Post by americangrime on Mar 14, 2022 13:04:39 GMT -5
Loss.
That was what she dealt with on a daily basis, the nearly-theres, the pats-on-the-back, the closer-but-no-cigars. Elizabeth Karlson was familiar with loss, she was familiar with self doubt, she was familiar with shame. She’d been spending far, far too long in its residency as of late.
She was proud of Mike-of being able to do what she hadn’t, of guaranteeing himself a championship match at Final Destination, likely finding himself with gold in his hands at the end of the goddamned night. She was proud that The Dreadknight was finally getting his due. She was proud to be in the crowd for that fateful happening, cheering her partner on hard, watching as he, single-handedly, carried BFG Division on his shoulders and made his way skyward.
It didn’t stop the shame eating away her insides, though.
She went home that night, returning to the sparse Philadelphia apartment that she called home, and found her way to the couch. She leaned her head back, nursing some of the still-aching portions of her body following her performance in the Clash of the Titans, and she breathed heavily as she let her eyes scan the ceiling. She felt trapped-caged, even-in this place. The apartment as it was was a reminder that she’d never get anywhere else. She’d seen the life that Graham Baker, her mentor, had lead-the various residencies from country to country when he needed to travel, when he needed to go and perform, so he wasn’t bleeding through hotel sheets everywhere he went.
Eventually, she’d want that luxury, too.
For now, though? She’d have to deal with the Fishtown surroundings and the walls of this place, crumbling and overcome with mold. The windows, faded with time, showed her a world beyond that she simply in this moment could not reach. Frustration blotted out her mind once again, and she shut her eyes to the outside world. She felt herself slipping, spiraling again, and she tried to cling to what was coming ahead. She tried to cling to the tag title opportunity, where she and Bishop would likely dethrone the men who’d held the belts for quite a long time (or die trying); she tried to cling to her APEX Wrestling World Heavyweight Championship challenge, where she’d fight a bonafide legend in a contest that would likely make her legend (or put her in an early grave); she tried to grapple onto her opportunity to win the Ascension to the Heavens, where she’d break all of barriers in her fucking way on her path to the bout before ascending beyond the expectations set before her, becoming legend, becoming champion (or a corpse).
She found no purchase in any. No structure safe enough to jam her anchor into. She let herself roll toward the edge of the couch, catching a hint of her reflection in the television screen-red faced, frustrated, sad, pathetic.
She rolled back over to avoid a further confrontation. When she did, however, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She fished for it, glancing at the screen and seeing a text from her tag team partner, the Dreadknight himself. Her eyes narrowed.
Bishop, 9:45PM
Hey killer, did you see the news?
Bishop, 9:46PM
No tag title shot off rip. We’ve got a booking in the main fighting two others.
Bishop, 9:47PM
Alyssa Grace and Mr. Wright.
Liz dropped her phone for a moment.
Of course.
Fate had a funny way of working out, as she found herself going head to head with the woman who’d delivered unto her the first loss she’d taken in her time in OWA thus far. Alyssa Grace was a bonafide legend in the making over in OWA, she’d saved her ass in her Women’s World Championship bout after deposing of Scott Oasis’ goons, and she’d made her name in the lexicon of OWA’s history the next night with a crushing victory over Graham Baker and a win of the Omega Heavyweight Championship. Everything was lining up for Grace, with a first defense almost under her belt before another cash-in ripped her dreams away.
Liz could almost recall it happening here, too. Moments of victory, that sweet, succulent momentary pride-falling through her fingers like sand, dripping through the gaps in her fists like raindrops. It had brought her down to her knees, and now, it brought the two of them face to face once again.
Liz had found the foundation to which she’d anchor.
As she processed all of this, her phone buzzed again. She glanced down at it.
Bishop, 9:50PM
You angry, killer? You ready to fight?
“Fate has a funny way of keeping my schedule full, no matter how many times I fuck up or slip down the goddamned precipice, I always find my way back to something I truly want, that I truly need. Despite the adrenaline hangover from one of the most packed wrestling weekends of my life, I find myself baring my fucking teeth and coming head-to-head with someone I know little about, and someone I know too much about.
It’s the way the game’s played, though.
