Post by pixie on May 18, 2021 19:31:47 GMT -5
 “Women of Fallout, represent. Even you, Kayla. #StartTheMatriarchy.” I had said, and then everything fell apart. From there it becomes a blur, the world slows to a grinding crawl and I can feel my heart in my chest, thumping, beating, like it wants to burst out of its casing, through my thoracic cavity and explode as it comes into contact with the fresh night air in the capital of Brazil. I know my heart rate has dramatically increased by the echoing that resonates through my body, but it feels like a lifetime passes between each throb. Like the whole of me, every part of my experience, rushes through my mind like a series of polaroid pictures. A small girl, around the same height as me, snuck into the shot to the horror of Alyssa Nguyen, and cupped her hand delicately to my ear, sure to shield her lips from the view of the camera as she laid the death knell on me. I didn’t know what to do, because now everything was up for grabs. That girl, who’s name I didn’t obtain, flipped everything on its head in one sentence. Shit, not even a sentence. “A man in a bolo tie...” she’d started. No further information was necessary. Maybe I should start from the beginning, or somewhere near the beginning. Big Tony was a man who, for all his flaws, saved my life. Up ‘til then, I’d had a clichéd life, growing up with a mom who put whatever she could find between her legs before the things that she pushed out from the self-same place. We, my sister and I, had a series of dads. Sometimes it felt like they lasted nothing more than a long weekend, othertimes a month, never much more than that. Always the same, always a drinker, always a moustache peppered with grey, a smell of stale nicotine on and around them. And I’d always wait for them to chuck her, or if they were a real piece of work, they’d end up chucked. Another famous woman I know would always say ‘fuck ‘em and chuck ‘em’. That’s what happened to Mom, mostly. But this one, he stuck around. Lingered, like the bad smell that came with him. He’s the one who sat on the couch, cigarette in one hand, Miller Lite in the other, close enough to the television that the blaring light in the darkness blinded him to what was going on around. He was the one who ruled over us, the one from whom we tried to obscure our footsteps for fear that reprimand would be swift and brutal. The one who we dared not disturb from SportsCenter whilst Mom was working her second or third shift of the day trying to keep him happy. The one who’s sickly sweet breath I’d feel on the back of my neck, whispering that if I dared open my ugly mouth about what was happening to me, it’d be my sister next. I kept a journal. Not a journal of each and every way in which he abused his position of power over me. Not a catalog of all of the ways in which he imposed himself on a vulnerable child that could not defend herself. A list of ways in which I would - when I was bigger and older - make him sorry for what he did. A thousand different ways to castrate a predator and hang him from a meat hook and watch the life drip, one droplet of blood at a time, from his sorry carcass. Cattle prod in hand, punishing every scream with another blast of high-voltage, low-current joy into the abdomen. That was one way. The way I’d choose, if I could have. Every day, I fantasized about a way to get where I wanted to go. I was Xing off the days, the days until I could be free. And every time he breached my boundary, towering over me, with that yellowed grey moustache hanging over his lip and into his mouth, I knew it was only a matter of time. The final entry in the diary involved concentrating battery acid over a low flame in a glass pan. In the kitchen, because who gives a fuck, at this point? And waiting, patiently, careful not to spill any or inhale the vapor. And then? I’m sure it doesn’t take the most vibrant of imaginations. But I didn’t throw acid on his genitals. In fact, I didn’t do anything. To him. I waited until he was just asleep enough, grabbed my sister, and slipped out through the window. Because some fights are worth fighting, and others aren’t. I did what I had to do, to get where I wanted to be. Mom knew what he did to us, and she didn’t care. She was satisfied as long as we were quiet and he was satiated. And if he didn’t crawl on top of her, stale beer and tooth decay on his breath, in the middle of the night after she’d been running tables for 16 hours, then that was a victory in her book. So, far as I was concerned, she could deal with him. I would deal with myself. And Jessie came with me because that’s just how sisterhood works. It was