Post by cooltubesource on Nov 16, 2019 19:32:51 GMT -5
The door of the shabby hotel opens and haggard red eyes look in. Sarah Grey-Lacklan, vaunted “quadruple champion,” seems the very picture of exhaustion, depression, and rage. Her platinum hair ragged and messy, as if swept by a particularly spiteful wind; the sharp features of her face, the high cheekbones and pointed chin, seem rounded; the colorless eyes of the rarest of albinos, flashing red when exposed to light, lined with red behind the thick glasses and surrounded by purple; the moonlight skin without its usual flush of painted color. The shoulders beneath the puffy green and purple dress droop, despite the turn-of-the-century era pads, slump with the rest of her body, her back curling instead of being the ramrod straight of legend. In one hand she holds a briefcase, black and red in color, but in her other, curled under her arm, is the oddest thing:
A full-sized cardboard cutout of the current UGWC Chaos Champion, Kenzi Grey.
“...fuck me in the goat ass…”
Sarah’s voice sounds as tired as her body looks. She walks into the room with heavy steps, the sight of a cart full of luggage behind her which matches the briefcase, and slumps toward the small “living” area of the room. She sets the briefcase down on the table and uses both hands to stand up the cutout. The cardboard of the smiling Kenzi is indeed life-size, the board’s chocolate eyes meeting at the level of Sarah’s odd bespectacled red, and she smiles while holding the 2018 WrestleStock Cup. Sarah sighs as she plops down into the lone chair next to the table with a resigned weight which moves the chair, and she opens the briefcase. Inside, four championship belts, all with their leather straps folded neatly behind the golden faceplates, shine up at her, the UGWC World Heavyweight Championship on top. She pulls that most important title belt out and slings it over one of her slumping shoulders, so that the wide plate nearly takes up her entire chest, and then reaches into a side pocket of the briefcase and takes out her iPhone, the cover of which features a picture of the Grey-Lacklans pressing their foreheads together in their typical display of intimate affection. After a few presses of buttons, she does her best to smile as she begins to record.
Hello there, Fang Gang
My apologies if I do not seem to be at my most chipper and bright, but I have had a terrible day. Horrendous. Excruciating, really. Not the WORST day of my life, mind you. That would have been the day of my accident, the day I flew into a wall, ended up in surgery and a coma, and had precious time of my marriage ripped from me. So no, not my worst day. Not my second worst day ever, either. THAT was the day I literally watched cancer kill my father right before my very eyes. And, to be fair, not my third worst day, either. THAT was when my Beloved and I found ourselves screaming at each other in a movie theatre parking lot. We hurt each other so much that night that, had cooler heads and hearts not prevailed after some time away from one another, the Grey-Lacklans would have never been a thing, and the entire world would be darker for it. So, no, not my third worst day ever. But fourth? It makes a good case for being the fourth worst day of my life.
I would like, if I may, to tell you about it.
~~Tuesday, November 12th, 2019~~
The back door of the bright yellow Taxi parked in the white zone in front of Chicago’s famous O’Hare International Airport opens and the UGWC World Heavyweight Champion steps out. A massive pair of sunglasses covers her face, both to protect her from the morning’s bright light and give her at least a touch of anonymity, and a white bandage runs along the length of her hairline, the result of the aftermath following her recent match against Konrad Raab. She takes a deep breath and stands tall after exiting the car, the sharp features of her face set with the strength of resolve, and she gives the airport a nod.
Let me just pause this here for a second. I just want to point out that, even in the face of everything I have been dealing with lately, my outfit is killer. That dress? All black and red with the awesome shoulder pads? I literally stitched that together myself. Those shoes that add two inches to my height? Their beauty is full worth the pain the pointed toes cause. That parasol I’m pulling out of the taxi and opening up? Matches my dress PERFECTLY. I’m sure that I’m a little haggard under those sunglasses...its been a full week since I have seen my Beloved...but there is nothing that can stop my style or dull my shine. Damn shame that I’ve got some cloth covering up the cut on my head...more on that in a bit...but please notice how I made sure that the shade of white perfectly matches the fur lining my long gloves. You are all welcome for that picture of perfection.
Sarah uses the parasol to assist her in giving directions. The cab driver opens the trunk of the car...and the front seat...and begins to pull out a full dozen pieces of luggage, each of varying size but all with the same style and black-and-red color scheme. Two airport workers arrive with a cart and begin to pile the luggage high under her direction, with them realizing quickly that a second was to be needed.
Right this second, my Beloved wife Kenzi is on a boat somewhere in the China Sea searching for Tom Cruise’s Scientology diary. Please do not ask me to repeat that. While we talk as much as possible, we still haven’t seen each other in a full week, which is longer than at any other time in over two years. I have a LOT of gear with me for this trip. It will only be for one day, because I have to fight someone I absolutely loathe on Thursday in New Jersey, but I plan on using much of that gear in that one day, let me tell you.
Sarah hands the taxi cab driver a black credit card, cold and metallic, and she waits patiently for him to process her payment. As this occurs, Sarah sees a small group of people standing in a rough circle at the side of the airport’s entryway. She sighs inwardly as she recognizes the wrestling fans, who are unmistakable in their dress and posture, and crosses her fingers that she will not be noticed. Sarah normally loves interacting with fans, enjoys leaping into their embrace, but the past few weeks have found it difficult for her to be around anyone, and this was Annoyance #1 for the day. She has been stewing about the revelation of Angelica, ruminating on the betrayal she feels deep within her, and away from Kenzi for the last week, and even the thought of being with others has been difficult. Are they true? Are their requests for autographs and selfies because the want? Or is there some other motive? What do they want from her? What do they want to take from her? What do they want to steal-
Sarah sighs at the text message and grates her perfectly straight teeth against one another.
As you already know from my little introduction, this is NOT a good day for me, and THIS is NOT helping. That text message? From Donovan Hastings. The content? His suggestion for our team name for next week. He and I are teaming together to take on Konrad Raab and Hide Yamazaki, and he has been pestering me with shitty name suggestion after shitty name suggestion. He and I do not have the best relationship...which is pretty well detailed...but we are going into this match with serious intention on proving how much better we are than our opponents. But holy FUCK this name suggestions did NOT help out my general anxiety and annoyance this morning.
Sarah growls as she puts her phone away and takes her card back from the driver. Her hips were well-rounded, thank you so much, as Kenzi was fond of telling everyone. Her pale cheeks turn scarlet as she remembers that time Kenzi very publicly told the world that she liked to “hit my bitch from behind!” to the amusement of everyone they knew, and to her own humiliation. She shakes her head and stomps away toward the airport, positioning herself so that the two carts being pushed by the workers were between her and the group of fans, and went through the sliding double doors.
After entering, she takes her purse and a briefcase from one of the carts and directs them to head toward the international travel section of the large airport.
