could have just that little bit more. It won't tell you how it became a ritual for his son and daughter to mark off every day on a calendar in the living room of their small Chicago apartment, counting down until he was home again. It won't tell you how their mother watched them indulgently from the entryway to the kitchen, even though secretly she was with them in their excitement as that day neared.
It also won't tell you about how much of a wrestling fan Richard Taylor was or how he made it his mission to never miss a big event with his children; the way he'd come home, ready for them to dive off on him like little spider monkeys, the way he never failed to catch them and somehow always remembered who got to “pin” him last; the way they'd all sit together in his big recliner, his coltish daughter with her lovely blonde locks and big blue eyes on one arm of the chair and his pre-school age son with cherubic cheeks and curls on the other, all three sharing a big bowl of popcorn as they watched their favorites on the TV with anticipation. It won't tell you how he sometimes watched them, enjoying their rapt attention in something he so loved, more than he watched the event.
It also won't tell you how devastating it was when he didn't walk through the door, on that fateful night in 2005 when their mother received a phone call that brought their entire world crashing down. It won't tell you how she collapsed in the kitchen, her back sliding down the wall, the strangled cry she uttered or how she went through almost every one of the stages of grief within seconds of each other. It won't tell you how her children found her like that, and how fear and sorrow gripped her heart when she looked into their expectant little faces.
There won't be any mention of the sparse funeral Richard Taylor received, though that's what happens when death comes to the young who still think themselves invincible and don't plan ahead properly. There won't be any mention about how his widow struggled to make ends meet and had to hold down two and sometimes three jobs, silently crying herself to sleep at night so she didn't wake the children who shared the one bedroom apartment she'd had to downsize to. No footnotes on how, even though they'd moved and even though they'd understood their father wasn't coming home, the children still found themselves congregating around the front door at times, as though he might at any moment.
Maybe it was a “work”, that happened in wrestling, and Dad so loved that sport. Maybe he might burst through that door in some elaborate turn of events and surprise us all. I'd even have let him get the pin.
But that's not how life works, and my Dad never made his surprise return from the dead. Car crashes as bad as his don't tend to leave much behind for that sort of thing. I was seven years old when he made that dramatic exit from life, and my brother, Beckett, was four; even at those tender ages, we vowed to remember Dad in the only way we felt we could, and as cliché as it sounds, that way was through wrestling.
I won't bore you with every inane detail of my life, or every sliver of how I got to where I am today. Just know that when I walked into the UGWC headquarters in Chicago for my tryouts and signed those documents that granted me admittance into the WrestleStock Open, it was the proudest day of my life.
I've been working toward this goal since I was ten and learned that not everyone is a natural at free-running, or parkour as it's sometimes called, nor do they have a sense of balance that has been described as “unnatural”. I will tell you that I've scared my mother to death a few times, particularly when Kit felt he needed to discover if these traits were genetic.
They aren’t.
I will tell you how I counted the days until I was sixteen and could take on a decent job so I could afford to pay for wrestling lessons and proper training. All of my mother's efforts went toward keeping our heads above water, and while I felt selfish for using my money for the lessons, I knew one day I would pay her back. One day, she won't have to work two to three jobs and collapse into bed for a few meager hours of sleep. One day, my mother won't have to worry about a damn thing.
Yes, I've struggled to be where I am today, even if that isn't much to many of you. I've put blood, sweat, and tears into what I know to be my destiny. I've gone through every free wrestling camp Chicago has had to offer, every class I could find and get to, and I've been paying my way for my own lessons for fives years now.
I've been biding my time. I'm ready. I'm hungry. Sloane Taylor is coming for that WrestleStock Open Cup, and I'm going to make everyone who has ever doubted me, everyone who has ever told me I'll never make it, that I don't have what it takes, and dismissed me out of hand sit up and take notice. And maybe I'll thank them after I win, after all, their words only served to fuel my fire. I truly wouldn't be where I am today, standing ready to slingshot my career into the stars without those who said it was impossible and a hopeless dream... and my Dad.
