Post by Amy Jo Smyth on Jul 3, 2017 2:13:52 GMT
We're going down, down in an earlier round
And, sugar, we're going down swinging
I'll be your number one with a bullet
A loaded God complex, cock it and pull it
___________________________
Well, shit.
Sometimes you lose, sometimes you send your opponent packing, and sometimes people don't pick you to win even though you've given them no reason to think otherwise.
What can you do?
I've been on a hot streak as of late and it seems that almost nothing will stop me. I just keep getting hotter and hotter the more and more I compete. It's the mindset that I've gotten myself into. With hot streaks come confidence. With confidence comes hot streaks. And a huge part of this sport is where you are mentally.
Trust me, I know. Been there, done that shit, and I wear the t-shirt with pride.
Right now, I’m in an incredible headspace. It’s a complete 180-degree turn from where I was about eight months ago. It’s paying off dividends. I’m L.A.W. Champion. I’m getting through all these tournaments with gold stars, AFI, Carnage, and of course, Super Falcon. In 2017, I’m currently undefeated in L.A.W. It would seem that I’m untouchable.
But I’m not stupid.
I also don’t feel like falling from so high up thanks to me placing myself up on such a high pedestal. It’d be tantamount to suicide and I’ve got a lot of life to live and career to to go yet. Though, for all that I do, have done, and the titles I hold, the streak that I’m on, the record that I presently hold, there are still people who don’t think I can come through. They don’t share my same confidence, sadly. They don’t believe in me. Or perhaps, they believe in my opponent more.
Hey, what they got that I don’t got?
Listen, there are always going to people out there that don’t like you, for whatever reason - whole groups that form just to hate on you. There are going to people who are jealous or who have taken up some kind of vendetta for themselves or someone else... That’s life. That’s not just the life of a entertainer or wrestler or anyone in the public eye, but everyone in every walk of life.
All I know is, I ain’t perfect and I don’t claim to be - I just do my fucking best and see where it goes. It all comes down to being confident in myself, my skills, and what I do. And without sounding like some kind of motivational meme posted by a Frappuccino drinking, Ugg wearing, Kardashian worshipping, gym selfie taking white girl on Instagram… I just gotta believe in myself and what I do, regardless of what certain people think or what they feel about me.
If I were to let every poll and heckler and doubter get to me, I’d be nowhere right now.
So when I see a poll that is skewed heavily toward my opponent, well, it does a few things for me. But one thing it doesn’t do, it doesn’t throw me into a different mindset. Of course fan support is nice, but how do I know my fans even knew about said poll? Maybe my opponent has some rabid fans? Also should be noted that, I don’t think I’ve ever in all my time in GoL I have ever won a Twitter poll conducted by the man behind the Twitter curtain. And so far, they haven’t been right all that often.
Nonetheless, I don’t pay a whole lot of mind that sort of stuff. No idea why I’m giving it such attention this time around. It could be that I want to prove people wrong and let’s be serious, I fucking live to prove people wrong. All about that shock and awe, baby. I mean, for fuck’s sake, most people didn’t even think I’d make it this far or even win a world title again. There was a time when I thought my career was over and I’d go down, not in flames, but with a poof of smoke as a one trick pony living in the past. Most thought I’d be dead. Pretty sure that one guy wished I get hit by a bus.
I have been such a disappointment to that gonorrhea infected dick.
All that aside, thanks to this most recent one, unlike so many others... I am wondering now, does this make me the underdog in the Super Falcon tournament?
Not gonna lie, it’s a new feeling.
And I have Ms. Rydell to thank for that.
___________________________
In the Continuing Adventures of Our Hero...
◀◀ Be Kind, Rewind
Men surround me, their weapons at the ready, trained on me. Their heavenly escort looks down at me then into my eyes. This angel has such eyes; a June sky kind of blue. They’re insistent eyes, too. Urging and forceful, but gentle, with a deep understanding in them.
“AJ,” she speaks. “Please stop. Please. You’re going to bloody kill him.”
“What?” I ask, confused and stuck, mesmerized by the eyes and blinded by the luminous halo radiating from behind her. Perhaps God is real and he or she or it has sent one his charges, angels, or something down to Earth to not just watch over me, but to stop me from committing a cardinal sin.
“Let him go, Smyth. That’s a goddamn order,” she demands. My brain clicks on after and all the lights turn on upstairs. It’s like coming to after having a deep daydream or what people talk about when they have out of body experiences - you’re there, but you’re not really there. It’s now, only now, that I realize that it’s no angel or messenger from God, but none other than an Earth-bound human known as Zed, the head of the department I’ve been working under during my time in London. My fingers loosen their grip and relax some.