Pardon me while I pause it here again. Know what is interesting about me? About this whole “freelancer” thing I do? I travel a LOT. You have no idea how many frequent flyer miles the Grey-Lacklans have racked up in the last three years. When I first turned pro, both of us were simply in our respective companies...F-Society for me and Ladies All-Star for her...but the two of us quickly began pulling double duty once we started dating. I would wrestle on a Friday, and she should join me as my official valet, we would rest and recover in a hotel on Saturday, and then we would switch roles as she wrestles on Sunday. After that? Back to Los Angeles and the old CTN Studios so that Kenzi could work on her projects, and I would usually stay a day or two there, before I would go back to Maine for a few days. And then? Rinse and repeat for a few months.
But then I started the “Bleed the World Tour.” We flew EVERYWHERE. All across the country, into Canada and Mexico, across the pond to England. Mile after mile, always together. That is what has made this particular week so difficult, I suppose. Not just the time apart, but also the loneliness of the travel.
How lonely are you, Konrad?
I ask this because the trials of the road are so difficult without support. My journey is exhausting. I am always tired, always worn out. Always in pain. Hell, my head right now? It BURNS. It ACHES. My vision...as shitty as it is by default, not withstanding...BLURS if I turn my head too far. What happened to you being the hero? What happened to you being the “good” within the world? What happened to you being fair? How convenient that you have “Black Ice” to be responsible for any lies, deceit, or sneak attacks you might explore.
Convenient, indeed.
The loneliness must be extreme for such a departure of who you wish the world to see you as. All of that time, all of those words about how I don’t deserve something, or how I say mean things, or how I take advantage of every aspect of the business in order to win, and what did you do? What did you do when you finally...FINALLY...got the chance to fight THE Sarah Grey-Lacklan, YOUR World’s Champion, one on one in the main event? Did you let your beliefs in what YOU to consider to be “good” stand tall against the “evil” of what I do? Did you stand strong against the tide of darkness that is the Firestarter? Did you allow YOUR avowed beliefs in fair play, or sportsmanship, or dignity, to hold their chin up high and PROVE that the “darkness” of MY house is weak and secondary? Were you Jesus to turn over the tables of the tax collectors and stretch out a hand to the lepers to show that they, too, could find God’s grace? Were you Mother Theresa, showing the world through a life of selflessness that God is great? Were you Gandhi to find yourself withered to nothing of body but shining of spirit, forcing the world to see the reason of peace and freedom?
Did you, when you finally got the chance, hold onto your ideals?
No.
You did not.
And so I ask...are you tired, Konrad? Has your own endless travels across the world finally broken you down? Has the strain from so much time away from Fizz finally broken your resolve? Have the years of failure, filled with and fueled by losing week in and out, month after month, finally shaken your resolve? The NEED to assault me verbally after crying about mean things said. The NEED to scratch and claw after whining and moaning about silly things like feet on the ropes. The NEED to attack me after the bell, from behind, with my back turned, with my attention on another old man and present charge, after all of that time spent screaming at the wall about my tactics. After all that time of going up to the Loser’s Window for pay at each and every company and governing body you have fought for, have you grown so tired of being useless that you hoped to finally produce change?
I understand, Konrad. I understand being so tired, being so exhausted, that you will do anything to change your life’s lot. Do you miss the faces of your children? Your beautiful babes, who so rarely see the shine in your eyes? Do you miss the curves of dear Fizz, miss the legendary trysts of hours on end? Do you miss mattering to someone, to anyone? Do you miss being more than just one of the men kept on rosters so that losing streaks can be broken apart? Do you miss MATTERING?
How tired are you, Konrad?
I know that I am tired. I am tired of pretending that actually watch your promotional videos all the way through. I am tired of pretending that I pay attention to your career within my company any more than I might a Znudnich or a Destroyer. I am tired of having to deal with an old man who will gleefully bring up how much his skills have improved in the last year yet is too dull to realize that, if at the age of 52, if at that venerable age for competitive fighting sports, he is JUST NOW improving, JUST NOW starting to learn how to NOT suck, JUST NOW learning how to get to the middle ground of somewhat halfway to decent as the goddamn HIGHLIGHT of fifty-five matches within the Coalition, then any and all “improvement” is basically just going from a D- to a D+. I am tired of having to put on my expensive smile when speaking to reporters about the Coalition and their roster when your name comes up. I’m tired of having to FUCKING LIE when I say something like “Well, Konrad sure does try hard!”
I abhor liars, Konrad. And I refuse to lie for the betterment of this company any more. Not even the smallest of lies.
You are a man of so little worth to any company you are in that every owner, booker, general manager, champion, veteran, rookie, ring sweeper, popcorn seller, security guard, washroom attendant, valet, dishwasher, and even one or two of the mangy nobodies in the Dungeon of Pain hope that you will finally...finally...FINALLY take the hint and just ghost away.
I gave you a shot, Konrad. I gave you a shot at something you EARNED. That you DESERVED. A shot at ME, in the MAIN EVENT. A shot to PROVE that YOU are better than ME. A chance to prove that you are anything BUT what I have ALWAYS FUCKING SAID YOU ARE FROM DAY ONE
And you got beat.
Bad.
You shot your shot with Black Ice, Konrad. And now I’m here to help you. I’m here to take away the rigors of the road. I’m here to take away the loneliness. I’m here to break your arms so back that the only embrace you’ll ever have again is in Fizz’s arms. I’m here to take the father of 27 children, turn him into a bleeding mass of twisted joints and broken bones, and send it back to Haus von Raab to stay.
Are you tired, Konrad?
Are you lonely?
Its okay. Allow me to take away the exhaustion. The pain. On Monday, I will-
GOD DAMNIT DONOVAN
Sarah sits at the airport bar, her face pinched and sour, her eyes with a dull sheen. She reaches into the pocket of her dress and pulls out a small pocket watch, silvery platinum with golden highlights, and growls. She was supposed to have been in the air four hours ago, but instead, she was at the bar at O’Hare. Delay after delay had assaulted her, and she was finding some kind of solace in the bottle of wine in front of her. The day had started decently enough, after being able to sneak through the doors and avoid dealing with fans already, and the security line was what it was. She was an experienced traveler, as everyone well knew, and part of that experience was checking nearly everything and keeping a small amount of items on her person. When traveling for wrestling, that meant her gear in her bag, including her lacy outfits, thick contact lenses, and heavy leg braces. While her purse held typical personal effects, her briefcase was for work, and these days that meant her gear AND her championships.