going to be better on the streets, anything would be better. But when you’re 13, and you’re on the street, and you have an eight year old in tow, hanging onto your sleeve as you trawl trashcans and try to stay under the radar best you can, you get noticed. You just do. Within a week and a half we were hopping foster homes and group homes. I’m not entirely sure how the system works, but they kept moving us around. And asking us questions. And no matter how many times I gave a false name, or lied about the circumstances from which we came, they’d keep coming back, telling us that something didn’t add up. Just another question about this, or about that. I guess between the different people involved they pieced it together and they put a file on me. And my Jessie. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? With the system? You go from one shithole to the next. One set of disposable adults to the next. One group of people who are supposed to have you six, to the next. Because none of them do, they all let you down, they all make these big promises to you, and then they don’t follow through. And it wasn’t long before I was Xing off the days again. They found Jessie a home, because she was sweet, and innocent, and didn’t carry the anger of a deranged fucked up world on her back like a crucifix in the desert of Judah. I shielded her from it, for the most part. But me? I was a problem. I was a problem for anyone who spoke to me with a hint of condescension or assertion. I learned quickly that nobody got my six. So I made sure I had my own six. And when I was done, I dipped. I did what I had to do for me. For Martha. And if I cut someone down in the process, so be it. So there I was, roaming the streets for the hundredth time. Each time I’d make my way further west, and it really felt like the desert of Judah at times. It was dry, and hot, and there was sand everywhere. Hitchhiking through New Mexico and Nevada was no fun at all. Hours and hours of endless fuckin’ sand. And I’d always get pulled in by some white knight trucker who’d act the part and call social on me when he conveniently needed a fuckin’ piss at the next truck stop after picking me up. So it took a long time. False starts, unexpected detours. And as the neverending cycle perpetuated, I started Xing off the days until I gave up hope. I was cursed and directionless and nothing I tried got me anywhere. Was there any use, continuing to repeat the same mistakes and getting the same outcome? There wasn’t any. I was going through the motions. Forage for food, seek for shelter, pray for safety, dream of new tomorrows. Tomorrows that never came. Until Los Angeles. Big Tony was in Los Angeles and that was my destination, and when I finally got there, I saw that motherfucker within minutes talking up a storm at central booking and if you don’t know Tony by now, he’s the most Jersey guy you could imagine. Dark olive skin, wirey grey and black hair spidering up a forearm and disappearing into a turned up peach-colored shirt at the elbow. The man’s broad shoulders were covered with the same creased peach shirt, stretched within a fiber of its being across his heavyset frame. A tuft of matching chest hair twisted out from beneath the shirt, which was buttoned unevenly, leaving two or three buttons open. The man’s chest was a mottled red, leather-like texture in the parts that could be made out amongst the interloping hair. Punctuating this mountain of a torso was a large thick head. Jowls hung low to his neck, his eye-bags had bags, a wide-set nose looked as though it’d been broken a few times. Thick caterpillar eyebrows threatened to be an individual uneven scrawl across the top of his creased sunburnt forehead, like a child trying to edge a square and getting distracted half way. No sibling eyebrows here. Not even cousins. Just a conjoined birth defect. His lips are as narrow as his eyes, but he’s got a grin on his washed-out face as he peers over the table at the officer sat in the booking booth, a corned-beef sandwich doubled over in his spare hand which was held out no more than a few inches from his face, and that Jersey accent, spluttering over a full mouth, in full song. I don’t know what he was doing there, but I was there because yet again, some do-gooder thought I was too vulnerable and young to be out there on my own and thought someone ought to take care of it. Blah blah blah. We’re getting repetitive now. This guy had this tall drink of water under his arm, or had his arm around him, something like that. The tall guy was muscled, a shock of bleached hair sticking out of the top of his head like he’d licked an outlet, and