You’re Speaking My Language (Soaring Eagle Title Scramble)
Jul 31, 2016 3:01:08 GMT
Roxi Johnson likes this
Post by Amy Jo Smyth on Jul 31, 2016 3:01:08 GMT
I don't think you heard me,
I know you think you know me better than that...
___________________________
When opportunity knocks, you open that goddamn door and you let that fucker in.
This opportunity knocked and I pulled the fucker in by the neck, gave it a big hug and kiss, and took full advantage of what was put in front of me. Opportunities can be scarce, especially when you’re not paying attention and especially if you’re not putting yourself out there. Sometimes you gotta make your own and part of the time it’s about being willing to go out and get them. They don’t always come knocking Rather, you gotta go do the knocking. Or, ya know, kick in the fucking door and take what you want.
My dear friend, one Mrs. Roxi Johnson, informed me of this lovely organization and it’s open invite match for the Soaring Eagle title. There’s an issue therein of and itself but we won’t get into it just yet. And me being me, I couldn’t resist the opportunity. I get to kill two birds with one stone here - what a horrible analogy, but it’s the one we all know and love. Anyway, I get to do two things here. Three, actually. First, I get to wrestle in Mexico and I’ve been trying to wrestle all over the world this year so that’s another country I get to check off my list. Second, but no less important, I get to compete in a tournament, which is very important to me.
Winning tournaments is one thing, but there is a pleasure in being involved in them and getting to wrestle dozens and dozens of other competitors from all over the world, competing with and against people you know and people you don’t know from Adam, who, at the same time, don’t know you. Now that is a true test of your skills. The world may be small and the wrestling one might be even smaller, but it is impossible to know everyone.
The fact that people don’t know me is partly my own fault. I made the mistake of not putting myself out there as I should have and I wasted a big chunk of time fighting for something that wasn’t interested in fighting for me or giving me my proper, hard earned dues.
Well, bitches, regardless of that, I’m here now, getting my name out there and living the fucking dream. No need to linger in the past. All about the future, all about my future. My dream is based in the present and the future. My future entails a very pretty title called the Soaring Eagle Title here in Guerreros Of Lucha. Which, if you’re the Spanish speaking type then you’d know that it literally translates to Warriors of Wrestling.
I like to consider myself a warrior in this sport but I also resist the urge to disrespect this style of the sport I love with deep passion. Mexicans, much like the Japanese, take great pride in lucha libre. It’s in some families’ blood, going all the way back to great-great-great grandparents, to the origination of the sport. Unlike in America, where big moves and big guys are most popular, unlike in Japan where strikers are most popular, Mexican wrestling takes pride cruiserweight style wrestling. Most people associate the cruiserweight style with lucha libre, actually.
Without even realizing it, a lot of my style is actually lucha libre cruiserweight style - this rapid-fire, acrobatic, catching your opponent as you can style. I might not climb that turnbuckle very often but I do fly high. Perhaps not as high as I’d like, but I wouldn’t let this fool you.
I think what will become most noticeable to me is the lack of springs that are commonly found in American and Japanese rings. I have developed a lot of my style based on the extra lift those springs give me. That comes from the fact that I grew up performing on a spring-loaded mat in gymnastics, learning to jump and flip that way. Will I suffer from this lack of assistance?
Honestly?
Probably not.
That’s because you train. You familiarize yourself with everything you can, especially when you’ve been given some kind of advanced warning. If you don’t have time to prepare, you adapt. You adapt or perish. I’m wondering if my opponents will adapt, if they can adapt. I will say this - a lot of my opponents are going to suffer from that discernible lack of give those springs offer when you land, hard on your back, on that mat. I’m certain that the bulk of them would like to believe otherwise, but it will get them.
Though I will admit, I’m not trying to pretend that I know all too much about them. This is partially the problem when it comes to throwing your hat into rumbles and tournaments and open invitationals for titles: you don’t know as much as you’d like about your opponents. Mainly that you’ve never had any interaction with them whatsoever. Match tapes, biographies, lists of accomplishments, and like can do and prepare you for so much.
