vs Coral Rose (posted on April 23, 2017)
May 3, 2017 5:09:56 GMT -5
Post by Admin on May 3, 2017 5:09:56 GMT -5
San Antonio, Texas || FLASHBACK: July 9th, 2006, 11:15 PM (OFF CAMERA)
Adrenaline made her feel lightheaded, euphoric as she screamed her head off, watching the man she’d come to think of as a surrogate uncle beating the holy hell out of two others inside the craziest structure she’d ever seen. Her mother was probably rolling over in her grave but Kasey didn’t care, that silly lime green foam finger stabbing at the air as she roared right along with the crowd. She’d stolen the ticket from WBR, finding it in a stack of mail in the Wild Ones office - she’d known who it was from from the block-printing and the Chicago return address. And now here she was, front row in the sold-out Alamodome.
Her heart was in her throat as he climbed the ladder, blood raining down from his shredded ankle. She knew of the sick rivalry between the two men, couldn’t help the little shriek of horror as she saw Spiral scrambling up the other side. Kasey held her breath, didn’t really let it out until Jackson and Spiral had been clotheslined off the top of the ladder. When she realized that Jackson had pulled the belt down as he was falling, she was ecstatic.
What felt like an eternity later, she was skulking through hallways, trying to find where the new PCW World Heavyweight Champion was being put back together again. Once she spotted him, she called out. “Uhm, hey...Mr. Jackson, do you have a minute?”
He lifted his head at the sound of her voice, a smile appearing on his ashen features as he looked her over. Red hair. Decent body - “for you? Yeah,” he chuckled, winking, “got all the time in the world.”
“I wanted to come back and thank you for the ticket. It was really amazing to see the show live!”
He frowned, puzzled. “Maybe the rocks got knocked around a little harder than I thought out there. Pretty sure I’d remember sending a knockout like you-”
“Uhm, ew!” She shook her head, “okay, gross…. No…” she fished t he crumpled envelope from her pocket, waving it, “I mean technically you sent it to WBR but-”
“Kasey? Jesus Christ… haven’t seen you in over a year! Not since…” his eyes closed for a second as he felt the EMT putting in more stitches into his ankle. It was a wonder his foot hadn’t been torn right off his body, thanks to the barbed wire. “Forgive me not getting up... kinda, not up for salsa dancing.”
She laughed at the memory, grimacing, “wow. So like… you won!”
He winced, “y’know what I need? A distraction. Tell me what you’ve been up to since the last time I saw you.”
“Well...” She couldn’t help the grin, “Uncle Billy’s been training me to wrestle. Since…” she averted her eyes, “well, since the accident. To take my mind off…”
“Dr. Frankenstein... you about done there?” Looking back at Kasey, he propped his head up with his hand, “wrestling, huh? From what I remember, you always were a natural.”
“You think?” She bounced on the balls of her feet. “He said I might be ready to get into a ring with some of the students soon.” Truth was, a day didn’t go by that she didn’t think about following in her father and uncle’s footsteps. “I guess it kinda feels like something I gotta do, you know? The Summers legacy and all.”
“It’s July... how ‘bout you ditch whatever it is you’re doing weekly and come on the road with me ‘til September? Not every day the PCW World Champion wants to hang around with you, right?” The EMT working on his ankle was finally done and was wrapping it with gauze, tapping it in place as Jackson stared at Kasey, waiting for her answer.
“I’m not eighteen yet… like not gonna even be fifteen until August.”
“Yeah, and?” he shrugged, “next week’s Little Rock for Monday Night Revolution. How about you tag along. Arkansas isn’t that far away, right? Just a little road trip... a week, tops. You think Billy’d go for it?”
“I dunno. Don’t wanna push my luck.” She looked down, shamefaced.
The medical techs had finally withdrawn, leaving the two of them together in the makeshift backstage infirmary. He sat up slowly, patting the bench beside him, “c’mere, kiddo.”
She sat. Her legs swung back and forth as she glanced at him.