Tony was trying to explain to the booking officer that he was just naive, and nothing that he was doing was nefarious, and he was just a street kid who was 15. Same as me, by now. I kept trying to attract his attention but he was busy reading a pamphlet. I followed them because I wanted to get to know the boy more. They had this dingy apartment not far from skid row, I guess. I wasn’t really familiar with the geography but I know there were tents everywhere, so I figured. He, JJ as I’m sure you’ve pieced together by now, noticed how I’d manipulate the junkies for things and he found me intriguing. It didn’t take long before he introduced me to Tony, and blindsided me by giving me up to Tony right in front of my face. Called me a damn grifter. And that was all it took. He was enamored by me, and in some ways, I was taken by him too. He made no promises, and said so long as I did my part he’d let me crash with him, and for once in my life, my part wasn’t reduced to being a bit-part in the story of a megalomaniacal sex pest. In fact, I had a theory that Big Tony was too old, too fat, or both, to really maintain more than a passing interest in sex. He certainly never gave off vibes like that. Turns out that he and his wife used to foster a lot, and now that he was on his own (I didn’t ask), he was just a nice guy with a soft spot for people like me, and like JJ. And we were different, but also kinda the same. He’d been on the streets, too. But the horrors he’d seen were different to the ones I’d seen. He wasn’t haunted in the same way as I was, but that’s his story to tell, I guess. We bonded. Truth is, he basically saved my life. Gave me a reason to be innocent again. Gave me a reason to be a child again. Gave me the opportunity to be vulnerable. Gave me the freedom to be Martha again. If I didn’t see Tony on that day, I’m not sure what day I’d have stopped Xing in the calendar, but I’m sure it would have passed by now. But that’s the thing with vulnerability, isn’t it? It’s a weakness. And I got weak. And it was almost too late, because I only saw the charmer playing his flute and I was transfixed, and I didn’t realise that all along I was the snake. And JJ was the snake, and we were being played. JJ had been being primed to be an actor, that’s what Tony said he could do, he had connects. It was only too convenient that he was unable to secure anything in the world where there were enough unions to see through a fugazi management deal, right? Funny how pro wresting is the opportunity that popped up. A notoriously shady business where everything is done under the table, and nobody looked out for the little guy who thought he was a big guy. I begged him and begged him to get that contract looked at by someone, and I was right. He wanted to skim off half the salary for himself, and Vhodka Marie told me in no uncertain terms that I’d be a fool and a terrible friend if I let JJ Starfire sign that contract. So much so that I myself refused to sign with OPW just in case Tony had some kind of agreement with their owners. Shady people, all around. And I knew how he’d react. Exactly like this. Furious. Remember how I told you that Tony used to foster children when he was married? And how he had connects with all kinda underground people? The words “bolo tie” still echoed in my head, as my boots aggressively slapped against the concrete. Time had sped up again now, and the throbbing in my chest was like a hummingbird, the adrenaline coursing through me at a pace that I didn’t even ascend to when I stepped through the curtain at Wired Consequences. I was waiting for him to answer the phone. I could feel that he was going to let it ring out. “What the fuck do you want?” came his aggressive voice. He was speaking under his breath, like he didn’t want his voice to carry, somebody nearby shouldn’t hear. “How could you?” I fire back, he knows what he did. Nothing. A few hushed footsteps shuffle, and then a door closes on the other end of the line. “You saw my file. I know you did.” I begin, my voice twisting as I wrestle the emotion into check, “You know what he did to me. You know what happened. How I ended up, where I ended up. How could you?” I’m angry, but more angry that a thick tear has started down my cheek. “How could I? How could you!” He snarls in retort, this time not hushing his voice. He’s in his study, now, and I can hear the redness flushing in his cheeks. “You two only ever saw me as a meal ticket. You especially. You poisoned that boy against me, after everything I did for him. For you, too. I remortgaged my fuckin’ house to get him that shot in the Louisiana gig. I had to pay for your