This is the woman who told me not to go in the room in the first place.
I violated a direct order and I suffered the consequences.
She suddenly moves and grabs my wrists, forcing my hands to completely release from his neck. The men in armor take over and I’m moved to the floor, sat down like a scolded child on the carpet, cross-legged and limp.
“What?” I ask again, looking between the tac team and Zed. I’m feel drunk but I’m not drunk. Nothing makes sense. “I’m so confused. What’s going on?”
Zed looks down at me, her face full of distress and concern. “Bloody hell,” she says softly as she kneels down in front of me, inspecting my body. “Let’s - let’s get you sorted out…”
The same officer who put me on the floor now lifts me up to my feet. We discover together that my legs don’t work in the way that they should. “Sorry, sorry,” I repeat over and over again as the agent carries me along. Arthur Hazard, my partner for these last few days, waits at the bottom of the metal stairs. He looks relieved. In fact, he lets out a very noticeable sigh and his shoulders drop down.
“Smyth,” he says.
“Artie Fartie,” I say, trying to smile. My face hurts too much to smile.
He doesn’t say anything else, just stares at me.
“What? Do I have a boogie?” I joke, knowing as well as everyone else here what I look like right now. I can’t see it, but sure as shit, I can feel it.
Hazard smiles but it’s one of those forced smiles, that - that appeasing smile that comes when a person feels really bad about what they’re seeing but they don’t want to make the other person feel bad about it. Sympathy, a heavy, sickening dose of saccharine sympathy. Well, fuck a duck.
↼ ⟡ ⇁
A tactical agent gave me his heavy winter jacket, a patrol officer gave me his wool cap, and the paramedics wrapped me in one of those silver space blankets after giving me the once over and cleaning up my face, yet somehow I’m still shivering. No one has told me much of anything. I have no idea if Griffin is alive or dead or even how long I was inside that hotel room with him. Best I can figure, it was long enough to have the sun go down and start to come back up again. All I can do is wait until they clear me from the scene so I can head to the hospital for some routine tests, especially on my brain and face. Why they haven’t released me, fuck if I know. It’s a real blast sitting on the tail-end of a ambulance, watching uniforms and agents scurry around me.
Everything happens just outside me and this ambulance, including a sudden snowfall that’s starting to slowly blanket the streets, buildings, cars, and even the motionless officers controlling the flow of traffic and keeping the looky-loos at bay. The fluffy flakes floating around are calming in a way and give me something else, something new to watch and think about. Considering all the things, I’ll take the snow and the multicolored strings of lights hanging in the windows and on the building fronts over everything else right now. It signals Christmas and Christmas means my birthday. Christmas and my birthday also means an anniversary of sorts.
It was Christmas, two years ago, when my wife gave me the wedding ring I wear, or wore, in this case. Allison had it specially made for me and it matches the bands that I got us on our first Christmas together as a couple, the ones with the laser engraved fingerprints on the outside and diamonds on the front. She wears my fingerprint and I wear hers. Or, I did, anyway. It served as a perfect reminder of each other, how our most unique and individual parts were with the other at all times. Griffin took that away from me when he took my rings and I have no idea what he did with them. I just want them back. What am I supposed to do without them?
Her ring for me was probably even more special than that. She spent so much time on it and put so much thought into it. So much love, too. I press my left thumb against left ring finger, something I always do, and instead of finding my rings there to spin around and rub, I massage bare skin. There’s even a tan-line there. The only time they come off is when I get in the ring and they go right into a special pocket in my boots so they’re with me at all times. I feel empty inside. A part of me is missing.
The tactical man in charge of keeping watch over me has pulled out of a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, quickly shakes one out, and pops it in between his lips.
“Hey,” I say. “You think I might be able to get one of those?”
He nods his head, “sure.” He slides one out and hands it to me. In-ut of a lighter, cups his gloved hand around the flame, and lights it up for me. I inhale. It has been a long time since I had a cigarette. It feels so fucking good. One deep drag and one long exhale. The rush. I’m lightheaded.
Someone taps on the open door of the ambulance. Zed stands there, smiling. “Hello,” she says sweetly. “How you doing?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m just super,” I quip sarcastically then roll my eyes. “How do you think I’m doing, Zed?”
“Okay, okay,” she says, submitting. “Bad question, I know…”
“I have some questions,” I quickly say.
“Best I can tell you,” she interrupts, “is that he’s alive.”
I’m not sure how I feel about the news so I just suck in on the cigarette and release the smoke slowly.
