002: Dominance
Feb 9, 2017 1:59:06 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Feb 9, 2017 1:59:06 GMT -5
LOCATION: Las Vegas
DATE/TIME: Tuesday, December 6 || 03:07AM PST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
The heavy bag trembled, the chain jingling almost musically, taunting her as she stood there, staring at it. Her back was killing her. Even with the brace, her knee felt tight tonight, the skin hot as though it was going to burn right through the yoga pants she had on under it. Of course she'd tweaked it when JT Midas had caught her in the middle of the ring. Of course. Pressing her fingertips into the small of her back, she tried to work out the kinks – it was pointless, nothing more than a stalling technique because she was dangerously close to completely losing her temper. A goddamned tag match loomed on the horizon and the last time she'd been in one of those Smith Jones had damn near taken her head off. "Can't drop the ball again," she huffed, "can't."
The gym was completely deserted. At three am, even in a city that never slept like Vegas, even the die-hards had their limits but she'd managed to strike a deal with the owner. It helped that he was a wrestling fan. Winning that damned Queen of Sin tournament seemed like a thousand lifetimes ago rather than a little over a year. It seemed so inconsequential now even though she'd tried so hard to build a new legacy around it. Nobody cared about the rest of the alphabet soup of her past outside of Calvin Harris. The thought of that greasy, emo washout brought a wan smile to her lips, fleeting. Maybe he'd lose again and disappear, slither back to that dumpster fire WWH company that kept spamming her email with unsolicited invitations to compete.
Now, if she could just get that damned superkick timed – it didn't help that she'd been forced to change legs. Snapping the kick with her left was pointless thanks to the brace.
"I can do this," she muttered, blowing the wisps of hair that had escaped the messy ponytail out of her face. Counting to three, she closed her eyes, pulling in a deep breath before opening her eyes. Pivoting, she threw the mule kick but it didn't hit the bag square, sending it crashing into her hip as she almost lost her balance. She turned, storming over to the bench where she'd left a bottle of water and a fluffy pink towel and she flopped down with a sigh. A few seconds later the towel was on her head and she was leaning against the wall, letting her eyes close again as the exhaustion took over. A few minutes later she was actually dozing off without even realizing it.
He knew where she was. He always knew, though he hadn't told her that yet. He wasn't a man that was comfortable with loss or fear, and he had no desires to feel either again. Especially when it came to the woman that he called his Princess. The place was almost dead quiet as Mikhail Petrov stalked through it, quick glances taking everything in even as he looked for her. There. He stood there for long moments, just watching her and knowing she was asleep just from the soft rhythm of her breathing. He murmured something in Russian before he quietly gathered her things and with an infinite tenderness he carefully scooped her up, cradling her against his chest and taking her out to where he'd parked his car.
The sound of the engine starting was enough to jolt her awake and for a moment her heart was racing as she tried to figure out where she was. A car, was the obvious answer and then she turned towards the driver's seat, blinking blearily at her husband. "Mik," her voice came out small, rough with exhaustion, "I wasn't finished." The words came with a hint of defeat to them as she closed her eyes, letting her head fall back against the seat.
"Oh, my pretty darling. You are done for tonight." He murmured, his eyes on the road though they cut to the mirror for a glimpse at her. "Tomorrow, we will work together. You know, that I will do what I can, and you should have no worries for the weekend." He shifted gears, then gently reached to pat her. "I see your determination. It will see you through. We will see it through."
"I guess I'm not used to starting over," she replied with a yawn, covering it with her hand. "The last time I did, I was clawing my way back from the dead and I-"
She felt his silence like a weight, just a subtle shift and then his hand reached out, catching hers.
"Shit, Mik... I didn't mean it that way. I need to put in the work. I need to win this week. I need to win that four way next show and I...." She felt silent again, cursing herself for the doubt she heard in her voice. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to sound like I was complaining or comparing you to..." she trailed off, busying herself with pulling the elastic from her hair. She ran her fingers through it, getting the worst of the tangles out. "I'm half-asleep still, I think."
Mikhail laughed soft, a mere glimmer of that killer laugh he had but the humor tinged his voice. "No worries, Princess." A wry grin, and he laughed again. "After all, there is no comparison to me, and from what I see that? This is very good for me." He didn't care if any of those men might be insulted of his somewhat high opinion of himself, that was clear. "Keep that, when we get back I will make sure that is full asleep again. You need your rest, as much as you need your training."
