Post by Amy Jo Smyth on Oct 31, 2016 2:31:04 GMT
Done dirt cheap
Neckties, contracts, high voltage
Done dirt cheap
Dirty deeds
Do anything you wanna do
___________________________
Roughly two years ago, I broke my left ankle in what has gone in history as the greatest stupid decision that resulted in a successful takedown of a suspect in the annals of Atlanta police history. I was a local hero for a few days for what I did - tracking down and without concern for my own safety, helping to take out a serial killer. The newspapers talked about the hero cop for a couple days, her injuries, and the mass killer. Couldn't have one without the other after all. But after a little time, a few days really, the articles got smaller and the next media scandal stepped up to the plate. Then just like that, the world forgot about me and what I did.
But, oh, how I haven't forgotten. I haven't forgotten what I did out in the swamps. It's not the nightmares. It's not the flashbacks. It's not memories of swamp fever. It's not the breathing equipment still hanging out in my medicine cabinet from my collapsed lung or the tiny scar on my chest from the bullet. Hardly.
It's this fucking ankle.
What a fucking menace to my career.
It seems to come to remind me on a yearly basis, too. Last December, I missed nearly a month of action due to a grade two ankle sprain to the previously broken ankle. In early summer, I suffered a minor sprain that very nearly knocked me out of action against - but the schedule worked out that I didn't miss any ring time. And here we go again…
Right now, my ankle is taped up, wrapped up, settled up in a brace that supports it to within an inch of its life. I've been shot up with drugs and massaged to death. And just like before, I have injured my ankle in the ring - in a hard loss, no less. Doctors have told me to pull out of action, take a break, rest and rehab it, do what other athletes have done - full stop and recoup.
I told them to fuck off.
They told me that if I hurt my ankle one more time, I'll need reconstructive surgery and pins. That and my career will be over. I'm taking a huge risk every time I get in the ring. But there can be no risk without reward, right? They told me that the risk was too great.
I told them to fuck off.
They have told me about this career ending injury three times already. So far I haven't found that one “last” injury. If it comes, it comes. It will come on my terms, doing something I love. See, that's the trick. I love this sport that much that I'm willing to risk it all for just one more match. That's how much I love it. That either makes me really passionate or fucking stupid.
I've never been given high marks for my decision making skills.
That's how I found myself in this mess in the first place.
That includes to this very thing, wrestling. Do I consider wrestling a stupid decision? No. It turned out to be one of the greatest things I ever did. But how I got into it, well, that goes down in infamy. I'm sure there's more than a few people out there who wish I had never slid into that ring that night to save my friend, never caught the bug.
But for all the mornings I wake up sore, tired, missing my wife and friends, for all the damage I'm doing to my body, for the wins and the losses, I still want to get out of bed, into that ring, and compete. That includes when I'm injured. It would drive me insane not to compete, to put on a show for fans, to win titles, to be the very best wrestler I can be, to make myself a household name, and have fun. That's the goal. To go down in history as one of the greatest wrestlers in history.
I can't do that sitting on my ass, getting older, healing up.
This would not be the first time that I've defied doctor’s orders and it won't be the last. Doctors don't understand. How could they? Why would they? Then again, if it weren't for stupid people like me, how would they earn a living?
I may have told my orthopedist and physical therapist to fuck off, but they had no problem making sure that I could compete. So here I am, ankle be damned. I've already fought one match and survived that. What's one more? What's one more when it could mean a title shot? Something I want so badly that I can taste it.
So many times I have been knocked down in this race to the top. Pretty recently, too. Injuries have thrown me off my feet, in literal terms. Losses have sent me back to the bottom. My most recent injury and recent loss has left me devastated.
But I can't let that that stop me. If I won't let an injury stop me, then why the fuck would I let a loss stop me? It ain't gonna stop me now, that's for sure.
It's how you get up, right?
___________________________
In the Continuing Adventures of Our Hero...
