Post by cooltubesource on Aug 7, 2019 21:52:39 GMT -5
HIIIIIII-iiiiiiii
This is your reason for being, the proof in the pudding that Rapunzel>Aurora, Sarah Grey-Lacklan here….
MARKETING GENIUS
...and hooooo BOY has it been a busy few weeks! The Coaltion, that pinnacle and crown jewel of the professional wrestling world, is heading into a part of the season where ALL the marbles are up for grabs, and that’s even BEFORE Outlast! Because Grand Slam is an event geared towards a CRAXILLY massive match for ALL the singles gold between two of my #CoolKidSistren in Angie and Roxy, AND my Beloved fights off the WrestleStock Cup winner in Sloane with the Cooperative Championships on the line. But! Oh….BUT! The REAL match, the REAL battle for ALL THE IMPORTANT THINGS isn’t one of those!
...what? NO! No, it is NOT Vain vs. Pierce! That idea is as stupid as a Mini Morbid “promo” in a fictitious hallway! Just about NO ONE cares about Vain beating the everliving SNOT out of T-Pie in a match so one-sided that even squash enthusiast Salvatore is green with envy! And its ALSO not about #1 contenders matches to determine who gets to do the big ol’ J-O-B to my sistren next! NOPE! Its all about….
Outlast.
I get the opportunity to kick Zane Scott in the head over and over and over again until he’s just kinda staring up at the lights and wondering what day it is so that I can captain an Outlast team. And THAT is what is important. THAT is what MATTERS at this Pay Per View event. Because the REALITY is that when I AM an Outlast captain again, I will be able to create a team of winners who will propel me to the elimination round where I WILL then become World Champion. I almost kinda want Rox and Ang to just kinda take a powder, really, because while whoever wins WILL be able to add that “Grand Slam Winner” tag to their name, they won’t be able to be World Champion for too much longer. Because THAT is the prize!
Now, I’m sure there are SOME PEOPLE who are all “ERMAHGERD SAR WHY ARE YOU SO ARROGANT” and those people, as I have discussed recently, are morons. Like, if you take all of the Jet fans in the world, add them to the amount of people who can “Pull a Raab,” divide them by the amount of wins Gabby is going to have after this show (dividing by zero is bad, right?) and multiply by the VAST amount of shitty takes that spew forth from Johnny’s old, crusty, disgusting lips, you’d get a pool of gross that amounts to idiots online who don’t realize how RIGHT I am all the time! All of THOSE idiots are SO obsessed with being nice or kind or respectful that they compLETEly miss the forest for the trees of this business! Because the chance of a listless, rudderless, directionless, emotionless hunk of boring old man like Zane can defeat this THOROUGHBRED of wrestling is as small as Yamazaki getting that public speaking job he’s been sending apps in for. The chance of Zane being able to cast off a whole goddamn year of FAILURE; of cutting promos against the wrong opponent and not having the balls to admit it and laugh it off; of being forced to fail upward and get World Title shots because, well shit, Roxy and Kenzi were already booked and we gotta feed SOMEONE to Angie; of systematically losing every single one of the Triple Champion honors he holds so dearly; of being in a position where the entire BUSINESS is better off with him just handing over any championships that he never would have won anyway; of-
wait
wait
Ya know what? I don’t need to talk ABOUT Zane.
I should talk TO Zane.
Because what I have to say about Zane? What I have to say about making my case of his minuscule chance of becoming an Outlast captain for a shot at a title he neither wants nor deserves?
Its personal.
So do me a favor, baby birds: Got take a walk. I’ll give you some time. I want to have a moment of intimacy with Zane Scott.
See you in a bit.
* * * * * * * * * *
Dark figures move across a field of green under a full moon. Silently the two step, both crouched low to the ground, their feet encased in black slippers stepping with toes pointed in the grass. Each wears a suit of black which covers them from the top of their slippers to the end of their necks, from shoulders to fingers, and clings to their curves. Both are decidedly feminine, with one shorter and well-rounded, the other taller and thinner, with long legs. Each wears a black mask which covers their face to show only their eyes, both a marbled blue, and allows for long braids of hair to trail from their head and down their backs; the bright white of the moon for the shorter of the two, the pale yellow of gold for the taller. A backpack is slung over each of their shoulders, both as seamlessly black as their suits.
The two stop suddenly as the sound of a bird cuts through the air, the two freezing mid stride. The shorter holds a finger to the taller and then raises her head into the air and lets out a soft cooing sound. After a moment of silence, a flutter of wings fills the air and the bird call comes again. The shorter woman’s fingers move in quick fashion in a complicated series of gestures. The taller woman nods her head and responds with her own series of gestures. Setting their heads down, the two move further into the night.
