006: Don't Blink
May 11, 2019 20:50:57 GMT -5
Post by Admin on May 11, 2019 20:50:57 GMT -5
LOCATION: Key West, Florida
DATE/TIME: May 6, 2019 || 02:45 PM EST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
"…Mike Best. Of all the people in the universe you could go on the rebound with, you chose that slimy, immoral… goddamned egotistical piece of shit?"
She wasn't really listening to him and the words with their incredulous cadence blended with the easy listening XM radio being piped in and the chatter of other customers, fading away to background noise. The almond biscotti was hard enough to shatter her teeth, even after dunking it in her latte for the last ten minutes of his tirade. Letting it fall from her fingers to the table, she glanced up, finally realizing that he'd paused, waiting for her to say something. She sighed, shaking her head – she'd known that this was going to eventually happen, that Brad Jackson wasn't going to be able to ignore the trolling of his old nemesis, even after all this time away from the wrestling ring.
"Why do you care?" The words came out unbidden, the bitterness unchecked as she looked around the crowded Starbucks that she'd chosen specifically knowing that Jackson would have to keep his legendary temper in check. Now that he was on the shelf, he'd mellowed considerably. Maybe that was part of getting old, of growing complacent and lazy. That though, more than anything else, caused her hackles to rise and she made a disgusted sound, breaking eye contact – of course he took that personally. He always did when she dismissed his so-called 'invaluable advice'.
"Are YOU serious right now? Why do I care? He tried to kill me. I was so damned sick after that rat and trash-infested cell on Alcatraz that I was hospitalized for two weeks. I could have died – that sadistic piece of shit tried to kill me half a dozen times and you're bouncing on his dick, tossing out those little red hearts all over social media…" Jackson's face was turning red and she wasn't sure if it was the anger or the fact that he was trying to read her the riot act in civil tones. Now that his hair was completely silver, it looked less intimidating and more like 'oh shit, grandpa's having a cardiac event' – the man was almost fifty now, after all. "You're fawning all over Best like he's the second coming!"
"At least that," she snapped, rolling her eyes, "maybe three times if I've been a very bad girl." She didn't usually dip that far into the truth to make a man squirm but she was getting a sick thrill out of watching the emotions parade across her ex-husband's face. Right now, he looked nauseated. She couldn't help but drive it in deeper, her tone so sickeningly sweet that anyone not in earshot might think she was flirting. "He's better than you, Brad. That's what you want me to say, isn't it? That's what this is all about, isn't it? You want to know if-"
"I don't. I really don't."
"No, sweetie, you don't get to decide where the line gets drawn. You want to act like you have a horse in this race… like whatever I do with my personal time outside the ring-"
"I thought you were into Hunter. That's what Lyv told me." Jackson was desperate to change the subject now, grasping at straws, "what happened there."
Hunter Donimari, the man who could be the next Dave Grohl if he could find good management and band-mates who weren't the worst sort of flakes imaginable. "He's too nice," Kitty murmured, shaking her head, "and he reminds me too much of the past. I'm not eighteen anymore, Brad. I need more than a nice shot of nostalgia and a drunken roll in the hay like a goddamned groupie after a show. My ring rat days are-"
"Apparently alive and well," he grumbled, finishing the thought for her. "But you've got my attention, Kitty. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"
She stared at him like he'd suddenly sprouted three heads. "Excuse me?"
"This little game of yours, that's what this is, isn't it? You wanted to make sure senpai was watching? I'm here. I've been paying attention to you – not understanding why you deliberately took the month of April off rather than continue to rack up a few more easy wins, but y'know, do whatever works for you, babe."
Her teeth ground together as she pulled in a deep breath between them, letting it out slowly through her nose. That pet name he used on all the girls still rankled, still made her want to either vomit or smash his teeth down his throat. "Listen, asshole: I'm going to make this as clear as possible," she finally said, her voice pitched low and deadly calm, "my relationship with Mike Best isn't a cry for help, a fucking attention grab or me trying to screw my way to the top of the food chain in OCW. I'd already earned my shot, already defeated Rocket Man when Best and Kael and Farthington showed up at Social Justice – you claim you were watching, right? I shouldn't have to tell you this. I shouldn't…"
She trailed off into a pained silence, feeling the beginnings of a headache in the pulse pounding in her temples and the band of tension that cut across the back of her head.
