vs Trixie (posted on March 14, 2017)
May 3, 2017 5:07:03 GMT -5
Post by Admin on May 3, 2017 5:07:03 GMT -5
Chicago, Illinois || Monday, March 2, 2015, 8:15 PM (OFF CAMERA)
Sophie Richards. Kelly McGuffin. Jodie Gray. Laurel Anne Hardy. Samantha Tolson. Nessa Wall.
The big names were starting to add to the pile and she couldn't contain her excitement even though every inch of her body hurt. She could taste that bad penny old blood in her mouth – it'd be there for days. Her fingers ached from the tiny cuts as she dipped the cloth into the warm water again. "I'm gonna talk to Cody," she called out to her boyfriend, gently wiping away the soap and the last of the dried blood, feeling the sting of the rubbing alcohol she'd diluted in the water. Sighing, she leaned forward, getting close enough to the mirror that she could see the tiny cuts along her hairline from the light tubes Annie Zellor had smashed over her head. "After next week's match against Jenny Williams, I'm gonna shift to the Ultraviolence Division."
"What?" Where he was sprawled across the bed, Hunter Donimari swallowed hard, shaking his head. Watching her bleed, coming within inches of tearing herself to shreds on barbed wire ropes before to watching the arena medics pick slivers of glass from her scalp with tweezers had been bad enough as a one-time thing – he couldn't imagine going through that on a full-time basis.
"It'll be great. I've got it all figured out!" She was bouncing when she left the bathroom, joy all over her face. "It makes me feel alive – I know it's what I'm meant to do."
It's funny, I mean in retrospect mostly, how absolutely and catastrophically wrong you can be. Exactly two years ago, I thought I was going to pivot in my career. Instead I landed wrong in a match, broke my neck and spent a year clawing my way back. So being wrong kinda sucks. Life isn't full of straight answers. About things. About places and people and the whole purpose of life – I know the answer is 42 thanks to that tongue-in-cheek Douglas Adams quote but what's the friggin' equation? Like we're in the final round here, Double Jeopardy with all the bankroll on the line and I'm staring at a blank screen. If the answer to life, the universe and everything sums up at 42, how do we get there? What steps? If life's a dance, are we doing the watusi or just random viral spazzing Harlem shake? Are we grooving to the music, or fishing for attention?
Important things to know, I guess, but not as important as names. Places. Dates.
On Friday, I'll be in Savannah.
They dyed the Chicago River green for St. Patrick's day – did you know that? I saw it on Twitter and I thought to myself "why?" but I'm no marketing genius. I tried to explain to an international student friend of mine why everything in the stores is green right now, why people who aren't Irish embrace the seventeenth – numbers as answers again, right? At least this one falls on a weekend so there's time to recover from hangovers… or hypothermia. Out of the frying pan – my last match in Victory was for a title too. Against a woman who called herself the Queen of Pain. The outcome isn't important. Win or lose, the company closed its doors and the title means nothing. I got up. Again. Five companies now that have vanished since I decided to jump back in and now I'm legitimately starting to think I'm bad luck. The only thing making me trust in Defiant is Aidan Carlisle being here. She's been around long enough – longer than me, anyhow – to know a good thing. I know we've gathered a few more that I've seen before, around. Trixie. Ursula Areano. Chris Andrew – one off appearances, big draws. I wonder if my name falls from lips like that. I was something once. A star on the rise. Funny how stars are, really. They burn out. They're already dead by the time we see them – we're looking at ghosts. At reflections of the shiny things we wish we could be, I suppose. Up there where everyone can look and know of that elevated status. It's been too long since I've held gold and I've been given this opportunity.
I want to make waves.
I want to make a splash.
Funny how that goes – I want to be the last one standing on that riverbank. I want to feel that solid weight around my waist and know that the winds of change aren't going to blow everything away this time. I want to know that everything I've lost – everything I'd found – was worth it in the end. I need to know that I wasn't wrong after all.
This is where I belong. Defiant. Triumphant.
My name is Kasey Summers. I am a wrestler.
I am the summer breeze that washes away cold winter storms.
I am a champion. Now and forever.
The big names were starting to add to the pile and she couldn't contain her excitement even though every inch of her body hurt. She could taste that bad penny old blood in her mouth – it'd be there for days. Her fingers ached from the tiny cuts as she dipped the cloth into the warm water again. "I'm gonna talk to Cody," she called out to her boyfriend, gently wiping away the soap and the last of the dried blood, feeling the sting of the rubbing alcohol she'd diluted in the water. Sighing, she leaned forward, getting close enough to the mirror that she could see the tiny cuts along her hairline from the light tubes Annie Zellor had smashed over her head. "After next week's match against Jenny Williams, I'm gonna shift to the Ultraviolence Division."