I’m going to let Mr. Wright take center stage first, with all of his gimmicks and fuckin’ bullshit. I don’t know what your deal is, but you creep me the fuck out. I’m sure that was the point of all of it, but like, come on man. You’re making me uncomfortable. I’m rooting for Alyssa to beat your ass into a thin paste and rip that belt you’ve been carrying around from your waist with all the ease in the fuckin’ world, although I’m unsure if she’ll be able to after the war I wage against her here. You, Mister Wright, you exemplify all that’s wrong with the fuckin’ landscape of professional wrestling in this moment. I’m not sayin’ that to be some old fucker yellin’ at clouds, because that’s not nearly the point, but you’re usin’ this shit for some sort of steppin’ stone, some predatory urge to have the platform that this company so kindly provides you be used for some malevolent evil. Do you pay those in your playhouse, or are they just as coked up as you?
Y’know what? I actually don’t want to know.
What I do want to know is how much does that little fucked up show in your head pay? Is it gonna be enough to resolve the medical bills that you collect after I dump you on your head, time an’ time again when we face off? Is it gonna be enough to correct the various injuries I inflict upon you when given the goddamn chance? Is it gonna be enough to save your ass when I put you out of action in Project: Honor? I’m not the nicest bitch, but I’m gonna see this instance of violence for what it is-necessary. You’ve got a fucked up little head standing on your fucked up little neck, and if I have to break one to stop the other, I’ll do that damn fine. I don’t even know why this match wa spit together, to be honest-Alyssa benefits from you more being injured and laid up than we do, but I’ll gladly be the one to put you there if it wins us this match. You’re gonna be useful for the moment, get myself and Bishop some shine before we move onto better, brighter, more golden things.
Just a casualty of a war you weren’t supposed to be part of, but ended up in the spotlight anyway.
I’ll give a little bit of sympathy for the devil, though-I’m sure you’re a tough nut to crack. I’ve seen how you manhandle people and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least slightly intimidated by it. I don’t want my ass getting tossed around by a dude I almost assuredly can’t lift. Luckily, I have a pair of fists with the brain of a former mixed martial arts warrior behind ‘em at my side, and he’ll gladly bloody you in ways I can’t. If I have to pick up the scraps on your end to get by, I’ll take that little deficit for the moment. You may not regret goin’ to war with us, because really, what choice do you have, but this won’t be a standard bout. This is gonna be a stiff fuckin’ bloodbath, a battle of attrition where a winner ain’t in sight until you’re long since fuckin’ gassed.
You’ll fare better than your partner, though.”
…
“Grace. Alyssa. You know me, I know you, let’s skip the pleasantries. Both of us are equally aware of what the other is capable of. You know that you’re higher on the ranking chart than me anywhere we go. You were a legend when I stepped into OWA, to be able to get a swing at you was a big fuckin’ deal for me, and I almost, ALMOST had you. You took advantage of a blow to the skull on my behalf, though. You may not’ve seen it, but Daisy Thrash put a beam in the side of my head, and that was lights for Lizzy K in that bout. You had your briefcase, I had my title, and somehow both of us ended up with nothin’ just a few months later. Me, a bit sooner than you, but you still dropped somethin’ that you had ALL THE ADVANTAGE TO KEEP!
Hurts, doesn’t it.
I gotta admit, it was nice to see the B.O.B get their comeuppance when you made Graham look like a fool, ripped that belt from his shoulders, but I doubted you a little bit when I saw the angle you were gunning for. Devi Krysis? Why her? Why not, I don’t know, anyone else on the roster? The OHC is one of the most important championships in THIS INDUSTRY, and you waste it on a pity gift? You waste it on someone who DOESN’T DESERVE THOSE CHALLENGES? Fuck you, Grace. You could’ve given something to anyone. You could have MADE IT COUNT.
Instead, you made your grave, and now you’re laying in it. You have no title. No briefcase.
You’re about to have a whole lot less.
You’ve put a crosshair right in the center of your forehead and begged people to come gunning for you, and I’ll gladly join those ranks. This match up in front of us, it ain’t just about a roadblock in the way of myself and Bishop challenging for the tag titles, this is about me coming for you with a singular, hateful focus and tearin’ your goddamn head off in the path to getting WHAT I WANT. Our last opponents, I didn’t know shit about, so we made quick work. Your partner, I don’t know much about, and he’ll be a toughie, but we’ll get through him. When I’m in the ring with you, though? I’m showing EXACTLY who Liz Karlson is, EXACTLY why I’m part of BFG, EXACTLY why I deserve every chance I’ve gotten and will CONTINUE TO GET until there’s not a little fuckin’ vestige of breath in my fuckin’ lungs. On my warpath, you’re just another casualty, you’re just another soldier that I need to strike down, and I’ll do so GLADLY. I may not be shit but a nearly-woman now, but by the end of this year I WILL be a legend.
I WILL be SOMETHING.