fuckin’ flights to the Middle East out of my own pocket! If he don’t sign that contract, I’m gonna lose everything, you ungrateful little cunt!” Sometimes the right thing isn’t the best thing and the best thing isn’t the right thing. The one thing I learned from him - not Big Tony, but him - is to be ruthless in the wake of adversity, to stand tall in the face of adversity, because the only one who has your six is you. “I’m sorry Tony, but not as sorry as you’re gonna be.” I whisper, and cut the line off. I flick open the camera app on my phone and angrily jab my thumb into the record button. I’m leaning against a bare cinderblock wall, my makeup is running, and you can see that I’m shaking in anger, but at this point, who really cares? We live our lives so manicured and manipulated that nobody really knows what real is anymore. Try this real on for size. “He really fucked up.” I meant Tony, and I knew that none of the viewers of this video would have any idea what the hell I was talking about, but I continued. “And in a way, its just like she did, when she had the audacity to discard me as a throwaway. And now weeks have passed and she refuses to acknowledge me, refuses to pay the respect for the work I put in. I’m not his meal ticket, I’m not Kayla’s meal ticket either. My legacy will be my own and fuck anyone that feels they have the right to a piece of it. I won’t stand for it. Not now.” First her. And now this. To top it all off, this. This fucking no good piece of shit betrays me in the most debased way that he could think of because all he cares about is money. “This is the frame of mind I’ve been BEGGING for, this is the frame of mind that I thrive in because when my back’s against the wall, when fight or flight kicks in, I’m there, ready to tear the soft underbelly apart and gorge on the organs. It began when she derisively mocked me and questioned the organisation for daring to waste her time with somebody like me, and when I put paid to that notion by taking the victory, she doubled down and wouldn’t accept the loss. So I did what any self-respecting person would do. Any person who had been through a life where it had been drilled into you as if by jackhammer that nobody will fight your battles for you, that if I wanted to gain the recognition I deserved for the work I put forth, I’d have to take it instead of asking for it.” It’s almost like everything I went through built me to this point, right? And it all feeds into this big ecosystem where I’ve manifested this mindset that is impenetrable. I don’t expect anyone to have my back, and I don’t worry about trampling on others to get where I want to go. “Just like every week as I open the stream of Edgebrook’s show and leave disappointed that I’m nothing more than an honorable mention.” Sadface. “So I went out there, put across a very valid point that it should be me who fought Kayla. I guess someone figured I was onto something, because they convinced Kagome to put her shot on the line.” You only get where you’re going if you have the strength to take yourself there, “If you want something, take it. Make it undeniable. So I made quick work of Kagome, all the while staring over the ring ropes at her eyeballing me from the sideline. Because to get where I want to get, I have to do what needs to be done. She will acknowledge her defeat, because when I’m through with her, she will have no excuses to hide behind.” Part of me worries what will happen when it happens. “This lady’s whole image is this Noble Championship. In 100 days as champion she has made one defence of the belt. Round that up, and it is three and a half defences per year. Frankly, I’m surprised they managed to talk her into this defence, I certainly thought she’d have pulled out all of the caveats and loopholes to ensure she got the gimme defence against Kagome rather than the one who has her number. Everything about her is buried into this notion that she is a champion, she is the figurehead atop the Noble division, it fills this entire void that exists where an actual human personality should be. And like I said from the beginning, I will take her belt. But my ambition doesn’t stop there. When I’m done with her, and I’m done with making my mark on the Noble division, I’ll be looking upwards. And not just at the Prime Championship. No, further up.” “Kayla’s problem is that she’s so afraid to fail that she doesn’t give herself the chance to succeed. She’s found a comfortable spot and she’s hanging onto it for dear fucking life. When I look at her work, when I sit and watch what she does when she steps through the ropes, I can’t help but be conflicted. On the one