Which turned out to be Annoyance #2 for the day. The line was its usual terrible wait, as it was filled with people who were either too stupid or too self-absorbed to understand that, no, you can’t bring in massive bottles of shampoo, or that, yes, you have to take your shoes off, or that, no, you may NOT take in a laptop without being scanned, because holy fuck this isn’t 2005 and your “data” isn’t going to be “wiped” by the spoooooky X-Ray machine. And while she always got a weird look from the scanner whenever her “work” briefcase went through, these days the collection of championship titles always caused a secondary look. Thankfully for the UGWC audience, this promotional video spares them the details of what went down (and led to the Raab-caused head injury to be opened up again), but those pervasive bastards over at PMN somehow got ahold of the security footage and leaked it, which can be found HERE.
In the end, Annoyance #2 led to Annoyance #3:
“What do you MEAN my flight has been canceled?!”
The angelic face of the UGWC World Champion is in full demon mode as she screams at the poor man behind the desk a Gate 21. Her skin flushing red in anger, her head throbbing, the tiny ball of rage seems on the point of her platinum hair exploding upward into a spout of fire.
“Well, you see, I-”
“Do you REALIZE how LONG I have gone without seeing my wife!? Do you REALIZE how LONG it took to organize a flight to ‘somewhere in the China Sean’ where that stupid boat is?! GET ME ON ANOTHER PLANE OR SO HELP ME I WILL”
We will spare you the horrid things Sarah promised to do to the man. Unfortunately for Sarah, after waiting for another two hours for the rescheduled flight, she ran into Annoyance #3:
“Broken? BROKEN?! How the FUCK is the plane BROKEN?!
Sitting in a seat toward the back, sandwiched between a drunken Belgian and a toothless man from Florida, Sarah’s arms flail about, hitting everything and one in sight. The stewardess, her face a frozen mask of polite fear, does her best to try to explain to the irate woman about the landing gear having a problem and how, if they DID take flight, they would all likely crash and die upon landing, but Sarah clearly isn’t listening.
“Like I care about any of you! I just want to see my Beloved! I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL-”
I can admit that this was not my proudest moment. Going into detail...great detail...about what I would do to the woman’s third niece as we exited the broken plane was probably not the best form I could have mustered. But it had been HOURS! HOURS since I first arrived at that dumb airport. And as you see me drinking my bottle of wine, my head throbbing from shitty Raab’s shitty post-match sneak attack...and the Eternal Warfare brawl two of you clicked on to check out…you can probably tell that the annoyances are building. Every time I get sent away because of some stupid thing broken? MORE time away from my Beloved. MORE times that some fan wants a selfie or to tell me how amazing I am. MORE times that I saw some TV screen that was showing last night’s Synergy and how the very last shot was fucking JOHNNY laughing about my head being busted open. Do you have ANY idea how long it takes to get blood out of perfectly platinum hair to the point that there isn’t a shred of pink? I WON that fucking match, because of COURSE I did, and those BASTARDS decided to give themselves a wedgie while putting on their Big Boy Panties and tried to ruin it all. And that just means MORE times I-
ONE time, Donovan! ONE FUCKING TIME!
Ugh...whatev…
Anyway, it has been a SHIT day. By the time I’m doing this “drinking my sorrows” away, its been HOURS and HOURS in this shithole and NOTHING has changed and I just want to PUNCH SOMEONE so goddamn bad because I’m frustrated that nothing I do seems to be working.
Kinda like Johnny Bonecrusher’s entire career.
Allow me a moment to speak to Hide while you all OOH and AHH over that exceedingly excellent segue:
Omedetō, misutā Hide.
I love language, Hide. That whole mimicry thing I’m good at...literally would have been the BEST voice actor if I wasn’t already the BEST professional wrestler...means that I also appreciate languages, and I WISH I knew Japanese. It is absolutely on my to-do list. But since I only know a few words, I hope those words are enough for you. If I had more, I would enjoy spending time telling you how impressive you were at Battleground. Zero shade, to be clear. You were a MONSTER in that cage. If it had not been for twelve Battleground winners before you (of COURSE I know that stat), you might assume that the match had been MADE for you. You ripped and tore into your competitors with a glee and savagery that we do not often see, and certainly did not see in the most recent winners of the even in Kem and Vain. You were glorious and all of the accolades that SHOULD be heaped on you for winning the event WILL be.
It is a shame that the reason you won is also going to be the reason you fail to reap the benefits of it. The fact that you were allowed to go into that cage and fuck shit up WITHOUT Johnny Bonecrusher holding you back is something so stark and real that the short, teeny-tiny manchild is doing his best to hide it for fear of you discovering how much he has held you back. And if he has his way, he will RIP the honor of your victory from you in an attempt to hold it for himself, and THAT way is folly. With that win, you could have ANY match at Horizons you want! You could take a partner and fight Cutie and the Scoundrel. You could immerse yourself in the world of chaos and carnage that is my Beloved wife. You could force people into matches to avenge your various embarrassments at Outlast and the Melee. You could do ANYTHING.
But Johnny seems to be there to ruin your future.
Allowing him to take you down to that ring yesterday was a mistake, Hide. You DO NOT want to fight me at Horizons. You DO NOT want to challenge for the World Heavyweight Championship. You DO NOT want whatever lies and slander he is putting into your ear with the tongue of his worm. You DO NOT want the shattered dreams and hopes of a broken, downtrodden, USELESS manchild to take away YOUR chance to SHINE at Horizons. Because if you DO allow him to use your Golden Ticket in some shitty attempt to carry on his feud with a dead man, with you playing the role of the potato and I in the mask, you WILL find yourself in the same place that nearly every other person who fights me has:
Laying on the mat, cradling a ruined arm, clutching a cracked head, and staring up at the lights of failure.
Since I was a baby being swaddled in the warmth of fatherly love, both from Father AND from God, Johnny Bonecrusher has been slamming his head into a wall and hoping for success. He has jumped into a world of marketing gimmicks and characters in order to try to find some measure of success, both with unnerving opponents and catching on with audiences, and he has found failure after failure along the way. Yes, he has had his fair share of championships, even a Hall of Fame ring or two, but the fans stay home in droves instead of paying to watch him in person, and even wrestlers as two-dimensional and forgettable as weed-obsessed quadrillionaires who fly in private jets regularly embarrasses him in his career’s twilight. And he is trying to take that terrible run at the end and pass it to you, hoping to infect your potential with his terrible reality.
Fight him, Hide. Fight the influence. Fight what HE wants you to be so that you can flourish. Because if you do not? If you end up losing yourself to his machinations? If you end up facing YOUR World’s Champion in the spotlight of a Coalition pay-per-view main event?
I’ll make even Raab say “Stop! Stop! He’s already dead!”
WHAM!
“STOP LYING TO ME, ANGELICA!”
WHAM!
“STOP FUCKING LYING!”
WHAM!
“HOW FUCKING DARE YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT?!”
WHAM!