You’ll just be in the start of all of that. People like you and Wright, contending for another strap when you’ve both NOT EARNED IT while Mike and I have to fill space, that’s DISGRACEFUL. That’s HORSESHIT. We’ve EARNED these spots. We’ve EARNED this main event, which should be more than an exhibition for two would-be challengers and two rivals playing some will-they-won’t-they dumbass fuckin’ angle! Project Honor may have put us in this bout to get some shine and showcase the two of you, but they’re gonna wish they hadn’t when Wright’s title ends up vacant. They’re gonna wish they hadn’t when the two of us make the two of you both look like clowns. They’re gonna wish they hadn’t when all that shine from that fucking bout comes onto the TWO OF US! Putting me aside, The Dreadknight is one of the BEST IN THE WORLD and he has to bite and claw and fight and scratch to get anything, ANYTHING that means a goddamn thing to him! I hope that people pay attention to this match, if not for me, than for Mike. I hope they realize what a goddamned LIVING LEGEND he is, and pay him his proper respect!
And even if they don’t, even if the peanut gallery stays blind, deaf, and dumb. Even if everyone watching back home doesn’t give a SINGLE FUCK about the two of us as singles competitors, I hope they realize ONE FUCKING THING.”
Emphatic pause.
“We are not a PASSING FAD. We are not here for the wind to blow in, to fail in a challenge, and fuck off.
We are here to WIN.
This division-the tag division, any division the two of us step into, that’s OUR TERRITORY.
That’s BFG TURF!
GET FUCKING USED TO IT!”
-
Liz had lost herself in her preparations following the text exchange with Bishop. She had to get back into working shape, ready for any fight that Wright and Grace could have brought her way. She’d continued working past what she’d previously felt was her breaking point, felt her muscles bubbling up and burning, and when she physically could move no longer, she worked on breathing. Cardio. Coming back together.
Then, finally, as the sun poured through her fogged windows, she allowed herself some brief rest. Some respite. She washed the filth and determination off her body as midday approached, and bagged her gear up, heading for the airport on foot. Music blasted through her headphones as the cold winter air blew over her, reminding her of her aching muscles. It drove her onward, from a walk into a sprint, and from a sprint into a charge.
Bishop was waiting for her, and the two of them had a champion and a legend to kill, after all.
She couldn’t afford to be late.
That was what she dealt with on a daily basis, the nearly-theres, the pats-on-the-back, the closer-but-no-cigars. Elizabeth Karlson was familiar with loss, she was familiar with self doubt, she was familiar with shame. She’d been spending far, far too long in its residency as of late.
She was proud of Mike-of being able to do what she hadn’t, of guaranteeing himself a championship match at Final Destination, likely finding himself with gold in his hands at the end of the goddamned night. She was proud that The Dreadknight was finally getting his due. She was proud to be in the crowd for that fateful happening, cheering her partner on hard, watching as he, single-handedly, carried BFG Division on his shoulders and made his way skyward.
It didn’t stop the shame eating away her insides, though.
She went home that night, returning to the sparse Philadelphia apartment that she called home, and found her way to the couch. She leaned her head back, nursing some of the still-aching portions of her body following her performance in the Clash of the Titans, and she breathed heavily as she let her eyes scan the ceiling. She felt trapped-caged, even-in this place. The apartment as it was was a reminder that she’d never get anywhere else. She’d seen the life that Graham Baker, her mentor, had lead-the various residencies from country to country when he needed to travel, when he needed to go and perform, so he wasn’t bleeding through hotel sheets everywhere he went.
Eventually, she’d want that luxury, too.
For now, though? She’d have to deal with the Fishtown surroundings and the walls of this place, crumbling and overcome with mold. The windows, faded with time, showed her a world beyond that she simply in this moment could not reach. Frustration blotted out her mind once again, and she shut her eyes to the outside world. She felt herself slipping, spiraling again, and she tried to cling to what was coming ahead. She tried to cling to the tag title opportunity, where she and Bishop would likely dethrone the men who’d held the belts for quite a long time (or die trying); she tried to cling to her APEX Wrestling World Heavyweight Championship challenge, where she’d fight a bonafide legend in a contest that would likely make her legend (or put her in an early grave); she tried to grapple onto her opportunity to win the Ascension to the Heavens, where she’d break all of barriers in her fucking way on her path to the bout before ascending beyond the expectations set before her, becoming legend, becoming champion (or a corpse).
She found no purchase in any. No structure safe enough to jam her anchor into. She let herself roll toward the edge of the couch, catching a hint of her reflection in the television screen-red faced, frustrated, sad, pathetic.
