Post by Amy Jo Smyth on Aug 28, 2016 5:32:29 GMT
Waterloo couldn't escape if I wanted to
Waterloo knowing my fate is to be with you
Waterloo finally facing my Waterloo
___________________________
Now I did it.
I really did it this time.
Gone and fucked up the whole system of doing things. Of course it would be me. Of course it would Roxi Johnson. Really now, what else do you expect from us?
Ha.
Dunno about her, but I take great pride in this fact.
Dunno about her, but I take great pride in this fact.
___________________________
In the Continuing Adventures of Our Hero...
◀◀ Be Kind, Rewind
“I still want to know how you pulled that off,” Birdie asks, walking into the office, his office, the office I’ve decided to make my very own by throwing my feet up on the edge of his desk and leaning back in his chair. The man I know as my handler in this business known as American Espionage and international covert actions in which all manner of dealings are handed, or in shorter terms, the CIA, he carries two mugs full of I’m assuming coffee. Even the coffee cups here have been branded with the CIA logo. It’s like, here’s this super secret undercover agency but oh, have a mug letting the world know that you work here. Makes you wonder what company made them for us.
Us.
What a weird thing to say. Is it really a us situation, am I really a part of this place? Do I even feel a part of this place, a loyal and well-looked after employee? The whole forced employement thing doesn’t lend well to me waiting to say how proud I am to work with this organization or that I intend to spend the rest of my working days here. I really don’t. But truth is, I’m stuck here for the time being, until such a time they feel I’ve repaid my debt to them and, yeah, sadly, served my time. That, or I get dead first.
Ya know, whatever.
A flip of my hair and a smirk. “Because I’m awesome,” I say, bouncing my eyebrows up and down.
“Listen, I’m really sorry for what happened.” He hands me the coffee cup. “It’s just - just, well…”
“It’s policy, standard operating procedure, I get it. I get it. We went over this already. Mr. By the Book.” I gladly accept the cup, unsure of what’s inside. I never told him how I take my coffee - our relationship hasn’t gotten to that level yet. Unless, of course, their files on me have that much information. Yikes. That’s a terrifying thought, that the government knows so much about you that they know how you take your coffee. It took my wife almost three months to remember how I took my coffee and it’s not even that hard.
I peek into the cup nonchalantly and quietly sniff the air around it. Black coffee. A dark roast of some kind. This is my usual order, to perfection.
Okay, that’s not creepy, at all.
He must see me and my suspicious eyes because he says, “I didn’t know how you took it exactly, but the last time you took coffee, you didn’t put anything in it, not that I saw.”
My eyebrow goes up.
Birdie smiles. “I’m a spy, remember? We’re trained in this.”
I chuckle. It’s still fucking creepy. It taste good, pretty fresh and a good brand. This is some good shit and I’m not at all a coffee snob; I’ll drink any kind of coffee. Coffee is the source of man’s greatest discovery - caffeine - and lately, I need all I can get. Juggling home, work, and being an international spy really takes it toll on you pretty quickly.
“So, what exactly am I doing here?” I ask, looking at Birdie look at me, giving me eyes for being in his chair and taking such a relaxed posture. He’ll get used to this, this is my usual position in terms of shit like this. “It wasn’t just so you could apologize for the eighteenth time.”
He reaches over me with his free, smiling the entire time. “Excuse me,” he says flatly. His long fingers take hold of a file sitting on his desk. I already know what that means so I throw my head back and let out a sigh that sounds more like an ugh of distress. Birdie shakes his head. “You must have been a very pleasant teenage.”
“I dunno, what does your file on me say?”
Birdie rolls his eyes.
“Ha! Now who’s the teenager!” I say, pointing a finger at him.
He slaps the thick file across my legs, a physical encouragement to remove my feet from his desk. At least he didn’t take them down and spin me around. That’s happened before and it is not a good a feeling, not a feeling I want to relive. For that reason alone, you’d think I’d stop doing this but nope. Fuck you, I do what I want.
I lower my legs, put my feet back on the ground because that’s what I want to do, ain’t got nothing to do with Birdie.