◀◀ Be Kind, Rewind
We run across the parking lot. Thank God I wore my good shoes. High heels have a time and a place, this just ain't the time nor place. Though I totally can run in heels, just wanna remind myself of that unique skill that not many possess. It's times like these one must remind themselves what they're capable of.
Being chased by the Russian mob in Russia is one of those times. At least I think they're chasing me and Birdie. We beat them pretty hard but not that hard - not hard enough to make for a slow, casual getaway. It is the mob, too. Where there's one, there’s five more just waiting and they're all waiting to fill in the gaps.
Birdie, my trusted handler is now the one who suddenly needs my help; offering protection, a means to an end, and extraction. Oh, how the roles have reversed. I never thought I'd see the day. Here I thought I was the only fuck up on the CIA payroll. Guess there was a reason they stuck the two of us together.
Then again, you can't really expect a career desk jockey who has logged more time in World of Warcraft than he has in the field and probably has even less training than I do to actually go rogue and complete an unassigned, unsanctioned mission. And it ain't like he picked a tiny mission either, like intell gathering or making contact with an informant. Nope, he went after a Cold War criminal on the CIA hit list.
Even I wouldn't do that shit.
Ha. It was offered to me and turned that shit down real fast. For good reason. For this exact reason. I told him to leave it to the professionals, the experts, the highly trained, the agents that have killed and have no problem killing again, the ones who live can appear and disappear as if magicians, who work the craft so well that they can work in the light without ever being see. Almost like me, living a life that is absolutely normal for the world to see, nothing out of the ordinary, yet playing this dangerous game of chess right under everyone's noses. The trick with me is that I'm in plain sight and no one would suspect a thing. It would be absolutely crazy to have a woman in the public eye do things that require the ability to disappear in a crowd, never to be seen again.
That was the plan, anyway.
Still not sure how this is working out when I keep getting tangled up with mobsters and gangs. I'm sure I've gotten myself put on a few hit lists. Nobody knows I'm in the CIA, though. I'm just a pain in the ass girl who keeps messing up everyone's shit.
“Get in the car,” I shout at Birdie as I point at the small rental car. “Get in the fucking car!”
Birdie keeps up with me as best he can but he's no athlete and he ain't even half a field agent. He got the shit kicked out of him by his captors, too. That's no help. It's no help that his hands have been taped together with that great invention known as duct tape. The boy is a mess - a hot fucking mess.
I use the remote control to unlock the doors on the car and slide across the pavement to the driver’s side. Birdie fights with the handle on the passenger door.
“Ah, just get in the car,” I scream out of frustration as I open my door, climb inside the cabin.
“You try doing this shit with one hand.” He continues to fight the door until he pops it open.
I start the car and I'm already moving before Birdie gets the door shut. The door nearly slams shut on his foot, forced closed by momentum and physics.
“Jesus, calm down. It ain't like they're after us,” he says, looking behind us.
“That's what you think,” I say, turning out of the marina parking lot. Birdie slides across his seat, nearly smacks his head against the window. “Buckle up for safety!” I smirk at him.
“Um…” He holds up his banded wrists. “How, exactly, am I supposed to do that?”
I chuckle. “You're smart. You can figure it out.”
“How am I am supposed to get this off?” he asks.
“You got teeth, don'tcha?” I smirk. Another sharp left. The basically empty two-lane tree lined roadway is quickly turning into a busy city highway. I'll have to slow down, engage with other drivers, traffic lights, and, the worst thing of all, pedestrians.
“Don't you got something?” he asks, looking sad. Then he starts gnawing at tape, having no other choice. “This is some bullshit.” A piece of tape hangs from his bottom limp.
“No, you know what bullshit is,” I scold him. “Bullshit is you thinking you're some kind of badass and getting all wrapped up in this. Now you got the damn Russian mob after you. The Russian mob!”
