Queen of Sin [SCW]
Aug 27, 2016 15:08:14 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Aug 27, 2016 15:08:14 GMT -5
LOCATION: Detroit, Michigan
DATE/TIME: Thursday, October 15 || 10:57AM EST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
The room was simple – mats on the floors for the most part, clean and new. A few chairs, a small 'dorm style' refrigerator that held water and protein drinks, and a cabinet that held small equipment and the first aid kit. A ballet-style barre ran along one wall, and the opposite had a bench, and on this bench sat the tall form of Sabra as she laced her training shoes. Her dark hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense tail and she had that sort of far-away look that told of intense focus. She fished in the bag at her feet once she was done, looking for her phone while she waited.
The door to her left opened and closed, the soft footsteps signalling the arrival of her training partner as Kitty stepped into view, dropping an oversized purse on the floor next to Sabra's bag. She was already dressed in a pair of form-fitting yoga pants and an old black zip-up hoodie that had her name on the back in pink and cat ears on the hood. Plopping down on the bench next to the only woman she still trusted enough to call friend, she kicked off the cheap slip-on shoes she was wearing and pulled out a pair of pink and black wrestling shoes. "Cold out there today," she said softly, shivering even though it was warm enough. "I don't think we're going to get much of an autumn this year. They're already calling for snow by the weekend."
A hint of a smile came to Sabra's full lips. "Snow. I miss real snow, not that what fell in Vladivostok was even remotely… safe." She nudged Kitty gently with her elbow. "Today will just be movement. See where we need to focus. He will be watching, and let us know. Then we can get in a ring." A smirk rose in place of that smile. "At least you know that this year Shelbi will not be in, and thus be unable to welcome you to Sin City as she did me." Sabra referring to Shelbi spitting in her face – right before she lost to Sabra in the first Queen of Sin.
"Shelbi, ugh," she made a disgusted sound, her nose wrinkling as she pulled on her boots and began to tighten the laces. "Dye her hair brown and she could pass for Shane Sanders' less talented twin. Never thought she was even remotely noteworthy… I certainly hope you didn't catch anything from her little welcome wagon care package." Kitty smirked, looking at Sabra sidelong, "I'm sure I can expect the same from Brytain… provided she hasn't already been maimed by La–" she caught herself, a dark look passing over her face as she kept from saying his name, "the Knights."
The smirk grew darker a moment. "Shawn insisted I get a tetanus shot after." A tip of her head and then she rose to her feet. "Brytain, she might bite. Watch her teeth, and if she nips, knock them down her fuck knuckle throat." Her expression lightened then. "Perhaps though, she will learn a lesson of what it takes to do what she slates herself to do. I have seen her in the ring." She left that hanging, Kitty would know exactly what that meant. "Do not worry overmuch, Kitty. Give the ones that deserve concern full measure. The rest will winnow out like the malformed grains they are."
The laugh that passed Kitty's lips as she straightened up was caustic and bitter. "I couldn't have said it better myself. It's been a strange year for me… for us, really… I feel as though I am destined for this more than I need it, you know?"
Sabra nodded, that laugh of Kitty's despite the tone was a welcomed sound for her. "It has been. But now I feel that finally everything will be as it should. I understand what you are saying though, about that feeling of destiny. I remember that myself, on that night, that first night. I knew no one in Sin City other than by reputation, I had accepted the invitation and despite all of that? Something told me that I was meant to be, right where I was. Everything grew from there." She reached over to smooth her thumb across Kitty's forehead. "We have a rare chance, Kitty. Legacy will be where things end… but where new things begin." A slight smirk. "Is that cryptic enough or do I need to work in a little more Russian stoicism?"
"Cryptic enough, I think." She started gathering her hair back, putting it into a tight ponytail and securing it with the pink elastic she'd been wearing around her wrist. "As far as stoicism goes, I think I could use some of that. I'm a bundle of nerves already and we're still more than a week out." Letting her hands drop, she pulled off the emerald ring she was wearing and zipped it inside the pocket of her hoodie before taking that off and dropping it on top of her purse. Underneath she had on a pink and black Under Armour sports bra. "Let's get to it before I lose my nerve," she said with a soft, nervous giggle.