She rolled back over to avoid a further confrontation. When she did, however, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She fished for it, glancing at the screen and seeing a text from her tag team partner, the Dreadknight himself. Her eyes narrowed.
Bishop, 9:45PM
Hey killer, did you see the news?
Me, 9:46PM
no lol what’s up
Bishop, 9:46PM
No tag title shot off rip. We’ve got a booking in the main fighting two others.
Me, 9:47PM
ard bet not great but whatever. who’s getting these hands.
Bishop, 9:47PM
Alyssa Grace and Mr. Wright.
Liz dropped her phone for a moment.
Of course.
Fate had a funny way of working out, as she found herself going head to head with the woman who’d delivered unto her the first loss she’d taken in her time in OWA thus far. Alyssa Grace was a bonafide legend in the making over in OWA, she’d saved her ass in her Women’s World Championship bout after deposing of Scott Oasis’ goons, and she’d made her name in the lexicon of OWA’s history the next night with a crushing victory over Graham Baker and a win of the Omega Heavyweight Championship. Everything was lining up for Grace, with a first defense almost under her belt before another cash-in ripped her dreams away.
Liz could almost recall it happening here, too. Moments of victory, that sweet, succulent momentary pride-falling through her fingers like sand, dripping through the gaps in her fists like raindrops. It had brought her down to her knees, and now, it brought the two of them face to face once again.
Liz had found the foundation to which she’d anchor.
As she processed all of this, her phone buzzed again. She glanced down at it.
Bishop, 9:50PM
You angry, killer? You ready to fight?
Me, 9:51PM
you fuckin bet LMAO
-“Fate has a funny way of keeping my schedule full, no matter how many times I fuck up or slip down the goddamned precipice, I always find my way back to something I truly want, that I truly need. Despite the adrenaline hangover from one of the most packed wrestling weekends of my life, I find myself baring my fucking teeth and coming head-to-head with someone I know little about, and someone I know too much about.
It’s the way the game’s played, though.
I’m going to let Mr. Wright take center stage first, with all of his gimmicks and fuckin’ bullshit. I don’t know what your deal is, but you creep me the fuck out. I’m sure that was the point of all of it, but like, come on man. You’re making me uncomfortable. I’m rooting for Alyssa to beat your ass into a thin paste and rip that belt you’ve been carrying around from your waist with all the ease in the fuckin’ world, although I’m unsure if she’ll be able to after the war I wage against her here. You, Mister Wright, you exemplify all that’s wrong with the fuckin’ landscape of professional wrestling in this moment. I’m not sayin’ that to be some old fucker yellin’ at clouds, because that’s not nearly the point, but you’re usin’ this shit for some sort of steppin’ stone, some predatory urge to have the platform that this company so kindly provides you be used for some malevolent evil. Do you pay those in your playhouse, or are they just as coked up as you?
Y’know what? I actually don’t want to know.
What I do want to know is how much does that little fucked up show in your head pay? Is it gonna be enough to resolve the medical bills that you collect after I dump you on your head, time an’ time again when we face off? Is it gonna be enough to correct the various injuries I inflict upon you when given the goddamn chance? Is it gonna be enough to save your ass when I put you out of action in Project: Honor? I’m not the nicest bitch, but I’m gonna see this instance of violence for what it is-necessary. You’ve got a fucked up little head standing on your fucked up little neck, and if I have to break one to stop the other, I’ll do that damn fine. I don’t even know why this match wa spit together, to be honest-Alyssa benefits from you more being injured and laid up than we do, but I’ll gladly be the one to put you there if it wins us this match. You’re gonna be useful for the moment, get myself and Bishop some shine before we move onto better, brighter, more golden things.
Just a casualty of a war you weren’t supposed to be part of, but ended up in the spotlight anyway.
I’ll give a little bit of sympathy for the devil, though-I’m sure you’re a tough nut to crack. I’ve seen how you manhandle people and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least slightly intimidated by it. I don’t want my ass getting tossed around by a dude I almost assuredly can’t lift. Luckily, I have a pair of fists with the brain of a former mixed martial arts warrior behind ‘em at my side, and he’ll gladly bloody you in ways I can’t. If I have to pick up the scraps on your end to get by, I’ll take that little deficit for the moment. You may not regret goin’ to war with us, because really, what choice do you have, but this won’t be a standard bout. This is gonna be a stiff fuckin’ bloodbath, a battle of attrition where a winner ain’t in sight until you’re long since fuckin’ gassed.
You’ll fare better than your partner, though.”