“Griffin is on his way to the hospital now, like you should be,” she says.
We stare at each other, silence, for a few seconds. I’m already uncomfortable and she’s just gotta add to it.
“How long was I in there?” I ask. “What time is it?”
“Um, just a little past six in the morning,” she answers. “You were there for… Well, nearly a whole day. Just under.”
Her information rocks me. It doesn’t feel like I was in there for that long. “Really?” I ask slowly.
She just nods.
“Shit,” I answer.
Zed gently touches my shoulder. “You did alright,” she says. “We thought it’d be much more worse, honestly. Everyone was taking bets on who’d kill who and when. You were the odds on favorite to kill him. Hazard over there is trying to figure out how to divide the pool since…”
“Are you sure you want to be telling me this?” I ask, staring at her.
“Sorry, sorry,” she rambles. “But I do have something for you.” She reaches into her coat pocket and her hand comes back out in a flash, with something clinched inside her fist. As she turns her hand, she extends it toward me, and exposes what she has hidden inside her palm. “Thought you might want these back…”
My heart lifts and I nearly squeal. I quickly snatch them from her and just stare at them as they sit motionless in my hand. I’m so happy. My eyes inch upwards to look at Zed. Snow has started to collect on her hair and eyelashes and shoulders. “I don’t - I can’t… Thank you,” I say.
She smiles. “You’re welcome,” she says, winking. She starts to move away.
“Wait,” I say, grabbing her arm. “What’s going to happen now?”
“Well, I suppose you’ll be taken to hospital to get a once over,” she explains, “and then you’ll probably be debriefed.”
“You mean I’ll be sent home?” I ask, feeling a twinge of excitement in me.
“Most likely,” she says. “Griffin is in custody. You’ll give a statement in regards to your involvement in the case as a whole and what happened in that room… You’ll see a psychiatrist, too.”
I throw my head back and groan.
“Sorry, but those are the rules,” she says, shrugging. “You went through a very traumatic event and protocol…”
“Blah, blah, blah,” I moan sarcastically.
“It’ll be over before you know it,” Zed replies. “I’ll see you in a few hours, alright? Take your statement.”
I nod in understanding.
“Take care of yourself until then,” she says, walking away.
I watch her as she walks away and then slide my rings back onto my finger. It makes me feel whole again. I miss my wife so much. Now, if I could just get this shivering to stop.
↼ ⟡ ⇁
The lovely doctors and nurses as the hospital ran all kinds of tests and found nothing wrong, with either my brain or internal organs. They reset my nose and put a bandage over it to keep it in place. Physically, everything is more or less fine, save lots of bruising and sore muscles. That, and I’m starving. It’s been over twenty-four hours since I last ate. No one seems all that concerned I haven’t put any calories in my system in a day. They gave me intravenous fluids, but not food.
They sent me downstairs, to a small office. Time for me to meet the head shrinker and talk about my feelings. The man seems nice enough. He’s one of those chubby, bearded older men with wire-frame glasses and a German sounding last name who takes his job very seriously and ponders what you’ve just said while stroking his greying whiskers.
“Good morning,” he says with a strong German accent. Great, a Freud wannabe. With a motion of his hand, he has me sit on a leather sofa and then sits down across from me, crossing his legs, pad and pen at the ready. “How are you?”
“Fine,” I answer politely. “How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you,” he says, scribbling on his pad. “How are you feeling?”
“I already told you, I feel fine,” I answer abruptly. “Aside from the fact that I’m hungry.”
“I see,” he nods. “Why don’t you tell me about what happened? From your perspective?”
In the shortest way possible, with nothing more than facts, in a simple monotone voice, I go over what happened in detail. It’s no different than what I’d say in my statement and any future depositions or while on the stand. I’ll have to tell this story at least two more times before going home then one more time at home. It’s going to sound like reciting a script very soon.
“Those are the facts of the incident,” he says. “But I want to know how you feel. It is especially important that we discuss what you are feeling now and mentality after the mock execution.”
“Meh,” I shrug. “This isn’t my first rodeo, doc. I’ve been - well, it ain’t the first time I’ve been on the wrong end of the gun and that time, it was loaded. I toe the line, a lot.”
“The trauma you have experienced,” he starts.
I interrupt, “The trauma I experienced is nothing new and I’ve already built up that scar tissue to all that. Death is inevitable and I’ve come to the accept that. What I do - you get in this business, you do what I do… You live by the sword, you die by the sword.”