“You know I always thought your dad was an unlikable bag of dicks. So maybe try not to follow too close in those footsteps, huh?”
The definition of insanity is repeating the same thing over and over, expecting a different result. I know that. What I don’t know is where on the spectrum between Froot Loop and Cheerio my level of idiotic determination falls. Okay, so maybe I’m being hard on myself. Maybe I’m the only one who thinks I’m stupid and/or nuts to keep chasing this dream of a glorious return. It’s been two years since my accident, since that injury that should have ended my career. Doesn’t seem like a lot, does it? And I guess some might even say that giving a year of my life into rehabilitation only to keep choosing places that fold up after a match or two shouldn’t be cause for bitterness, for this kind of judgement. Things happen. Wrestling companies these days feel more like Starbucks locations - there’s one popping up on every corner, it seems. The wind changes direction and BLAM! Bye, Felicia.
People lose interest.
And see, that’s my fear. People forget. They stop caring and when you try to light that fire, to joggle a memory, they get angry. They tell you that you’re trying too hard. You’re taking it too seriously because this isn’t brain surgery or curing cancer or rockets to Mars. It’s pro wrestling. It’s a sports competition and the sun doesn’t rise or set in relation to gold belts and wins over brainless Barbie dolls and tossing people in rivers and tag partners who aren’t worth the cost of their boot laces.
I know a whole lot about patterns. Numbers were always one of my favorite things in school and I could apply all sorts of formulas here if I just knew the variables. Circles and circumstances and the whole shebang but sometimes I honestly feel like I need to just hang up my boots and go back to Phoenix. Go back to that school - those who can’t, teach.
Or maybe I should be writing a HOW TO guide. Sometimes I feel like the joke's on me and other times like I'm conducting the most elaborate social experiment ever. No, really. It’s like how long, how far can I actually go before it all crumbles and the world laughs and I get to dust off and stare in the rear view. I can’t go back to FFW even though it’s there, dangling like that carrot, like that running mechanical gob of fur they call a rabbit that the greyhounds chase at the dog track - holy shit that’s barbaric, by the way. Like seriously. How is that still a thing?
But I digress. This isn’t about my woes or my losing streak. It’s not about the fact that I wanted no part of that Main Event match because I don’t want to step on Max’s toes or get tangled up with Nora and Patrick any more than I already have. Ugh, Heidi.
I won’t blame others.
I know I suck, too.
But I also know Coral Rose ran into that same wall I did: Trixie’s cheap tactics. Everyone saw that handful of tights. Everyone except the blind referee, that is - sucks that you got the short end of the stick.
I know my bowing out of involvement in the main event just makes me look like a chicken. Honestly? Don’t care. It was crowded and my track record with battle royals is awful. Just abysmal, really.
And I don’t really know how to approach that, how to even try to camouflage it because I’m nothing like Ak. I can’t laugh it off. I can’t hide behind a mask - my face shows it all and I guess maybe that’s what bothers me so much. Everyone is involved in these games of subterfuge, these little appearances like Coral Rose showing up in a limousine with that Leander guy that I met that one time I wrestled on a Boardwalk show. He owns or manages one of those LFL teams, real mover and shaker and I guess that’s really what Coral wants us to know. She’s connected. Is she here to wrestle? From what I’ve seen, I have no honest answer to that question.
Perception is reality: she’d rather arrive in a limo, fashionably late as arm candy. Make sure everyone knows she’s on the same level as Aidan. 3P like that Sasha girl on Twitter: perfect, protected, pretty. No real shocker, I guess. I mean, I called Aidan being the champion. She’s the big fish here, the one they blew the budget pulling in. The rest of us are just the stars dying off in the sky around her.
Coral is replaceable. I'm forgettable.
I don’t want to be.