His mouth is too busy ripping and tearing at the tape but he gives me that mean side-eye.
“Don't give me that look,” I yell. “This is some serious shit. Do you even understand what you've done? Just so you could get some kind of vengeance? Stupid. So fucking stupid!”
A black car rushes on us suddenly, smacking into my bumper. We both go lurching forward, Birdie nearly smacking into the dashboard.
“Oh, they're not following us, huh?” I shout. “I can't believe this shit.” I growl.
The car bangs up against us. It's time to get a lot to of evasive maneuvering on. There's a red light up ahead. Stopping now would equal a nice hard hit in the ass that would all but put this car out of commission and leave us sitting ducks. The mob will have no problem shooting us in broad daylight.
“Hold onto your panties, Birdsong,” I shout.
There is absolutely fear and panic in his eyes as he looks at me.
Yeah, same here, friend.
Hard right, cutting into the flow of traffic suddenly and without any concern for the other drivers. Fuck their couches. There is screeching, honking, a lot of unhappy Russians. The black sedan stays on us somehow.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I fire off in rapid succession. Honest to fucking God, I have no idea what I'm doing at this point. But, hey, there's a green light and I fly right through it. I've got to be pushing eighty, maybe closer to ninety. The sedan is right there, unrelenting and unforgiving.
Sharp left turn now, cutting across traffic that has the right-of-way. I start honking the horn, screaming for other cars to move. There's weaving in and out traffic. I don't even know where I'm going - I just need to get these guys off my tail. Left now. Thankfully no traffic to dodge or unsettle.
“No,” I scream. There appears as if by magic another black car directly beside the other. “Do they buy these things in bulk? Is there a bulk discount?”
Birdie doesn't find me very funny. He's too busy trying not to die. Honey, we are the same page on that one.
The new car boxes me in, eliminating any left turns. Traffic has grown heavier but I put that pedal to the floor.
“Car! Car! Car!” Birdie shouts, pointing directly in front of us. A passenger car has decided that they want to pull out of their parking spot.
“Fuck,” I scream.
Out of pure instinct I pull the wheel hard to right. It forces us into the sidewalk, narrowly missing some pedestrians, then down an embankment. There goes my deposit on this car. I better be reimbursed for this shit. In order to avoid slamming into the side of a building, I have to turn the wheel the all the way to the right upon landing. The scraping sound, the grinding, the hard thud-thunk - the poor car.
“Where did you learn how to drive like this?” Birdie asks, holding onto the oh shit handle with his hands. He didn't even have time to finish taking off his binds.
“I didn't,” I answer. Cars go on roads, not sidewalks and plazas, so I gotta find a road now. “Find us some place to go!”
“How?” Birdie shouts back. “I'm not a map.”
“Well, do something. Why am I doing all the work here?” I answer. We bounce over a curb, fall onto a road. We seem to have found our way away from the river, closer to the center of Moscow. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Traffic has grown tenfold. This can either be a great thing or a very, very bad thing. It's a matter of who knows where we are and who we are. With all these people around, I can easily disappear. With all these people, there's a lot more eyes to spot us. It ain't like mobsters where big ol’ says on their backs. Their hands also reach into many pockets and wrap around many necks, ready to put on the squeeze to get what they need, when they need it, how they need it.
They've also got a lot of friends.
“We gotta find some place to go, Birdie,” I say. “Don't you have a safe house in every damn country? A stewardess in every country.”
“I never said that,” he answers back. Now that things have smoothed out, he starts tearing at the duct tape again. “For fuck’s sake.” With one angry pull, he finally breaks free. He lets out a relieved sigh as he shakes out his hands, pulls the tape completely off his hands, tosses it to the floor, and starts rubbing away the sticky residue leftover on his skin.
He's suddenly reaching over in front of me, careful not to cover my view, touching me all over, fishing through my pockets - not that I have all that many.
“Whoa, I don't know you like that,” I protest, tightening up and pulling away. “And I'm a married woman.”
