010: Fight Fire (With Fury)
Jul 7, 2019 13:39:15 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Jul 7, 2019 13:39:15 GMT -5
LOCATION: Napa Valley, California
DATE/TIME: June 18, 2019 || 05:15 AM EST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
The file had been fatter than she'd expected, full of images that were spilling across the table and scattered on the floor. Everywhere she looked, there was a splash of red – some of the faces she didn't even recognize even though dates and places were scrawled along the bottom border. Someone had been watching her for a very long time.
"I haven't done anything wrong," her voice came out a pained rasp as she pushed to her feet, stalking towards the window. She looked down at the parking lot below, at the shadows that seemed more ominous than usual. "I don't know what you want me to say. I don't even know what this shit is supposed to mean – I'm a professional wrestler. I've been doing this for fifteen years now. I'm not whatever else they think I am. I'm not, okay? I. Am. Not."
She closed her eyes, resting her forehead against the glass. She could hear music playing somewhere and it sounded vaguely like Willie Nelson's 'On The Road Again'. Her mind took off down that path, thinking how easy it would be to disappear in the wind. Get on the road again.
"I'm not going to pay for this. It seems a little convenient, doesn't it? This popping up now? This when I'm so damned close to bringing the fight to the ones who deserve it the most – funny how that goes, isn't it? DNA on cigarettes, digging through the trash to find something to make stick and this is what they're going with? I'm a monster? I'm a coward who plays with fire? No. No, I don't." Kitty laughed breathlessly, "they don't have a single hard fact. Not a shred of real evidence. I mean, honestly… you want me or anyone else to believe there's a case here? There needs to be something more solid than trash with my lipstick on it… than a bunch of names and dates and places I don't even remember being. All these lists, all these places I've worked will tell you the truth – these fucking lies you have here are the worst of it."
Her sigh was loud as she turned back from the window, her boots crunching over the mangled pages. The blue light on the earpiece blinked, making it clear that in the middle of this trashed room, in the middle of this chaos, she was actually on the phone rather than ranting incoherently to herself. "No, Avery… listen to me. This isn't real. This isn't the truth. I'm not violent – not like that. I don't care what it says, what Jackson put in that affidavit… I'm not a goddamned sociopath."
"I'm not some fucking killer." She said it again, her voice hoarse from repetition – it was all starting to sound like a broken record in the worst way. Denial sounded a lot like guilt even to her ears. She kicked over a pile of photos, watched still shots of her catalogued injuries after hardcore matches spill out. How they'd managed to get those from the hospitals and insurance company, she had no idea. Maybe Big Brother had always been watching and she'd been too stupid to notice.
"I'm not a killer… a damned firebug. I've never…" she stammered, her resolve breaking in response to the level words of the man who'd handled her divorce even though he was representing both parties. She knew Jackson was probably paying to keep tabs on this and she hated herself for how much that upset her. It had cost two months' saved wages to make sure TMZ or any of the other shady media outlets hadn't gotten wind of her arrest. She couldn't afford much more expense without having to dip into the savings – it felt wrong touching the money that had been left to her by Mikhail.
"We hurt each other," she finally said, her voice low, "I know what he said. I know what happened the night we decided to call it quits – I saw the damned police report in this file of bullshit." There were photos, too. She had bruises on her neck. He had scratches across his face, his nose mashed to the side like a squashed mushroom. They'd both been drunk, having an argument in the middle of the street. Someone called the cops. "He gave worse than he got – no, I'm not trying to say he should have been charged. I'm just…" she groaned, frustrated, "doesn't matter now, does it? If they're going to try and paint me in these colours… what am I supposed to do? Fight fire with fire?"
Her eyes went wide at his response.
"No. I'm not going to do that! I can't! I can't just lay low and… and… what? Ask for a break? Ask them to give me time off now? The media will eat that up, call it cowardice! That'll destroy my career and then I'll have to drag this all out into the open and… no. Fuck off. I'm not going to do that. End of discussion."
She paused again, her tone eerily calm as she straightened up, "fine. Then send me a bill for your time and consider yourself fired, Avery."
She hurled the phone across the room when the call ended, her hands in fists that ached already. "They want to call me a psycho…" she looked up to see a silhouette filling the doorway and a sadistic smile curved her lips, "maybe I should give them a real reason to."
Cry havoc and let loose the BLOGS of war. Endless excuses are ready to parade across your screen – Kitty always tries to spin-doctor each failure, after all. Can't face that head-on. Nope. Have to make it some big thing, like some huge epiphany and then I'm the next one on the eMpire's hit list just for being a whiny cunt.