Listen, I’ve defeated legends and I’ve lost to legends. I’ve won titles, I’ve lost titles. I’ve held titles for months and I’ve held titles for only a few days. I’ve been entered into a hall of fame and I’ve had hall of fames deny me entry. Everything you could ever want to know about what I’ve achieved in the ring can be found in my biography and by a simple Web search. That doesn’t mean that that is all of me, just as the biographies of my opponents do not represent everything they are. Just because they’ve won this and that, defeated so-and-so doesn’t mean you’ll win this match.
Every single match is a new match, different from the last. This is an entirely new experience for me. Wrestling in Mexico is new. Wrestling with a great majority of these people is new to me. Truly getting to be a luchadora is a new experience. Fighting one of my nearest and dearest friends is brand fucking new.
Suffice to say, I am very much prepared, as prepared as I can be for what will remain largely unknown until the moment that bell rings.
___________________________
In the Continuing Adventures of Our Hero...
►
I take off running at full speed, straight into the path of speeding cars - one in particular - and snatch the kid up in my arms. There is no hesitation, no second thoughts, no analyzing the situation; it is all just do it. In these types of situations, either act immediately or don’t do anything at all. Thinking about what to do or how to do it actually hurts your chances of being successful.
“Fuck, you’re heavy,” I say to the kid. He doesn’t answer me. He’s too busy flopping around in my arms like a rag doll, the heels of his bare feet smacking painfully into my shins and his elbows grinding into my ribs. The poor kid doesn’t even know what’s happening to him right now but he does what he can, all he can, and that is just hold onto my forearms with as much might as his tiny hands and fingers can muster.
What a champ.
We survive our dash across the street and get to the sidewalk, momentarily out of harm’s way, and I keep running until I slip down an alleyway that leads into another and then slide elegantly into a deep entranceway to take cover. Somehow, someway, I’ve managed to get us into the heart of the masses of interconnected buildings and have lost track of where I am and where I’m supposed to go. I keep a firm hold on the kid as I do a spin and turn to get my bearings. Someone threw a whole bucket of fuck on this situation. All I was supposed to do here was meet this kid ‘by accident’ in front of a cafe, let him play fanboy and give me some information, and walk him, casually and unaware of what I’m doing, to a safehouse where embassy members were waiting to grant him asylum in the United States.
Apparently this orphan boy has some kind head for science or technology, built some kind of high energy power converter - not really sure - but I do know that if his plans get into the wrong hands, it could very easily create a super weapon that could bring the world to its knees. Or so they tell me. This little eight year old kid who still thinks girls have cooties and cries when he scrapes his knee has created something that can end the world.
Shit, I still can’t figure out how to install my new dishwasher.
With the right education, mentors, tools, and opportunities, this little boy clutching onto my arm for dear life and lightly whimpering, could revolutionize how humans create and use energy. I’d like to sit down with this kid and see how he feels about biosynthesis or the chemical origins of life. But that’s gonna have to wait until nefarious men aren’t coming for me and this kid.
I look down at him. “Do you know how to get where we’re supposed to be going?”
He shakes his head, looks at me with fright in his eyes, stares at me blankly.
Let’s ask it differently. “Tu sabes como llegar allí?” It takes me a minute. “Why the fuck am I asking you? How are you to know? I was the one in charge of bringing you there, supposed to know this shit, and here I am, lost as fuck.”
“You swear a lot,” he says.
I shrug. “Worse things you can do.”
“You put me down now?” he asks, trying to push my arm away so he can break free.
“Yeah, sorry,” I say, lifting my arm. “You just can’t get away from me again, alright? I’m responsible for you. Responsable de ti. Comprender? If you get away from me I can’t protect you.”
He nods his understanding.
“Plus, you ain’t got any shoes on.”
The kid looks down at his feet and wiggles his toes. The whole shoeless thing doesn’t even phase him. “Lo que sea,” he says with a shrug.
If we get out of this alive, or at least in one piece, I’m buying this kid all the shoes he could ever possibly want. A reward for going through this shit with me. I’m gonna get this to kid to America even if I have to carry him on my back over the border. Even if this kid hasn’t done half of the dossier says, he still deserves more of a chance than the one he would get here, living on the streets, barefoot, panhandling for money, relying solely on the kindness of tourists and strangers.
What if the answer to clean, renewable energy is trapped in the mind of a poor orphan boy living in a third world country?