I love you, Dad. This one's for you.
“Hey, you ready yet?!” I danced back and forth on the balls of my feet, my entire face lit up with excitement as I stand in the archway to the small apartment kitchen. Kit leans against the counter, the smell and sound of popcorn popping filling the room.
“You mean am I ready for my mind to be mastered? Fuck yeah,” he snorts, already blocking the blow he knows is coming as I swat at him with a dish towel.
“Watch your language!”
“Mom's not even home, fuck! Stop, Sloane!”
I land a few more playful blows before tossing the towel on the counter. It had been ten hours since Mastermind's promo had uploaded to the UGWC servers, and Kit had made me promise I'd wait for him to watch it. Ten hours later and he was off from his job as an overnight stocker for a well known supermarket chain (which I won't mention here since the local branch laughed when I asked for a sponsor) and here we were, making popcorn and preparing to watch my very first promo from an actual opponent.
Reality sets in and I take a deep breath, Kit looking up from pouring the bag of popcorn into a bowl, knowing our mother wouldn't appreciate another unnecessary dish to wash. I make a mental note to wash the bowl if he didn't.
“Second thoughts?” he asked, popping a fluffy, buttery kernel into his mouth.
“And third, fourth, fifth, and sixth. I think the butterflies in my stomach have mutated into some other species and they're fornicating like rabbits,” I groaned, my hand over the baby pink tank top I wore and my belly beneath it.
“Don't let them see you sweat. You're a natural, Sloane. Dad would have been proud,” Kit says, holding the bowl out toward me in offering. I smile, curling my fingers around a few kernels, munching on them as we make our way into the living room, dropping onto the couch. My phone chimes and I pull it out, nails clacking distractedly over the screen enclosed by the bright, lime green case.
Kit rolls his eyes.
“NO PHONES!”
I roll my eyes and slip it back into my pocket, Kit queuing up the promo to begin.
“Are... you... READY?!” he asks excitedly, not waiting for an answer before starting it up. I draw my legs up beneath me, sitting cross-legged, attention rapt.
Five minutes later, it was another story entirely. I begin to absently pick at a loose thread on the knee of my leggings, and I notice Kit's attention beginning to wander.
Ten minutes later finds us sitting on the couch still, but our eyes are glazed, slack-jawed, drool threatening at the corners of our mouths. Kit turns to me, his eyes still glued to the screen as if determined to make it through.
“Is this what he means by mastering our minds?” he asks in a whisper.
“I don't think so.”
Twenty minutes later, Kit has fallen asleep hung upside down on the couch and I'm throwing cards into a hat, though I have no idea where I got said cards or hat from. The door to the apartment opening and closing jolts Kit awake.
“Itchy feet,” he mutters, swiping a line of drool from his chin, blinking blearily. “Is it finished?”
“I have no idea. I think I had a stroke at some point,” my voice is dull, lifeless.
Mind. Mastered.
“If your feet are itching, Kit, you should pick up some of that powder for athlete's foot when you go into work tonight,” Mom calls from the kitchen, prompting us to stare at each other blankly, realization reaching us at the same time.
“No, not mine, Mastermind. He gets itchy feet when he wants to wrestle. Or something,” Kit grumbles and I can't hold back the laugh.
“Oh, is that the man Sloane is fighting in Cincinnati? Let's start it over...”
“NO!” I don't think either of us have ever said that word so vehemently before in our collective lives, and meant it. Still, I could hear Mastermind droning on and on and on as our mother joined us in the living room. She takes a seat in her chair, kicking her shoes off, wincing at her aching feet as her eyes flit to the screen.
“Oh my. Well, that smirk is quite infamous, isn't it?” she comments, looking to the large man seated in the chair on the screen.
