004: Mamma Mia, Here We Go Again

LOCATION: Miami, FL
DATE/TIME: March 7, 2003 || 06:17 PM EST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF

"Burpees or suicides next – dealer's choice. Both if you can't finish these. C'mon, you slackers!" Jackson's voice rang out across the open space. She flinched, realizing he was standing right next to her.

Kitty tried like hell to swallow and keep the dry tickle at bay, her mouth so dry from panting that she felt like she'd been chewing a mouthful of sand. A shiver crawled up her spine, breaking goose-flesh out over her arms. She bit her lip, knowing that there was nothing in her stomach to bring up.

"You okay?" His voice was softer, a bit gentler as he knelt beside her.

"Fine." She ground out, refusing to take the out he was trying to hand her. Outside of his apartment and the hotel room she kept for appearance's sake, nobody knew they were actually married.

He nodded, satisfied as he turned his back to her. "Rivera, don't think I didn't see you stop. Give me one more, you pussy!" Arms folded across his chest, Jackson snarled, "put some cajones into it."

Devon Rivera was soaked in sweat, doing one-handed push-ups in the middle of a lake of his own sour fluids. Like Kitty, he had a cinder block resting squarely in the middle of his back. She watched him struggle, watched him falter and fail as his arms gave out and she tensed as Jackson's steps drew closer. She'd seen him kick a guy in the ribs and a part of her flinched as those dangerous combat boots drew closer. She struggled to do another, refusing to modify and push up only from her knees. No shortcuts.

"Kitty!" She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to blush. "Focus up." Jackson's voice was gruffer than usual, hoarse from the yelling these past few days. "You're making me regret this shitshow, both of you. Absolutely pathetic."

Kitty ground her teeth, groaning as she forced herself up off the canvas, one last time. Her arms ached, her back and legs gone numb hours ago. She'd refused to quit and felt a strange sense of pride even though Jackson stood over her most of the time, yelling like a drill sergeant. She was keeping up with the other guy he was training, a guy who wasn't ever going to wrestle professionally but was apparently going to be head of security at the club Jackson was in the process of buying back in New York. She'd found the paperwork in his desk. They hadn't really talked about it

Rivera sat up suddenly, letting the block fall. It crashed against the canvas, drawing a sigh from between Jackson's lips as a puff of dust came up, enveloping them both. Kitty coughed, sputtering as Rivera muttered an apology, scratching at the back of his neck. She pretended not to notice the old scars on his arms that looked suspiciously like track marks. She wasn't in a place to judge, after all.

Jackson glanced down at his watch. Without a word, he plucked towels from the nearby rack, and threw them at Devon and Kitty. "Hit the showers. Both of you."

"What?" Kitty stared at him as he crossed the room, heading towards the doorway under the stairs that led to his office. "I thought..."

"Changed my mind." Jackson paused, glancing back at her, his tone dismissive, "go on. Get outta here before I change my mind."

Devon staggered to his feet, using the towel to sop up the sweat that pooled in the cuts of his physique. Kitty, who normally would have made a show of ogling him, sat there in silence instead. She kept her eyes downcast, feeling a strange mixture of anxiety and dismay. Had she done something wrong? Cheeks burning, she held the towel to her face, pretending to scrub away the sweat. She stayed like that while her training partner gave up trying to get her attention and made his way across the gym, the sound of his bare feet slapping against the hardwood making it clear he was headed for the showers. Sighing, she let the towel fall once the silence reasserted itself, hot tears filling her eyes, blurring her vision.

A rough chuckle made her head snap up, instantly making her neck ache and she saw Jackson sitting at the top of the ring steps. "You're shit at taking orders," he took a drag off the cigarette between his lips, flicking ashes to the floor.

"Not done," she replied, her voice trembling slightly as her gaze skittered away. "All these stupid things you have us doing... what's the damn point? Am I ever going to need to be able to do a push-up with a pile of bricks on my back?"

He shrugged and chuckled, not bothering to look at her. "You planning to wrestle or just waste your fuckin' time in the hair whip tickle fights they keep booking you in?"

"You know the answer to that," she snapped, shaking her head. Now her cheeks were flushed for another reason altogether.

"Then trust me."



current mood:
current song: "Mamma Mia" by ABBA

Mamma Mia. Here we go again.

I feel like I've been here before. The medium has changed slightly, I suppose. No longhand letters, no pen to paper, scratching out some ill-conceived confession. I've got this handy app on my phone. I can dictate this all and let technology do it for me – how convenient!

Ed Houston wants you to believe he cares about the Paradigm Championship, yet he's done absolutely nothing to promote it. Was he injured? Who cares! That's not me being cold and callous. That's me understanding what a champion does, what's expected. You don't win and vanish into the shadows. You don't suddenly go dark. As much as I hate to say it, Bob Grenier has that locked down. God, it makes me feel ill to even read those words, let alone think them.

So, here we go. I've been guilty of a little ghosting myself lately. I'm sorry for that. The month of March is difficult for me and I'm not keen to sit here and itemize a damned list as though I'm doing the fourth step of my recovery. I'm not making amends. Why?

Why do you think? I don't feel remorse for anything I've done. I never have. Does that make me a monster? Some sort of sociopath? I don't think so. I just hold myself accountable for my own actions, for the things that happen. Besides, there's no clean little definition for who I am – what I am. I've become some sort of wicked detritus, drifting around.

I've been without purpose for so long that this feels strange, surreal even. I remember the steps. Don't worry about that. I know how to clip your wings. I know how to burn up all that fuel before the Rocketman can reach orbit. I'm sure he thought it was going to be a long, long time before touchdown brought him around to find…(fill in the blank here), but this is the real world and while your wonderful and oh-so-present champion just loves his role, he's going to have to familiarize himself with a new one.

Loser.

Liar.

Fake.

This is the part where the needle skips, the record keeps spinning and it's repeating over and over. Your time is up, Houston. I wonder if you feel your back against the wall. Are you cognizant of how screwed you are? Me, I almost feel a sort of desperation over the whole thing. Glass in my hair from that shattered ceiling of mine… somehow, they've passed under my skin and now they're digging and twisting, driving in deeper so I can't sleep. Can't do much but go through my workout regime, make sure I haven't missed a step. I know I haven't but it's easy to fill the silence with something, to trade one addiction for another.

The old rule about how a thing of beauty is a joy forever is a complete crock of shit. You take the most beautiful flower out there. Pick it, make it your own, and then watch it die.

I'd explain what I mean, but I feel like you know where I'm going with this.

Sic transit Gloria.

Glory fades. It's transitory.

You're transitional, Houston – like I said. You're a placeholder. You're keeping it warm for me. Nothing is forever. I never mourn losses because I understand intimately that we can't have nice things. We don't deserve them. Not just you. Not just me.

Us.

Humans.

Everything is cyclical.

It's all about rebirth.

New year.

New OCW – paradigms shift – pun intended.