“Thank you,” he says and opens the folder. “Remember your friends back in Mexico?”
“I don’t think they liked me that much,” I answer.
“Get up, I need my computer.” Birdie waves his hand.
“You could say please…”
He just glares at me.
“Er, yikes.” I quickly remove my ass from his chair and return my assigned seat, leaving my coffee cup on the edge of the desk, to the chair in front of his desk. It’s all so very professional. Oh, I remember being on the other side of the desk, looking at one of my sergeants or a patrolman, preparing the right words to discuss with him or her some kind of disciplinary action or how to dole out orders. I prefer being on this side honestly.
Birdie starts typing and turns the monitor to face me. Looking back at me is some grainy black and white security camera footage. The video starts playing. A man in dark, baggy clothes and a hooded jacket that hides his face and head comes into the picture. That man does a quick survey of the room, looking up and down, and when he finally looks in the direction of the camera, his hood slips back and his face comes into focus. It’s none other than the face of the double agent I met back in Mexico, the one who thought I’d be stupid not to realize his intentions and was ready to murder me in my face for Dario and his invention.
“Oh, look, it’s my favorite person!” I say, pointing and laughing. “
“Yeah,” Birdie says and pauses the video, leaving Double Agent Douche’s face in clear view. It’s like something out of a movie. I think I’m starting to take to this just for that very reason - it’s all so very action movie. I thought all that shit was made up but I guess it had to come from some sort of reality. “Agent Barron, Lyle Barron did not check in when ordered to do so. He’s gone dark and we assume he’s gone rouge.”
“Lyle the Liar,” I say and then laugh. “That could not have been set up any better.”
“Yes, amusing,” Birdie says, emotionless. “He is now an enemy to the state.”
“What?” I ask, sitting upright, leaning forward. “That’s a real thing? This is fucking great.” I’m nearly giddy at the thought of such matters.
“Yes,” Birdie says, still so serious. Shit, dude, lighten up. “He is now wanted by the government for treason.”
“You guys work fast.”
“Can you please stop interrupting?” Birdie says, sounding so annoyed.
I nod. “Sorry.”
“We believe he is still in Mexico and is still very much working with the gang or gangs that went after Asset Pip,” he explains. “We’d very much like to bring him before he can do any major damage. His knowledge of CIA procedure and secrets and contacts and fellow agents can make a for a lot of trouble. It can get agents and assets killed.”
“Like, I dunno, me.” I throw my hands up in the air in an overly expressive and dramatic fashion. “And I’ve gotta go back to Mexico soon so yeah… So I got double agents trying to kill me, a gang trying to murder me.”
Birdie smiles flatly and folds his hands on the desk. Oh, I know that look.
“No,” I cry. “No, not again. C’mon! I was made. I can’t.”
“That’s exactly what we need, actually,” he says.
“Fuck.” I sigh. “What do I have to do?”
“We have some shaky intel that he’s become a hired gun of sorts. Barron also wants some revenge on you for making him.”
“There you go with that doublespeak again.”
“He wants you dead.”
“Yeah, I kinda figured that.”
“Because of that, you’re going to draw him out of hiding. He knows you’re going to be in Mexico, the open, and with his training…”
I throw my hand up. “Wait. Stop. Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
Birdie says nothing. He just looks at me, that stupid flat smile on his face.
“I’m bait. You’re making me bait.” I say, leaning back in my chair. “I don’t want to be bait!” I cover my face with my hands. “Y’all are gonna get me dead. Like, super dead.”
“You’re not going to die,” Birdie says confidently. “You’re being dramatic.”
My hands fall to my side, my whole body going limp in, yes, this dramatic fashion. “Dead!”
“Here, ladies and gents, we have a doctor of chemistry and agent for the United States government, throwing a hissy fit like a five year old,” Birdie jokes.
“You forgot title-holding professional wrestler,” I interject.
“Oh, yes, the wrestling thing.”
“Hey!” I fling forward, sitting upright in a flash, and point a powerful finger him. “Without that wrestling thing you wouldn’t have such easy access what you need.”