Before them stands an oddly-shaped house of white, that of a dome with two spiraling staircases whirling from the ground to a second floor balcony. Before the house is a circling driveway with a black car in front, a car which beckons the memory of talking AI and riding in the night. The two women stealth their way to the front of the house, careful to stay in the shadows created by the bright florescent at the front, and begin to ascend one of the staircases. Halfway up, the two again freeze in place, bodies becoming rigid, as two small balls of light shine before them. A low growl is heard as the lights move closer to the two and a small black cat walks out of the darkness and into the light. The cat growls louder at the two, its back beginning to curl upward, as two more lights approach, these turning into a white cat. The white cat joins its brethren in the growl and stretched back, the two seeming far more feral than would be expected of cats at a residence.
The heads snap to the taller woman as she makes a high-pitched trilling noise with her tongue. The two growl more, but then the taller woman slowly moves towards them, lowering herself to the ground, while lightly snapping her fingers. Once down to the steps, she reaches out her hand toward them, allowing them to smell her. The two oblige, their eyes showing warranted concern, but after a few sniffs the two begin to purr, their entire countenance changed. Seeming out of nowhere, the woman produces a handful of tiny brown objects in the shape of fish and chickens, and she sets them upon the step. Without hesitation, the two cats attack the treats with loud crunches. The woman looks up to the shorter one and gives a thumbs up, which is returned in kind.
Up the stairs they go, reaching the top without any further waylay, where a double door of windows stands before them. The shorter woman reaches into her backpack and pulls out a key, to which she places into the lock of the door. A slow turn and a Click! greets them before the woman slowly pulls the door towards them. Into the house they trod but then they again stop, the shorter woman holding up a closed fist. But a few steps into the house, they are greeted by the sound of a television blaring loudly. Moving again but ever more slowly, the two proceed forward and through a hall where they come into a room filled with the dancing lights of the suspected television set. An odd array of characters are on the screen, including a Witch Queen expressing her undying love for Papi, but their matching blue eyes move to the figure slumped over onto a couch. With long black braids falling all around her face and a slight sheen of drool catching the light, a dark-skinned woman in brown silk pajamas slumbers, a half-empty bowl of popcorn at her side. The two women exchange another set of gestures and move on from the room, stepping even softer than before.
A right. A left. Two rights, three lefts, and through a hidden door within a bookshelf. The two stand before a large metal door fixed with multiple monitors. As they approach, a mechanical voice splits the air, loud enough in the quiet to make them jump slightly.
*****HAND PRINT IDENTIFICATION*****
The shorter woman sets down her bag and removes the glove on her right hand to reveal skin as pale as her hair with nails painted black, red, and orange. She places her hand on the first monitor, splaying out her fingers, and a light moves left and right, scanning her hand.
*****RETINAL IDENTIFICATION*****
Again, the voice rises from the door and seems too loud in the quiet night. The woman removes her other glove and then places her pale hands to her face. Into the eye slit of the mask they go as she bends over, and after a moment, she leans back up, two clear lenses attached to her forefingers. And where before there were two marble blue eyes, now two tiny dots of red stand out against the black mask. The woman leans into the second monitor and a light flashes back and forth, scanning.
****VOICE IDENTIFICATION*****
The woman clears her throat after the voice’s demand and then sings. Starting at the bottom of the register, she sings a clear note which rises up the frequency, gaining volume as she does, a round AH from C to C. The note cuts off smoothly, leaving her beautiful tone to resonate in the room, before the metal door before them begins to split from the center and pull towards the walls on either side. The two women rush forward after the shorter takes up her bag, and they slip through the open door before it closes once again behind them.
“Its...its so beautiful.”
The voice of the taller woman is clear as the room lights up brightly in contrast to what was on the other side. In this room, illuminated by the bright white, is row after row of shelving along the walls, each shelf full of shoes. Shoes of all sorts, shapes, styles, and colors. Heels. Flats. Boots. Most glittering in the light with gems or other bedazzlement.
“...no matter how many times I see it…”
The taller woman sets her bag down and reaches up to her mask. Pulling it free from her head, Angelica Vaughn snaps her golden braid to the side, and her blue eyes shine with unshed tears.
“There are so many, Sar-Sar. I...I just can’t…”
Next to her, the shorter figure sets down her own back and follows the motions of Angie, pulling the mask free and letting her platinum braid swing. Reaching into the backpack, Sarah Grey-Lacklan produces a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and places them upon her face, her red eyes blinking several times before finding focus.