"Kaitlynn," the way he said her given name made that anger blaze hotter, "just stop trying to bullshit me. If you wanted to be a third with Lyv and I, you could have just asked rather than go through this elaborate little song and-"
"Bullshit?!" She hissed the word, cutting him off and surging to her feet. The lukewarm cup was in her hand before she even registered it and she tossed the rose-flavoured latte all over him. "You're disgusting… despicable… DEPLORABLE!" Her voice rose in volume with every word until she was shouting, not caring about the scene as heads swiveled in their direction. Jackson sat there dripping, frozen, but the look in his eyes was murderous. She leaned in closer, palms on the table now as she spat the words in his face. "You can't even entertain the thought that maybe he makes me happy, maybe we have a lot in common and we clicked on a level that you'll never understand – of course not. It's all about Bradley Motherfucking Jackson and his massive ego. It's all about you, as if I'm jealous of what you've become, like being this neutered piece of shit is enviable? God, you're so hilariously off-base, I don't even have words. I can't even with you right now."
She shook her head, straightening up slowly even though her eyes never left his. "And yes, Bradley. In case you were wondering… he's phenomenal in bed. Better than you ever were."
He sputtered, the old familiar Jackson anger rising to the surface but she didn't flinch or back down. That caustic smirk crossed her lips as she turned her back on him and stormed out of the coffee shop into the afternoon sunshine, feeling strangely liberated.
Six days, sweetie. Less than a week until it all comes unglued – you brought this on yourself. You accepted Michael's challenge to put your career on the line come May 13th. You called me out at Block Party and picked up a nice little head injury for your troubles; instead of bringing your demise closer, you bought yourself another week in limbo. Has it given you time to reflect?
Somehow, I doubt that.
It's funny how you see yourself as a good guy here, as the oppressed little victim. Martyr complexes are all the rage these days, aren't they? Poor little Hayley, the misguided fool, continuously booked in the upper echelon even though she doesn't deserve it – so hard done by. Oh, but she thinks she can unseat me, she thinks she's paid enough dues, bitched and moaned and rebooted herself enough that it's going to do the trick! Layer on another coat of gold Tremclad; your rust is still showing. But hey, if you get it dark enough and they don't look too hard, you'll still pass muster for the mouth-breather fans in the cheap seats.
You are not OCW's personal messiah. You're not the second coming, or the Jesus of the Backwater – you're a sad little poser who's scrambling to find a way to shuck all the failures. Live with the truth, Hayley: no matter what you call yourself, the taint of mediocrity will still be on you. You reek of fear, of inadequacy and no matter how you spin doctor it, the facts remain.
The airwaves are curiously silent. You haven't been on social media. You haven't been around backstage.
Is it time for another reboot already?
Are you going to find another tune to sing, little birdie? I'm sure that's where you're headed, being a revisionist historian and all. I don't bother with either. This late in the game, you either know me or you don't. If you fall into the latter category, it really sucks to be you. I thought I'd made an impression the FIRST time I lodged my boot up your ass, driving the point home that you're never going to come close to championship gold as long as I'm here.
Second verse, same as the first.
HellRaven has been here forever, you know. She wants you to believe in her, she wants you to buy that lie that she's selling as though her life depends on it. She's a lifer, OCW through and through and she takes offense to people like me coming in and – oh wait, no. She pivoted from me to The eMpire so quickly it made heads spin. She eliminated her tag partner, she took down Ariel to win this opportunity and immediately started writing cheques she couldn't hope to cash with that mushmouth of hers. She's the loudest idiot on social media, taking offense to usurpers like me, like Michael Best and Max Kael crawling in here and... doing what, exactly? Wrestling four-star matches? Putting asses in the seats? Backing up our words with actions and results?
Just what is it that you've got such a problem with?
Right. Moving on, then. Let's talk a little about Hayley, shall we? Let's debunk this Rodney Dangerfield 'I get no respect' nonsense she's been preaching for months – bitch, please. You seeded higher than James Raven. You've been in the main event. You want to act like you're getting no respect from your peers? Perhaps it's because you've given us NONE in return. I don't know what you want, sunshine. I showed up when I wasn't booked, more than once, just so I could address your unworthy ass despite the fact that you were more focused on picking fights with Kael, on lining up tag team matches. I get it, sweetie. It's easier for you to rely on Ariel to pick up the slack rather than admit that your best days are behind you. Beating me would certainly give you the legitimacy you so desperately crave. It won't happen but it's nice to dream.
You can do it! Per-se-ver-ance! Rah-rah-rah! (insert sarcasm here)
Believe in yourself? No. We both know that's pointless.
I know how you're feeling right now. I know why you're silent.
You're feeling like an insect, cowering under my boot, ready to be squashed. You're a termite, choking on the splinters. YOU BLINKED AND IT WAS ALL OVER. What do you have to show for it?
Don't blink, Hayley, whatever you do.