His laugh brought a smile to her face, that familiar fluttering in her stomach. Reaching across the seats, she rested her hand on his shoulder, fingertips gently running through his hair. "If I'm dreaming," she murmured, feeling like she was close to drifting off again, "I don't ever want to wake up."
A hint of smile came to his lips at her touch, though his voice was firm when he spoke. "No, Princess. No dream. After all, every dream has a darkness under the bright and this?" A slight shake of his head. "Nothing dark, can survive your light." He paused, wetting his lips slightly. "I want you to rest, truly rest and understand something. This? Will still be here when you open those pretty eyes of yours tomorrow."
"I believe you," her voice came out soft, the barest of whispers as she looked down, those fingers stilling, "I don't have any doubts about you – about us. I'm worried about... it's silly. I shouldn't be. I've done this literally hundreds of times."
"Good." He murmured something in Russian, shifting the gear on the car again as they came to a red light. As soon as he had his foot on the brake he turned toward her, reaching with one hand to draw her toward him, make her look up so he could kiss her. When he broke that kiss, a slightly crooked smile was on his lips. "You worry, because you wish to be perfect. How you managed to forget that to me, you already are? I am not sure."
A flush of pink colored her cheeks, a soft little embarrassed laugh slipping out as she averted her eyes. "You're biased, love... that's all there is to it. I'm far from it, but I'm going to fix that. I need them to take me seriously. I need this. That's why this week needs to be absolutely flawless. There's no margin for error. I won't be laughed at again."
He chuckled, thumb brushing her cheek before he reluctantly turned his attention back to driving as the light turned green. "Let them neglect to take you seriously, and make them an example. Teach them...by object lessons, Princess." His expression darkened slightly. "And let someone laugh at you in front of me? Perhaps I can show them my idea of jokes." Mikhail gave her a slight glance before he pulled the car into its parking space, shutting off the engine and engaging the brake before he turned to her, unhooking his seatbelt. "Kitty." A small tone, and a shake of his head. "I will ask you something, then you tell me how you feel." He gave her an intense look, putting the full weight of his attention just on her before he leaned over and kissed her again. He took his time with it, and when it was done he settled back into the seat, without another word, though he was obviously waiting for her to speak.
She sat there stunned, eyes wide as they stared back at him, more golden than the hazel they usually were. "You..." she licked her lips, shaking her head slowly. "That was far more statement than question," she murmured, "unless I misunderstood. Maybe... you'd care to elaborate?"
Mikhail laughed, this one a whole lot closer to rich and he reached up to gently run his thumb over her cheek, down to her jaw. "Without a single doubt, Princess. But not here. This kind of question, needs a far more comfortable setting."
kittymacblog.wordpress.net posting
I know what you're thinking and you're wrong. I'm not going to wax poetic over 300 words of bullshit excuses. I lost. And the sad part is, I could have won. I know that. I watched the footage a thousand times, watching that moment where I was a little too slow, watching how my knee almost buckled and then JT had me dead to rights. It happens.
I failed to live up to the hype – granted it was completely in my head, but that's still pressure. It may be self-imposed, but that's nothing new. We're all our own worst critics, after all. To be honest, I'm glad Harris lost. I'm glad Mr. Wikipedia, the laziest asshole in professional wrestling, washed out first. I'm glad, JT, that it was down to you and I.
Your insults were pedantic.
But your skill was undeniable.
So I'll apologize now: I was wrong about you.
And I meant what I said on Twitter: I do want a rematch when we're both fresh. When neither of us are covered in garbage water from taking out the rotten trash (see what I did there, Harris?).
I know, I should be pissing and moaning and swearing revenge. I mean the alternative is what? Whining about how I was robbed? How there was dust in my eye or I was blinded by the flashbulbs or there just wasn't the right amount of give when I hit those ropes? No. Sorry. I own my shit. Always.
That – ladies and gentlemen – that was a warm-up. That was tuning up the band. And now I'm really ready to play. In the immortal words of Elton John: THE BITCH IS BACK.