“It IS a thing of beauty, isn’t it? Oh...shoes! Glorious SHOES!”
Sarah spins in a circle for a moment, but the breadth of a hair away from song and dance.
“And now there are MORE BABIES!”
Sarah giggles as she skips over to her backpack and opens it to reveal several pairs of shoes. Angie claps her hands together and opens her own bag to reveal even more shoes. Both of their eyes glisten more as they hold each in turn, feeling every soft curve and spiked heel, their movements nearly identical.
“Thanks for coming with me, Ang. My Beloved would be LIVID if she knew I ALREADY spent most of the $25,000 I won at Leap of Faith.”
Angie looks up from a pair of green pumps with a raised eyebrow.
“$25,000? I thought the prize money was $50,000?”
Sarah scrunches her mouth into dourness as she moves from a pair of simple grey flats to a leather knee-high boot.
“It WAS. But SOMEBODY insisted that we NOT use all the money because I MAY or may NOT have spend a TON of HER money. Accidentally.”
Angie’s eyebrow goes even higher and Sarah sighs.
“Kenzi won $25,000 last year in her first MMA fight for having the fight of the night. It was SUPER sexy seeing her doing MMA and I was basically the streets of L.A. during a flood, right? And so I-”
Angie looks away quickly while mumbling “...tmi, si...er...friend…” but Sarah doesn’t notice.
“-took that money and bought her TONS of jewelry! Because bitches love diamonds, right? And she gets all KINDS of ‘OMG babe! We could have used that money for things we NEED! Like food!’ or whatever, but its not like she’s even taken the jewelry BACK or anything. In fact, this one time, she wore literally nothing BUT the jewelry when we went to bed and-”
Angie uses the next three minutes of unnecessarily graphic detail to think about her farm, a tactic she has to use far too often, in her opinion.
“-and so that’s what it means when we tell each other to go frost themselves! Anyway, Mrs. Penny-Pincher immediately snagged half of MY prize money in order to fund some dumb project about an ‘American Hero’ or some dumb shit. Christ, I HATE Peter Van Parker.”
Sarah shakes her head and pushes herself up to her feet.
“C’mon, help me find the PERFECT place for all of my NEW babies! I want to make sure they get along with their sisters! Because sisters should ALWAYS get along...no matter WHAT!”
Sarah turns and skips towards one of the racks of shoes and thus misses the sudden look of panic and fear spread across Angie’s face. The Chaotic World Champion slowly let out a breath threw her mouth and plants a smile on her face before joining Sarah. The two find places for all of Sarah’s new shoes, even going so far as to give welcoming proclamations for every pair. As they all find new homes, they take time to look at various other shoes and giggle over some of the adventures they had shared. The ice skates from when the two worked on their pairs skating routine in Maine at Christmas. The black and red cogs from when they first went to the Cal Baptist Church in Hollywood. Her green and gold wrestling shoes from when they wrestled as Team Heel Shit Up.
“...Sar-Sar? Are you okay?”
Sarah had stopped cold before a pair of heels. Black leather with a sharply pointed heel, this pair was covered in purple feathers. Her eyes were locked on them and the hands at her side gave a little shake.
“...Sarah?”
“...um….I….”
Her voice shakes with her hands as she stares at the shoes.
“...um…”
She closes her eyes and turns her head while her hand reaches up and grips the bridge of her nose. Angie takes a step towards her but Sarah opens her eyes again and turns her way.
“...nothing. They’re nothing. Um...c’mon...we better get out of here before Kenzi wakes up. She's already totes mad at me about this whole 'trusting Sloane' thing...and about how I treat Donovan like garbage...AND about how I'm mean to a bunch of her friends...which isn't true, obvs, because I'm a total freakin' angel to ALL of her friends..."
Sarah doesn't notice the look of disbelief on Angie's face over THAT particular lie.
"...As far as she knows, we went to church! Gotta bust out our Bibles so she that what she still thinks!”
Sarah smiles and skips past Angie but the World Champion keeps her eyes on the odd pair of shoes for a long moment.
* * * * * * * * * *
Hello Zane
I have a question for you, and no, its not about the nature of birds. But one of reading:
Have you ever read the Wheel of Time?
Its this fantasy series, okay? Magic and swords and other dumb shit, right? And there is a TON of Lord of the Rings in it. A SHIT ton. General themes of fighting the shadow both from within and without, dudes in black hunting the good guys on horseback, said good guys starting in a peaceful farming community and ultimately getting to a mountain of death, LOTS of stuff. And the author (or second author, long story) was asked in an interview if the entire series wasn’t just a blatant ripoff of Tolkien, right? Dude’s got a point! But! BUT! The author? His response was to tell the interviewer that saying that the series was a ripoff of Tolkien's work is like saying that Lord of the Rings is a rip-off of Beowulf: Technically correct and also COMPLETELY missing the point.