And maybe on some level that's what all this little missive of mine is about when you break it down and read between the lines. Maybe it’s a Magic Eye puzzle? Maybe you see all these repeating geometric nothings and you’re squinting and moving closer and further in some futile attempt while the Coral Roses - the fricken Trixies of the world are laughing and pointing and saying “you seriously can’t see the sailboat? It’s right there!”
I still can't see the picture but I just can't stop trying to find my sailboat. Maybe this time it'll be clear. If not, there's always another fight. Another opponent. Another opportunity.
The fire hasn’t burned out yet. I've still got time.
Her heart was in her throat as he climbed the ladder, blood raining down from his shredded ankle. She knew of the sick rivalry between the two men, couldn’t help the little shriek of horror as she saw Spiral scrambling up the other side. Kasey held her breath, didn’t really let it out until Jackson and Spiral had been clotheslined off the top of the ladder. When she realized that Jackson had pulled the belt down as he was falling, she was ecstatic.
What felt like an eternity later, she was skulking through hallways, trying to find where the new PCW World Heavyweight Champion was being put back together again. Once she spotted him, she called out. “Uhm, hey...Mr. Jackson, do you have a minute?”
He lifted his head at the sound of her voice, a smile appearing on his ashen features as he looked her over. Red hair. Decent body - “for you? Yeah,” he chuckled, winking, “got all the time in the world.”
“I wanted to come back and thank you for the ticket. It was really amazing to see the show live!”
He frowned, puzzled. “Maybe the rocks got knocked around a little harder than I thought out there. Pretty sure I’d remember sending a knockout like you-”
“Uhm, ew!” She shook her head, “okay, gross…. No…” she fished t he crumpled envelope from her pocket, waving it, “I mean technically you sent it to WBR but-”
“Kasey? Jesus Christ… haven’t seen you in over a year! Not since…” his eyes closed for a second as he felt the EMT putting in more stitches into his ankle. It was a wonder his foot hadn’t been torn right off his body, thanks to the barbed wire. “Forgive me not getting up... kinda, not up for salsa dancing.”
She laughed at the memory, grimacing, “wow. So like… you won!”
He winced, “y’know what I need? A distraction. Tell me what you’ve been up to since the last time I saw you.”
“Well...” She couldn’t help the grin, “Uncle Billy’s been training me to wrestle. Since…” she averted her eyes, “well, since the accident. To take my mind off…”
“Dr. Frankenstein... you about done there?” Looking back at Kasey, he propped his head up with his hand, “wrestling, huh? From what I remember, you always were a natural.”
“You think?” She bounced on the balls of her feet. “He said I might be ready to get into a ring with some of the students soon.” Truth was, a day didn’t go by that she didn’t think about following in her father and uncle’s footsteps. “I guess it kinda feels like something I gotta do, you know? The Summers legacy and all.”
“It’s July... how ‘bout you ditch whatever it is you’re doing weekly and come on the road with me ‘til September? Not every day the PCW World Champion wants to hang around with you, right?” The EMT working on his ankle was finally done and was wrapping it with gauze, tapping it in place as Jackson stared at Kasey, waiting for her answer.
“I’m not eighteen yet… like not gonna even be fifteen until August.”
“Yeah, and?” he shrugged, “next week’s Little Rock for Monday Night Revolution. How about you tag along. Arkansas isn’t that far away, right? Just a little road trip... a week, tops. You think Billy’d go for it?”
“I dunno. Don’t wanna push my luck.” She looked down, shamefaced.
The medical techs had finally withdrawn, leaving the two of them together in the makeshift backstage infirmary. He sat up slowly, patting the bench beside him, “c’mere, kiddo.”
She sat. Her legs swung back and forth as she glanced at him.
“You know I always thought your dad was an unlikable bag of dicks. So maybe try not to follow too close in those footsteps, huh?”