Don't. Blink.
DATE/TIME: May 6, 2019 || 02:45 PM EST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
"…Mike Best. Of all the people in the universe you could go on the rebound with, you chose that slimy, immoral… goddamned egotistical piece of shit?"
She wasn't really listening to him and the words with their incredulous cadence blended with the easy listening XM radio being piped in and the chatter of other customers, fading away to background noise. The almond biscotti was hard enough to shatter her teeth, even after dunking it in her latte for the last ten minutes of his tirade. Letting it fall from her fingers to the table, she glanced up, finally realizing that he'd paused, waiting for her to say something. She sighed, shaking her head – she'd known that this was going to eventually happen, that Brad Jackson wasn't going to be able to ignore the trolling of his old nemesis, even after all this time away from the wrestling ring.
"Why do you care?" The words came out unbidden, the bitterness unchecked as she looked around the crowded Starbucks that she'd chosen specifically knowing that Jackson would have to keep his legendary temper in check. Now that he was on the shelf, he'd mellowed considerably. Maybe that was part of getting old, of growing complacent and lazy. That though, more than anything else, caused her hackles to rise and she made a disgusted sound, breaking eye contact – of course he took that personally. He always did when she dismissed his so-called 'invaluable advice'.
"Are YOU serious right now? Why do I care? He tried to kill me. I was so damned sick after that rat and trash-infested cell on Alcatraz that I was hospitalized for two weeks. I could have died – that sadistic piece of shit tried to kill me half a dozen times and you're bouncing on his dick, tossing out those little red hearts all over social media…" Jackson's face was turning red and she wasn't sure if it was the anger or the fact that he was trying to read her the riot act in civil tones. Now that his hair was completely silver, it looked less intimidating and more like 'oh shit, grandpa's having a cardiac event' – the man was almost fifty now, after all. "You're fawning all over Best like he's the second coming!"
"At least that," she snapped, rolling her eyes, "maybe three times if I've been a very bad girl." She didn't usually dip that far into the truth to make a man squirm but she was getting a sick thrill out of watching the emotions parade across her ex-husband's face. Right now, he looked nauseated. She couldn't help but drive it in deeper, her tone so sickeningly sweet that anyone not in earshot might think she was flirting. "He's better than you, Brad. That's what you want me to say, isn't it? That's what this is all about, isn't it? You want to know if-"
"I don't. I really don't."
"No, sweetie, you don't get to decide where the line gets drawn. You want to act like you have a horse in this race… like whatever I do with my personal time outside the ring-"
"I thought you were into Hunter. That's what Lyv told me." Jackson was desperate to change the subject now, grasping at straws, "what happened there."
Hunter Donimari, the man who could be the next Dave Grohl if he could find good management and band-mates who weren't the worst sort of flakes imaginable. "He's too nice," Kitty murmured, shaking her head, "and he reminds me too much of the past. I'm not eighteen anymore, Brad. I need more than a nice shot of nostalgia and a drunken roll in the hay like a goddamned groupie after a show. My ring rat days are-"
"Apparently alive and well," he grumbled, finishing the thought for her. "But you've got my attention, Kitty. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"
She stared at him like he'd suddenly sprouted three heads. "Excuse me?"
"This little game of yours, that's what this is, isn't it? You wanted to make sure senpai was watching? I'm here. I've been paying attention to you – not understanding why you deliberately took the month of April off rather than continue to rack up a few more easy wins, but y'know, do whatever works for you, babe."
Her teeth ground together as she pulled in a deep breath between them, letting it out slowly through her nose. That pet name he used on all the girls still rankled, still made her want to either vomit or smash his teeth down his throat. "Listen, asshole: I'm going to make this as clear as possible," she finally said, her voice pitched low and deadly calm, "my relationship with Mike Best isn't a cry for help, a fucking attention grab or me trying to screw my way to the top of the food chain in OCW. I'd already earned my shot, already defeated Rocket Man when Best and Kael and Farthington showed up at Social Justice – you claim you were watching, right? I shouldn't have to tell you this. I shouldn't…"
She trailed off into a pained silence, feeling the beginnings of a headache in the pulse pounding in her temples and the band of tension that cut across the back of her head.