Totes right...they ARE ripping off the work...and totes wrong...because they are using the SPIRIT of it and making something anew. That interviewer totally missed the point.
That’s you, Zaney.
Check this out: I do this thing where I display my ENCYCLOPEDIC knowledge of the Coalition, right? I mean, not just the fed, but the wrestlers and titles and shit, right? I do that everywhere I go! Daddy always preached that research was SUPES important...though not axly that would, obvs...and knowing your opponent, the landscape, the weather, etc, was a big dealio, okay? Its one of the reasons I am SO GOOD at tournaments, even ones in companies I have never been in before, because I know VASTLY more than the majority of the field, and thus have more options. Makes sense, yeah? But its MORE than just the INFO. Its MORE than just “OMG YOU LOST ON THIS DATE AND YOU WON ON THAT DATE.” I know people loathe when someone bases their entire argument about going into a match on a game of Who Beat Who? and there are SOME people who would cry out into the heavens that this is what I do...and they MAY be right technically...but also completely wrong. As my Beloved would say, they are 100% right about being 1000% wrong. Because I don’t just KNOW about tons of stuff...I INTERPRET tons of stuff. I DO things with all that knowledge.
Unlike you.
Listen, I have had my fair share of people trying to muscle in on my bit, okay? Like, I literally just beat down this dude a couple weeks ago who is making his current career trying to copy everything I do. But YOU trying to be ME is just silly. And it bothered me for a sec on an internal level that I couldn’t figure out at first but was able to the more I thought about it. Now, you MAY be wondering what the fuck I’m talking about, so let me bring you back a couple of weeks:
"Everyone listen while I stand here and simply list all of the WrestleStock Champions without any need for context or a reason why it actually matters in this match. Am I doing it right?"
The answer to that is a resounding NOPE. Sure! I do a KILLER job at research. But I DO SOMETHING with that info! When I figure out who you fought and when and why, I use THOSE circumstances to fold into THIS circumstance and create an advantage! I fold WHY you won or lost X match at X time into why you are going to lose THIS one. Like, remember that time I murdered the Kempotamus by destroying her entire life to the point where she was so demoralized going into our match that she basically just gave up? Or when I showed Eden the truth of her partner Jet and how he would not, in fact, be there for her when she needed him? THAT is what all of this is for. THAT is why we research. THAT is why we study. I don’t just “watch tape” so that I can tell people I “watch tape.”
I watch YOU.
And I BEAT you.
You, on the other hand, just “watch tape” for the sake of “watching tape” and clicking on that little check mark on the preparation list. Your “research” is basically some THOT showing up to the gym in full makeup, taking a selfie next to the treadmill and posting “Getting WORK done!” on Instagram, walking at one mile an hour for five minutes, and then going home. Yes! The world SAW you working out...but you didn’t axly DO anything. And THAT, Sir, is the dumb bullshit you threw at ME when you FINALLY got the chance to get your hands on me after I crushed that cinder block into your head.
You listed the WrestleStock Cup winners.
And didn’t offer a damn bit of interpretation, inference, or analysis as to what any of that MEANS or how you were going to USE it.
And HOW did that work out for you?
You ended up staring at the lights like every other wrestler who half-asses it in my ring.
And so there we are, with you as the reporter and me as the author: Your ability to hop on over to the UGWC wiki page is technically correct, but your inability to understand it is wholly missing the point. And THAT is why this is personal, buddy boy! Well, ONE of the reasons, anyway, but I’ll get to the other one in a bit. I do an AMAZING job of taking information and data and turning them into art, but what YOU did is not only lazy, but downright criminal. In fact, if you compare you and I and our approach to this sport that you so “love” it is such a mismatch of quality that a judge would be embarrassed that they even had to say anything.
Sers legit, you’re like the dude driving in the slow lane at 55 miles per hour, neither fast enough to let anyone get on or off and not slow enough to give a ticket to, but I’m the hot chick that you jam on the gas to catch up to in order to take a second look at so that your dreams can be wet for once. Now, I know that some people REALLY want me to wrap this up (I’m ignoring your texts for a reason, Rox!) but ONE OF US has to give a reason for people to give a fuck about the outcome of this match! Because it sure as hell isn’t your robotic delivery of unimaginative flip-flop drivel to which you have been subjecting the entire fanbase! It’s ME and MY fire! It’s ME and MY words!