Sabra's grin was sharper then, as she felt her pulse leap. There was a certain serenity that came from training with a partner you trusted, and at the end of the day that's exactly what Kitty was. "This will be good, for us both. I can tell."
LOCATION: Hamilton, Ontario
DATE/TIME: Sunday, October 18 || 11:57PM EST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
With a sigh, she opened the laptop on the bed and started typing, the words going directly to her website that had laid dormant for more than three years: kittymacblog.wordpress.net. Maybe when it was done, she'd actually go through with posting it. Maybe it was an exercise in futility. Either way, she felt like this was something she needed to do.
Oh look, I'm stealing a page from Dixie Dynamite or The Goddess of Fuck or whatever she's calling herself for October and writing a lame little blog full of snarky little barbs. I'm just so clichéd at this point that it hurts but here we are. Social media's really become a thing since I deactivated my original account and lost my thousands of followers and I have no clue how else to touch base with some of these brain trust geniuses otherwise. We'll chalk it up to laziness and move on. It's a little bit of déjà vu for me today and I'm not sure if that's a good or a bad thing at this point. After spending several years competing in Femme Fatale Wrestling, I'm no stranger to multi-women matches. In fact, I actually won one of them once against the likes of Wendy Briese and Scarlett Kincaid once upon a time (not that I expect most of you to know who they are) – Elimination Chamber, so not quite the same set of rules. I did another tournament in 2011 called Angels and Amazons, too (also not required reading for this little crash course in all things Kitty which is probably a good thing where some of you are concerned). I made it to the final grouping. No, really. Still, I feel grossly unprepared because my schedule with SVW right now is – I'll be nice and politically correct – ultra-light, at best. My last match was so long ago, I needed to check a calendar to figure it out. No lie. Not that I'm complaining. I could spread myself thinner, sure. Like some of these girls, I could have four or five promotions listed in my Twitter bio, but why? I could go back to FFW if I chose to in a heartbeat. I've been told more than once that the door is wide open but mehhhhhhhhh. Been there. Done that. Inaction seems to be such a definition for me these days that I'm loath to change it. That's the long and short of it, really.
Kitty paused, staring at the screen for a few seconds, tapping her finger against her lips, trying to gauge how she was going to come across to people who had no idea who she was.
I suppose introductions are in order, n'est pas? Hello, Sin City. I'm Kaitlynn Stryfe (no, really. That's actually my last name). Once upon a time it was Jackson (ugh, don't get me started there) and before that it was McIntyre. My friends call me Kitty and for nearly three years, this industry – and the world at large, really – talked about me in the past tense. I didn't retire. Oh, heavens no. That would have been normal. Thanks to some machinations beyond my control, they believed I'd taken the coward's way out with a bellyful of prescription drugs in some seedy Dallas, Texas hotel room on the eve of a FFW Pay-Per-View event. Three years is a very long time to stay on the shelf (as I'm sure Kelly Hall can attest to). I absolutely loathe that flip little statement 'it is what it is', but it applies here more than anything else. As much as I'd like to use these words on this screen right now to gloss over and paint a pretty Bob Ross portrait with happy little clouds and trees to explain that absence, I can't. It happened. I lived the lie and I hurt a lot of people in the process. Some will never forgive me and that hurts more than I can express, even if you don't believe me. I'm sorry, Larry.
"Ugh," she made a sound of disgust, shaking her head but even as her finger hovered over the [Backspace] button, twitching slightly, she didn't erase it.