"What?" Where he was sprawled across the bed, Hunter Donimari swallowed hard, shaking his head. Watching her bleed, coming within inches of tearing herself to shreds on barbed wire ropes before to watching the arena medics pick slivers of glass from her scalp with tweezers had been bad enough as a one-time thing – he couldn't imagine going through that on a full-time basis.
"It'll be great. I've got it all figured out!" She was bouncing when she left the bathroom, joy all over her face. "It makes me feel alive – I know it's what I'm meant to do."
It's funny, I mean in retrospect mostly, how absolutely and catastrophically wrong you can be. Exactly two years ago, I thought I was going to pivot in my career. Instead I landed wrong in a match, broke my neck and spent a year clawing my way back. So being wrong kinda sucks. Life isn't full of straight answers. About things. About places and people and the whole purpose of life – I know the answer is 42 thanks to that tongue-in-cheek Douglas Adams quote but what's the friggin' equation? Like we're in the final round here, Double Jeopardy with all the bankroll on the line and I'm staring at a blank screen. If the answer to life, the universe and everything sums up at 42, how do we get there? What steps? If life's a dance, are we doing the watusi or just random viral spazzing Harlem shake? Are we grooving to the music, or fishing for attention?
Important things to know, I guess, but not as important as names. Places. Dates.
On Friday, I'll be in Savannah.
They dyed the Chicago River green for St. Patrick's day – did you know that? I saw it on Twitter and I thought to myself "why?" but I'm no marketing genius. I tried to explain to an international student friend of mine why everything in the stores is green right now, why people who aren't Irish embrace the seventeenth – numbers as answers again, right? At least this one falls on a weekend so there's time to recover from hangovers… or hypothermia. Out of the frying pan – my last match in Victory was for a title too. Against a woman who called herself the Queen of Pain. The outcome isn't important. Win or lose, the company closed its doors and the title means nothing. I got up. Again. Five companies now that have vanished since I decided to jump back in and now I'm legitimately starting to think I'm bad luck. The only thing making me trust in Defiant is Aidan Carlisle being here. She's been around long enough – longer than me, anyhow – to know a good thing. I know we've gathered a few more that I've seen before, around. Trixie. Ursula Areano. Chris Andrew – one off appearances, big draws. I wonder if my name falls from lips like that. I was something once. A star on the rise. Funny how stars are, really. They burn out. They're already dead by the time we see them – we're looking at ghosts. At reflections of the shiny things we wish we could be, I suppose. Up there where everyone can look and know of that elevated status. It's been too long since I've held gold and I've been given this opportunity.
I want to make waves.
I want to make a splash.
Funny how that goes – I want to be the last one standing on that riverbank. I want to feel that solid weight around my waist and know that the winds of change aren't going to blow everything away this time. I want to know that everything I've lost – everything I'd found – was worth it in the end. I need to know that I wasn't wrong after all.
This is where I belong. Defiant. Triumphant.
My name is Kasey Summers. I am a wrestler.
I am the summer breeze that washes away cold winter storms.
I am a champion. Now and forever.
Miami, Florida || Monday, March 6, 2017, 10:31 AM (OFF CAMERA)
"Still lying?"
Kasey looked up from the screen of her phone, surprise on her face for a second at the sound of the male voice – for a second she'd thought it was Ak, catching her in the act. When she saw the legendary Brad Jackson standing there, looking at his own cell phone, she let out a sigh. "It's complicated."
"Found your hide-a-key. Let myself in," he shrugged, holding out a Starbucks cup as a sort of peace offering. "Caramel with soy, right?"
She nodded, not bothering to stand up from behind the mixing board. The basement of the house had been converted into a sort of recording studio in the hopes that Hunter would come back. Of course he hadn't because good things always went up in smoke.
Jackson crossed the room, looking around, whistling low. "This must've cost a lot."
She shrugged, "just stuff. Just money. Can always make more, right? Isn't that what you used to say?"
"Sounds like something I'd say," Jax laughed, "maybe you should keep it? Have your own little Tittenhurst Park?" When she looked at him in confusion, he shook his head, "sorry. Guess you didn't hear Larry's story a thousand times like the rest of us did. Ringo Star owns it – recording studio, I guess. The Beatles recorded there, I think. Doesn't matter much to the narrative, kiddo, I just-"
She bristled, almost snarling, "don't call me that," as she reached for the coffee he'd just set down, greedily sucking back half of it. It was lukewarm from the ride over, just the way she liked it.