“... what?” I asked eloquently. I'm not proud of my response, but in all fairness, I was still out of it.
“Hey, Sloane? What's the Woodstock Open?” Kit asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me,” I begin, throwing my hands up, already anticipating Mom's reaction.
“Sloane! Watch your language!”
“Yes ma'am.”
The promo ends, thankfully, and Kit turns the entire TV off rather than just close out the app. He didn't want to risk it starting over any more than I did.
“You working tonight?” Mom asks, looking over at me, as if Kit and I weren't just grasping at reality.
“Yeah, don't worry about dinner for me, I'll get something. And before I forget, for some of the bills.. yes, Mom, stop telling me no, take it. I'm an adult and I live here, I can help out,” I push the cash into her hand, closing her fingers over the wad of bills, looking to her protesting face. “Let me help.”
Mom sighs. I know she hates it, but she takes the money. It's not much, but what I give her keeps her from having to work three jobs instead of two. Every little bit helps. I carefully school my features, ready for the gasp of surprise that comes as Mom sits forward in the chair, looking at the amount of money I've given her.
“Sloane... where did you get all of this?” she asks, looking up at me, and there it is, there's that fear I didn't want to see.
“Relax, Mom. I got an advance on my pay for WrestleStock. It's all good,” I smile at her, but I can practically feel Kit's eyes narrowing on me. He always knows when I'm lying, swears I have a tell or something, but I think that's complete bullshit.
I turn to him, canting my head to the side and offering him a placid smile that I know he doesn’t buy for one second.
I swear I could still feel Kit's accusing eyes on me as I left the apartment and caught the bus that would take me across town to my job as a hotel's night clerk. A chime from within my purse draws my attention, and I fish out a bubblegum pink, bedazzled phone, trepidation filling me as I check my messages. I groan, my eyelids sliding closed, and I find myself staring out the bus window. At least I was going in the right direction.
I type a message back and drop the phone back into my purse, pulling my green phone from my pocket. It was the fourth time I'd called out at work and I wouldn't be surprised if the manager fired me this time, though really that job was nothing more than a cover, albeit a convenient one. I could find others if need be.
The bus stops and I slip off, walking in the opposite direction of the hotel I was supposed to be working at, approaching a newer model, high-rise apartment complex. I punch in the code and gain entry, moving swiftly toward the elevator. A few minutes later, my keys are jingling in my hand, and here I am, walking into my other life that happens to be a secret from everyone.
The apartment is sparsely furnished, what some might call a more modern approach, but for me, it was just being frugal. It was as comfortable as it needed to be, considering I only utilized it a few nights out of the month. I push down the twinge of guilt as I toss my purse onto the white breakfast table, this apartment that was my shadow shelf's twice as large as the one I stayed in with Mom and Kit.
I repeated what I always told myself in my mind. It had to be this way. I was helping.
And I needed to get my ass in gear. I disappear into the bedroom, a punky, pink-haired Gen-Z reject, and when I emerge almost two hours later adjusting diamond hoops in my ears, the pink has been washed out and my more usual blonde hair flows down my back in waves. Gone are the leggings and the tank top and in their place more elegant and tastefully sexy attire. I lean down, adjusting the strap on the silver stiletto heels I wear, reminding myself that this was for him and he’d specially requested the footwear.
I check the texts on my pink phone again, perusing the profile I'd been sent, my heels clicking across the floor as I make my way into the kitchen to drop my gum into the trash. None of that tonight. Tonight, Sloane Taylor was another person, entirely, the most pleasant, gregarious version of my authentic self.
Yeah, it disgusts me sometimes, too.
Dropping my keys into a much smaller clutch that matches my dress along with the pink phone, I slip out of the apartment as quickly as I'd entered, making my way to the restaurant I'd been sent, firing off a text of my imminent arrival. As soon as my Uber driver pulls up to the curb, a distinguished older gentleman in a suit steps forward, conversing with the driver quietly and paying my fare before coming around to open the door for me. Once that door opens, I have a megawatt, blinding smile in place, my hand held out to him as he helps me from the car, bestowing a kiss to my knuckles along with a gentlemanly bow.