It's safe to say that I'd rather be somewhere else, thinking about nothing. I'd rather be wallowing in my own self-pity, but someone slapped some sense into me recently and I think I might have actually found my smile, as it were. See, this event was tailor-made for someone like me, especially when you take a look historically. Last year's winner was Zoe Thorne, a woman who went on to completely DOMINATE here in SCW. Before that? She was an unknown, untested entity with everything to prove. Now she's a record-breaking undefeated champion, a measuring stick for all of us in the thing this year. Do I want to be like her? You betcha. She's the benchmark, ladies, even if you're too shortsighted to really see the big picture past a pair of silicone tits and that nose you've got in the air. Don't believe me? Look at Sabra Kellar, one of the most feared women in this business and for good reason. Yes. I see myself on their level. I do. And anyone who wants to question this? Please, step right up and cast the first stone. Put yourself in my crosshairs, sweethearts. I want to make you suffer. I don't want to just win. I want to DOMINATE and unlike Annie Zellor (bless her lovely little heart but surely I can't be the only one who thinks she's no better off here than she was in that Queen of the Deathmatch tournament), I'm not afraid to get a little vicious to make that happen. That's no catch phrase, ladies. That's the honest truth from my fingers to your disbelieving eyes and I know you're thinking to yourself that I'm full of myself or hot air or whatever noun you want to slide on into the MadLibs slot, but the truth is, I have the skills AND the clout to back up any and all claims I choose to make from here on out. Glad we got that settled. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. A little history lesson about yours truly.
There were tears in her eyes and she blinked them away with irritated motions, thankful that she could hide behind the resolve of an orderly little wall of words.
Ironically, this business used to be my element – my playground, as it were – I was one of the best way back when. My how the times change. Now I feel like a complete outsider. I felt alive here, scaling the ropes and laughing as I crashed down to do some damage. Now I just feel like a poser, going through the motions – don't get me wrong, ladies. I'm still good. Very good. I've won far more than I've lost since my return last December and all pathetic zombie jokes aside, I still feel a little like a laughingstock. Is that what I am? Am I simply the butt of the jokes people make when they have nothing else to say? I don't even know and that's the part that kills me. That's the part that's pushed me to my limit. That's why I've come to Sin City: seeking a definition. I'm sure some of you will scoff at that. Clearly I should be aspiring to some level of greatness like Brytain Rollins is, with her second year entering…or is it the third now? Idiotic, really, when she has a tag title to defend. Ah, but she has a partner for that (insert eye roll here). Unlike Pinky Lee and Artemis Kaiser, I'm not coming in here hot, with an armload of accolades to back up a pedigree claim. Unlike Claire James, I'm not babbling incoherently on Twitter and I'm certainly not some glorified sidekick like Tarja or Cristal looking to shuck the shadows for 15 minutes. Not at all. Let's face it: with Cordy Stevenson sidelined, it's like the sign I was looking for. This is MY moment, hand-picked and polished up. I can do this. I will do this and if I fail? Well, I can only drag myself up, dust off and do what Brytain did: enter next year's event and hope everyone forgets the failure of the year before (whoops, my bad). If I'm being honest here? I am wagering that won't happen with everything I can lay on the line.
She twisted a lock of hair around her finger and then slid the end in her mouth, sucking on it for a moment as though she was five years old again. It was comforting in a way she couldn't really explain.
Willing myself into this familiar pair of shoes was supposed to help and now I'm finding they don't fit as well as I remember. They're rubbing me raw. I'm going to have a blister, if I need to carry the metaphor even further. It was supposed to be so easy to waltz in and smash a bunch of washed out Girl Power or Pride & Honor Wrestling nobodies (hi Tala et all) who are full of hot air and nothing more. I know, I know… they're not all from those dumpster fires… blah blah whatever. Limited time means I can generalise. I'm the only one representing SVW, the only former FFW champion and while some might see that as odd, I don't. Those two companies are elitist – insular if you will – and I'm happy to step outside the box for this. So here I am, trying like hell to grasp at the fragments of that once promising career here in Femme Fatale Wrestling. The pieces are turning to dust as my hands close around them. I've got nothing. Nothing but determination. Nothing but the approval and support of my good friend Sabra. Nothing but the skills to get this done. And at the end of the day? That's really all I need.
Nodding to herself, she read over the words and then clicked to make the blog live. Snapping the laptop closed, she reached for her cell phone and finally sent the message that had been sitting in her drafts for weeks, the shapes of those letters committed to memory now even though she didn't speak any Russian at all.
Я вас любил: любовь еще, быть может, В душе моей угасла не совсем; Но пусть она вас больше не тревожит
Watching the little blue circle twirl, she held her breath until it showed the timestamp and then set it aside, wondering what he would think when he read it and if he'd actually reply.