Or not.
See, I know what's expected now. You want angst. You want soapbox ranting. I know what you want and I'm in a shitty mood so instead I'm going to do what I feel like doing. Fuck you. Evin Empire is my consolation prize – that's what this is, right? That's how I should be seeing this and I should be happy I'm getting thrown a bone that isn't more has-been trash. Logan goes on to Redacted to face the Savage Champion. I get to face the little goomba that could – he's in orbit but he's never going to land, never going to amount to anything. Potential is wasted and now I'm supposed to draw a parallel because I'm on the cusp of that. I've been failing to find my footing since I lost to Hayley – as much as Lilith wants you to believe I'm feline, I don't always land on my feet. Sad but true.
Privacy is a word that means nothing anymore. Social media is a toxic cesspool and the daily bickering gives me a migraine headache. I don't have time for that bullshit. I don't have time to argue with keyboard warriors and trolls.
I've run out of anxiety medication and can't get a refill until Monday – sucks to be human, doesn't it? Not ten feet tall. Not bulletproof and all of my moments of Zen are stolen behind closed doors. Forgive me for seeming a little rude, but I'm just not feeling myself these days. I want to make you hurt. I want to see red splashed from pillar to post like a Jackson Pollock masterpiece.
I don't expect Evin to understand.
He's never held gold. His two losses are not on the same level as mine – they weren't as Earth-shatteringly important. But were they? I mean, really?
That's the question.
That's what I'm struggling to process right now. Was losing to Hayley the end of everything that was good? Or was it my wake-up call? Was it the moment I heard the voice of my true calling?
Sounds pathetic, doesn't it?
Empire… where have you been lately? Wait. Save the answer, let me put on my 'give a flying fuck' face first. There we go. Carry on. Tell me the tale and make sure you use bigger words than Vossler does (and proper grammar too so I don't get bored).
See you boys don't get it. Whatever you've got to say, I've heard it all before. I really could care less. Apathetic, mostly, but there's more to it than that. See, fact of the matter is, I have better things to care about. Media hype? Title shots? Random Twitter beef with a chick who believes her teddy bear can talk? You never go full-on Forrest Gump. Everyone knows that. Apparently you didn't get the memo.
And you wonder why I'm so sick of this? You want to know why I do the things I do? Everyone is annoying and making people bleed makes me smile. Oh, and also, I'm good at it. Nothing gives me more satisfaction than that – might not have won that shot at Langston's championship but at least Logan isn't going to overlook me again. At least he's had some sense knocked into that damned empty head of his. See, it's not about collecting trinkets. I said that on social media. I meant it. I'm not here to see how many times I can strap gold around my waist. I want to be in the Hall of Fame. I want to be a household name. I want people to buy tickets to see me – to be angry when I'm not in action. I want to be on that level and I guess to do that I need to roll with the punches. I need to shake the losses off like water off that damned nice duck's back. I'm getting older and I know my time is limited here. I know I won't be on this level forever because time and gravity and all the stupid shit I've done in the ring is going to take its toll.
This jaded little bitch knows a trick or two. This late in the game, I'm able to think on my feet better, and faster than any of these green rookies. I fool myself, and get out of bed in the morning, ignoring the hideous symphony of popping joints. Denial is a wonderful thing. Doesn't matter, because unlike some of these other assholes, I have a reason. I have inspiration.
Square your shoulders, Kitty. Get your ass out there, and endure. When it comes right down to it, that's all you can really do.
Losing isn't the end of the world. It's not a definition and it's not going to become my new reality – I'm better than that and everyone knows it. This is just a hiccup and Evin Empire is rusty-as-fuck. He's not been in a match for a month and I'm going to redecorate the canvas with his blood.
Call me names, call my bluff. Say whatever you want, and it won't hurt me one bit. Watch me smile and laugh it off. Call me all the names you know, really sling that mud in my eye: self-absorbed, cunt, narcissist, cruel, ignorant, hateful, horse-faced, dirt. Call me anything and everything. Throw rocks at me, and stone me with your stunning intellect. Nail my hands to the cross – make a martyr. Encase my feet in concrete shoes – make a victim. It won't matter and while you're sharpening the stake for my heart and finding that silver bullet for my forehead, I'll be out here doing what I do best.
Let's be fucking honest with each other here. Purge yourself; vomit your bulimic bullshit all over my shoes. Empty yourself completely. And when you're done, leave. For fuck's sake, just leave.
That's your only hope at survival now.