Maybe I’ll never change the world myself or find the cure for cancer, but I can help others change the world. My father - may he rest peacefully - always said, one person may not be able to change the world, but he or she can change the world of one person. At the same time, my Auntie Jeanie would say, you probably can’t change the world but you can surely make a lot of ripples and embarrass the guilty. They probably stole that from others, but that’s how it goes in this world.
Honestly, if I can change the world for one person, I’ll be perfectly okay with it. I already know I’ve done my fair share of changing the world for individual people. Whether it came from my days working the beat or giving some little girl the inspiration to follow her dreams of studying science or becoming a professional wrestler, it’s happened. Right now, though, I’m responsible for changing this little boy’s world and I’m sure as shit going to change it and change it for the better.
My cell phone starts ringing. Please be Birdie. If I’ve ever needed a friend with a high powered computer and hacking ability, it is right fucking now.
Restricted Number flashes across the caller ID.
Sweet fuck, I’ve never been so happy to see that shit in my life.
“Birdie,” I say into my phone. “Birdie!”
“Hello,” his mellow masculine voice answers back. “Decided to take the long way, I see.”
“Hardy-har-har.” I roll my eyes. “What’s going on? Where am I right now?”
“Good question, AJ.”
“Don’t you dare. You told me that this would be simple,” I say. “Ya know, you should really stop saying, ‘nothing will happen’ because...”
“I’m sorry,” he quickly says. “We hadn’t anticipated this…”
My little charge starts to wander out of the protective walls of the foyer into the alley. I grab him by the shirt collar. “Hey, get back here!”
“Everything okay?” Birdie asks.
“Yeah, fine, but this kid keeps trying to run away like an excited puppy.”
“That’s kids for you,” he says. I swear I can hear him shrugging over the phone. “Don’t let that kid outta your sight. You need to get him to safehouse alive, and soon.”
“No shit, really?” I sarcastically quip. “I had no idea that was what I supposed to be doing.”
“Oh, AJ, what would I do without your sarcasm and wit to brighten my day?”
“And what would I do without your saccharine style optimism?”
“Where is the kid now?” he asks.
“Struggling to break off his leash,” I say, keeping my firm grip on the little boy’s collar even though he fights to leave our little fortress.
“So he’s safe?”
“No, I threw him in the fucking ocean… Did we not already establish this?”
I hear Birdie furiously typing in the background, doing something magical with his computer. These aren’t simple Google and Lexis Nexis searches, no, Birdie is probably manipulating the maps feature on my phone right now or sending my coordinates to other agents in the area or breaking the lock on this door so we can take refuge inside or moving a satellite so that it can point a laser beam that only I can see. Birdie can do anything with his computer and then there’s me, lucky I can turn down the brightness on my phone.
Birdie has a very important job - keeping me from getting kidnapped or shot or fucking up harder than I may already have. My job, the face to face stuff, is pretty simple until something goes wrong and it usually does because, fuck my life.
“Here’s what you’re going to do,” he starts. “Stay exactly where you are. I have agents who’re gonna come to you.”
“Um,” I drone. “I’m not exactly sure we’re safe here. Oh, my fucking God, will you please stay still, you little shit?” The kid keeps wiggling around, painfully hyperextending my arm. Every time I think it’s safe to release some of my tension on the grip, he takes advantage and tries to escape again. I lower the phone from my ear. “Where are you gonna go, huh? Back out there, right into the arms of the bad guys? That’s not very smart, now is it? No seas estúpido.”
“AJ?” Birdie calls out. “AJ!”
I bring the phone back up to my ear. “What?”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes. Stay where I am. I got it.”
“Good,” he says. “Did you get the stuff from the kid? Just in case.”
“Just in case of what?”
“In case we don’t acquire the asset, we still have the information,” he explains quickly, nonchalantly.
“I think you mean if the kid gets killed, we still got what we came for.”
“You always know how to word things so perfectly.”
“Yeah, it’s called, plain English and not government doublespeak.” I feel the annoyance rolling over me like a great wave and realize the sweat dripping off my face and soaking my armpits. Instantly I crave the luxury of air conditioning and hotel room service.
Birdie doesn’t exactly like what I’ve had to say but carries on anyway. “When they arrive, they will address you by your code name - Ringlet - and lead and Pip to safe passage. From there, we will take possession of Pip and you’ll be debriefed.”
