Post by Jet Somers on Aug 21, 2009 19:12:01 GMT -5
At first, all that can be seen is a foggy mist, rivulets of beading water running smoothly down some unknown surface. The heel of a hand appears in the ghostly gloom and drags the condensation down the mirror behind it. Now, wavy indistinct images can be see, the vague human outline of whatever is staring into this warped and surreal image. This time, the downy fluff of terry cloth wipes the mirror clean, and a showered, fresh Jet Somers stands before the looking glass. None of his previously viewed affectations can be seen. There is no smirk, no grim scowl, no self-righteous grin. Just a vacant stare, indicative of some troubling memories or soul searching; perhaps a little introspection as he goes about his daily rituals.
If you, reading this, could step outside yourself, you might take on the properties of the steam enveloping the restroom at this moment. As Jet lathers up the shaving cream, beginning to shave the shadow which threatens to rob him of his cute babyface features, you might begin to permeate the shell of his mind, and travel down the amygdala to discover the thoughts which currently tug at his inner monologue, which is thus:
"I can remember her first tenure in this business. PPW, and the beginning of the psychological mutation that became my sister under the influence of larger than life egos and overeager, never content fans. Professional wrestling, the penultimate form of entertainment, which means it has to be ever-changing and ever-innovating. The masses are hungry for that which they have not seen, and they are hungry for representations of their basal animal urges. They expect the superstars who fight week in and week out to be the visual embodiments of those urges, the vicarious avatars who can do whatever they want, whatever the general population would like to do, without worry of societal repercussions and ramifications. It's a sick study of real human nature without social taboos. There is no honor in it, and how Jezebel and I, raised in the same simple household away from the main dregs of a world gone mad, could have ended down two paths so diametrically opposed and yet so similar, eludes me."
A flash from the somatosensory cortex alerts you, in your steamy, invasive form, that Jet has suddenly nicked himself somewhat badly with the Mach 5 Fusion Razor. As you momentarily are distracted from the monologue, you realize how distracted thoughts of his sister must make him, as that particular razor is designed for comfort and rarifying nicks. You turn back, a little more interested now, as his monologue continues.
"She didn't do a lot there beyond the lower card, but that's just a reflection on her professional persona. What she did there personally was more damaging than perhaps anything she has done prior or after. The first, was she met that big freak and his frenemies. The second was she got a taste for the business. Both incidents can be easily explained. Shrugged off by most of the men her life, men who, in my opinion, couldn't handle a woman as strong as Jez, she was constantly discarded and left by the wayside; one of these times, she was saddled with her wonderful daughter Havyn, and that's when a man decided he'd rather keep her around at any cost. Jez saw to his destruction, of course. No man before him would accept her, and no man after him would own her. Basically, until Raenius found her, Jezebel Saint was a piece of meat in every way imaginable, because that's the only way the boys could handle her. They couldn't see someone as deep and complex as her as an equal, so they put her far below their own stations, and instead made her inferior. Now, thanks to her time in PPW, she was not only adored by millions of strangers around the world, but honestly and truly loved by someone, someone with the fierce loyalty only developed in criminals and the very insane. In her mind, here was the fulfillment denied her by the men of her past."
Since you are now an entity of metaphysical existance, you can feel and sense that Jet truly believes these thoughts, and he's not just posturing from the pedestal on which he feels he stands as morally superior to most of mankind. You can also sense that, even though he abhors Jezebel's choices in life, he loves her and his niece as best as a brother can, and respects her despite her shortcomings. It also isn't a mystery how he feels about Salem and the rest of the people with which Jezebel surrounds herself. You can almost feel a swirling gray and purple thunderhead inside when thoughts of them flash by in his brain.
"I made a mistake not wanting to dirty my hands in her business, and trying to step back and allow her to make her own choices. I will admit I had more than a little influence in stationing Jinx as her manager, however, hoping that the almost gestapo attitude with which Jinx had previously handled her charges might protect Jezebel in some way. Jinx failed us miserably, and when Jezebel first fell from grace with her liver choking on inebriation, Jinx was promptly disposed of. Jezebel doesn't know it, but Jinx can be found in a newly renovated Twilight Nights Nudes, Booze, and Tattoos. A few well placed phone calls from me guaranteed that you don't ever walk out on this family without paying for it."
That thunderhead that started with thoughts of Salem and Raenius, the one you feel churning up your insides--ya know, if you had them--can be felt flecked with reddish chain lightning, and you are stunned to see how much anger can stir inside Jet. He's a member of fucking PETA for chrissakes. When it calms a bit, the inner monologue continues as Jet towels his face off, and wipes the blood from the deep nick. The streaks under his right eye as he does this almost resemble war paint, but he quickly wipes this away.