On this lonely night, I feel a little like some romance novel heroine, writing furiously in her little diary. I'm Anne Frank, leaving behind a record of how things went so horribly wrong. I had two years on the shelf to ruminate over all this nonsense, after all – it began with a lie. A little white lie of omission, really. I had it all then. The fairytale life. A billionaire husband with quite a bit of stroke in the industry. I was already ranked in the top tier at Femme Fatale Wrestling. And while that might sound wonderful, I never had him pull a single string for me. I spent the better part of a year clawing my way back into contention for a title (thanks for shitting all over that, by the way). In the meantime, I went elsewhere. I conquered. And then I let FFW pull me back in and I always knew I'd end up cracking eventually. Of course I did. This business ate my brother up and spit him out, after all. Travel and this business aren't the best things for a young person, let alone a woman in her thirties. It all started with a little white lie and a trip to see a specialist in New York. The lie, like a snowball, picked up momentum as it rolled along and what started as a dirty secret that wasn't even so awful in hindsight turned into a gigantic web of deceit. What began with omission became a wild ride that ripped apart my life – not that I really expect you to care. This isn't one of those Lifetime movies, after all. I'm just trying to lay down a little backstory for you, that's all.
I made myself a promise before I decided to break my silence last year (and really, how has a year gone by this quickly). I vowed to never mislead again. So this is me being completely honest – with myself, with my co-workers, with the world at large – everyone. Pure narcissism, isn't it, to ramble on and on like this? Ah, perhaps. But then, they love to hear us sing those songs of our people, don't they?
I lost a match. You're no closer to unraveling the mystery that is me.
None of you actually know me. I could be completely pathological, and you wouldn't have a clue.
That's the fun part of a new company, isn't it? The careful rebuild. The subterfuge and the secrecy and the game you play with yourself, deciding which cards to lay on the table and which to hold back for the time being. Do you go big and try to draw out their best, or do you drop that nine and see where the lead ends up, see who's quick to jump all over and trump it? Euchre terms, kids. My apologies if you've never played. I've completely lost track of what's actually cool these days.
The long and short of it is simple: I will tell the truth, even when it's not pretty. What I ask for in return is a little maturity, a teaspoon of respect, perhaps. It's not so much in the grand scheme. I'll keep this site active as the year spins towards a close. I promise you I'm not going anywhere – I don't cut and run.
I'll keep you posted. I'll tell all, even when it's embarrassing. It may not be all roses and puppies and unicorns, but at least it'll be real. You know? I won't come out and spout off a bunch of slogans ripped from pop top forty and pretend like I made it up.
Okay. Now that we've settled on a mission statement, let's get down to brass tacks. Unlike some of the other fakes and frauds around here, I'm not living on a steady diet of lies and bullshit. I will never stand on a soapbox and tell you that I'm the best wrestler in the world, because I know that's not true. But I also know one thing. There aren't many people in this business who feel things as deeply as I do – call it passion, for lack of a better term. Call it knowledge as well, because there's that and while energy is one thing it's not the ONLY thing. I can still seize the moment and I've got the exact right partner to do it this week. A man who took part in the KOTC tournament, a man who has just as much right to use the legend moniker as I do: PerZag.
I have everything to lose here and I know that. I lost on the first episode. My partner did not.
I feel I've stepped out of the wilderness, all squint-eyed and confused and I hate the idea of this match. It's rotten on paper. It's awful by comparison. None of us are compatible.
I've been accused of being a 'punk rock princess' back in the day. I've been accused of being a slutty ring rat. I've been accused of being a gold digger trying to sleep my way to the top. You know what I've NEVER been accused of being? A dominant force. After all the time invested, after all the belts I've won and all the heads I've turned. Yeah. That irks me more than it really should and I understand that gap, I do. Especially now. There's a difference between the legends and little ol' me. While I was locked away in a dark room for two years (would've been better off dead, really), they were working their hands to the bone. They were out there each and every night, dazzling and winning and losing and getting their faces mashed in – I have a lot of catching up to do still. I know that, so don't bother to bore me with that idiocy. These days, it's too easy to get lost in the shuffle. Much too easy, too painless. You have to stand out. You have to be fuchsia when the rest of the world is shades of gray – interchangeable BLAHS – you need to give 'em the ol' razzle dazzle.
That's what I intend to do.