For a long time, I stare at the back of this kid’s head. His name really isn’t Pip; they gave him that codename after the famous orphan boy in ‘Great Expectations’. They have a strange sense of humor there. At the same time, they’re very much all business. They seem to forget that this is just a kid, a little boy who was just screwing around with ideas and junk he found on the street and created something he had no clue would be such a big deal. In his world, he was just playing and tinkering. Now he’s a government asset and future government scientist. They tend not to see beyond that.
This little boy - whose real name is Dario - just wants to play soccer with his friends, tinker with junk, eat candy and sweets, learn, do all those kid things kids do before the reality of adulthood smothers them. He deserves that. He doesn’t deserve to die in a street somewhere or get indoctrinated into a murderous gang or become a drug mule or become some kind of slave to a government, any government, even mine. He’s more than a set of plans and his intelligence.
“What’re y’all gonna do with him?” I ask, suddenly feeling a strong kinship with this kid, both of us forced into situations we don't want to be in because of things we couldn't control.
“I’m not going to do anything with him,” Birdie says.
“But what are they gonna do with him?”
“I imagine he will be processed, naturalized, become a ward of the government, educated, and put to work on any experiments he wants,” he explains. “Why? AJ, are you developing some kind of emotional attachment to this kid? Agents are explicitly taught not to do that. It makes the situation much more risky.”
“Well, I wasn’t taught by your agency and I won’t abide by your fucking rules,” I say, growing angry. “You can’t govern feelings, Birdie. For as much as the government wants it, you just can’t do.”
Birdie sighs heavily into the phone. “Just get him back to the safehouse, okay?”
“Yes, sir!” I say loudly, sardonic.
More typing coming from the other end. “Your escort should be arriving in five… four… three… two… one…”
I lean out of the foyer to look. Exactly on point, two men in street clothes come jogging around the corner of a brick building, searching for us. They don’t exactly look like government agents of any of kind but that’s kinda the point. I make eye contact with the taller, older one. He gives me a half smile. Both men scan the area, checking for anything that might signal danger and would cause the mission to be aborted abruptly.
“They’re there?”
“Si.”
I lower my phone to my side but don’t hang up on Birdie.
The taller, older one steps up to me. “Ringlet?”
Almost all of me panics when I can’t remember the identification response I’m supposed to give when addressed by my codename. It’s meant to keep us safe and communicate with other agents.
“It’s fine,” he says, smiling. “We got you.”
Pip - Dario looks at the man behind the man addressing me. His eyes go wide and sheer terror overwhelms his face.
“It’s okay,” I say to him. “They’re here to help us.”
He shakes his head violently, squirms around, whimpers.
“Ayuda. Chicos buenos,” I say, kneeling down in front of him. “It’s almost over.”
The taller guy smiles at Dario, trying to reassure the little guy of his friendly stance with us, but it has a strange twinge to it that sets off that little detection center in the pit of my stomach. These guys are spies, undercover, doing all kinds of fucked up things for a world power, of course it’s gonna go off at least a little. But it shouldn’t go off like this.
Trust your instincts.
Dario won’t take his eyes off of the guy in the back, staring at him with unending dread and the fear an abused child has for his abuser.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him softly.
He leans into my ear. “Diablo. Chicos malos. El Pandilla.”
Devil. Bad guys. The Gang.
That’s not good. What’s the designated codeword Birdie and I set up for trouble? Shit. Shit. Shit!.
“When I say, ‘go’ you take off running,” I say in a whisper, looking Dario dead in the eyes. “Empezar a correr. Se oye el ir, empezar a correr.”
He nods and tries to put a courageous front but he honestly looks absolutely terrified.
“Sé valiente. Voy a estar justo detrás de ti,” I tell him. At the same time, I need to be brave but it’s always easier to be brave for someone else, when someone else’s life is on the line. I take his little hand in mine.
I stand upright, return my eyes to the possible double agents in front of me. “Lemme just tell ‘em that y’all are here.”
He nods, blissfully unaware of what I’m about to do.
“They’re here. I’ll see you when I get back. We’ll be the last at supper and drink milky tea.”
“Please repeat.” His tone turns beyond serious, something I’ve never heard before.
“Yes. Supper and milky tea.”