The definition of insanity is repeating the same thing over and over, expecting a different result. I know that. What I don’t know is where on the spectrum between Froot Loop and Cheerio my level of idiotic determination falls. Okay, so maybe I’m being hard on myself. Maybe I’m the only one who thinks I’m stupid and/or nuts to keep chasing this dream of a glorious return. It’s been two years since my accident, since that injury that should have ended my career. Doesn’t seem like a lot, does it? And I guess some might even say that giving a year of my life into rehabilitation only to keep choosing places that fold up after a match or two shouldn’t be cause for bitterness, for this kind of judgement. Things happen. Wrestling companies these days feel more like Starbucks locations - there’s one popping up on every corner, it seems. The wind changes direction and BLAM! Bye, Felicia.
People lose interest.
And see, that’s my fear. People forget. They stop caring and when you try to light that fire, to joggle a memory, they get angry. They tell you that you’re trying too hard. You’re taking it too seriously because this isn’t brain surgery or curing cancer or rockets to Mars. It’s pro wrestling. It’s a sports competition and the sun doesn’t rise or set in relation to gold belts and wins over brainless Barbie dolls and tossing people in rivers and tag partners who aren’t worth the cost of their boot laces.
I know a whole lot about patterns. Numbers were always one of my favorite things in school and I could apply all sorts of formulas here if I just knew the variables. Circles and circumstances and the whole shebang but sometimes I honestly feel like I need to just hang up my boots and go back to Phoenix. Go back to that school - those who can’t, teach.
Or maybe I should be writing a HOW TO guide. Sometimes I feel like the joke's on me and other times like I'm conducting the most elaborate social experiment ever. No, really. It’s like how long, how far can I actually go before it all crumbles and the world laughs and I get to dust off and stare in the rear view. I can’t go back to FFW even though it’s there, dangling like that carrot, like that running mechanical gob of fur they call a rabbit that the greyhounds chase at the dog track - holy shit that’s barbaric, by the way. Like seriously. How is that still a thing?
But I digress. This isn’t about my woes or my losing streak. It’s not about the fact that I wanted no part of that Main Event match because I don’t want to step on Max’s toes or get tangled up with Nora and Patrick any more than I already have. Ugh, Heidi.
I won’t blame others.
I know I suck, too.
But I also know Coral Rose ran into that same wall I did: Trixie’s cheap tactics. Everyone saw that handful of tights. Everyone except the blind referee, that is - sucks that you got the short end of the stick.
I know my bowing out of involvement in the main event just makes me look like a chicken. Honestly? Don’t care. It was crowded and my track record with battle royals is awful. Just abysmal, really.
And I don’t really know how to approach that, how to even try to camouflage it because I’m nothing like Ak. I can’t laugh it off. I can’t hide behind a mask - my face shows it all and I guess maybe that’s what bothers me so much. Everyone is involved in these games of subterfuge, these little appearances like Coral Rose showing up in a limousine with that Leander guy that I met that one time I wrestled on a Boardwalk show. He owns or manages one of those LFL teams, real mover and shaker and I guess that’s really what Coral wants us to know. She’s connected. Is she here to wrestle? From what I’ve seen, I have no honest answer to that question.
Perception is reality: she’d rather arrive in a limo, fashionably late as arm candy. Make sure everyone knows she’s on the same level as Aidan. 3P like that Sasha girl on Twitter: perfect, protected, pretty. No real shocker, I guess. I mean, I called Aidan being the champion. She’s the big fish here, the one they blew the budget pulling in. The rest of us are just the stars dying off in the sky around her.
Coral is replaceable. I'm forgettable.
I don’t want to be.
And maybe on some level that's what all this little missive of mine is about when you break it down and read between the lines. Maybe it’s a Magic Eye puzzle? Maybe you see all these repeating geometric nothings and you’re squinting and moving closer and further in some futile attempt while the Coral Roses - the fricken Trixies of the world are laughing and pointing and saying “you seriously can’t see the sailboat? It’s right there!”
I still can't see the picture but I just can't stop trying to find my sailboat. Maybe this time it'll be clear. If not, there's always another fight. Another opponent. Another opportunity.
The fire hasn’t burned out yet. I've still got time.