The German shrink nods. “There may be…”
“Guess what?” I announce. “I’ve already been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress syndrome. Took a long time, but I had a good doctor, we worked at it and I got better. I have the tools and I have people at home who will help me. I’m more concerned with how my face is going to look when I’m fully healed. I have no interest in being deformed.”
“Uh huh,” he says. “You have been there, done that, then.”
“I wrote the book on this shit,” I answer. “I’m a case study in resilience and effective coping strategies.”
He scribbles across his pad. “So, then, you don’t - you are right as rain then.”
“I ain’t right as rain, doctor, but I don’t need to be coddled,” I say, throwing out my arms. “So…”
“So,” he answers. “Then what is it that you want, Ms. Smyth? What can I do for you?”
“What can you do for me?” I ask, leaning forward, shaking my head. “Well, for starters, what I really want is a fucking cheeseburger… Not a shitty cheeseburger from McDonald’s, either. A big, fat, juicy burger dripping with American cheese and ketchup and a side of fries - not chips because they’re not fucking chips, they’re fucking French fries. They were invented by the French and a common preparation method in France. Pomme frites. Frites means fries. Fries!”
The doctor leans back in his chair and watches me, stroking his beard. “Go on.”
“With an icy cold beer. Good beer. Most of the beer here is trash. Then again, most American beer is not that great, either. Better than Mexican beer, though, because, fucking hell, that is just some of the worst beer in the world. It’s like - like piss. Warm piss...”
Fraud Freud keeps writing on his pad and scratching his beard.
“Then, then, I want to fuck my wife until she screams for me to stop,” I say. “Then it’ll be my turn to get fucked until I scream for her to stop. After all that, I’d like to pass out in my own bed, holding my naked wife by the tits. How about that shit?” I say with a raised voice. “Can you get that for me, Freudy?”
“Have you always been this aggressive, Ms. Smyth?” he asks.
I stand up. “I am hangry!” I shout.’
“Perhaps you need a Snickers,” Freudy says and starts chuckling like Santa.
“Oh, oh,” I say, nodding my head. “Someone got jokes. I bet you’re just full of them. That big jolly fucking belly is just full of them, waiting for them to come out.”
He stops his laughing and clears his throat. “I was just trying to lighten the mood,” he says.
“You really wanna lighten the mood, Freudy,” I say, “then get me some fucking food.”
I start to get lightheaded. The lightheadedness turns into the straight up spins. Nauseated. Confusion. My vision starts to cloud.
“Doc,” I say, grabbing the arm of the couch. “I don’t feel so good.”
“Ms. Smyth?” he asks, concerned, his voice echoing. “Ms. Smyth, are you okay?”
My legs start to feel like jelly beneath me. “Sugar, we’re goin’ down swinging,” I mumble.
...To Be Continued…
It would appear that my opponent this week is the fan favorite, the odds-on favorite to win, the one the people voted for to move on from I’m Batman… as one of the final two. Not just this round, not just last round, but this whole thing. Ms. Rydell is the one who will take the Super Falcon Cup home with her to hashtag-FSociety.
Hashtag-hashtag.
This has placed me as the underdog in this now that we are set to face off. As of late, I've been the favorite to win - not in polls here, but here and there… It's a bit alarming to be painted as the one no one thinks can win when you're wearing three titles, one of them a world title, hold contendership to another title, and have been number one contender to the very title the Super Falcon title has up for grabs, when you've been a champion in Guerreros of Lucha before. Jesus Christ. Even when you've done all that, you don't even make it close here.
Which, leads me to believe what I said previously… Ms. Rydell has a huge fan club or I'm just not well liked. So, in shorter terms, it all comes down to a popularity contest. Ms. Rydell has support from her fed, friends, fans, and those who just need to do everything in their power to hurt me and see me fail. But, you know what…
So be it.
This isn't always a popularity contest. It's a matter of skill and talent. You can look beyond all the gold and all the wins and still see one fucking good wrestler when you see me - I’m not all gold. Even before I had these titles, these wins, this streak, I still had barrels of talent that surpassed damn near everyone that got into the fucking ring with me. Then I got some gold and then I fucking won some big shit and now look at me, still the same competitor I've always been, now I just have the accolades to match that shit. I never gave up and I'm not going to give up now.
Fuck that poll. Fuck the haters. Watch me fucking succeed. I'm not in the goddamn mood to fail and I'm not gonna fail again Kenzi Rydell and not when I when I have a chance to redeem myself in GoL and get what I couldn't get the last time it was within my grasp. So, my happy-go-lucky friend, bask in your poll, bask in being the favorite to win… Bask in the belief that you take this thing all the way to the end because you beat so-and-so or have bigger backing than me. What-the-fuck-ever.