It really means, danger certain, double agents, information cloudy.
“Protocol Last Supper now in effect,” he says and starts furiously typing. “Do not hang up. Exit ally the way you came, turn left, six yards, right turn, straight for twelve feet, find the grocery store, enter. They will be ready for you. On my count…”
The shorter guy reaches around his back. Not waiting for three, Birdie.
“Go!” I shout.
Dario lets go of my hand and goes running. I do exactly the same. As we turn out of the ally, I grab the kid and throw him over my shoulder - he will never be able to keep up. I give him the phone to hold. “Do not drop that. Ninguna gota!”
I follow the directions and find the grocery story rather easily. Problem becomes, if this is a CIA contact, then the other guys know about it, too. They’ve gotta be coming right to us. I don’t even know if they’re hot on my trail or even gave chase. Right now, I’m focused on the task of escaping.
A pretty Mexican girl with long, flowing black hair greets me at the door. We don’t even need to exchange words, she just knows what to do. She takes a hold of my bicep and points down an aisle with her other hand. Two men move quickly behind us, lock the doors, lower the metal gates that protect the windows, and just like that, the lights go off. Dario has been holding it together rather well and I admire his courage but as soon as it gets dark, he starts balling.
My new best friend in this whole wide world leads us down the middle aisle and through the back. We enter a small storage area and within seconds, she’s pushing some boxes out of the way to expose a small trap door built into the floor. Her small hand pulls the latch and the door springs open. I casually look down the hole in the floor: nothing but darkness. Dario is not going to like that.
“Go. That way out,” the beautiful woman tells me in her broken English.
“Yo hablo Español,” I tell her.
“Todo lo que necesitará es ahí abajo. Siga el mapa.”
A map? This is about to get very complicated, isn’t it?
I have to put Dario down on the floor but as soon as I do, he rushes toward me and clings to me, clamping his little arms around my waist, wrapping his little fingers around the belt loops in my pants, and pushing the corner of my phone deep and hard into my hip bone. Just gotta ignore that pain.. He cries into my stomach. He cries so hard I can feel his thousands of tears soaking the thin fabric of my shirt. Keeps up like this, he’ll dehydrate himself.
“Dario, honey, please,” I say, pulling him off of me some so that I can see his face. “I know you’re scared. You have every right to be. But we need to go down there.” I point at the trap door entrance.
He violently shakes his head.
“We don’t have a choice. Tenemos que hacerlo. Tienes que ser valiente.”
A big man appears in the back and spooks me so much so I take on a defensive posture, ready to fight. Turns out it's just another employee of the store, another CIA contact. He has a plastic shopping bag full of things.
“Sweets, toys,” he says, his accent far less than i thought it would be, and pushes the bag toward me. “Kids like toys and candy.”
I swallow, moved by their kindness and willingness to put their own lives at risk for me, for this little boy, for the United States government. I take the bag.
“You must go now,” the woman says.
“Estoy muy agradecido por su amabilidad. No puedo pagar. Gracias,” I say, pressing my hand against my chest.
“Hurry.” The young woman seems to have no concern for my gratitude right now, only our safety. She takes Dario from me and allows me to climb down the stairs into the darkened unknown, this unholy tunnel. As soon as my feet hit the ground, I’m reaching my arms up and out to take Dario from her.
“C’mon, honey,” I say, urging him forward. He continues to cry but he does it anyway. He down the ladder slowly. “Estupendo. Good job. Lo estás haciendo genial.”
His little bare feet hit the dirt floor and he’s instantly clinging to my waist.
I look up at the woman who provided me safe passage and the man who provided me with toys and candy for Dario, the two people who have performed two acts of kindness, one large and one small, but both incredibly meaningful to me. “Gracias. Thank you so much.”
“God bless,” she says. The man just nods and crosses himself. I watch as they close the trap door. Any and all light that was once there is now gone. I’m left standing in this dark tunnel probably used to smuggle drugs or illegal immigrants or bring American Slaves to the freedom of Mexico. Did the Underground Railroad go to Mexico? I think so. Slaves in Texas went to Mexico. Is this really the time for this, AJ? I listen to the boxes being slid back into place and then footsteps stomping around above my head.