Ya know what? Before I get into the second reason why this is personal and not just some random match wherein I beat up a dude bigger and stronger than me, I REALLY want to push this point of what you are compared to me, and I’m going to bust out a page from my assistant’s playbook real quick (hope you’re enjoying Junior year, Ax! Kenzi misses you!)
- #CoolRankings, in association with Dark Goddess Productions, presents -
The Competitors to Determine the First Outlast Captain represented as:
The Justice League
Zane: Red Tornado - Ugly Vision rip-off who spent more time crying tears of angst than kicking ass.
Video Game Franchises
Zane: Final Fantasy - Great in the beginning but holy FUCK what a piece of shit they are now!
Movie Endings
Zane: 2012 - Death is coming and mom is all “Are you scared?” and the daughter is all “Nope! I’m potty trained” and the entire audience literally walks out right that second and demands a refund for every movie they have ever seen in their life.
Coffee Drinks
Zane: A half-empty mug of decaf made six hours ago - Because, like, it was probs decent at first and now its just something that sits there and everyone ignores and when they finally DO take a swig they make a cringy face and spit it out before discarding it for someone else to take care of.
Avengers Villains
Sar: Rule 63 Thanos - Because what I am doing? What I am creating? A new world for everyone to enjoy and prosper? I am inevitable.
Zane: The Mandarin - Not even the funny Ben Kinglsey version who was initially all badass with the voice and mannerisms. Just the shitty one that gets murdered by that shitty actress and was never even really a threat.
Get the point yet, buddy? Fuck, I hope so. Because I REALLY want to move on and get to the second reason why this match is personal:
You are making Baby Jesus cry.
Now, HOW do you make Baby Jesus cry? By lying, of course! And YOU, Sir, are a liar. About what, you may ask? About the idea that a whole lot of this wrestling business of winning and losing doesn’t mean a whole lot to you. See, LOTS of people HATE about how I bring up records. They LOATHE it. And you yourself have complained a time or two in the past about how I put stock in that stuff. Though it should be noted that, in my experience, the people who DO complain about it tend to be the ones who do NOT want to be held responsible for their lack of success!
But you! CERTAINLY that is not YOUR problem, right? The “only” triple champ! Grand Slam winner! Global Challenge winner! Outlast winner! ALL the accolades.
But it IS a problem for you.
Because the fact that your ability to win a match within the Coalition is only a teeny, tiny bit better than that of an addled child correctly guessing what side of a coin will land face up when he flips it is potentially THE most pathetic thing I have ever seen in my life.
“OMG SARAH STOP MAKING THINGS UP”
Oh no. No no. I am NOT making up the fact that, with ALL OF YOUR CHAMPIONSHIPS, with ALL OF YOUR BIG WINS, you are STILL only able to get a W 52% of the time. I am NOT making up the fact that, though there are SOME people who roll their eyes over the fact that I am hungrily chasing the milestone of 100 wins, it took YOU over SEVEN FUCKING YEARS in the Coalition to get to that number. And I am NOT making up the fact that this shit? All this wins and losses and how they matter?
They eat you up inside.
It IRKS you to your very goddamn CORE that you are NOT some unstoppable beast. That you are NOT the single greatest thing in the history of this business. That you are NOT on ANYONE’S Mount Rushmore of the UGWC. Ichabod gets named. Eden gets named. Donovan gets named. But you?
YOU?
Your name is nowhere.
And it drives you insane, no matter WHAT nonchalance you try to put off.
Now, HOW do I know this? How do I know that your face over the last year or so has been a facade? Because I know what its like to NOT be what you WANT to be. I know what its like to look in the fucking mirror and see FAILURE no matter how hard you strive. I bear no shame in admitting that whenever anyone says the words “World Champion” my finger spazzes out. My right eye twitches. Because in my admittedly short career, I am zero, two, and one in World Championship opportunities. I was THAT CLOSE to beating Tyson Greggory. I was THAT CLOSE to beating Alan Wallace. I was THAT CLOSE to beating Erik Holland before we drew. I have been THAT CLOSE to being THE World’s Champion.
And it fucking eats me alive.
And because of that, because I know what lying eyes look like in the mirror, I see you for the liar you are.
It KILLS you that everyone looks at your history of bloodshed and violence within UGWC and ignores it in favor of Deimos.
It KILLS you that everyone looks at your championship pedigree and rolls their eyes while they look at Vain and Donovan.