It was all very perfunctory.
“Ms. Talbot, you're as lovely as your profile purported. It's a pleasure to meet you. I assume you know the role you're meant to play?” he asks politely, offering me his arm. I slip my arm within his easily, giving it that little squeeze that we women do when men flex their bicep in that pose, our nonverbal communication that we appreciate how fit they are, even if they aren't.
Stroke his ego. Nothing else.
“Of course, I'm to be your arm candy for the evening and make all of your friends positively green with jealousy,” I murmur smoothly. Normally, I had more warning before a night like tonight, but I'd been told the money was substantial. With that in mind, I cast a beaming look up at him. “And please, call me Sheridan.”
I bet you weren’t expecting that. Yeah, me neither, but things happen.
On to more important things, like the WrestleStock Open Cup rapidly approaching in Cincinnati. My opponent in the first round felt himself confident enough to make “bold predictions” based on little to no evidence or research of his competition, but then he refers to WrestleStock as Woodstock so I can't say I'm terribly surprised.
I have a few “bold predictions” of my own.
The name 'Vain' Alan Wallace yields quite a few results immediately upon searching him out. We all know the type, an ego-maniacal wealthy man with a body from the gods who believes himself heaven-sent in all he does. Except, with Mr. Wallace, these delusions only seem to carry him so far before he begins to wallow in his own seeming ineptitude and self-pity. From what I've been able to glean, it's a repetitive cycle that can be brought on fairly easily for someone with so many accolades. It does make me wonder exactly how truthful this whole ego business is, or if it's just a mask he wears.
It seems Alan Wallace has recently come to terms with the fact that he has to let go of his past and all the things he's accomplished in it because no one cares about the past. Not only is that far from true, but it's an epiphany he's had many times over if my search results can be believed. If past accolades mean nothing, then beating someone with them means nothing. Saying that the past means nothing is a fallacy used by those who wish they had the skills, talents, and accolades that Mr. Wallace does. I have no desire to denigrate his achievements. Mr. Wallace, you may be the one I'm most looking forward to stepping into the ring with, a legend and a true great in this industry, and I'm excited to test my skills against someone of your stature.
But that can only happen if you take Robbie Bourbon down in the first round. Now, the little I've been able to find on Mr. Bourbon, he's a part of the same company as my first round opponent, Mastermind, and it seems he's beaten someone of note who UGWC is familiar with and has a history with WrestleStock- Sarah Lacklan, former WrestleStock Open winner from a couple of years ago.
That's important.
Because while I can't find much on Mr. Bourbon, that win is significant. Sarah Lacklan has already done what I'm setting out to do, and this man stopped her in her tracks. It would appear that this particular first round match will be a battle of the egos, seeing as how Mr. Bourbon feels that WrestleStock just wouldn't matter without him. I can't seem to find any instance where he's participated before, and they all seemed to matter just fine, so I'm not sure what he's basing this information off of.
My prediction and hope: 'Vain' Alan Wallace takes the win after a hard fought battle. Mr. Bourbon is a large man and I don't doubt his skill, but Mr. Wallace seems to be on a redemptive arc, and that adds fuel to a fire.
The next match on the first day of the WrestleStock festival is one between Crystal Zdunich and Travis Pierce. A quick search of Crystal's name (I'm not even bothering to try to pronounce or continually type that last name, I have no desire to make a fool of myself this early in the game) shows that she's a fourteen-time world champion, a four-time hall of famer, owner of Rose Productions (whatever that is), and she also owns a team in the LFL, the Detroit Rampage. She's quite the successful entrepreneur and businesswoman, it seems, talented to boot, but a quick perusal of her Twitter account shows a different story, one of a woman very much in need of validation and frequently prone to mood swings.