If those double crossing pieces of shit really are after me and know about this place, I can’t stay here long and I won’t put those kind people’s lives at risk.
“Dario,” I say in a soft whisper. “I need my phone. Do you still have my phone?”
It comes shooting up at me, clutched in his little hand.
I take it from him. “You did a good job. Thank you. Gracias. You’re an excellent helper.”
He gives me a smile, something I haven’t seen from him in a long time. I put the phone up to my ear, “Birdie?”
Dead air. Nothing.
No signal. Did I really expect to get a signal in an underground tunnel?
Still, it has a flashlight so that goes on almost instantly and after I put down the plastic bag of goodies for Dario, I survey up my surroundings. Just a fucking tunnel, but there is a backpack sitting against the wall. Dario stays attached to me like a parasite, his fingers hooked into my belt loops, as I open and the thing. Inside, one of those wearable flashlight things that you put on your head, papers, passports, and all kinds of stuff wrapped in a ziplock bag, a small pistol - loaded, a cell phone - useless - and some MRE packages and bottled water.
I take out the headlamp and look at Dario. Kids like it when they feel like they’re helping. They feel important, special, a part of the project; it gives them a sense of worth. Without even asking, I strap the thing to Dario’s head and flick the switch, hoping to God that it actually works, and surprise, it does!
“You’re gonna be in charge of the light,” I say to him. “Vas a iluminar el camino. Bueno?”
He nods. “Bueno.”
I look around, pointing my phone’s flashlight down the long tunnel. Ain’t nothing to see. I gotta find that map and hope for the fucking best.
...To Be Continued…
This match is one giant unknown. Anything can happen. It’s a goddamn scramble, for fuck’s sake. By itself, it’s going to be unpredictable and chaotic. Then you add in a title and it’s just gonna get much more exciting. Admittedly, I do love that kind of thing - the chaos, the unpredictability, the craziness. That’s part of the reason why I jumped into this match - the excitement of it. Okay, yeah, and the chance to win a title. Why the fuck not?
Who would turn this down?
That’s pretty much what we’re all here for, ain’t it? This is the kind of match where, and yeah, here comes that thing about not knowing again, anyone in this could become champion. And given the rules, anyone can. One good pin or a tapout, and you’ve won yourself a championship.
Ah, but there’s a trick!
It only matters who has that title when that time limit is up, when that bell rings for the very last time. It could be all about who can get the first, and possibly only pinfall, and hold on to that title for twenty to thirty minutes without another pinfall or - or, probably in reality, be smart enough, or just lucky enough, to get the last fall at the perfect time.
That’s why you gotta become a clockwatcher without becoming too distracted.
I cannot say for certain if I’ve ever been a part of a scramble match but I have been through some insane matches, rumbles where everyone involved is going after the same thing whilst just trying to survive. It comes down to one very important thing: survival. It’s all about endurance and holding on. It’s also about knowing when to strike and when not to strike. An absolute unwillingness to give up but also knowing when to take just a moment’s rest. You’ve got to keep one eye on the clock the entire time without losing focus on your opponents. I’ll be the first to admit that that’s a hard thing to do. You get caught up in the moment, in the action, in everything that is coming next.
That’s gonna be a test for me, I won’t lie. On top of the mat being different, on top of being a different country with different fans, in a ring against competitors I don’t know much about. Well, except for one. The woman who turned me onto this match in the first place. One of my best friends in this world.
Roxi Johnson.
Damn near everyone knows who Roxi Johnson is and if you don’t, then crawl out from under your rock, have a look around. It won’t take long to figure out who she is. Say what you will about her, but I happen to think she’s one of the finest people around and one of the best competitors out there today.
My bias is showing, isn’t it?
I ain’t gonna lie. Roxi is a friend and I don’t have a bad word to say about her. I hope she doesn’t have a bad word to say about me. She doesn’t, though, I know this for truth. Therein lies the problem with this. That’s one of the worst parts about having to face your friend in that ring, especially in a title match, especially in a match you want to win, one you will win.
It’s going to damn near kill me if I’m going to have to pin her or choke her out or force her to tap to take control of the title, to keep the title when that buzzer sounds. I hope, so much, that it doesn’t come down to just her and I. If it does though, I won’t hesitate. I will do what I have to do to win and it won’t be a distraction.