“Point made.” Birdie nods. “Still doesn’t change the fact that we need you. You’d be doing a great thing for the safety of your country and possibly saving a lot of lives.”
“I don’t wanna,” I moan much like a child might.
“Too bad.”
“Don’t you dare pull that card, because then…”
“Then what?”
I sigh and close my eyes. “Nothing. Nothing at all.” I open my eyes, look at Birdie’s smooth face and pointed chin. “What do I gotta do this time, aside from being a sitting duck?”
“As shitty as it sounds, that’s it.” Birdie shrugs.
“God, I hate you guys so much.”
They hooked me up with this hidden two-way audio device and microphone and camera. They hear everything happening around me and I hear what they have to tell me. They see what I see - as long as it’s right in front me. At the same time, they’ve stationed very undercover agents all around me. Men and women in uniforms and disguises within just feet of me, others much farther away in buildings, keeping watch from windows and rooftops. They even have snipers at every point of the compass, all scoped on in my general direction, all aimed on me.
I still don’t feel very safe.
Here I am, sitting in a small outdoor cafe in the middle of Tijuana, completely exposed to the world and any villainous forces that want to remove me from this plane of existence, including a former CIA Agent known affectionately as Lyle the Liar within the cultural language of the CIA and other government agencies. The NSA, the FBI, and the military are out here today, all to take down this one man. One man.
Can’t drink the water here, or anything made with water here so the only safe thing here is beer so I’m sitting here, taking in the sights of downtown Tijuana with a flavorless Mexican beer at 11 in the morning. Not very different from the days of old, when the water was so dirty that the only safe thing to drink was beer and wine. Those people were fucking ripped twenty-four hours a day. But it was die of liver failure slowly, painlessly, and be drunk off your ass all the time or die of some kind of waterborne illness painfully and somewhat quickly.
Take your pick.
As I look around, on high guard and brutally aware of everything, I can’t but help notice the incredible poverty all around me. Even more arresting is the fact that one of the richest countries in the world is just a few miles away, within view, and that even in the poorest part of the broader towns in California do not come close to the level of poverty and disrepair all around me.
The contrast is very real and it is very, very unsettling.
A scratchy crackle shakes my ear, the little device in there coming alive. “Anything?” Birdie asks.
“This beer sucks,” I say, hiding my moving lips behind the glass. I take a sip, swallow. “I can’t believe the last thing I ever drink might be this awful beer.”
“Oh, will you stop? We’re not even sure if he’s gonna show.”
I put the beer down, rest my chin on my hand so that it would be almost impossible to see that I’m speaking, and look off into the distance, pretend I’m daydreaming or just taking in the sights, relaxing before my match, being a tourist with too much time on his or her hands. “You know, I often wonder how y’all accomplish anything…”
“I thought Southerners were supposed to be polite,” a new voice chimes in, this one male and presenting a clear California accent.
“I thought American secret agents were supposed to be on top of their shit,” I answer him.
Everything from my protectors goes silent for a long time. Even though I hate this beer, I keep drinking it to put up a good act. For all I know, Lyle the Liar is watching me from a secret hiding spot, out of view, aiming some kind of rifle at me right now. Within seconds, I could face down on this table, a bullet in my head, and a whole lot of government agents rushing to figure out what happened. All this planning and this supposed protection could be for naught. No amount of planning can protect me from a sniper’s bullet.
Or could just walk up to me, his face disguised, and shoot me right between the eyes at point blank range, before anyone could do anything to stop him.
“Ya know, what’s to stop him from sending someone else to do his dirty work?” I ask, watching a man walk by me. This man, though he makes my heart race and the adrenaline kick in, doesn’t even notice me. Every single person that walks by could very well be my killer.
“He wouldn’t. He’s got too much of an ego,” Birdie reassures me.
I sigh heavily. It’s all pretty much a waiting game and a lot of hoping this nonsense works.