“NEVER AGAIN, YOU-”
Sarah is pulled away by several security guards, her hands and arms flailing about, her face beet red from the combination of screaming and drink. Men and women in sharp airport uniforms crowd around Angelica, the customer service manager for O’Hare, whose eyes were closed and had a nose already spouting blood. Phones were recording the incident by the dozen as more security guards rushed in, people whispering in excited and shocked tones, while others spoke with 911 dispatchers.
Okay...okay...THIS is not my proudest moment. But it has been TEN FUCKING HOURS since I first got to O’Hare! FOUR HOURS after I had to leave the broken plane, I FINALLY got another flight. And by THIS stage, all my Beloved and I were going to have time for was a quick 3 ½ hour sexytime (STILL can’t break Raab’s 4-hour record) and then immediately hop BACK on a plane to be in New Jersey for my next fight, but that would be enough! That would be okay! ANY time with Kenzi is better than the fucking NONE I have had. But no! NO! I get to the gate, I’m asked to come up to the front, and they tell me that there is a “small” problem.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Grey-Lacklan, but we need you to speak with-”
Oh no. No no no no. I was SUPER NICE when I asked to speak to their manager. SUPER NICE. I don’t KNOW why they acted like I wanted something hard or anything. Don’t they know who I am?! So, their manager comes over...this stupid tall blonde with a shitty, ugly, smelly name...and she goes through my records and tells me to hold on one moment. And THEN she tells me that, apparently, I have been flagged for some bullshit “temporary, 24-hour no-fly list.” First of all, I’m pretty positive that doesn’t even exist. And second of all, I canNOT be held accountable for me punching that stupid lying bitch in the face.
Over and over again.
DON’T FUCKING LIE TO ME ANGELICA
YOU CAN’T TAKE WHAT IS MINE
Which is when I got arrested. First time I got arrested was when Kenzi and I beat up some douche in a New York bar who didn’t think that “no” meant “no” with this chick we knew. Second time was that fight you all saw when Step-Mumsie and Kenzi got into it at Chaos’ strip joint earlier in the year. And so THIS time, I knew my rights and the protocol and stuff. Like, I get it. I have a phone call. I have a lawyer. I know what to do. So I did the thing that was the most important thing to do.
I called Kenzi.
“I’m sorry, Beloved. I won’t be making it to the boat.”
Eyes dull from the drink, the bandage on her head lost in the incident at the airport, Sarah’s face is lined with tears as she speaks into the phone.
“I...um...I don’t even know why or how. Delayed flights...broken planes...punched a lying bitch. I’m sorry. I just wanted to see you.”
She nods into the phone as she listens. Her eyes go wide as she sees the police officer come toward her, motioning that her time was up.
“I love you, Mackenzie Michaela Grey-Lacklan.”
She hangs up the phone and quietly goes with the office. Before long, the UGWC World Champion is in a large group cell at the jailhouse, sitting in a corner with face buried in her knees. Hours go by, though nothing changes outside of a body or two being added, some other vagrant or vagabond. But eventually, the stout female officer with the strong chin calls her name and she looks up to see an older man, dark of skin but with the silver foxes’ hair, nod at her.
“Owen?”
Sarah’s face is pure confusion as she goes through the processing. Owen Peterson places his hand on her shoulder throughout the process, the exalted UGWC referee being a strong presence, until they were outside of the police station.
Sarah sighs as she looks down at her returned phone.
“Princess, you fuckwad.”
“He knows.”
Sarah looks up at Owen and grimaces. Even that moment makes her head swim and ache, and her hand automatically goes to the cut at her hairline.
“How did you know to bail me out?”
He chuckles and motions to his car.
“Need a lift somewhere?”
So, it turns out that after I used my one call to apologize to Kenzi, SHE freaked out and called Step-Mumsie...at 2 in the morning. Step-Mumsie called Ichabod, my boss. Ichabod called Donovan. And then Donovan sent Owen, who was still in town a day removed from Synergy. Unfortunately, now at 3 in the morning, there’s really nowhere to go. But as Owen offered me a lift, I saw a sign that made my heart fall AND gave me hope, all at the same time:
An EconoLodge.
The people in the front were morons, because of course they were, but they had plenty of open rooms, because of course they did. And while they were busy being incompetent, I noticed that they STILL had up that display of Kenzi as WrestleStock Cup winner from a year and a half ago, so I stole the cutout of her and got settled in upstairs.
As I said before, baby birds, this has been an absolutely terrible day. Top Five, perhaps even Top Four. But there was something about it which, at this late time in this shitty hotel, it makes me think of something:
We have to let go of things.
Konrad Raab had to let go of his naive sense of “honor” when he fought me to have any hope of a prayer of a chance.
Johnny Bonecrusher had to let go of his own career for his name to amount to anything worthwhile in this company.
And I need to let go of you.
I began this vlog, originally a blog, when I was twelve. My favorite wrestler in the world had one and she used it to speak to her fans directly, and I started it because of her. Nikita Dolore’s “Bitches Get Stitches.” This vlog has helped me through hard times, helped me express feelings that I might otherwise hold in. I have vlogged all through my career, including things I talked about with my psychiatrist and doctor when I got hurt. Nearly my entire courtship with Kenzi was shared through here, including that particularly embarrassing moment when Kenzi THOUGHT she was recording with HER phone. And, of course, the aftermath of “Worst Day #3” was very public.
But its time to say goodbye. I once said that a focused Vain is one of the most dangerous things in the world, but I think that I have shown that the same can be said for me this last year. In a world where I can be best friends with someone who is secretly trying to steal my life, I can no longer afford distractions. I can no longer afford you. People like Bonecrusher and Raab do the same thing, every day, and fail, every day. I cannot afford to allow myself such complacence.
Thank you for listening and watching all of these years, baby birds.
Sarah shuts off her final podcast. Her shoulders slump as she lets out a great sigh. Standing up from the chair, she picks up with cardboard cut-out of Kenzi, places her on the bed, joins her a few moments later, and presses her forehead against that of the cutout.
~~Epilogue~~
Kenzi Grey-Lacklan’s face turns ashen as she hangs up the phone. All around her, the hustle and bustle of men and women at the hospital, all Scientologists like herself, brought her both a sense of comfort and worry. Her original plan for conning Sarah into thinking that the entire hoax was real when she came to visit was to fall upon her acting skills. They could all pretend to be searching for Tom’s book! She’d worked on a script for days, and spent money to hire actors and get a crew in place, but as the day approached, she knew that she herself would never be able to get through the act. She could walk around, but the brace on her leg made her stiff-legged and she walked very gingerly. There was NO way she would be able to even PRETEND to swim, much less scuba dive!
Terri came up with a plan. Her spiritual adviser knew the ends and outs of where their influence lied, and while she had been hesitant to let Kenzi back into the church, she was happy now to see the return of the Grey-Lacklan money. A few phone calls and before they knew it, there were flights being delayed and canceled, a maintenance man reporting a “broken” set of landing gear, and to cap it all off and make sure that Sarah couldn’t visit and thus give Kenzi another week to get used to her leg, a fake “no-fly” note in her profile.