Roxi will understand. I also expect my dear friend to do the same. She had better not even give it a second thought and go for it should it present itself at any time during the match. After all, someone has to lose, and I’d be honored to lose to you - only you. I refuse to lose to anyone else in this match. Really, though, I refuse to lose in this, period. I didn’t join this match to lose, come the fuck on now.
Did anyone join this scramble to lose?
No. It’s pretty much a given. I don’t think anyone signed up to lose this match, honestly. They all wanna be the very first Guerreros Of Lucha Soaring Eagle Champion! I know I’d like to be and it’s very safe to assume that Roxi would want to be. Danica Jones, Serena, Sly Cobb, they all want to be the Soaring Eagle Champion. Everyone wants to be the champion. It’s a natural part of this sport. It’s not even a matter of who wants it more - it might be a little, all things considered, and I’m not exactly sure about that Sly Cobb guy but you know, whatever.
You can want to win all you fucking want, you can want to be champion until y’all are blue in the face but it doesn’t mean you’ll win. Someone, a lot of someones need, to lose. I suppose the same applies to me, right? I happen to think very much differently. You don’t have to believe me, that’s fine. I don’t have to believe you either.
I mean, Ursula Areano could probably tell you a thing or two about me. Hell, there’s another one of those people in this match I know. Damn near everyone knows Ms. Areano. She gets around, a lot. There isn’t a fed she hasn’t, at least for a minute, been a part of. I’m pretty sure that she’s been a roster member, or still currently is - on an LOA of sorts - of at least three organizations I’ve been a part of, past and present. Roxi knows who she is, too. They’ve worked together. Everyone has worked with Areano at some point.Yet, without throwing around too much shade, can anyone name anything that Ms. Areano has done?
Well, if you have, please inform us. I’m sure she will. If Ms. Areano and I have ever actually ever wrestled each other - I’m sure it’s happened because how is that even not possible? - I sure as shit don’t remember it. Says a lot about her, doesn’t it? Or me, depending on how you look it. I’d rather spin it and say that, well, this girl hasn’t really been know for what she does it in the ring. Given that, and Twatter - yes, I call it Twatter, get over it - I feel like I know this girl.
I can’t say that I’m shocked that she showed up for this. Hey, if I keep up this pace, I’ll be the new Areano, except, I’ll actually win and hang around for more than two matches.
Honest to fuck, I don’t know anything about Serena or Danica Jones or Sly Cobb. I’m not gonna even try to pretend that I do. The very basics come their bio and the Google Machine. Danica Jones is a rookie with a troubled soul but a pretty face - the perfect combination for a girl all the boys will want. Serena… Oh, my good goddamn, the girl is just… I don’t want to say crazy but yikes. To each their own. All that I’ve learned from her short bio, I tend to lack a fear of her. I hate to say this, because it makes me sound like I’m picking low hanging fruit, worse, actually. It makes me sound as if I’m picking fruit up off the ground. But Imma say it anyway. The girl looks like she got lost on her back from a cosplay convention after having just a little bit too much fun.
These are the types of matches that bring ‘em all outta all corners of the world.
Sly Cobb looks like the kinda guy who gave her that good time. Sly Cobb, Ty Cobb, what's the difference? One was a great in his time and field, the other is not? Hey now, this guy might surprise me. He might not. Any of my opponents could surprise me - even Roxi.
What the fuck do I know?
Wait. I do know something.
I'm gonna win. I have the factual evidence to prove it. If I don't, Roxi will. Love ya, Rox, but I'm winning this and I'm taking this belt home with me. This much I know. For everything else, I cannot say.
For as much preparation and training I can do for this, I have no way of knowing what will happen, or who I will pin or if I’ll even have to try to pin someone. It's anything goes or get the fuck out. One of y'all wanna bring weapons - bring it. Momma knows how to play that game. One of y'all wanna fly high, do it. I'll bring you back down to Earth. One of y'all wanna be a big shot and get your arm broken, I gotchu. I can provide you with those services.
You're just gonna have to trust me on this one, kids. I want that title, I want to become a proud representative of this here proud organization, be its first Soaring Eagle Campeón, and a member of Guerreros of Lucha, because fuck, I’m a warrior, and I'll do whatever I have to do to get what I want.
I fucking get what I want.