More time passes. I’ve ordered a second beer from the young waitress or just sees me some American tourist. She has no idea that she could play witness to death - whether it be mine or that of Lyle the Liar. Does anyone ever know what they will become in the blink of an eye? Can anyone predict the things that will happen to them? Life is chaos and unpredictable. Nothing could happen one day and then suddenly, everything can happen the next.
“Got him!” a female shouts over the radio. “Coming up from behind Smyth.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Oh, my God,” I say in a panic. “Shoot him.”
“Just stay calm, okay?” Birdie instructs me, his voice still and smooth. He covers his own fears well.
“Yeah, I wanna see you stay calm when a man who wants to kill you is coming right for you,” I say. I swallow hard and picture my wife crying her eyeballs out at my funeral. Then I picture her finding out the details of my secret life and death from Birdie as he gives her my Intelligence Star medal and some kind condolences.
I feel his presence first, his beady little eyes staring a hole through the back of my head. He is one brave motherfucker, stepping out here like this and coming for me when he knows the entire whole of the United States is after him. That, or stupid. I suspect he’s a lot of stupid and that is giving him a lot of bravery.
“Smyth.” The voice. My entire body stiffens and sit upright but I refuse to look at the source of the source. I don’t want the last thing I see to be a barrel of a gun. He sits down in the empty directly in front of me, emboldened. “I’ve never been fan of Mexican beer.”
My brain can’t make sense of his words so I don’t answer.
“Always too watery. Worst part about being stationed here, the beer,” he says, crossing his legs, getting comfortable. The waitress suddenly appears, noticing the arrival of a new patron. Barron orders a beer for himself and one for me. I have no idea what is happening right now. He watches the waitress fill our order, shamelessly staring at her ass. Scumbag. My eyes never leave him. There is absolute silence from my team.
“I’d say Mexico gets their women right, but no, they’re just baby factories,” he says, turning to look at me. “You ever seen a hot Mexican woman?”
I don’t answer.
“Hm. Yeah, these people are just… The only thing they ever gave us was good drugs and cheap labor. The rest of them can fuck off. No fucking self-respect.”
“Oh, good, I wanted a side of racism to go with my beer,” I quip.
He laughs and then shrugs. “What can I say? Years in this shithole can do that to you.” The waitress drops off our beers. “They’re so stupid, too.”
“If they’re so stupid and you hate them so much, why did you betray your country for them?” I ask.
“Why does anyone do anything?” He asks, lifting his beer. “Money.” He takes a sip. “You know, if I could have anything one last time, it’s a good beer. Kinda disappointed that the last beer that I’ll ever have is this piss. Oh well.”
He chugs it down, finishing the whole thing within a few seconds, and slams the glass down on the table with a thunk. If that wasn’t bad enough, he lets out a huge blech.
“That’s attractive,” I say. “The girls must come a-runnin’ for you.”
“These whores come a-runnin’ for the American dollar,” he says. “I got plenty of that. I’m drowning in pussy out here.”
“Okay, so you hate them but you’ll fuck them?”
“What can I say?” He throws his arms up innocently. “I’m an American male.”
“At least you’re honest about it, which is nice.”
“I’m glad we’re getting this time together,” he says. “Really, I am. Sharing a beer with the person you’re going to kill. Something special in it. Yeah, sure, one of your snipers will take me out but hey, at least you’ll go down with me.”
What can I say to that?
“You don’t even realize what you did, do you?” he asks, leaning forward, getting close to my face. “You ruined my life. I’ve got nothing to live for. What do you think a man who has nothing to live for will do?”
“I didn’t ruin your life, Barron. You did that on your own.”
“I had such a sweet thing going… The money. The respect. It was the life. Yeah, sure, I stuck here in this hellhole but fuck... Man, you don’t even understand.”
“No, I don’t understand. I will never understand what it’s like to commit treason. It’s not really on my list of things to do,” I say.
He laughs a crazy laugh, the laugh of a man who has completely lost his grip on reality when he didn’t have a firm grip on to start with. “Treason? Treason?” he asks sarcastically. “My country wasn’t loyal to me. They left me here to rot and play around with criminals and cockroaches that feed on piles of horseshit. Don’t act like you wouldn’t do what I did… Don’t like you’re better than me.”