DATE/TIME: Thursday, October 15 || 10:57AM EST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
The room was simple – mats on the floors for the most part, clean and new. A few chairs, a small 'dorm style' refrigerator that held water and protein drinks, and a cabinet that held small equipment and the first aid kit. A ballet-style barre ran along one wall, and the opposite had a bench, and on this bench sat the tall form of Sabra as she laced her training shoes. Her dark hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense tail and she had that sort of far-away look that told of intense focus. She fished in the bag at her feet once she was done, looking for her phone while she waited.
The door to her left opened and closed, the soft footsteps signalling the arrival of her training partner as Kitty stepped into view, dropping an oversized purse on the floor next to Sabra's bag. She was already dressed in a pair of form-fitting yoga pants and an old black zip-up hoodie that had her name on the back in pink and cat ears on the hood. Plopping down on the bench next to the only woman she still trusted enough to call friend, she kicked off the cheap slip-on shoes she was wearing and pulled out a pair of pink and black wrestling shoes. "Cold out there today," she said softly, shivering even though it was warm enough. "I don't think we're going to get much of an autumn this year. They're already calling for snow by the weekend."
A hint of a smile came to Sabra's full lips. "Snow. I miss real snow, not that what fell in Vladivostok was even remotely… safe." She nudged Kitty gently with her elbow. "Today will just be movement. See where we need to focus. He will be watching, and let us know. Then we can get in a ring." A smirk rose in place of that smile. "At least you know that this year Shelbi will not be in, and thus be unable to welcome you to Sin City as she did me." Sabra referring to Shelbi spitting in her face – right before she lost to Sabra in the first Queen of Sin.
"Shelbi, ugh," she made a disgusted sound, her nose wrinkling as she pulled on her boots and began to tighten the laces. "Dye her hair brown and she could pass for Shane Sanders' less talented twin. Never thought she was even remotely noteworthy… I certainly hope you didn't catch anything from her little welcome wagon care package." Kitty smirked, looking at Sabra sidelong, "I'm sure I can expect the same from Brytain… provided she hasn't already been maimed by La–" she caught herself, a dark look passing over her face as she kept from saying his name, "the Knights."
The smirk grew darker a moment. "Shawn insisted I get a tetanus shot after." A tip of her head and then she rose to her feet. "Brytain, she might bite. Watch her teeth, and if she nips, knock them down her fuck knuckle throat." Her expression lightened then. "Perhaps though, she will learn a lesson of what it takes to do what she slates herself to do. I have seen her in the ring." She left that hanging, Kitty would know exactly what that meant. "Do not worry overmuch, Kitty. Give the ones that deserve concern full measure. The rest will winnow out like the malformed grains they are."
The laugh that passed Kitty's lips as she straightened up was caustic and bitter. "I couldn't have said it better myself. It's been a strange year for me… for us, really… I feel as though I am destined for this more than I need it, you know?"
Sabra nodded, that laugh of Kitty's despite the tone was a welcomed sound for her. "It has been. But now I feel that finally everything will be as it should. I understand what you are saying though, about that feeling of destiny. I remember that myself, on that night, that first night. I knew no one in Sin City other than by reputation, I had accepted the invitation and despite all of that? Something told me that I was meant to be, right where I was. Everything grew from there." She reached over to smooth her thumb across Kitty's forehead. "We have a rare chance, Kitty. Legacy will be where things end… but where new things begin." A slight smirk. "Is that cryptic enough or do I need to work in a little more Russian stoicism?"
"Cryptic enough, I think." She started gathering her hair back, putting it into a tight ponytail and securing it with the pink elastic she'd been wearing around her wrist. "As far as stoicism goes, I think I could use some of that. I'm a bundle of nerves already and we're still more than a week out." Letting her hands drop, she pulled off the emerald ring she was wearing and zipped it inside the pocket of her hoodie before taking that off and dropping it on top of her purse. Underneath she had on a pink and black Under Armour sports bra. "Let's get to it before I lose my nerve," she said with a soft, nervous giggle.