"I can remember after she left rehab the first time prematurely, thanks to those same reprobates she calls her 'real' family. She had gone in voluntarily, and could leave at anytime, and they convinced her she didn't need it, just some down time. I actually convinced her to try out MMA. I was beginning talks with Fighting Spirit, the Japanese promotion, and my empty spot was being felt back in NHB Fights, one of the largest promotions on the indy circuit in the United States. I offered them Jezebel Saint, and they quickly signed her. But her career there was short-lived. On her debut night, she demolished Arnie Zappa and got a knockout in round two. But that wasn't enough. she actually tossed the poor guy out of the ring and continued to pound on him. The fight hand ended officially four and a half minutes before the officials finally dragged her off the mess that Arnie became. Then, in front of an already stunned audience, Jezebel pulled out a flask and lighter and for some ungodly reason set the poor guy on fire with a firebreathing bar trick she had learned back in the days before PPW. Fines were levied, and restraining orders were put in place. Saint was banned from all United States MMA events indefinitely."
"She spent the rest of the night drowning the memory of her colossal screw up, and I don't think she was really surprised when I used my legal right as her brother to sign her back into rehab. This time she was an involuntary ward, and couldn't leave. Well, she wasn't allowed to leave, but that didn't stop her and her oh-so-helpful family from walking right through the court order that kept her there and right back into a bar four months later."
"Now she has returned, and has done something that I can only attribute to satisfying the aforementioned ever-growing hunger for more brutality the fans lump on her; she has decided to incite the very forces which originally accepted her into their fold, and divide them in some sort of sick civil war between a group of over the top sociopaths. I feel at a loss. I can hardly hope to understand her motivations, or hope she'll realize that this world is far more damaging and dangerous to her and her daughter than the hole in the wall dives she used to work for and frequent. Mostly, I can only turn off the television and hope that if anything truly horrible were about to happen, Sherry would be frantically dialing my number. This is all the control Jezebel will allow me to have, and for both of our sakes, I guess I have to live with it."
As the monologue ends, you begin to feel yourself coalescing into a real soul again, and you know it's time to make your exit, you intrusive asshole. Right as the last traces of your essence are gathering into the atmosphere, a cell phone ringing on cue and ominously as Jet opens the door of the bathroom floods your absence with seratonin and adrenaline as Jet's hippocampi reacts to the sudden dread of receiving the very phone call he was just referring to in his mind...
If you, reading this, could step outside yourself, you might take on the properties of the steam enveloping the restroom at this moment. As Jet lathers up the shaving cream, beginning to shave the shadow which threatens to rob him of his cute babyface features, you might begin to permeate the shell of his mind, and travel down the amygdala to discover the thoughts which currently tug at his inner monologue, which is thus:
"I can remember her first tenure in this business. PPW, and the beginning of the psychological mutation that became my sister under the influence of larger than life egos and overeager, never content fans. Professional wrestling, the penultimate form of entertainment, which means it has to be ever-changing and ever-innovating. The masses are hungry for that which they have not seen, and they are hungry for representations of their basal animal urges. They expect the superstars who fight week in and week out to be the visual embodiments of those urges, the vicarious avatars who can do whatever they want, whatever the general population would like to do, without worry of societal repercussions and ramifications. It's a sick study of real human nature without social taboos. There is no honor in it, and how Jezebel and I, raised in the same simple household away from the main dregs of a world gone mad, could have ended down two paths so diametrically opposed and yet so similar, eludes me."
A flash from the somatosensory cortex alerts you, in your steamy, invasive form, that Jet has suddenly nicked himself somewhat badly with the Mach 5 Fusion Razor. As you momentarily are distracted from the monologue, you realize how distracted thoughts of his sister must make him, as that particular razor is designed for comfort and rarifying nicks. You turn back, a little more interested now, as his monologue continues.