hand, I am witnessing the artistry of a fantastic performer, and on the other hand I am watching a potential leader for women across the globe, wasting her best years fighting over a belt that, frankly, is beneath her. Beneath both of us. When you watch what Kayla can do in the ring, like I did at Fallout VI, you see that she can step up to the plate against the leaders like Elena. And me? I will show once again that I have the mental toughness to overcome her, despite being at a physical and experiential disadvantage.” “The fact is that she is shook. She’ll play it off like she isn’t, but its clear. She had a big mouth until it got shut. And now, quietly, behind enough layers of security blanket, she’s able to fire shots. Volleys of venom from afar, from out of reach, designed to build herself back up into something credible, but the reality is clear. Face to face, nose to nose, all of a sudden she’s real meek. And I’ve been patient. It is true, I did choose to pin the other one. I gave her a leg to stand on. Ultimately, it only serves to prolong her suffering, though. She disrespected me, she slighted me, she underestimated me and she expected that I would be the one who would shrink away quietly from her, to cower like all the others did. I’d hear the barking, snarling, growling, snapping at my heels and I’d disappear beneath the parapet and let her dominate me for fear of the sharp teeth. She paid the price. And she’ll pay it again. I’m sick of people overlooking me, I’m sick of people thinking that because I’m small, because I’m a woman, because I’m young, or because of any other myriad reason that I am incapable or weak. I am not weak. Nobody can make me weak. I am here, on my feet, standing in the face of her, in his face, saying that I will not be beaten. I am the dog with sharper teeth.” I’ll say it again for the ones in the back who might be hard of hearing. “I won’t be beaten.” And I won’t. “I won’t. I’m unbreakable.” “I’ve got a chip on my shoulder as big as my shoulder, I know that. Spent my whole life getting shit on and I’m over it. I won’t let anyone take me for a ride. But I acknowledge it, and I leverage it. I know what to look for in people that have a motive. Kayla, on the other hand, thinks the world owes her something. The living in denial is going to be her downfall, though. I look at her, I know she can go toe to toe with the best, but her mental strength has a glass ceiling of its own. She has this mentality that she’s a victim, that she’s oppressed, that the world is out to get her, and that is why she throws up this bitch shield. It’s why she’s adopted this personality. But it’s going to be her downfall. She doesn’t see her weakness. She just perceives it as persecution. Her own perfection is only blemished by the system working against her. Whether it is Crash taking an L in a match she had won, or I expect she’ll blame me for her losing tonight in the fatal four way. It’s the same shtick over and over again, she takes no responsibility for her own shortcomings and that will be her downfall. Shook though she may be, the only way she makes the ring walk at Disputed Territory is if she has convinced herself that it was a fluke, that by simply being Kayla Richards, she has enough in the playbook to get the job done. That her dreams, her lofty, glass-ceiling dreams of being Noble Champion for another hundred days will be realised. And it’s that small-minded mentality that will be the exact reason she yields that belt, and her entire identity, to me.” “People do what they have to do to get where they want to get. I smashed every glass ceiling there ever was. I’m sorry if her ambition is dwarfed by the monolith that is mine.” Ever since she spat the term Wood Elf at me all those weeks ago, I’ve been Xing off the days in my calendar, waiting for the chance to leave her no recourse, it will be ruthless. “Hello, pixie dust.” A sweet, sickly, deep voice comes from behind me. My whole body freezes up. I knew it was coming, I should have heard the metal heel clicking against the concrete, but I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I’d almost forgotten what I was so worked up about in the first place. His thick, workmanlike fingers with rough skin gripped my shoulder and spun me around. Just like he did when I was thirteen. And I was face to face with him. Thick white moustache, a white Stetson, his dress hat, and a blue shirt with a turquoise stone in the center of a bolo tie. He lips drew wide into a brown, gap-toothed smile. “I wish I poured acid on your dick when I had the chance.” I manage, his other hand clasping my throat and applying pressure.. |