So watch how it's done, Ryan... Katie. Watch and learn. Watch your future Victory champion in action.
=^,,^=
DATE/TIME: Tuesday, December 6 || 03:07AM PST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
The heavy bag trembled, the chain jingling almost musically, taunting her as she stood there, staring at it. Her back was killing her. Even with the brace, her knee felt tight tonight, the skin hot as though it was going to burn right through the yoga pants she had on under it. Of course she'd tweaked it when JT Midas had caught her in the middle of the ring. Of course. Pressing her fingertips into the small of her back, she tried to work out the kinks – it was pointless, nothing more than a stalling technique because she was dangerously close to completely losing her temper. A goddamned tag match loomed on the horizon and the last time she'd been in one of those Smith Jones had damn near taken her head off. "Can't drop the ball again," she huffed, "can't."
The gym was completely deserted. At three am, even in a city that never slept like Vegas, even the die-hards had their limits but she'd managed to strike a deal with the owner. It helped that he was a wrestling fan. Winning that damned Queen of Sin tournament seemed like a thousand lifetimes ago rather than a little over a year. It seemed so inconsequential now even though she'd tried so hard to build a new legacy around it. Nobody cared about the rest of the alphabet soup of her past outside of Calvin Harris. The thought of that greasy, emo washout brought a wan smile to her lips, fleeting. Maybe he'd lose again and disappear, slither back to that dumpster fire WWH company that kept spamming her email with unsolicited invitations to compete.
Now, if she could just get that damned superkick timed – it didn't help that she'd been forced to change legs. Snapping the kick with her left was pointless thanks to the brace.
"I can do this," she muttered, blowing the wisps of hair that had escaped the messy ponytail out of her face. Counting to three, she closed her eyes, pulling in a deep breath before opening her eyes. Pivoting, she threw the mule kick but it didn't hit the bag square, sending it crashing into her hip as she almost lost her balance. She turned, storming over to the bench where she'd left a bottle of water and a fluffy pink towel and she flopped down with a sigh. A few seconds later the towel was on her head and she was leaning against the wall, letting her eyes close again as the exhaustion took over. A few minutes later she was actually dozing off without even realizing it.
He knew where she was. He always knew, though he hadn't told her that yet. He wasn't a man that was comfortable with loss or fear, and he had no desires to feel either again. Especially when it came to the woman that he called his Princess. The place was almost dead quiet as Mikhail Petrov stalked through it, quick glances taking everything in even as he looked for her. There. He stood there for long moments, just watching her and knowing she was asleep just from the soft rhythm of her breathing. He murmured something in Russian before he quietly gathered her things and with an infinite tenderness he carefully scooped her up, cradling her against his chest and taking her out to where he'd parked his car.
The sound of the engine starting was enough to jolt her awake and for a moment her heart was racing as she tried to figure out where she was. A car, was the obvious answer and then she turned towards the driver's seat, blinking blearily at her husband. "Mik," her voice came out small, rough with exhaustion, "I wasn't finished." The words came with a hint of defeat to them as she closed her eyes, letting her head fall back against the seat.
"Oh, my pretty darling. You are done for tonight." He murmured, his eyes on the road though they cut to the mirror for a glimpse at her. "Tomorrow, we will work together. You know, that I will do what I can, and you should have no worries for the weekend." He shifted gears, then gently reached to pat her. "I see your determination. It will see you through. We will see it through."
"I guess I'm not used to starting over," she replied with a yawn, covering it with her hand. "The last time I did, I was clawing my way back from the dead and I-"
She felt his silence like a weight, just a subtle shift and then his hand reached out, catching hers.
"Shit, Mik... I didn't mean it that way. I need to put in the work. I need to win this week. I need to win that four way next show and I...." She felt silent again, cursing herself for the doubt she heard in her voice. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to sound like I was complaining or comparing you to..." she trailed off, busying herself with pulling the elastic from her hair. She ran her fingers through it, getting the worst of the tangles out. "I'm half-asleep still, I think."
Mikhail laughed soft, a mere glimmer of that killer laugh he had but the humor tinged his voice. "No worries, Princess." A wry grin, and he laughed again. "After all, there is no comparison to me, and from what I see that? This is very good for me." He didn't care if any of those men might be insulted of his somewhat high opinion of himself, that was clear. "Keep that, when we get back I will make sure that is full asleep again. You need your rest, as much as you need your training."