But Kenzi didn’t factor in Sarah’s “perfect coping skills” into the plan. With a sigh, she takes up her phone again and dials the person she HATED to call for ANY reason:
Aveline Lacklan.
A full-sized cardboard cutout of the current UGWC Chaos Champion, Kenzi Grey.
“...fuck me in the goat ass…”
Sarah’s voice sounds as tired as her body looks. She walks into the room with heavy steps, the sight of a cart full of luggage behind her which matches the briefcase, and slumps toward the small “living” area of the room. She sets the briefcase down on the table and uses both hands to stand up the cutout. The cardboard of the smiling Kenzi is indeed life-size, the board’s chocolate eyes meeting at the level of Sarah’s odd bespectacled red, and she smiles while holding the 2018 WrestleStock Cup. Sarah sighs as she plops down into the lone chair next to the table with a resigned weight which moves the chair, and she opens the briefcase. Inside, four championship belts, all with their leather straps folded neatly behind the golden faceplates, shine up at her, the UGWC World Heavyweight Championship on top. She pulls that most important title belt out and slings it over one of her slumping shoulders, so that the wide plate nearly takes up her entire chest, and then reaches into a side pocket of the briefcase and takes out her iPhone, the cover of which features a picture of the Grey-Lacklans pressing their foreheads together in their typical display of intimate affection. After a few presses of buttons, she does her best to smile as she begins to record.
Hello there, Fang Gang
My apologies if I do not seem to be at my most chipper and bright, but I have had a terrible day. Horrendous. Excruciating, really. Not the WORST day of my life, mind you. That would have been the day of my accident, the day I flew into a wall, ended up in surgery and a coma, and had precious time of my marriage ripped from me. So no, not my worst day. Not my second worst day ever, either. THAT was the day I literally watched cancer kill my father right before my very eyes. And, to be fair, not my third worst day, either. THAT was when my Beloved and I found ourselves screaming at each other in a movie theatre parking lot. We hurt each other so much that night that, had cooler heads and hearts not prevailed after some time away from one another, the Grey-Lacklans would have never been a thing, and the entire world would be darker for it. So, no, not my third worst day ever. But fourth? It makes a good case for being the fourth worst day of my life.
I would like, if I may, to tell you about it.
* * * * * * * * * *
~~Tuesday, November 12th, 2019~~
The back door of the bright yellow Taxi parked in the white zone in front of Chicago’s famous O’Hare International Airport opens and the UGWC World Heavyweight Champion steps out. A massive pair of sunglasses covers her face, both to protect her from the morning’s bright light and give her at least a touch of anonymity, and a white bandage runs along the length of her hairline, the result of the aftermath following her recent match against Konrad Raab. She takes a deep breath and stands tall after exiting the car, the sharp features of her face set with the strength of resolve, and she gives the airport a nod.
Let me just pause this here for a second. I just want to point out that, even in the face of everything I have been dealing with lately, my outfit is killer. That dress? All black and red with the awesome shoulder pads? I literally stitched that together myself. Those shoes that add two inches to my height? Their beauty is full worth the pain the pointed toes cause. That parasol I’m pulling out of the taxi and opening up? Matches my dress PERFECTLY. I’m sure that I’m a little haggard under those sunglasses...its been a full week since I have seen my Beloved...but there is nothing that can stop my style or dull my shine. Damn shame that I’ve got some cloth covering up the cut on my head...more on that in a bit...but please notice how I made sure that the shade of white perfectly matches the fur lining my long gloves. You are all welcome for that picture of perfection.
Sarah uses the parasol to assist her in giving directions. The cab driver opens the trunk of the car...and the front seat...and begins to pull out a full dozen pieces of luggage, each of varying size but all with the same style and black-and-red color scheme. Two airport workers arrive with a cart and begin to pile the luggage high under her direction, with them realizing quickly that a second was to be needed.
Right this second, my Beloved wife Kenzi is on a boat somewhere in the China Sea searching for Tom Cruise’s Scientology diary. Please do not ask me to repeat that. While we talk as much as possible, we still haven’t seen each other in a full week, which is longer than at any other time in over two years. I have a LOT of gear with me for this trip. It will only be for one day, because I have to fight someone I absolutely loathe on Thursday in New Jersey, but I plan on using much of that gear in that one day, let me tell you.
Sarah hands the taxi cab driver a black credit card, cold and metallic, and she waits patiently for him to process her payment. As this occurs, Sarah sees a small group of people standing in a rough circle at the side of the airport’s entryway. She sighs inwardly as she recognizes the wrestling fans, who are unmistakable in their dress and posture, and crosses her fingers that she will not be noticed. Sarah normally loves interacting with fans, enjoys leaping into their embrace, but the past few weeks have found it difficult for her to be around anyone, and this was Annoyance #1 for the day. She has been stewing about the revelation of Angelica, ruminating on the betrayal she feels deep within her, and away from Kenzi for the last week, and even the thought of being with others has been difficult. Are they true? Are their requests for autographs and selfies because the want? Or is there some other motive? What do they want from her? What do they want to take from her? What do they want to steal-
Team the Greatest World Champion and the Current One
Sarah sighs at the text message and grates her perfectly straight teeth against one another.
As you already know from my little introduction, this is NOT a good day for me, and THIS is NOT helping. That text message? From Donovan Hastings. The content? His suggestion for our team name for next week. He and I are teaming together to take on Konrad Raab and Hide Yamazaki, and he has been pestering me with shitty name suggestion after shitty name suggestion. He and I do not have the best relationship...which is pretty well detailed...but we are going into this match with serious intention on proving how much better we are than our opponents. But holy FUCK this name suggestions did NOT help out my general anxiety and annoyance this morning.
Bearded Sexy and Pasty White with Boyish Hips
Sarah growls as she puts her phone away and takes her card back from the driver. Her hips were well-rounded, thank you so much, as Kenzi was fond of telling everyone. Her pale cheeks turn scarlet as she remembers that time Kenzi very publicly told the world that she liked to “hit my bitch from behind!” to the amusement of everyone they knew, and to her own humiliation. She shakes her head and stomps away toward the airport, positioning herself so that the two carts being pushed by the workers were between her and the group of fans, and went through the sliding double doors.
After entering, she takes her purse and a briefcase from one of the carts and directs them to head toward the international travel section of the large airport.
Pardon me while I pause it here again. Know what is interesting about me? About this whole “freelancer” thing I do? I travel a LOT. You have no idea how many frequent flyer miles the Grey-Lacklans have racked up in the last three years. When I first turned pro, both of us were simply in our respective companies...F-Society for me and Ladies All-Star for her...but the two of us quickly began pulling double duty once we started dating. I would wrestle on a Friday, and she should join me as my official valet, we would rest and recover in a hotel on Saturday, and then we would switch roles as she wrestles on Sunday. After that? Back to Los Angeles and the old CTN Studios so that Kenzi could work on her projects, and I would usually stay a day or two there, before I would go back to Maine for a few days. And then? Rinse and repeat for a few months.