…
“Grace. Alyssa. You know me, I know you, let’s skip the pleasantries. Both of us are equally aware of what the other is capable of. You know that you’re higher on the ranking chart than me anywhere we go. You were a legend when I stepped into OWA, to be able to get a swing at you was a big fuckin’ deal for me, and I almost, ALMOST had you. You took advantage of a blow to the skull on my behalf, though. You may not’ve seen it, but Daisy Thrash put a beam in the side of my head, and that was lights for Lizzy K in that bout. You had your briefcase, I had my title, and somehow both of us ended up with nothin’ just a few months later. Me, a bit sooner than you, but you still dropped somethin’ that you had ALL THE ADVANTAGE TO KEEP!
Hurts, doesn’t it.
I gotta admit, it was nice to see the B.O.B get their comeuppance when you made Graham look like a fool, ripped that belt from his shoulders, but I doubted you a little bit when I saw the angle you were gunning for. Devi Krysis? Why her? Why not, I don’t know, anyone else on the roster? The OHC is one of the most important championships in THIS INDUSTRY, and you waste it on a pity gift? You waste it on someone who DOESN’T DESERVE THOSE CHALLENGES? Fuck you, Grace. You could’ve given something to anyone. You could have MADE IT COUNT.
Instead, you made your grave, and now you’re laying in it. You have no title. No briefcase.
You’re about to have a whole lot less.
You’ve put a crosshair right in the center of your forehead and begged people to come gunning for you, and I’ll gladly join those ranks. This match up in front of us, it ain’t just about a roadblock in the way of myself and Bishop challenging for the tag titles, this is about me coming for you with a singular, hateful focus and tearin’ your goddamn head off in the path to getting WHAT I WANT. Our last opponents, I didn’t know shit about, so we made quick work. Your partner, I don’t know much about, and he’ll be a toughie, but we’ll get through him. When I’m in the ring with you, though? I’m showing EXACTLY who Liz Karlson is, EXACTLY why I’m part of BFG, EXACTLY why I deserve every chance I’ve gotten and will CONTINUE TO GET until there’s not a little fuckin’ vestige of breath in my fuckin’ lungs. On my warpath, you’re just another casualty, you’re just another soldier that I need to strike down, and I’ll do so GLADLY. I may not be shit but a nearly-woman now, but by the end of this year I WILL be a legend.
I WILL be SOMETHING.
You’ll just be in the start of all of that. People like you and Wright, contending for another strap when you’ve both NOT EARNED IT while Mike and I have to fill space, that’s DISGRACEFUL. That’s HORSESHIT. We’ve EARNED these spots. We’ve EARNED this main event, which should be more than an exhibition for two would-be challengers and two rivals playing some will-they-won’t-they dumbass fuckin’ angle! Project Honor may have put us in this bout to get some shine and showcase the two of you, but they’re gonna wish they hadn’t when Wright’s title ends up vacant. They’re gonna wish they hadn’t when the two of us make the two of you both look like clowns. They’re gonna wish they hadn’t when all that shine from that fucking bout comes onto the TWO OF US! Putting me aside, The Dreadknight is one of the BEST IN THE WORLD and he has to bite and claw and fight and scratch to get anything, ANYTHING that means a goddamn thing to him! I hope that people pay attention to this match, if not for me, than for Mike. I hope they realize what a goddamned LIVING LEGEND he is, and pay him his proper respect!
And even if they don’t, even if the peanut gallery stays blind, deaf, and dumb. Even if everyone watching back home doesn’t give a SINGLE FUCK about the two of us as singles competitors, I hope they realize ONE FUCKING THING.”
Emphatic pause.
“We are not a PASSING FAD. We are not here for the wind to blow in, to fail in a challenge, and fuck off.
We are here to WIN.
This division-the tag division, any division the two of us step into, that’s OUR TERRITORY.
That’s BFG TURF!
GET FUCKING USED TO IT!”
-
Liz had lost herself in her preparations following the text exchange with Bishop. She had to get back into working shape, ready for any fight that Wright and Grace could have brought her way. She’d continued working past what she’d previously felt was her breaking point, felt her muscles bubbling up and burning, and when she physically could move no longer, she worked on breathing. Cardio. Coming back together.
Then, finally, as the sun poured through her fogged windows, she allowed herself some brief rest. Some respite. She washed the filth and determination off her body as midday approached, and bagged her gear up, heading for the airport on foot. Music blasted through her headphones as the cold winter air blew over her, reminding her of her aching muscles. It drove her onward, from a walk into a sprint, and from a sprint into a charge.
Bishop was waiting for her, and the two of them had a champion and a legend to kill, after all.
She couldn’t afford to be late.