His laugh brought a smile to her face, that familiar fluttering in her stomach. Reaching across the seats, she rested her hand on his shoulder, fingertips gently running through his hair. "If I'm dreaming," she murmured, feeling like she was close to drifting off again, "I don't ever want to wake up."
A hint of smile came to his lips at her touch, though his voice was firm when he spoke. "No, Princess. No dream. After all, every dream has a darkness under the bright and this?" A slight shake of his head. "Nothing dark, can survive your light." He paused, wetting his lips slightly. "I want you to rest, truly rest and understand something. This? Will still be here when you open those pretty eyes of yours tomorrow."
"I believe you," her voice came out soft, the barest of whispers as she looked down, those fingers stilling, "I don't have any doubts about you – about us. I'm worried about... it's silly. I shouldn't be. I've done this literally hundreds of times."
"Good." He murmured something in Russian, shifting the gear on the car again as they came to a red light. As soon as he had his foot on the brake he turned toward her, reaching with one hand to draw her toward him, make her look up so he could kiss her. When he broke that kiss, a slightly crooked smile was on his lips. "You worry, because you wish to be perfect. How you managed to forget that to me, you already are? I am not sure."
A flush of pink colored her cheeks, a soft little embarrassed laugh slipping out as she averted her eyes. "You're biased, love... that's all there is to it. I'm far from it, but I'm going to fix that. I need them to take me seriously. I need this. That's why this week needs to be absolutely flawless. There's no margin for error. I won't be laughed at again."
He chuckled, thumb brushing her cheek before he reluctantly turned his attention back to driving as the light turned green. "Let them neglect to take you seriously, and make them an example. Teach them...by object lessons, Princess." His expression darkened slightly. "And let someone laugh at you in front of me? Perhaps I can show them my idea of jokes." Mikhail gave her a slight glance before he pulled the car into its parking space, shutting off the engine and engaging the brake before he turned to her, unhooking his seatbelt. "Kitty." A small tone, and a shake of his head. "I will ask you something, then you tell me how you feel." He gave her an intense look, putting the full weight of his attention just on her before he leaned over and kissed her again. He took his time with it, and when it was done he settled back into the seat, without another word, though he was obviously waiting for her to speak.
She sat there stunned, eyes wide as they stared back at him, more golden than the hazel they usually were. "You..." she licked her lips, shaking her head slowly. "That was far more statement than question," she murmured, "unless I misunderstood. Maybe... you'd care to elaborate?"
Mikhail laughed, this one a whole lot closer to rich and he reached up to gently run his thumb over her cheek, down to her jaw. "Without a single doubt, Princess. But not here. This kind of question, needs a far more comfortable setting."
kittymacblog.wordpress.net posting
I know what you're thinking and you're wrong. I'm not going to wax poetic over 300 words of bullshit excuses. I lost. And the sad part is, I could have won. I know that. I watched the footage a thousand times, watching that moment where I was a little too slow, watching how my knee almost buckled and then JT had me dead to rights. It happens.
I failed to live up to the hype – granted it was completely in my head, but that's still pressure. It may be self-imposed, but that's nothing new. We're all our own worst critics, after all. To be honest, I'm glad Harris lost. I'm glad Mr. Wikipedia, the laziest asshole in professional wrestling, washed out first. I'm glad, JT, that it was down to you and I.
Your insults were pedantic.
But your skill was undeniable.
So I'll apologize now: I was wrong about you.
And I meant what I said on Twitter: I do want a rematch when we're both fresh. When neither of us are covered in garbage water from taking out the rotten trash (see what I did there, Harris?).
I know, I should be pissing and moaning and swearing revenge. I mean the alternative is what? Whining about how I was robbed? How there was dust in my eye or I was blinded by the flashbulbs or there just wasn't the right amount of give when I hit those ropes? No. Sorry. I own my shit. Always.
That – ladies and gentlemen – that was a warm-up. That was tuning up the band. And now I'm really ready to play. In the immortal words of Elton John: THE BITCH IS BACK.