There's also not one single mention on her Twitter feed of her participation in the UGWC WrestleStock Open, and she's been active. Seeing that, or not seeing it as the case may be, leads me to wonder if she forgot she was involved in the festival or just doesn't care.
Either way, it doesn't take much to foresee UGWC's own Travis Pierce as the inevitable winner in this round. Head of the Piercing Media Network and part of the elite Grand Slam winners in UGWC, he does seem to be rather hit or miss, but the man is a veteran both in and out of the ring. A former Creative Director, and it appears he has a vested interest in the WrestleStock Open, being the one who created the entire competition. What a feather in his cap, to have seen the successes of his creation all these years and then finally stand at the top himself?
In the third Open match of the day, Hide Yamazaki is my only other competitor besides Mastermind to have put something up. Imagine my surprise when I watched the man eat a series of No. 2 pencils. Yes, you read that right, he ate pencils. I'm not sure if that's a regular thing, but his manager didn't seem especially surprised by it, so....
In case you couldn't tell, the man is crazy. I try not to use that term lightly, but how else do you describe someone who sets himself up not as a pencil sharpener but as a pencil disposal system? Lead causes brain damage, folks. When watching wrestling with my Dad, there were always these types, these big, brutish, exceedingly violent guys who had managers who let you know they were “dangerous” and “crazy”, etc, and the big guys spoke in grunts or sometimes nonsensical screams to further illustrate their insanity and viciousness. Know what they didn't do? Eat pencils. So yeah, I buy it.
But he's got himself up against a man who has caused me to roll my eyes on more than one occasion since I've signed the dotted line to place myself in this competition. Ahem. Sebastian Everett-Bryce III. The little shit. Okay, he's not little and considering I've now looked at his history and accomplishments, he isn't a shit either. Mostly. Have you seen what the man posts on Twitter, excuse me, what whoever runs it for him posts on there? Of all the utterly insufferable... but I digress.
My initial search of Sebastian Everett-Bryce yielded some... interesting results. So you know, if you see what is apparently a breaking news headline on the gossip sites of “SEB III's Ex Involved in Most Brutal Handixxxap Match of All Time”, don't be like me and think it's a weird typo, and for the love of God, DON'T CLICK THE VIDEO. I did. Seems his ex likes getting double-teamed by London-based wrestlers. To each their own.
No disrespect to Hide Yamazaki, but while Sebastian is somewhat obnoxious and really, really seems to love Nando's, he's no pencil, not even a bundle of him. I fully expect Everett-Bryce to live to tweet yet another profoundly empty motivational quote for the next round.
Which leads me to my own match and opponent, Mastermind. Now, I've seen your accolades, and you've been in this industry for quite a while, and for those things alone, you've earned my respect. And so, it's with respect that I will be the one who goes on to the next round; I'm going to do what no one expects of me, the underdog, the girl who has thrown herself into a minefield for her very first professional wrestling outing.
I'm going to win.
That starts with Mastermind, and it will continue on to the next round, and the next, no matter who I meet there, no matter if my predictions prove correct or not, because you see, I have what everyone in this field seems to be missing.
I have heart, I have determination, and I have the drive to succeed. I'm hungry, and it isn't for pencils, for Nando's, for adoration, or for validation. I want this more than anything I've ever wanted in my life, and by 'this', I don't just mean the WrestleStock Cup. I want this life, I want this career, I want to be the one who fresh, new wrestlers look to as inspiration.
Sloane Taylor did it, I can too. And I'll say, yes you can, but you have to earn it.
I'm going to earn it. I'm going to make everyone sit up and take notice. You will remember my name, every last one of you.
Starting July 4th, I'm going to show the UGWC universe what the 'Sky Queen' is capable of. I'll see you all then. Just remember, the skies are mine.
Good luck.
x2
2013, '18, '23 
2013 