Fair warning, Empire: hell hath no fury quite like the woman scorned.
---K
DATE/TIME: June 18, 2019 || 05:15 AM EST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
The file had been fatter than she'd expected, full of images that were spilling across the table and scattered on the floor. Everywhere she looked, there was a splash of red – some of the faces she didn't even recognize even though dates and places were scrawled along the bottom border. Someone had been watching her for a very long time.
"I haven't done anything wrong," her voice came out a pained rasp as she pushed to her feet, stalking towards the window. She looked down at the parking lot below, at the shadows that seemed more ominous than usual. "I don't know what you want me to say. I don't even know what this shit is supposed to mean – I'm a professional wrestler. I've been doing this for fifteen years now. I'm not whatever else they think I am. I'm not, okay? I. Am. Not."
She closed her eyes, resting her forehead against the glass. She could hear music playing somewhere and it sounded vaguely like Willie Nelson's 'On The Road Again'. Her mind took off down that path, thinking how easy it would be to disappear in the wind. Get on the road again.
"I'm not going to pay for this. It seems a little convenient, doesn't it? This popping up now? This when I'm so damned close to bringing the fight to the ones who deserve it the most – funny how that goes, isn't it? DNA on cigarettes, digging through the trash to find something to make stick and this is what they're going with? I'm a monster? I'm a coward who plays with fire? No. No, I don't." Kitty laughed breathlessly, "they don't have a single hard fact. Not a shred of real evidence. I mean, honestly… you want me or anyone else to believe there's a case here? There needs to be something more solid than trash with my lipstick on it… than a bunch of names and dates and places I don't even remember being. All these lists, all these places I've worked will tell you the truth – these fucking lies you have here are the worst of it."
Her sigh was loud as she turned back from the window, her boots crunching over the mangled pages. The blue light on the earpiece blinked, making it clear that in the middle of this trashed room, in the middle of this chaos, she was actually on the phone rather than ranting incoherently to herself. "No, Avery… listen to me. This isn't real. This isn't the truth. I'm not violent – not like that. I don't care what it says, what Jackson put in that affidavit… I'm not a goddamned sociopath."
"I'm not some fucking killer." She said it again, her voice hoarse from repetition – it was all starting to sound like a broken record in the worst way. Denial sounded a lot like guilt even to her ears. She kicked over a pile of photos, watched still shots of her catalogued injuries after hardcore matches spill out. How they'd managed to get those from the hospitals and insurance company, she had no idea. Maybe Big Brother had always been watching and she'd been too stupid to notice.
"I'm not a killer… a damned firebug. I've never…" she stammered, her resolve breaking in response to the level words of the man who'd handled her divorce even though he was representing both parties. She knew Jackson was probably paying to keep tabs on this and she hated herself for how much that upset her. It had cost two months' saved wages to make sure TMZ or any of the other shady media outlets hadn't gotten wind of her arrest. She couldn't afford much more expense without having to dip into the savings – it felt wrong touching the money that had been left to her by Mikhail.
"We hurt each other," she finally said, her voice low, "I know what he said. I know what happened the night we decided to call it quits – I saw the damned police report in this file of bullshit." There were photos, too. She had bruises on her neck. He had scratches across his face, his nose mashed to the side like a squashed mushroom. They'd both been drunk, having an argument in the middle of the street. Someone called the cops. "He gave worse than he got – no, I'm not trying to say he should have been charged. I'm just…" she groaned, frustrated, "doesn't matter now, does it? If they're going to try and paint me in these colours… what am I supposed to do? Fight fire with fire?"
Her eyes went wide at his response.
"No. I'm not going to do that! I can't! I can't just lay low and… and… what? Ask for a break? Ask them to give me time off now? The media will eat that up, call it cowardice! That'll destroy my career and then I'll have to drag this all out into the open and… no. Fuck off. I'm not going to do that. End of discussion."
She paused again, her tone eerily calm as she straightened up, "fine. Then send me a bill for your time and consider yourself fired, Avery."
She hurled the phone across the room when the call ended, her hands in fists that ached already. "They want to call me a psycho…" she looked up to see a silhouette filling the doorway and a sadistic smile curved her lips, "maybe I should give them a real reason to."
kittymacblog.wordpress.net posting
June 22, 2019 || 02:30 AM EST
Cry havoc and let loose the BLOGS of war. Endless excuses are ready to parade across your screen – Kitty always tries to spin-doctor each failure, after all. Can't face that head-on. Nope. Have to make it some big thing, like some huge epiphany and then I'm the next one on the eMpire's hit list just for being a whiny cunt.