It KILLS you that the Syndicate is only thought of as the “best” or “most influential” UGWC stable by those trying to not hurt your feelings while the rest see the REALITY of the #CoolKids, who have held the majority of the championships in this company for a goddamn YEAR.
It KILLS you that your legit MONSTER run of 13 wins in a freakin’ row was not only six goddamn years ago, but was MATCHED by both Kenzi AND Angie last year.
It KILLS you that your pride and joy, your baby, literally your only true claim to fame, the fact that you are the ONLY “triple champion” in UGWC history is going to become a falsehood at Grand Slam, because regardless of the outcome of the main event, there WILL be a SECOND person to hold three of the four championships at the same time.
And they will have done it in a THIRD of the time within this company that you have.
And THAT, Zane Scott, is what keeps you awake at night. That is why Kenzi gets under your skin so bad when she clowns you and calls you on your shit. That is why you get flummoxed when people blow off your “advice.” That is why you shake with rage when you catch people giggling about your self-importance. That is why you are doing anything and everything to present a face which speaks against the truth, to avoid the responsibility of consistent success, to play down anyone who doesn’t fall for the dumb shit that flies out of your mouth with that slothful energy you think is excitement.
And THAT, Zane Scott, is why this matters to me. Because I abhor liars. I abhor bullshit. I abhor the people in this business who would hold up mediocrity and expect it to be worshiped by the masses as if the Word from Mt Horeb. I abhor those who think that, championship valor or no, a coin flip equates to legendary status. And at Grand Slam, I am going to expose you for what you are:
Someone so obsessed with their own dreams of being in the Hall of Fame that they have failed to realize they are nothing more than fodder for the curtain’s jerk. You have spent a LOT of time over the years acting as if every win and loss, despite circumstance, context, or stake, is just another day at the office, but I am going to show the entire world that giving a shit MATTERS, that being an Outlast captain MATTERS, and the look of pain and loss in your eye that you are too afraid to show the world as you get your shoulders pinned to the mat is going to be precious to me.
I have no love lost for Donovan Hastings, but I am going to enjoy proving that he was right about you.
* * * * * * * * * *
scritch scritch scritch
click click click
The click of Sarah’ heels as she paced played counterpoint to the scritch of Dr. Reznik’s pen as he wrote on his pad of paper.
scritch click
scritch click
scritch click
“That is an interesting color, Madam.”
Sarah instinctively reached up to rub her eyes. Surrounded by a cloud of orange electronic cigarette fog, she looks particularly tired today.
“They hurt.”
“Then why do you wear them? I have seen you in them more than not, lately.”
Sarah rubs her eyes again and sighs.
“Practice.”
With her glasses safely stored away in their velvet bag in her purse, Sarah wore her contacts. Today’s color was lavender, a purple and pink hybrid which matched the trim of her black dress and stood out against her moonlight skin as sharply as her natural red ever did.
“I only wear them while working, but they hurt. FUCK, they hurt. I figured maybe if I wore them more often, I’d get used to it.”
“Any luck so far?”
“FUCK no.”
The balding psychiatrist with the skeletal face raises an eyebrow as she continues to pace in his office, six heavy steps in one direction, a slow spin on her heels, and six steps in the other.
“Quite the blue language today, Madam.”
Sarah sighs again as she reaches one end of his office.
“I apologize, Dr. Reznik. Just...stressed.”
He looks back down to his pad as he writes.
“Lavender. Thinking of your father?”
Sarah’s feet stomp a touch harder at that last work. She takes a large puff of the electronic cigarette and lets the organge smoke billow above her hread. She grimaces as the smoke rises.
“This doesn’t do ANYTHING. God, I’d kill for a cigarette.”
“...avoiding...”
She shoots a look to the top of the psychiatrist’s head before continuing on.
“Yes. No. Maybe? I don’t know.”
She turns at the other wall.
“Maybe more something he told me about. Something he said.”
The doctor remains silent outside of the sound of his pen scratching on the paper, and Sarah fills the silence as she begins to pace again.
“He told me to watch out for people, right? For special people. People who would change who I am. Mold me. I’m sure he never expected my soulmate to be a black woman, but hey, it happened. And I THINK I found my rival, though she’s kinda fallen into some shit-filled gutter over the last year. But more importantly than that, I THINK I found my Creature.”
The scratching of the pen stops suddenly but Sarah continues her pacing without seeming to notice.
“See, Daddy told me the story a bajillion times. He had taken some time off to nurse some injuries...those damned kidneys of his...and was looking to get back in the ring, right? And he saw this man in a league, right? The Champion was this dude in a dragon mask...like, legit looked like a Japanese dragon with his gear, ya know...and he became obSESSed with him. This dude...Creature was his name...was KILLER. Could fly, could kick, could talk. He was a CRAXY champ and Daddy was determined to not only BEAT him but to ABSORB him.”