"Kaitlynn," the way he said her given name made that anger blaze hotter, "just stop trying to bullshit me. If you wanted to be a third with Lyv and I, you could have just asked rather than go through this elaborate little song and-"
"Bullshit?!" She hissed the word, cutting him off and surging to her feet. The lukewarm cup was in her hand before she even registered it and she tossed the rose-flavoured latte all over him. "You're disgusting… despicable… DEPLORABLE!" Her voice rose in volume with every word until she was shouting, not caring about the scene as heads swiveled in their direction. Jackson sat there dripping, frozen, but the look in his eyes was murderous. She leaned in closer, palms on the table now as she spat the words in his face. "You can't even entertain the thought that maybe he makes me happy, maybe we have a lot in common and we clicked on a level that you'll never understand – of course not. It's all about Bradley Motherfucking Jackson and his massive ego. It's all about you, as if I'm jealous of what you've become, like being this neutered piece of shit is enviable? God, you're so hilariously off-base, I don't even have words. I can't even with you right now."
She shook her head, straightening up slowly even though her eyes never left his. "And yes, Bradley. In case you were wondering… he's phenomenal in bed. Better than you ever were."
He sputtered, the old familiar Jackson anger rising to the surface but she didn't flinch or back down. That caustic smirk crossed her lips as she turned her back on him and stormed out of the coffee shop into the afternoon sunshine, feeling strangely liberated.
kittymacblog.wordpress.net posting
May 7, 2019 || 07:52 PM
Six days, sweetie. Less than a week until it all comes unglued – you brought this on yourself. You accepted Michael's challenge to put your career on the line come May 13th. You called me out at Block Party and picked up a nice little head injury for your troubles; instead of bringing your demise closer, you bought yourself another week in limbo. Has it given you time to reflect?
Somehow, I doubt that.
It's funny how you see yourself as a good guy here, as the oppressed little victim. Martyr complexes are all the rage these days, aren't they? Poor little Hayley, the misguided fool, continuously booked in the upper echelon even though she doesn't deserve it – so hard done by. Oh, but she thinks she can unseat me, she thinks she's paid enough dues, bitched and moaned and rebooted herself enough that it's going to do the trick! Layer on another coat of gold Tremclad; your rust is still showing. But hey, if you get it dark enough and they don't look too hard, you'll still pass muster for the mouth-breather fans in the cheap seats.
You are not OCW's personal messiah. You're not the second coming, or the Jesus of the Backwater – you're a sad little poser who's scrambling to find a way to shuck all the failures. Live with the truth, Hayley: no matter what you call yourself, the taint of mediocrity will still be on you. You reek of fear, of inadequacy and no matter how you spin doctor it, the facts remain.
The airwaves are curiously silent. You haven't been on social media. You haven't been around backstage.
Is it time for another reboot already?
Are you going to find another tune to sing, little birdie? I'm sure that's where you're headed, being a revisionist historian and all. I don't bother with either. This late in the game, you either know me or you don't. If you fall into the latter category, it really sucks to be you. I thought I'd made an impression the FIRST time I lodged my boot up your ass, driving the point home that you're never going to come close to championship gold as long as I'm here.
Second verse, same as the first.
HellRaven has been here forever, you know. She wants you to believe in her, she wants you to buy that lie that she's selling as though her life depends on it. She's a lifer, OCW through and through and she takes offense to people like me coming in and – oh wait, no. She pivoted from me to The eMpire so quickly it made heads spin. She eliminated her tag partner, she took down Ariel to win this opportunity and immediately started writing cheques she couldn't hope to cash with that mushmouth of hers. She's the loudest idiot on social media, taking offense to usurpers like me, like Michael Best and Max Kael crawling in here and... doing what, exactly? Wrestling four-star matches? Putting asses in the seats? Backing up our words with actions and results?
Just what is it that you've got such a problem with?
Right. Moving on, then. Let's talk a little about Hayley, shall we? Let's debunk this Rodney Dangerfield 'I get no respect' nonsense she's been preaching for months – bitch, please. You seeded higher than James Raven. You've been in the main event. You want to act like you're getting no respect from your peers? Perhaps it's because you've given us NONE in return. I don't know what you want, sunshine. I showed up when I wasn't booked, more than once, just so I could address your unworthy ass despite the fact that you were more focused on picking fights with Kael, on lining up tag team matches. I get it, sweetie. It's easier for you to rely on Ariel to pick up the slack rather than admit that your best days are behind you. Beating me would certainly give you the legitimacy you so desperately crave. It won't happen but it's nice to dream.
You can do it! Per-se-ver-ance! Rah-rah-rah! (insert sarcasm here)
Believe in yourself? No. We both know that's pointless.
I know how you're feeling right now. I know why you're silent.
You're feeling like an insect, cowering under my boot, ready to be squashed. You're a termite, choking on the splinters. YOU BLINKED AND IT WAS ALL OVER. What do you have to show for it?
Don't blink, Hayley, whatever you do.
Don't. Blink.
=^,,^=