On this lonely night, I feel a little like some romance novel heroine, writing furiously in her little diary. I'm Anne Frank, leaving behind a record of how things went so horribly wrong. I had two years on the shelf to ruminate over all this nonsense, after all – it began with a lie. A little white lie of omission, really. I had it all then. The fairytale life. A billionaire husband with quite a bit of stroke in the industry. I was already ranked in the top tier at Femme Fatale Wrestling. And while that might sound wonderful, I never had him pull a single string for me. I spent the better part of a year clawing my way back into contention for a title (thanks for shitting all over that, by the way). In the meantime, I went elsewhere. I conquered. And then I let FFW pull me back in and I always knew I'd end up cracking eventually. Of course I did. This business ate my brother up and spit him out, after all. Travel and this business aren't the best things for a young person, let alone a woman in her thirties. It all started with a little white lie and a trip to see a specialist in New York. The lie, like a snowball, picked up momentum as it rolled along and what started as a dirty secret that wasn't even so awful in hindsight turned into a gigantic web of deceit. What began with omission became a wild ride that ripped apart my life – not that I really expect you to care. This isn't one of those Lifetime movies, after all. I'm just trying to lay down a little backstory for you, that's all.
I made myself a promise before I decided to break my silence last year (and really, how has a year gone by this quickly). I vowed to never mislead again. So this is me being completely honest – with myself, with my co-workers, with the world at large – everyone. Pure narcissism, isn't it, to ramble on and on like this? Ah, perhaps. But then, they love to hear us sing those songs of our people, don't they?
I lost a match. You're no closer to unraveling the mystery that is me.
None of you actually know me. I could be completely pathological, and you wouldn't have a clue.
That's the fun part of a new company, isn't it? The careful rebuild. The subterfuge and the secrecy and the game you play with yourself, deciding which cards to lay on the table and which to hold back for the time being. Do you go big and try to draw out their best, or do you drop that nine and see where the lead ends up, see who's quick to jump all over and trump it? Euchre terms, kids. My apologies if you've never played. I've completely lost track of what's actually cool these days.
The long and short of it is simple: I will tell the truth, even when it's not pretty. What I ask for in return is a little maturity, a teaspoon of respect, perhaps. It's not so much in the grand scheme. I'll keep this site active as the year spins towards a close. I promise you I'm not going anywhere – I don't cut and run.
I'll keep you posted. I'll tell all, even when it's embarrassing. It may not be all roses and puppies and unicorns, but at least it'll be real. You know? I won't come out and spout off a bunch of slogans ripped from pop top forty and pretend like I made it up.
Okay. Now that we've settled on a mission statement, let's get down to brass tacks. Unlike some of the other fakes and frauds around here, I'm not living on a steady diet of lies and bullshit. I will never stand on a soapbox and tell you that I'm the best wrestler in the world, because I know that's not true. But I also know one thing. There aren't many people in this business who feel things as deeply as I do – call it passion, for lack of a better term. Call it knowledge as well, because there's that and while energy is one thing it's not the ONLY thing. I can still seize the moment and I've got the exact right partner to do it this week. A man who took part in the KOTC tournament, a man who has just as much right to use the legend moniker as I do: PerZag.
I have everything to lose here and I know that. I lost on the first episode. My partner did not.
I feel I've stepped out of the wilderness, all squint-eyed and confused and I hate the idea of this match. It's rotten on paper. It's awful by comparison. None of us are compatible.
I've been accused of being a 'punk rock princess' back in the day. I've been accused of being a slutty ring rat. I've been accused of being a gold digger trying to sleep my way to the top. You know what I've NEVER been accused of being? A dominant force. After all the time invested, after all the belts I've won and all the heads I've turned. Yeah. That irks me more than it really should and I understand that gap, I do. Especially now. There's a difference between the legends and little ol' me. While I was locked away in a dark room for two years (would've been better off dead, really), they were working their hands to the bone. They were out there each and every night, dazzling and winning and losing and getting their faces mashed in – I have a lot of catching up to do still. I know that, so don't bother to bore me with that idiocy. These days, it's too easy to get lost in the shuffle. Much too easy, too painless. You have to stand out. You have to be fuchsia when the rest of the world is shades of gray – interchangeable BLAHS – you need to give 'em the ol' razzle dazzle.
That's what I intend to do.
So watch how it's done, Ryan... Katie. Watch and learn. Watch your future Victory champion in action.
=^,,^=