But then I started the “Bleed the World Tour.” We flew EVERYWHERE. All across the country, into Canada and Mexico, across the pond to England. Mile after mile, always together. That is what has made this particular week so difficult, I suppose. Not just the time apart, but also the loneliness of the travel.
How lonely are you, Konrad?
I ask this because the trials of the road are so difficult without support. My journey is exhausting. I am always tired, always worn out. Always in pain. Hell, my head right now? It BURNS. It ACHES. My vision...as shitty as it is by default, not withstanding...BLURS if I turn my head too far. What happened to you being the hero? What happened to you being the “good” within the world? What happened to you being fair? How convenient that you have “Black Ice” to be responsible for any lies, deceit, or sneak attacks you might explore.
Convenient, indeed.
The loneliness must be extreme for such a departure of who you wish the world to see you as. All of that time, all of those words about how I don’t deserve something, or how I say mean things, or how I take advantage of every aspect of the business in order to win, and what did you do? What did you do when you finally...FINALLY...got the chance to fight THE Sarah Grey-Lacklan, YOUR World’s Champion, one on one in the main event? Did you let your beliefs in what YOU to consider to be “good” stand tall against the “evil” of what I do? Did you stand strong against the tide of darkness that is the Firestarter? Did you allow YOUR avowed beliefs in fair play, or sportsmanship, or dignity, to hold their chin up high and PROVE that the “darkness” of MY house is weak and secondary? Were you Jesus to turn over the tables of the tax collectors and stretch out a hand to the lepers to show that they, too, could find God’s grace? Were you Mother Theresa, showing the world through a life of selflessness that God is great? Were you Gandhi to find yourself withered to nothing of body but shining of spirit, forcing the world to see the reason of peace and freedom?
Did you, when you finally got the chance, hold onto your ideals?
No.
You did not.
And so I ask...are you tired, Konrad? Has your own endless travels across the world finally broken you down? Has the strain from so much time away from Fizz finally broken your resolve? Have the years of failure, filled with and fueled by losing week in and out, month after month, finally shaken your resolve? The NEED to assault me verbally after crying about mean things said. The NEED to scratch and claw after whining and moaning about silly things like feet on the ropes. The NEED to attack me after the bell, from behind, with my back turned, with my attention on another old man and present charge, after all of that time spent screaming at the wall about my tactics. After all that time of going up to the Loser’s Window for pay at each and every company and governing body you have fought for, have you grown so tired of being useless that you hoped to finally produce change?
I understand, Konrad. I understand being so tired, being so exhausted, that you will do anything to change your life’s lot. Do you miss the faces of your children? Your beautiful babes, who so rarely see the shine in your eyes? Do you miss the curves of dear Fizz, miss the legendary trysts of hours on end? Do you miss mattering to someone, to anyone? Do you miss being more than just one of the men kept on rosters so that losing streaks can be broken apart? Do you miss MATTERING?
How tired are you, Konrad?
I know that I am tired. I am tired of pretending that actually watch your promotional videos all the way through. I am tired of pretending that I pay attention to your career within my company any more than I might a Znudnich or a Destroyer. I am tired of having to deal with an old man who will gleefully bring up how much his skills have improved in the last year yet is too dull to realize that, if at the age of 52, if at that venerable age for competitive fighting sports, he is JUST NOW improving, JUST NOW starting to learn how to NOT suck, JUST NOW learning how to get to the middle ground of somewhat halfway to decent as the goddamn HIGHLIGHT of fifty-five matches within the Coalition, then any and all “improvement” is basically just going from a D- to a D+. I am tired of having to put on my expensive smile when speaking to reporters about the Coalition and their roster when your name comes up. I’m tired of having to FUCKING LIE when I say something like “Well, Konrad sure does try hard!”
I abhor liars, Konrad. And I refuse to lie for the betterment of this company any more. Not even the smallest of lies.
You are a man of so little worth to any company you are in that every owner, booker, general manager, champion, veteran, rookie, ring sweeper, popcorn seller, security guard, washroom attendant, valet, dishwasher, and even one or two of the mangy nobodies in the Dungeon of Pain hope that you will finally...finally...FINALLY take the hint and just ghost away.
I gave you a shot, Konrad. I gave you a shot at something you EARNED. That you DESERVED. A shot at ME, in the MAIN EVENT. A shot to PROVE that YOU are better than ME. A chance to prove that you are anything BUT what I have ALWAYS FUCKING SAID YOU ARE FROM DAY ONE
And you got beat.
Bad.
You shot your shot with Black Ice, Konrad. And now I’m here to help you. I’m here to take away the rigors of the road. I’m here to take away the loneliness. I’m here to break your arms so back that the only embrace you’ll ever have again is in Fizz’s arms. I’m here to take the father of 27 children, turn him into a bleeding mass of twisted joints and broken bones, and send it back to Haus von Raab to stay.
Are you tired, Konrad?
Are you lonely?
Its okay. Allow me to take away the exhaustion. The pain. On Monday, I will-
The Lord and His Partner's Wife
GOD DAMNIT DONOVAN
Sarah sits at the airport bar, her face pinched and sour, her eyes with a dull sheen. She reaches into the pocket of her dress and pulls out a small pocket watch, silvery platinum with golden highlights, and growls. She was supposed to have been in the air four hours ago, but instead, she was at the bar at O’Hare. Delay after delay had assaulted her, and she was finding some kind of solace in the bottle of wine in front of her. The day had started decently enough, after being able to sneak through the doors and avoid dealing with fans already, and the security line was what it was. She was an experienced traveler, as everyone well knew, and part of that experience was checking nearly everything and keeping a small amount of items on her person. When traveling for wrestling, that meant her gear in her bag, including her lacy outfits, thick contact lenses, and heavy leg braces. While her purse held typical personal effects, her briefcase was for work, and these days that meant her gear AND her championships.
Which turned out to be Annoyance #2 for the day. The line was its usual terrible wait, as it was filled with people who were either too stupid or too self-absorbed to understand that, no, you can’t bring in massive bottles of shampoo, or that, yes, you have to take your shoes off, or that, no, you may NOT take in a laptop without being scanned, because holy fuck this isn’t 2005 and your “data” isn’t going to be “wiped” by the spoooooky X-Ray machine. And while she always got a weird look from the scanner whenever her “work” briefcase went through, these days the collection of championship titles always caused a secondary look. Thankfully for the UGWC audience, this promotional video spares them the details of what went down (and led to the Raab-caused head injury to be opened up again), but those pervasive bastards over at PMN somehow got ahold of the security footage and leaked it, which can be found HERE.