Sabra's grin was sharper then, as she felt her pulse leap. There was a certain serenity that came from training with a partner you trusted, and at the end of the day that's exactly what Kitty was. "This will be good, for us both. I can tell."
DATE/TIME: Sunday, October 18 || 11:57PM EST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
With a sigh, she opened the laptop on the bed and started typing, the words going directly to her website that had laid dormant for more than three years: kittymacblog.wordpress.net. Maybe when it was done, she'd actually go through with posting it. Maybe it was an exercise in futility. Either way, she felt like this was something she needed to do.
Oh look, I'm stealing a page from Dixie Dynamite or The Goddess of Fuck or whatever she's calling herself for October and writing a lame little blog full of snarky little barbs. I'm just so clichéd at this point that it hurts but here we are. Social media's really become a thing since I deactivated my original account and lost my thousands of followers and I have no clue how else to touch base with some of these brain trust geniuses otherwise. We'll chalk it up to laziness and move on. It's a little bit of déjà vu for me today and I'm not sure if that's a good or a bad thing at this point. After spending several years competing in Femme Fatale Wrestling, I'm no stranger to multi-women matches. In fact, I actually won one of them once against the likes of Wendy Briese and Scarlett Kincaid once upon a time (not that I expect most of you to know who they are) – Elimination Chamber, so not quite the same set of rules. I did another tournament in 2011 called Angels and Amazons, too (also not required reading for this little crash course in all things Kitty which is probably a good thing where some of you are concerned). I made it to the final grouping. No, really. Still, I feel grossly unprepared because my schedule with SVW right now is – I'll be nice and politically correct – ultra-light, at best. My last match was so long ago, I needed to check a calendar to figure it out. No lie. Not that I'm complaining. I could spread myself thinner, sure. Like some of these girls, I could have four or five promotions listed in my Twitter bio, but why? I could go back to FFW if I chose to in a heartbeat. I've been told more than once that the door is wide open but mehhhhhhhhh. Been there. Done that. Inaction seems to be such a definition for me these days that I'm loath to change it. That's the long and short of it, really.
Kitty paused, staring at the screen for a few seconds, tapping her finger against her lips, trying to gauge how she was going to come across to people who had no idea who she was.
I suppose introductions are in order, n'est pas? Hello, Sin City. I'm Kaitlynn Stryfe (no, really. That's actually my last name). Once upon a time it was Jackson (ugh, don't get me started there) and before that it was McIntyre. My friends call me Kitty and for nearly three years, this industry – and the world at large, really – talked about me in the past tense. I didn't retire. Oh, heavens no. That would have been normal. Thanks to some machinations beyond my control, they believed I'd taken the coward's way out with a bellyful of prescription drugs in some seedy Dallas, Texas hotel room on the eve of a FFW Pay-Per-View event. Three years is a very long time to stay on the shelf (as I'm sure Kelly Hall can attest to). I absolutely loathe that flip little statement 'it is what it is', but it applies here more than anything else. As much as I'd like to use these words on this screen right now to gloss over and paint a pretty Bob Ross portrait with happy little clouds and trees to explain that absence, I can't. It happened. I lived the lie and I hurt a lot of people in the process. Some will never forgive me and that hurts more than I can express, even if you don't believe me. I'm sorry, Larry.
"Ugh," she made a sound of disgust, shaking her head but even as her finger hovered over the [Backspace] button, twitching slightly, she didn't erase it.