It isn't going to work out so well for you, though. Drink it in now, babycakes. It's gonna be short-lived. The next poll the Twitter Monkey of Guerreros of Lucha puts up, it won't have your name in it. It will have my name in it. Because, you know what, next round, that's the final fucking round and whoever wins that, Super Falcon Cup winner. I'm not there yet, but sure as the sun rises over Manhattan every day, I will get there and I will bring that cup to L.A.W.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, such big words from me, I know! Especially when I haven't been doing so well in the world of tournaments as of late, especially when this shit happened I failed… That kind of thinking got me into that first mess and I don't plan on going back. Shit has done changed and shit is about to get real scary for you.
And you know what, I'll probably never win a fucking poll here but I will win the matches and that is what is important. So go on celebrate your poll. Go on celebrating winning something, because there won't be any celebrating after Sunday night, not for you though. I'll have myself a fucking fiesta while you can go take a damn siesta in the corner. I'm gonna wear you out, turn you out, and for fun, flip you ass over head in defence of physics. That's how I am. That's what I do. It's who I am.
Sure enough, sweet-cheeks, this ain't to mean to say that I don't respect you but respect gets thrown around more and more these days and it's losing its punch. And I don't mean to say that you don't have talent… You gotta to get this far. That, or some kind of luck, especially in the draw. Frosted Tips Boy… Yikes on so many levels, but shit, ain't nobody writing letters home to mom about that guy's shockingly good looks or his level of talent. No one has that say about Kendall, either. Which, who the fuck is Kendall? An Instagram model?
I had to go through Jack fucking Tillman in the first goddamn round and I made out barely alive and through to the next round thanks to a draw and some blind as Ray Charles. You know, what I take that back… Ray Charles would be a better ref than those fuckfaces. Then it was onto the Skyfire Champion… Who's name I have already forgotten because I'm an asshole… Crippler. That is it. Double C. Either way, that man holds two belts. Which, can be swayed either way - he's that good or everyone else around him sucks. Considering I defeated him in good time, I suggest you toward the latter.
But you don't have to fucking listen to me, take my advice, want me to win. Then you can sit with your shock, with how wrong you were...
Does this mean I've had better opponents than Ms. Rydell? Yes and no. It means I've had a much harder go at this and give that, I ain't gonna give up so easily and I'm not gonna balk or cringe at this youngling from a fed with a hashtag in its name.
Fuck, I'm brutal tonight.
Whatever.
This tournament has been brutal to me so if you think I'm going down in what is the round that will secure me a place in the finals, you're out of your fucking mind. That's what I mean by all that. I’ve worked too hard, fought through a lot, and come back from so much. I am far from done and I am far from done in GoL. I love what I do and I have been blessed in the fact that I get to do it and I want to keep doing and I want to keep doing it to win and grab gold every opportunity that comes.
I could sit here and patronize you until you bleed from the eyeballs and say that I'm just happy to be wrestling but no, while that isn't a lie and I could do it just for shits and giggles because I worked my ass off to get myself into a comfortable place, where money comes from other sources and I make the best use of my time, but I don't. I do it because I love it and I want to be the best wrestler I can be and win fucking titles and cups and tournaments.
For fuck’s sake, I wouldn't have devoted most of my life to it if I wanted to play jobber or enhancement talent. Not even close. That's not why you're here, either, is it Ms. Rydell? You're a winner who's gonna win. You flash the smile and do some dancing and do a little wrestling and win.
Good for you. Fucking good on you.
That stops here, though. It's your choice to stay in Guerreros of Lucha after the tournament or to go, but I'm staying. I'm staying because I have more shit to do, more to win. I'm winning, you're not. You're in well over your head and gonna drown. You’re going up against not just someone at the top of their game and at the top of this game, someone who isn't just bigger and stronger than you, but someone who isn't ready to lose and who wants to see either Honey or Di Maria in the deciding final round. In a round that can make or break your career, as Mr. Miles can attest.
Then when I'm done with you, I'm going to stand as close as I can and watch my tag team partner and future Reyes de Reyes Champion, Roxi Johnson, destroy some punks. Then she'll be me and my wife's designated sober person for the rest of the night.
I'd invite you along but ha, I don't even think you'd know what to do with a shot of whiskey. A chick that say cunt or shoot whiskey won’t survive being in the ring with me. I’m a lot more than you’re ready for, Ms. Rydell.
All in all, it's gonna be a good night for some and a bad night for others… For me, it'll be a great night, doing what nobody wanted me to do, proving people wrong… Gives me chills of excitement.
See you there, sugar tits.
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