She shakes her head as she goes the other direction.
“He never did, though. At least, not wholly. Creach was the snake in the tattoo on my father’s chest, the one swirled around the fist that was clutching the sword. Creach was TOO good and Daddy never beat him. Hell, that’s where I got the Abyss reverse DDT from! Anyway, one of the lessons Daddy preached was to look for MY Creature. Look for a World Champion whom I could not only respect as a wrestler, but as a PERSON and as a FORCE.”
She stops dead in her tracks and blows out a large puff of orange vapor.
“My Creature is dead.”
She begins to pace again after a moment. Eventually, the doctor’s pen begins to scratch again, though a keen eye would notice that it did so with a slight quiver in its form. But Sarah was too shaken in her own musings to notice.
“And the last thing she said to me...the very last fucking thing...was to call me a cancer.”
She shakes her head as she paces and the doctor takes notes.
“I’ve been in a lot of feds, ya know? Daddy’s freelancer spirit lives in me. I’ve seen a lot of champions. Hell, I’ve BEEN a lot of champions. But there was something about her...”
A spin of her heel from one direction to the next.
“I debuted in the UGWC the night of this big battle royal, right? But SHE was champion and fighting this dude. She retained...because of course she did...and I was legit blown away by her. Dark hair. Piercing eyes. KILLER shoes. And she had this...this...WAY she carried herself. When I joined the company full time and got to know her, that SOMETHING about her grew even MORE. It was like I KNEW her, or something. I even started to call her Auntie because it felt ‘right,’ if that makes sense. Daddy didn’t have any siblings...and I barely know Mumsie’s family...but she just...FELT...like family.”
Her coat flies as she spins to head the other direction and more orange vapor fills the air.
“She blew me off for a LONG time. She would do this thing where I'd try to ask her something, and she'd be all aloof and superior, but as soon as everyone wasn't looking, she'd shoot me a wink or something. And then BLAM! Back to Ice Queen when people were looking again and I was all sorts of confuzzled. But after about a year or so, everything changed. Not only did she FINALLY notice my existence...she basically took me in. It really WAS like she was my Auntie. Most of what she had to say about life and the wrestling business was familiar to me. She understood the importance of subterfuge and manipulation, understood the sweet beauty of suckering someone in before you kick them in the groan or stab them in the back. My Beloved doesn’t ‘get’ that part, not really. She prefers a full frontal assault. And that IS fun to do, but it is ALSO fun to hand someone a poisoned apple, and Auntie understood that. She was VERY good at it. And then, just as fast as it started, it all ended. She became more and more insular, and at the end, all she cared about was one other person. And everything else? Including me? Naught but the dust of life.”
She stops in the middle of her path and clutches the bridge of her nose in an attempt to push away the pain of stress. She sighs as she keeps her eyes clenched.
“We said some nasty things to one another. Nasty. I was so...MAD...at her for taking...what..what we built? What she and I were working towards? And just THROWING It away. Just like fucking Nikita.”
Her voice filled with venom at those last two words, she growls and begins to pace once more.
“I was so mad...and disappointed...that I didn’t even go to her funeral. My Beloved did...because she’s a better person than I am, obvs...but I don’t think she understood why I didn’t.”
“Do you?”
Sarah remains silent as she paces, avoiding the question as the psychiatrist writes his never-ending stream of note, the silence stretching.
“This is the first you have spoken of this champion. Why now?”
Sarah stays silent as she paces a few more seconds before coming to a stop in the center and pulling up her skirts to reveal her shoes.
“These.”
Tall with a stiletto heel, the black shoes were covered in purple feathers.
“She gave them to me. She gave me a few different pairs of shoes...including a pair when she reminded me what she ultimately thought of me...but these are special. These FIT, if that makes sense. Like she slunk herself down into a Lacklan Family Reunion and gave me a double kiss on the cheek. And then fucking walked out on me. Ya know, she gave me a mask once?”
The doctor shakes his head but Sarah’s gaze is out the window and down the two flights to the sidewalk below.
“Everyone did, of course. But I was different. I was special.”
She shakes her head as she looks out the window.
“The guy I am fighting next? Zane? Big lug. Quiet. Monotone. But he spent the better part of the beginning of the year crying over her death. Pretty pathetic, huh? Me? I likened her to Hitler when it came to why we should cry over a terrible person. I-”
“Sounds to me as if you are jealous.”