Birdie finds what he's looking for and comes back up with my cellphone in his hands. He starts typing away frantically.
“You could have just asked,” I say, turning down a side street. It's a quaint little thing. By quaint I mean dirty, dark, and the perfect place to ditch the car. I'm not good at planning but I can formulate a plan in seconds when I need to.
The rental was stolen, the thief went for a little joyride, and when it started to act funny, he dropped the car the first place that seemed perfect. In order to catch criminals, one has to think like a criminal.
An American tourist, the language barrier, the culture shock, and brand new territory, it's all perfect for setting this up.
I start wiping the steering wheel with my shirt sleeves. It's not going to be odd to find my DNA, skin cells, and hair in the car. Birdie’s might be another story but I doubt that the Russian police will give two fucks about it. It will become the car rental place’s problem real fast. Trust me, they will just take the insurance payout and move on, sell the car to a private dealer for parts or resell and walk away with even more money.
Oh, capitalism, doing favors for the criminal.
Birdie follows my lead, wiping away his fingerprints and picking up the duct tape, but it really doesn't matter. “It ain't gotta be perfect. It is my car after all.”
We get out of the car. I take note of the scene. We've gotta take off but we also have to keep it cool. Nobody cares and nobody will ask. It doesn't take us long to just walk away, calm and cool, as if nothing is amiss. For effect, I've left my door open.
“This way.” Birdie points in front of him, looking between the phone and what's in front of him. “Then a right.”
“We better be going somewhere good,” I say, following behind him. There's this sharp bite in the air, a chill that cuts through me. Won't be long before snow starts to blanket this country. Thankfully I won't be here to see it. “This place smells fucking awful.”
↼ ⟡ ⇁
“Ain't this posh. High class,” I say, looking around the apartment. It's one of those awful Soviet Era apartments that went up like weeds all over the Russian federation during those communist decades, all to prove something to the West. The growth of the communist suburb, true socialist urban planning that gave precedent to the community and this grand idea of shared space. In the end, most of the apartments never found tenets and the rest were never finished. When the money went dry, so did all the development and advancement, leaving empty concrete shells. A lot of these buildings still stand to this day in what looks nothing like the American suburbs.
Not gonna lie, I've never seen a Russian house. Just these apartment buildings. Perhaps that is why Russia feels so bleak and lifeless, dirty and poverty-stricken. It just isn't very pretty here.
“It’ll work for the night,” Birdie says, disappearing into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him. The shower kicks on.
I wander into the bedroom. The apartment doesn't have much but it has a made bed. When those sheets were changed last, who knows? Right now, which cares? Shoes off. Jacket off. I fall onto the bed and curl up with the pillow. When you're this tired, even bed is comfortable.
“Hey!” Birdie shouts. “What’re doing?”
“Sleeping,” I mumble back. “Now shut the fuck up.”
“I guess,” he starts then pauses. “I guess I'm taking the sofa.”
“Isn't that what usually happens to men who make stupid decisions?”
There is a loud and painful sigh from him.
↼ ⟡ ⇁
Morning came so fast. What the hell? The sunlight here is blinding. I stumble out of bed, stumble even more to the bathroom. I open the door.
Birdie is standing there, as naked as the day he was born. He scrambles for a towel, trying to cover up.
I sigh heavily. “You ain't got anything I want,” I say. “And it ain't like I haven't seen it before.”
He stammers, covering his meat and potatoes with the towel.
“Now get out,” I say, waving my hand at him, “I gotta pee.”
...To Be Continued…
I intend to get up and keep fighting. Especially more now than ever. This is the match where you get your ass up and keep fighting until you win. At least for me, anyway. It has been a very long time since I've had a top title shot - been number one contender to a world title, if you will. They just call it the Reyes de Reyes title here. Which is just fine with me.