In the end, Annoyance #2 led to Annoyance #3:
“What do you MEAN my flight has been canceled?!”
The angelic face of the UGWC World Champion is in full demon mode as she screams at the poor man behind the desk a Gate 21. Her skin flushing red in anger, her head throbbing, the tiny ball of rage seems on the point of her platinum hair exploding upward into a spout of fire.
“Well, you see, I-”
“Do you REALIZE how LONG I have gone without seeing my wife!? Do you REALIZE how LONG it took to organize a flight to ‘somewhere in the China Sean’ where that stupid boat is?! GET ME ON ANOTHER PLANE OR SO HELP ME I WILL”
We will spare you the horrid things Sarah promised to do to the man. Unfortunately for Sarah, after waiting for another two hours for the rescheduled flight, she ran into Annoyance #3:
“Broken? BROKEN?! How the FUCK is the plane BROKEN?!
Sitting in a seat toward the back, sandwiched between a drunken Belgian and a toothless man from Florida, Sarah’s arms flail about, hitting everything and one in sight. The stewardess, her face a frozen mask of polite fear, does her best to try to explain to the irate woman about the landing gear having a problem and how, if they DID take flight, they would all likely crash and die upon landing, but Sarah clearly isn’t listening.
“Like I care about any of you! I just want to see my Beloved! I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL-”
I can admit that this was not my proudest moment. Going into detail...great detail...about what I would do to the woman’s third niece as we exited the broken plane was probably not the best form I could have mustered. But it had been HOURS! HOURS since I first arrived at that dumb airport. And as you see me drinking my bottle of wine, my head throbbing from shitty Raab’s shitty post-match sneak attack...and the Eternal Warfare brawl two of you clicked on to check out…you can probably tell that the annoyances are building. Every time I get sent away because of some stupid thing broken? MORE time away from my Beloved. MORE times that some fan wants a selfie or to tell me how amazing I am. MORE times that I saw some TV screen that was showing last night’s Synergy and how the very last shot was fucking JOHNNY laughing about my head being busted open. Do you have ANY idea how long it takes to get blood out of perfectly platinum hair to the point that there isn’t a shred of pink? I WON that fucking match, because of COURSE I did, and those BASTARDS decided to give themselves a wedgie while putting on their Big Boy Panties and tried to ruin it all. And that just means MORE times I-
The Guy Who Won on Chill and the Chick Who Didn’t
ONE time, Donovan! ONE FUCKING TIME!
Ugh...whatev…
Anyway, it has been a SHIT day. By the time I’m doing this “drinking my sorrows” away, its been HOURS and HOURS in this shithole and NOTHING has changed and I just want to PUNCH SOMEONE so goddamn bad because I’m frustrated that nothing I do seems to be working.
Kinda like Johnny Bonecrusher’s entire career.
Allow me a moment to speak to Hide while you all OOH and AHH over that exceedingly excellent segue:
Omedetō, misutā Hide.
I love language, Hide. That whole mimicry thing I’m good at...literally would have been the BEST voice actor if I wasn’t already the BEST professional wrestler...means that I also appreciate languages, and I WISH I knew Japanese. It is absolutely on my to-do list. But since I only know a few words, I hope those words are enough for you. If I had more, I would enjoy spending time telling you how impressive you were at Battleground. Zero shade, to be clear. You were a MONSTER in that cage. If it had not been for twelve Battleground winners before you (of COURSE I know that stat), you might assume that the match had been MADE for you. You ripped and tore into your competitors with a glee and savagery that we do not often see, and certainly did not see in the most recent winners of the even in Kem and Vain. You were glorious and all of the accolades that SHOULD be heaped on you for winning the event WILL be.
It is a shame that the reason you won is also going to be the reason you fail to reap the benefits of it. The fact that you were allowed to go into that cage and fuck shit up WITHOUT Johnny Bonecrusher holding you back is something so stark and real that the short, teeny-tiny manchild is doing his best to hide it for fear of you discovering how much he has held you back. And if he has his way, he will RIP the honor of your victory from you in an attempt to hold it for himself, and THAT way is folly. With that win, you could have ANY match at Horizons you want! You could take a partner and fight Cutie and the Scoundrel. You could immerse yourself in the world of chaos and carnage that is my Beloved wife. You could force people into matches to avenge your various embarrassments at Outlast and the Melee. You could do ANYTHING.
But Johnny seems to be there to ruin your future.
Allowing him to take you down to that ring yesterday was a mistake, Hide. You DO NOT want to fight me at Horizons. You DO NOT want to challenge for the World Heavyweight Championship. You DO NOT want whatever lies and slander he is putting into your ear with the tongue of his worm. You DO NOT want the shattered dreams and hopes of a broken, downtrodden, USELESS manchild to take away YOUR chance to SHINE at Horizons. Because if you DO allow him to use your Golden Ticket in some shitty attempt to carry on his feud with a dead man, with you playing the role of the potato and I in the mask, you WILL find yourself in the same place that nearly every other person who fights me has:
Laying on the mat, cradling a ruined arm, clutching a cracked head, and staring up at the lights of failure.
Since I was a baby being swaddled in the warmth of fatherly love, both from Father AND from God, Johnny Bonecrusher has been slamming his head into a wall and hoping for success. He has jumped into a world of marketing gimmicks and characters in order to try to find some measure of success, both with unnerving opponents and catching on with audiences, and he has found failure after failure along the way. Yes, he has had his fair share of championships, even a Hall of Fame ring or two, but the fans stay home in droves instead of paying to watch him in person, and even wrestlers as two-dimensional and forgettable as weed-obsessed quadrillionaires who fly in private jets regularly embarrasses him in his career’s twilight. And he is trying to take that terrible run at the end and pass it to you, hoping to infect your potential with his terrible reality.
Fight him, Hide. Fight the influence. Fight what HE wants you to be so that you can flourish. Because if you do not? If you end up losing yourself to his machinations? If you end up facing YOUR World’s Champion in the spotlight of a Coalition pay-per-view main event?
I’ll make even Raab say “Stop! Stop! He’s already dead!”
WHAM!
“STOP LYING TO ME, ANGELICA!”
WHAM!
“STOP FUCKING LYING!”
WHAM!
“HOW FUCKING DARE YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT?!”
WHAM!
“NEVER AGAIN, YOU-”
Sarah is pulled away by several security guards, her hands and arms flailing about, her face beet red from the combination of screaming and drink. Men and women in sharp airport uniforms crowd around Angelica, the customer service manager for O’Hare, whose eyes were closed and had a nose already spouting blood. Phones were recording the incident by the dozen as more security guards rushed in, people whispering in excited and shocked tones, while others spoke with 911 dispatchers.