Sarah whirls around to face Dr. Reznik, the purple eyes wide with incredulity.
“What?! How would...I never...that I could ever...what?!”
Sarah’s stammer is met with a matter of fact tone from the balding doctor.
“This man dealt with the loss of this woman. You have not. And I think you are jealous of that fact and are throwing out anger in response.”
Sarah’s jaw falls low enough to hit her collarbone.
“I...I never...what the...how could you...there is NOTHING that Zane Scott has EVER done better than-”
“Madam, in the last two years, you have suffered the deaths of your father and your godmother, as well as an accident which left you in a wheelchair and the realization that you should not bear children, regardless of your desire.”
The man sets his pen down in a rare moment and regards her intensely.
“And on top of that, you lost a hopeful mentor, yet another in your endless search for a matron to replace the one you lost at your birth, all the while ignoring the one who IS in your life, and all without actually dealing with the pain involved.”
Sarah’s mouth opens and closes several times but no words come out. The doctor gives a slight sigh as he picks up his pen once more.
“You were little when your father brought you here to talk about your mother. You cried for days when you finally realized you would never get to meet her. Much of your anger was sated for a time afterward. You are in need of that now, I believe. You have yet to come to grips with your grief over many things. You have get to allow yourself to hurt so that you can move on. And until you let go of that pain, you won’t-”
“FUCK Eden Morgan!”
Sarah’s voice is full of venom.
“FUCK my world champion! FUCK her stupid winks. FUCK her stupid shoes. And FUCK how I feel about her abandoning me! Just...just...oh, FUCK THIS!”
Sarah storms from the room, pushing the door open forceful enough to allow it to slam against the wall. In her rage, she doesn’t hear the doctor return to his maddening note-taking, and instead walks down the hall and down the stairs, the heels of her shoes clacking loudly in the confined space. Out the door she goes, past the nice woman at the front who called out the question of if she would like to book her next appointment, and out the double doors of the office, her eyes clenching shut in pain at the sudden intrusion of light. Out to the front of her car, carelessly parked across three spaces, yet another citation held in place on her windshield flapping in the hot Los Angeles breeze.
Back and forth she paces.
Plumes of orange vapor.
“Fuck ALL of this.”
She stops in front of her car and plops her purse atop the front, rummaging around within, the twin puffy white ears of Lil’ Has the dwarf bunny moving two and fro in her home while her mama searches. After a moment, Sarah pulls out a notepad and one of her feathered pens, this one a black feather with a silvery sheen. She writes a few lines on the paper and rips it free from the pad before replacing it. She pulls out her phone, the clunky outdated monstrosity her pride doesn’t allow her to replace, and starts a video.
“Zane.”
Sarah paces a few more steps in quick movements as she raises her hand to the front of her head and pushes her fingers into her hair, dislodging some of her meticulous braid.
“You want to be Mr. Professional? You want to be the guy who does his ‘job’ of providing a future for wrestling? You want to be some kind of gatekeeper? Well, let ME tell YOU what YOUR job is!”
She stops pacing and stands before the camera phone.
“Your JOB at Grand Slam is to LOSE. Your JOB is to get the fuck beat out of you by ME. Your JOB is to be the EXAMPLE of every bullshit artist slinging a never-ending slue of hypocrisy and idiocy in the face of what wrestling MEANS. Your JOB is to lose to ME. Your JOB is to get beat, to stare up at the lights, to tap your shoulder in a frantic panic before you shit yourself from the pain of my chickenwing. Your JOB is to lose so that I become an Outlast captain. Your JOB is to lose so that I pick a team of excellence. Your JOB is to lose so that I FINALLY make it through to the championship round. Your JOB is to LOSE so that I-”
Sarah’s voice grows and grows with a guttural rasp, her face turning red.
“-I-”
She steps closer to the phone, her hand clenching her into further disarray, and her eyes are wide, the lavender contacts offering a feeling of mania to play concert with the anger.
“-I DEFEAT ANGELICA VAUGHN!”
She breathes deeply, her body rising and falling in great movements, as her face slowly loses its flush and returns to the pale moonlight.
“Your job…”
Her voice is softer, though still with the throaty rasp.
“...is to help usher in a NEW World’s Champion. So that little girls all around the world can look at me...can look AT ME...and see THEIR champion. See THEIR Creature. See THEIR Eden Morgan.”
She rips off the top piece of her notepad and regards it with her angry eyes.
“Mind the flames.”
She stares at the screen for a moment and then places the paper atop the screen so that the words dominate the view:
Past, Present, Future
To set the world on fire
Inevitable
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