It's safe to say that I'd rather be somewhere else, thinking about nothing. I'd rather be wallowing in my own self-pity, but someone slapped some sense into me recently and I think I might have actually found my smile, as it were. See, this event was tailor-made for someone like me, especially when you take a look historically. Last year's winner was Zoe Thorne, a woman who went on to completely DOMINATE here in SCW. Before that? She was an unknown, untested entity with everything to prove. Now she's a record-breaking undefeated champion, a measuring stick for all of us in the thing this year. Do I want to be like her? You betcha. She's the benchmark, ladies, even if you're too shortsighted to really see the big picture past a pair of silicone tits and that nose you've got in the air. Don't believe me? Look at Sabra Kellar, one of the most feared women in this business and for good reason. Yes. I see myself on their level. I do. And anyone who wants to question this? Please, step right up and cast the first stone. Put yourself in my crosshairs, sweethearts. I want to make you suffer. I don't want to just win. I want to DOMINATE and unlike Annie Zellor (bless her lovely little heart but surely I can't be the only one who thinks she's no better off here than she was in that Queen of the Deathmatch tournament), I'm not afraid to get a little vicious to make that happen. That's no catch phrase, ladies. That's the honest truth from my fingers to your disbelieving eyes and I know you're thinking to yourself that I'm full of myself or hot air or whatever noun you want to slide on into the MadLibs slot, but the truth is, I have the skills AND the clout to back up any and all claims I choose to make from here on out. Glad we got that settled. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. A little history lesson about yours truly.
There were tears in her eyes and she blinked them away with irritated motions, thankful that she could hide behind the resolve of an orderly little wall of words.
Ironically, this business used to be my element – my playground, as it were – I was one of the best way back when. My how the times change. Now I feel like a complete outsider. I felt alive here, scaling the ropes and laughing as I crashed down to do some damage. Now I just feel like a poser, going through the motions – don't get me wrong, ladies. I'm still good. Very good. I've won far more than I've lost since my return last December and all pathetic zombie jokes aside, I still feel a little like a laughingstock. Is that what I am? Am I simply the butt of the jokes people make when they have nothing else to say? I don't even know and that's the part that kills me. That's the part that's pushed me to my limit. That's why I've come to Sin City: seeking a definition. I'm sure some of you will scoff at that. Clearly I should be aspiring to some level of greatness like Brytain Rollins is, with her second year entering…or is it the third now? Idiotic, really, when she has a tag title to defend. Ah, but she has a partner for that (insert eye roll here). Unlike Pinky Lee and Artemis Kaiser, I'm not coming in here hot, with an armload of accolades to back up a pedigree claim. Unlike Claire James, I'm not babbling incoherently on Twitter and I'm certainly not some glorified sidekick like Tarja or Cristal looking to shuck the shadows for 15 minutes. Not at all. Let's face it: with Cordy Stevenson sidelined, it's like the sign I was looking for. This is MY moment, hand-picked and polished up. I can do this. I will do this and if I fail? Well, I can only drag myself up, dust off and do what Brytain did: enter next year's event and hope everyone forgets the failure of the year before (whoops, my bad). If I'm being honest here? I am wagering that won't happen with everything I can lay on the line.
She twisted a lock of hair around her finger and then slid the end in her mouth, sucking on it for a moment as though she was five years old again. It was comforting in a way she couldn't really explain.
Willing myself into this familiar pair of shoes was supposed to help and now I'm finding they don't fit as well as I remember. They're rubbing me raw. I'm going to have a blister, if I need to carry the metaphor even further. It was supposed to be so easy to waltz in and smash a bunch of washed out Girl Power or Pride & Honor Wrestling nobodies (hi Tala et all) who are full of hot air and nothing more. I know, I know… they're not all from those dumpster fires… blah blah whatever. Limited time means I can generalise. I'm the only one representing SVW, the only former FFW champion and while some might see that as odd, I don't. Those two companies are elitist – insular if you will – and I'm happy to step outside the box for this. So here I am, trying like hell to grasp at the fragments of that once promising career here in Femme Fatale Wrestling. The pieces are turning to dust as my hands close around them. I've got nothing. Nothing but determination. Nothing but the approval and support of my good friend Sabra. Nothing but the skills to get this done. And at the end of the day? That's really all I need.
Nodding to herself, she read over the words and then clicked to make the blog live. Snapping the laptop closed, she reached for her cell phone and finally sent the message that had been sitting in her drafts for weeks, the shapes of those letters committed to memory now even though she didn't speak any Russian at all.
Я вас любил: любовь еще, быть может, В душе моей угасла не совсем; Но пусть она вас больше не тревожит
Watching the little blue circle twirl, she held her breath until it showed the timestamp and then set it aside, wondering what he would think when he read it and if he'd actually reply.