“But I am better than you,” I say, feeling suddenly so brave and limitless. The truth will do that to a person. “I’m not a piece of shit racist who traded his friendships and loyalties and honor for a little money and pussy. By your standards of these people, you’re exactly like them. No, you’re actually worse.”
“That’s rich, coming from a pretty blonde girl from America who wants to play spy. You don’t know anything. You don’t know how this job is or what it really requires. They’re getting desperate over there in Langley, ain’t they? Picking up lady wrestlers off the street.”
Barron suddenly shifts in his seat. He takes on a position that blocks my view of his hands and the view of any agent or sniper from seeing what he does under the table. This fuck knows what he’s doing. Except, he forgets that I also know what I’m doing. He can hide his hands but he can’t hide what the rest of his body does.
His shoulder comes up - he’s taking something out of his pocket and sad truth is, Barron can very easily get his gun up and fire off a pretty accurately aimed shot before the snipers and lookouts can even figure out what to do. The snipers will not have enough time to react. I’ll be dead before they shoot him. This is exactly what he wants.
“Shouldn’t mess with things you don’t know,” he says, his body moving suddenly.
“Same thing goes for you, fucker,” I say, slipping my fingers under the edge of the table without him even realizing. In one swift, solid motion, I stand like a burst of lightning, flip the table over in his direction, and take off running to take cover around the edge of the cafe’s building. It isn’t meant to hurt him - if it does, that’s a bonus - but only as a distraction that will take him a good amount of time to recover from. In moments like these, seconds are all one needs to change the course of things, save a life or two.
The agents stationed near me move in, one coming in to cover me, his firearm out and at the ready. A voice comes in my ear. “Suspect neutralized.”
Both me and my cover agent look around the corner, to find Barron. Two agents stand over him, looking down at the small entry wound in his cheek. In the chaos of my escape, one of the snipers took him down. That’s not how they wanted it but the problem has now been eliminated.
“Smyth?” Birdie says. “Smyth? Are you okay?”
“You owe me a beer,” I say. “A good beer.”
...To Be Continued…
What can I say? Really, what can I say? We all saw what happened.
Even I’m at a loss as to how to describe it or how it all happened, but it happened. Suffice to say, neither of us could have anticipated what happened in the Soaring Eagle rumble.
Roxi Johnson and I walked out of Eternal Lucha as co-champs, the two of us sharing the Soaring Eagle Championship, and very confused, to say the least. That was certainly not the plan.
Or maybe it was planned all along?!
Mwahahaha.
Nah. Seriously, though. I think it is proof, to us both - Roxi and I - along with our peers that we are equally as strong and equally as good. I don’t know if that was ever up for debate with me. I always and still see her as my peer and very much my equal.
Shhh, don’t tell her, but I kind of think she’s a little better than me, too. Don’t tell her I said that.
Here’s the funniest thing about this all. Her and I, along with Roxi’s wife, we’re also the Olympus Trios Champions. We’re partners, friends, and co-champions. You would think that this would drive a wedge between us and cause us to fight. I have seen lesser try to kill each other titles and I don’t mean that figuratively, I one hundred percent mean that in a literal sense. There were attempts to run one person down with a car. It was all very - it lacked a lot of class. That’s not me and that’s not Roxi.
That isn’t to say I wouldn’t do what is needed to win gold or retain it, I just don’t need to bring myself down to such a low level and eliminate my opponent because I’m, I dunno, lazy? Stupid? A coward? Afraid? Lack the skills to actually fight a match? Hey, what do I know, right? In my book, that’s just another way of running away from a fight so there’s no leg to stand on there when people say that they’re just doing whatever it takes. It’s the move of a coward. If you can’t fight a fair fight then you’re a fucking coward just the same.
I shrug at it. It’s all I can do.