"She didn't do a lot there beyond the lower card, but that's just a reflection on her professional persona. What she did there personally was more damaging than perhaps anything she has done prior or after. The first, was she met that big freak and his frenemies. The second was she got a taste for the business. Both incidents can be easily explained. Shrugged off by most of the men her life, men who, in my opinion, couldn't handle a woman as strong as Jez, she was constantly discarded and left by the wayside; one of these times, she was saddled with her wonderful daughter Havyn, and that's when a man decided he'd rather keep her around at any cost. Jez saw to his destruction, of course. No man before him would accept her, and no man after him would own her. Basically, until Raenius found her, Jezebel Saint was a piece of meat in every way imaginable, because that's the only way the boys could handle her. They couldn't see someone as deep and complex as her as an equal, so they put her far below their own stations, and instead made her inferior. Now, thanks to her time in PPW, she was not only adored by millions of strangers around the world, but honestly and truly loved by someone, someone with the fierce loyalty only developed in criminals and the very insane. In her mind, here was the fulfillment denied her by the men of her past."
Since you are now an entity of metaphysical existance, you can feel and sense that Jet truly believes these thoughts, and he's not just posturing from the pedestal on which he feels he stands as morally superior to most of mankind. You can also sense that, even though he abhors Jezebel's choices in life, he loves her and his niece as best as a brother can, and respects her despite her shortcomings. It also isn't a mystery how he feels about Salem and the rest of the people with which Jezebel surrounds herself. You can almost feel a swirling gray and purple thunderhead inside when thoughts of them flash by in his brain.
"I made a mistake not wanting to dirty my hands in her business, and trying to step back and allow her to make her own choices. I will admit I had more than a little influence in stationing Jinx as her manager, however, hoping that the almost gestapo attitude with which Jinx had previously handled her charges might protect Jezebel in some way. Jinx failed us miserably, and when Jezebel first fell from grace with her liver choking on inebriation, Jinx was promptly disposed of. Jezebel doesn't know it, but Jinx can be found in a newly renovated Twilight Nights Nudes, Booze, and Tattoos. A few well placed phone calls from me guaranteed that you don't ever walk out on this family without paying for it."
That thunderhead that started with thoughts of Salem and Raenius, the one you feel churning up your insides--ya know, if you had them--can be felt flecked with reddish chain lightning, and you are stunned to see how much anger can stir inside Jet. He's a member of fucking PETA for chrissakes. When it calms a bit, the inner monologue continues as Jet towels his face off, and wipes the blood from the deep nick. The streaks under his right eye as he does this almost resemble war paint, but he quickly wipes this away.
"I can remember after she left rehab the first time prematurely, thanks to those same reprobates she calls her 'real' family. She had gone in voluntarily, and could leave at anytime, and they convinced her she didn't need it, just some down time. I actually convinced her to try out MMA. I was beginning talks with Fighting Spirit, the Japanese promotion, and my empty spot was being felt back in NHB Fights, one of the largest promotions on the indy circuit in the United States. I offered them Jezebel Saint, and they quickly signed her. But her career there was short-lived. On her debut night, she demolished Arnie Zappa and got a knockout in round two. But that wasn't enough. she actually tossed the poor guy out of the ring and continued to pound on him. The fight hand ended officially four and a half minutes before the officials finally dragged her off the mess that Arnie became. Then, in front of an already stunned audience, Jezebel pulled out a flask and lighter and for some ungodly reason set the poor guy on fire with a firebreathing bar trick she had learned back in the days before PPW. Fines were levied, and restraining orders were put in place. Saint was banned from all United States MMA events indefinitely."
"She spent the rest of the night drowning the memory of her colossal screw up, and I don't think she was really surprised when I used my legal right as her brother to sign her back into rehab. This time she was an involuntary ward, and couldn't leave. Well, she wasn't allowed to leave, but that didn't stop her and her oh-so-helpful family from walking right through the court order that kept her there and right back into a bar four months later."
"Now she has returned, and has done something that I can only attribute to satisfying the aforementioned ever-growing hunger for more brutality the fans lump on her; she has decided to incite the very forces which originally accepted her into their fold, and divide them in some sort of sick civil war between a group of over the top sociopaths. I feel at a loss. I can hardly hope to understand her motivations, or hope she'll realize that this world is far more damaging and dangerous to her and her daughter than the hole in the wall dives she used to work for and frequent. Mostly, I can only turn off the television and hope that if anything truly horrible were about to happen, Sherry would be frantically dialing my number. This is all the control Jezebel will allow me to have, and for both of our sakes, I guess I have to live with it."
As the monologue ends, you begin to feel yourself coalescing into a real soul again, and you know it's time to make your exit, you intrusive asshole. Right as the last traces of your essence are gathering into the atmosphere, a cell phone ringing on cue and ominously as Jet opens the door of the bathroom floods your absence with seratonin and adrenaline as Jet's hippocampi reacts to the sudden dread of receiving the very phone call he was just referring to in his mind...