Okay...okay...THIS is not my proudest moment. But it has been TEN FUCKING HOURS since I first got to O’Hare! FOUR HOURS after I had to leave the broken plane, I FINALLY got another flight. And by THIS stage, all my Beloved and I were going to have time for was a quick 3 ½ hour sexytime (STILL can’t break Raab’s 4-hour record) and then immediately hop BACK on a plane to be in New Jersey for my next fight, but that would be enough! That would be okay! ANY time with Kenzi is better than the fucking NONE I have had. But no! NO! I get to the gate, I’m asked to come up to the front, and they tell me that there is a “small” problem.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Grey-Lacklan, but we need you to speak with-”
Oh no. No no no no. I was SUPER NICE when I asked to speak to their manager. SUPER NICE. I don’t KNOW why they acted like I wanted something hard or anything. Don’t they know who I am?! So, their manager comes over...this stupid tall blonde with a shitty, ugly, smelly name...and she goes through my records and tells me to hold on one moment. And THEN she tells me that, apparently, I have been flagged for some bullshit “temporary, 24-hour no-fly list.” First of all, I’m pretty positive that doesn’t even exist. And second of all, I canNOT be held accountable for me punching that stupid lying bitch in the face.
Over and over again.
DON’T FUCKING LIE TO ME ANGELICA
YOU CAN’T TAKE WHAT IS MINE
Which is when I got arrested. First time I got arrested was when Kenzi and I beat up some douche in a New York bar who didn’t think that “no” meant “no” with this chick we knew. Second time was that fight you all saw when Step-Mumsie and Kenzi got into it at Chaos’ strip joint earlier in the year. And so THIS time, I knew my rights and the protocol and stuff. Like, I get it. I have a phone call. I have a lawyer. I know what to do. So I did the thing that was the most important thing to do.
I called Kenzi.
“I’m sorry, Beloved. I won’t be making it to the boat.”
Eyes dull from the drink, the bandage on her head lost in the incident at the airport, Sarah’s face is lined with tears as she speaks into the phone.
“I...um...I don’t even know why or how. Delayed flights...broken planes...punched a lying bitch. I’m sorry. I just wanted to see you.”
She nods into the phone as she listens. Her eyes go wide as she sees the police officer come toward her, motioning that her time was up.
“I love you, Mackenzie Michaela Grey-Lacklan.”
She hangs up the phone and quietly goes with the office. Before long, the UGWC World Champion is in a large group cell at the jailhouse, sitting in a corner with face buried in her knees. Hours go by, though nothing changes outside of a body or two being added, some other vagrant or vagabond. But eventually, the stout female officer with the strong chin calls her name and she looks up to see an older man, dark of skin but with the silver foxes’ hair, nod at her.
“Owen?”
Sarah’s face is pure confusion as she goes through the processing. Owen Peterson places his hand on her shoulder throughout the process, the exalted UGWC referee being a strong presence, until they were outside of the police station.
The Lord and the Blood Priestess
“Princess, you fuckwad.”
“He knows.”
Sarah looks up at Owen and grimaces. Even that moment makes her head swim and ache, and her hand automatically goes to the cut at her hairline.
“How did you know to bail me out?”
He chuckles and motions to his car.
“Need a lift somewhere?”
So, it turns out that after I used my one call to apologize to Kenzi, SHE freaked out and called Step-Mumsie...at 2 in the morning. Step-Mumsie called Ichabod, my boss. Ichabod called Donovan. And then Donovan sent Owen, who was still in town a day removed from Synergy. Unfortunately, now at 3 in the morning, there’s really nowhere to go. But as Owen offered me a lift, I saw a sign that made my heart fall AND gave me hope, all at the same time:
An EconoLodge.
The people in the front were morons, because of course they were, but they had plenty of open rooms, because of course they did. And while they were busy being incompetent, I noticed that they STILL had up that display of Kenzi as WrestleStock Cup winner from a year and a half ago, so I stole the cutout of her and got settled in upstairs.
As I said before, baby birds, this has been an absolutely terrible day. Top Five, perhaps even Top Four. But there was something about it which, at this late time in this shitty hotel, it makes me think of something:
We have to let go of things.
Konrad Raab had to let go of his naive sense of “honor” when he fought me to have any hope of a prayer of a chance.
Johnny Bonecrusher had to let go of his own career for his name to amount to anything worthwhile in this company.
And I need to let go of you.
I began this vlog, originally a blog, when I was twelve. My favorite wrestler in the world had one and she used it to speak to her fans directly, and I started it because of her. Nikita Dolore’s “Bitches Get Stitches.” This vlog has helped me through hard times, helped me express feelings that I might otherwise hold in. I have vlogged all through my career, including things I talked about with my psychiatrist and doctor when I got hurt. Nearly my entire courtship with Kenzi was shared through here, including that particularly embarrassing moment when Kenzi THOUGHT she was recording with HER phone. And, of course, the aftermath of “Worst Day #3” was very public.
But its time to say goodbye. I once said that a focused Vain is one of the most dangerous things in the world, but I think that I have shown that the same can be said for me this last year. In a world where I can be best friends with someone who is secretly trying to steal my life, I can no longer afford distractions. I can no longer afford you. People like Bonecrusher and Raab do the same thing, every day, and fail, every day. I cannot afford to allow myself such complacence.
Thank you for listening and watching all of these years, baby birds.
Sarah shuts off her final podcast. Her shoulders slump as she lets out a great sigh. Standing up from the chair, she picks up with cardboard cut-out of Kenzi, places her on the bed, joins her a few moments later, and presses her forehead against that of the cutout.
~~Epilogue~~
Kenzi Grey-Lacklan’s face turns ashen as she hangs up the phone. All around her, the hustle and bustle of men and women at the hospital, all Scientologists like herself, brought her both a sense of comfort and worry. Her original plan for conning Sarah into thinking that the entire hoax was real when she came to visit was to fall upon her acting skills. They could all pretend to be searching for Tom’s book! She’d worked on a script for days, and spent money to hire actors and get a crew in place, but as the day approached, she knew that she herself would never be able to get through the act. She could walk around, but the brace on her leg made her stiff-legged and she walked very gingerly. There was NO way she would be able to even PRETEND to swim, much less scuba dive!
Terri came up with a plan. Her spiritual adviser knew the ends and outs of where their influence lied, and while she had been hesitant to let Kenzi back into the church, she was happy now to see the return of the Grey-Lacklan money. A few phone calls and before they knew it, there were flights being delayed and canceled, a maintenance man reporting a “broken” set of landing gear, and to cap it all off and make sure that Sarah couldn’t visit and thus give Kenzi another week to get used to her leg, a fake “no-fly” note in her profile.
But Kenzi didn’t factor in Sarah’s “perfect coping skills” into the plan. With a sigh, she takes up her phone again and dials the person she HATED to call for ANY reason:
Aveline Lacklan.
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