Or not.
See, I know what's expected now. You want angst. You want soapbox ranting. I know what you want and I'm in a shitty mood so instead I'm going to do what I feel like doing. Fuck you. Evin Empire is my consolation prize – that's what this is, right? That's how I should be seeing this and I should be happy I'm getting thrown a bone that isn't more has-been trash. Logan goes on to Redacted to face the Savage Champion. I get to face the little goomba that could – he's in orbit but he's never going to land, never going to amount to anything. Potential is wasted and now I'm supposed to draw a parallel because I'm on the cusp of that. I've been failing to find my footing since I lost to Hayley – as much as Lilith wants you to believe I'm feline, I don't always land on my feet. Sad but true.
Privacy is a word that means nothing anymore. Social media is a toxic cesspool and the daily bickering gives me a migraine headache. I don't have time for that bullshit. I don't have time to argue with keyboard warriors and trolls.
I've run out of anxiety medication and can't get a refill until Monday – sucks to be human, doesn't it? Not ten feet tall. Not bulletproof and all of my moments of Zen are stolen behind closed doors. Forgive me for seeming a little rude, but I'm just not feeling myself these days. I want to make you hurt. I want to see red splashed from pillar to post like a Jackson Pollock masterpiece.
I don't expect Evin to understand.
He's never held gold. His two losses are not on the same level as mine – they weren't as Earth-shatteringly important. But were they? I mean, really?
That's the question.
That's what I'm struggling to process right now. Was losing to Hayley the end of everything that was good? Or was it my wake-up call? Was it the moment I heard the voice of my true calling?
Sounds pathetic, doesn't it?
Empire… where have you been lately? Wait. Save the answer, let me put on my 'give a flying fuck' face first. There we go. Carry on. Tell me the tale and make sure you use bigger words than Vossler does (and proper grammar too so I don't get bored).
See you boys don't get it. Whatever you've got to say, I've heard it all before. I really could care less. Apathetic, mostly, but there's more to it than that. See, fact of the matter is, I have better things to care about. Media hype? Title shots? Random Twitter beef with a chick who believes her teddy bear can talk? You never go full-on Forrest Gump. Everyone knows that. Apparently you didn't get the memo.
And you wonder why I'm so sick of this? You want to know why I do the things I do? Everyone is annoying and making people bleed makes me smile. Oh, and also, I'm good at it. Nothing gives me more satisfaction than that – might not have won that shot at Langston's championship but at least Logan isn't going to overlook me again. At least he's had some sense knocked into that damned empty head of his. See, it's not about collecting trinkets. I said that on social media. I meant it. I'm not here to see how many times I can strap gold around my waist. I want to be in the Hall of Fame. I want to be a household name. I want people to buy tickets to see me – to be angry when I'm not in action. I want to be on that level and I guess to do that I need to roll with the punches. I need to shake the losses off like water off that damned nice duck's back. I'm getting older and I know my time is limited here. I know I won't be on this level forever because time and gravity and all the stupid shit I've done in the ring is going to take its toll.
This jaded little bitch knows a trick or two. This late in the game, I'm able to think on my feet better, and faster than any of these green rookies. I fool myself, and get out of bed in the morning, ignoring the hideous symphony of popping joints. Denial is a wonderful thing. Doesn't matter, because unlike some of these other assholes, I have a reason. I have inspiration.
Square your shoulders, Kitty. Get your ass out there, and endure. When it comes right down to it, that's all you can really do.
Losing isn't the end of the world. It's not a definition and it's not going to become my new reality – I'm better than that and everyone knows it. This is just a hiccup and Evin Empire is rusty-as-fuck. He's not been in a match for a month and I'm going to redecorate the canvas with his blood.
Call me names, call my bluff. Say whatever you want, and it won't hurt me one bit. Watch me smile and laugh it off. Call me all the names you know, really sling that mud in my eye: self-absorbed, cunt, narcissist, cruel, ignorant, hateful, horse-faced, dirt. Call me anything and everything. Throw rocks at me, and stone me with your stunning intellect. Nail my hands to the cross – make a martyr. Encase my feet in concrete shoes – make a victim. It won't matter and while you're sharpening the stake for my heart and finding that silver bullet for my forehead, I'll be out here doing what I do best.
Let's be fucking honest with each other here. Purge yourself; vomit your bulimic bullshit all over my shoes. Empty yourself completely. And when you're done, leave. For fuck's sake, just leave.
That's your only hope at survival now.
Fair warning, Empire: hell hath no fury quite like the woman scorned.
---K