Well, I happen to think it would be just fine to be number one contender. When I get to the bridge that leads me to gold, I'll cross that shit. Right now I gotta focus on Mr. Sam Washington and Sawtooth Grin. Err, should I call him Mr. Grin here?
I like it. I'm going with it.
There was a time before when I had to focus on Mr. Washington and his friends, that group calling themselves, The America Ultras. Believe it or not, the wrestling world is a small one - especially when I get around like I do - and you're bound to run into someone you know from somewhere. You might even run into someone you've faced before. Like this time.
Mr. Washington and myself have faced before and I defeated him. In Trios Action, yes. But this time will not be much different. It would seem that he doesn't remember me but I'm not hurt by it. I'd block out that ass beating, too. He deserved that beating, too.
Yeah, I wasn't injured then. Still, doesn't make a difference. It will be as if nothing has changed. Except I know more about you than I care to know.
God, I hate his type with every fiber of my body. What a tool. For as little as people like him deserve, he must have done something to earn himself this shot, so there's that. On Halloween, no less. It will be something to be in this city for that holiday. It's like being in New Orleans for Mardi Gras.
Unless, you know, you're getting pinned and losing out on a shot for a title. Oh well, too bad, so sad. That's the way the cookie crumbles. Hate to break it to you, Mr. Washington, just like last time, no gold for you. It's your mistake for not learning from your failures. It's not your fault who you're facing… but I am wondering how you got yourself mixed up in this match.
Not that I fully understand what this match is, exactly. That's been a running theme lately. But that's what you get when you do what I do. The survival aspect of it leaves me curious and yes, excited. I've survived a lot worse in this ring being in a lot worse shape. I want to survive and I will survive. Because that's what you do when you want something as much as I do.
It's do or die in this match. It's do and get a title shot or die. Funny to be talking about death on a holiday that concerns itself with death. It's the day that Mexico honors its dead. They won't be honoring the dead when it comes to me, now. They'll be celebrating the arrival of a new number one contender.
So, Mr. Grin, how does that make you feel? You are the God of War winner. You'll have to forgive my ignorance here on that or what it is. I'm going to go on context, though, and assume it was not an easy match. The Soaring Eagle Scramble wasn't easy, either. That's why we're here. That's why I won't underestimate you.
Unless Mr. Washington, who doesn't remember what he did two months ago, I've done my homework and research. I've also been keeping up. Because you just never know who you're going to run into in this sport. I've seen you around, Mr. Grin. You're good. No doubt about that.
But are you good enough to tackle this blonde bitch?
I ain't fucking around, Mr. Grin. I want this shot. I'm putting my career on the line for it. That alone should be a frightening fact to you. If that isn't enough, which I'm sure it isn't, it's because I'm scary bitch when there's something out there that I want. I'll rip arms and legs off to get it.
I have been denied one too many times now and it's starting to make me angry. An angry AJ is never a good time, for anyone. I've broken arms being less angry. And if this match is what I think it is, there won't be much of anything to stop me. That's exactly what I need, no holds barred, no rules, winner takes all kind of shit.
Momma needs to express some rage.
And that's really the fun part of it.
Fuck this ankle. Fuck losing to Roxi. Fuck losing last week. Fuck all that shit. I'm focused on this and only this. This where I get to have fun, let it all out, and come away a winner. A winner with a big fucking prize, too.
Whether you're like Mr. Washington, who doesn't respect anything, let alone this sport, or Mr. Grin, who has earned respect through this sport, it doesn't matter. If you can't respect me or what I'm doing or what I'm about to do, I don't care. It's going to happen either way.
When it's all said and done, Mr. Grin and Mr. Washington, you just might find yourself respecting this gal and what she's done and is doing. Fuck all, it ain't an easy task to get into that ring, with injury, and do what I've been doing. Consider it a bonus or something to take advantage of in the ring, but that'd be stupid.
It's actually gonna be in my favor.
You're gonna get to find out why.
See ya then, boys.