Jackson studied her while she polished it off, noting the dark circles under her eyes and her flat, lifeless hair. "Not sleeping much, are you?"
Again her shoulders lifted in a shrug, "nothing new there, right? Goes with the job. Alpha Bitch thinks she's got this in the bag and I've gotta get past this Trixie chick to even-"
"Trixie?" Jackson frowned. "Well, you're fucked."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," she snapped, back to glaring at him, "is this the kinda advice you gave Elena too? No wonder she crashed and burned and got herself hurt."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "I can show you whatever you want, Kase. I can't, however, go out there and wrestle the fucking match for you. That part – the heavy lifting – well that shit's solely up to you. I can't pour talent down your throat-"
She shot to her feet, "are you saying I'm not talented? Are you seriously going to throw that shit in my face right now when you couldn't even beat that bird girl-"
"Ana Starling," he supplied but she kept going like he hadn't spoken, rounding the island and stalking towards him.
"You, the guy who's retired like seventeen times in the last year only to pop up in another low-rent shithole a few weeks later?" Her finger stabbed into his chest, her face as red as her hair. "Who do you think you are to tell me that I'm not good enough, huh?"
Jackson grabbed her wrist, twisting it as he swept her feet out from under her – Kasey's head just missed the edge of the mixing board and she went down hard, Jackson's knee landing on her shoulder softly enough that she knew he'd pulled back from hurting her. He stayed there for a few seconds, eyes narrowed as he let her see that anger that always seemed to simmer under the surface before he blinked and laughed. "C'mon. Daylight's wasting. You want me to teach you how to swim with the sharks… you're gonna have to learn how to doggy paddle first."
"Oh goodie."
"Still lying?"
Kasey looked up from the screen of her phone, surprise on her face for a second at the sound of the male voice – for a second she'd thought it was Ak, catching her in the act. When she saw the legendary Brad Jackson standing there, looking at his own cell phone, she let out a sigh. "It's complicated."
"Found your hide-a-key. Let myself in," he shrugged, holding out a Starbucks cup as a sort of peace offering. "Caramel with soy, right?"
She nodded, not bothering to stand up from behind the mixing board. The basement of the house had been converted into a sort of recording studio in the hopes that Hunter would come back. Of course he hadn't because good things always went up in smoke.
Jackson crossed the room, looking around, whistling low. "This must've cost a lot."
She shrugged, "just stuff. Just money. Can always make more, right? Isn't that what you used to say?"
"Sounds like something I'd say," Jax laughed, "maybe you should keep it? Have your own little Tittenhurst Park?" When she looked at him in confusion, he shook his head, "sorry. Guess you didn't hear Larry's story a thousand times like the rest of us did. Ringo Star owns it – recording studio, I guess. The Beatles recorded there, I think. Doesn't matter much to the narrative, kiddo, I just-"
She bristled, almost snarling, "don't call me that," as she reached for the coffee he'd just set down, greedily sucking back half of it. It was lukewarm from the ride over, just the way she liked it.
Jackson studied her while she polished it off, noting the dark circles under her eyes and her flat, lifeless hair. "Not sleeping much, are you?"
Again her shoulders lifted in a shrug, "nothing new there, right? Goes with the job. Alpha Bitch thinks she's got this in the bag and I've gotta get past this Trixie chick to even-"
"Trixie?" Jackson frowned. "Well, you're fucked."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," she snapped, back to glaring at him, "is this the kinda advice you gave Elena too? No wonder she crashed and burned and got herself hurt."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "I can show you whatever you want, Kase. I can't, however, go out there and wrestle the fucking match for you. That part – the heavy lifting – well that shit's solely up to you. I can't pour talent down your throat-"
She shot to her feet, "are you saying I'm not talented? Are you seriously going to throw that shit in my face right now when you couldn't even beat that bird girl-"
"Ana Starling," he supplied but she kept going like he hadn't spoken, rounding the island and stalking towards him.
"You, the guy who's retired like seventeen times in the last year only to pop up in another low-rent shithole a few weeks later?" Her finger stabbed into his chest, her face as red as her hair. "Who do you think you are to tell me that I'm not good enough, huh?"
Jackson grabbed her wrist, twisting it as he swept her feet out from under her – Kasey's head just missed the edge of the mixing board and she went down hard, Jackson's knee landing on her shoulder softly enough that she knew he'd pulled back from hurting her. He stayed there for a few seconds, eyes narrowed as he let her see that anger that always seemed to simmer under the surface before he blinked and laughed. "C'mon. Daylight's wasting. You want me to teach you how to swim with the sharks… you're gonna have to learn how to doggy paddle first."
"Oh goodie."