Like I said, that is not the case with Roxi and I. We share the title fine and we respect each other just as we did before we won this title. But yes, here we are, in a bit of a pickle. It is one thing for us to be in a rumble together as we can very easily avoid each other and if hey, maybe if the universe is set exactly right, you’ll never even get to the point of having to exchange blows. Can’t always get that lucky though. In a singles match… There is no way to avoid each other and no way in any universe that you can’t not exchange blows.
That’s the place we find ourselves at - and I’m trying to say this without a snicker so I can retain my reputation as taking wrestling very serious but, without drifting too far off topic, I can’t help it and I think this is, probably, the most fun thing I’ve been a part of yet and that’s what I’m in it for, having fun. Anyway. At Chapter Cinco: It’s a Dilapidated Boat!!! I have to face Roxi. We have to actually wrestle each other in singles, one-on-one competition.
I honestly don’t think this has ever happened before and I don’t think I ever thought that it would happen. But, if last time was any clue to that, we all know how the best laid plans go to waste rather quickly when it comes to this sport. Yikes. Not only do we have to fight inside that ring and exchange blows, but we have to hurt each other. If that’s enough, one of us has to lose - then again, I said that the first time and look what happened? Then again, unless one of us can defy physics or find a loophole, it doesn’t seem very likely that we will walk out sharing the title for another month. One of us has to pin the other. One of us absolutely must lose. There can only be one!
Highlander, this is not. This is wrestling and we are wrestlers. Roxi and I very much know the reality of this sport. Not too long ago, Roxi had to fight her very own wife - and ladies and gents, this is why I never dated a fellow wrestler - in match to determine if her wife was worthy of a title shot. Talk about putting a competitor through some shit for a title. This is not even close to that. We might be friends and partners but at the end of the day, we are competitors going for the very same thing. And yeah, we already have it, but now it’s time to determine who is the undisputed champion. At the risk of sounding like shitbag, it’s partly to determine who is the better of the two of us.
Meh. I don’t like that. Neither of us are better than the other. I’m being altruistic, I suppose. I just can’t see it that way. Here’s the thing, should I win, when I win, Roxi will still upon me the same way she always has and I will look upon her the same way I always have. It is a friendly fight, no doubt, but I will do whatever I need to do.
Roxi knows this. Roxi knows this better than anyone. Honestly, I won’t do anything to hurt her purposefully but it may happen. When I’m in that ring, when that bell has been rung, and the match is underway, I’m a very different person than the one I am on the streets or even just backstage. I am a competitor, a warrior, and that ring is my battle field where any manner of things is off the table. There are no friends or lovers in the ring when they are standing the opposite of me. My partner, when placed in front of me rather than beside me, becomes my opponent to be felled.
There is within a strong, almost all consuming desire to defeat my opponent and win. This does not mean I will cheat or steal or hurt my opponent to get my way, no, not even close. It just means that I will what I must to get what I want - as vapid and meaningless ass that sounds. It’s really rather simple, I can separate my personal from my professional. I am not fragile and my ego so weak that it can broken by a friend defeating me. Should Roxi defeat me, I will stand and hold her arm up.
Not only do I expect the same from Roxi when I win, but I know she will do the same.
It’s business. It’s the sport. It’s what we fucking do here. We fight and compete for titles. Sometimes our professional and personal lives meet and there is not a thing we can do about it. For some others, it is a drama to played out with grand gestures or monumental attacks and divorces and god knows what else. We’re not that petty. Nope. Thank God for that.
You know what, I am beyond pleased to hold this title with her. It has been nothing short of an honor and a privilege to co-own this title with her. There is no one else in this world I’d rather hold a title with. I also should thank her for letting me know about the rumble that brought us to our current state and give credit where credit is due. However our time as co-champs done. The time for us to share is over. It’s time for one of us to be champion. That champion, and Roxi knows this, will be me. When it comes to this, she knows how I can get. I also know how she can get.
But I’ll be fucking damned if I lay down and die because she’s my friend or because she wants it. That doesn't mean I have to hate her or hurt her or suddenly become her enemy.
I’m not sure if I’m retaining or winning the title, but whatever you wanna call it, I do know that I’m taking it home on Monday.