Post by Amy Jo Smyth on Jul 31, 2017 3:38:57 GMT
Breath underwater
I'm coming up for air
I wanna see another dawn
Coming up for air
Sick of the slaughter
I'm coming up for air
Cause I've been floating here too long
___________________________
Things tend to work either in patterns of three or in cycles, circles. Deaths come in threes, or at least we pretend they do. I'm not so sure about the patterns of three shit but I know all about the cycles this world runs on. The seasons. Life, death, and rebirth. The rotation of the Earth and other planets around the sun. Hell, the sun rising and setting is a cycle. It ends just so it can all go back to the start to do it again.
Circles, right?
Everything works in circles.
I've come full circle. It has been exactly one year since I got into a GoL ring. In that match, I won the Soaring Eagle Championship in a rumble. Yes, with Roxi Johnson. We became, together, the first Soaring Eagle Champions. Then I went on to lose to her. I'm okay with that, though. I mean, did you not see her impressive reign? She went undefeated and vacated. That’s hall of fame caliber shit. Trust me, Roxi will be in that Hall of Fame next year. And now she's going against Sawtooth Grin for the Reyes de Reyes title. She's gonna win it, too. So that means, you guessed, Roxi and I get to repeat what we did in August 2016 again in August 2017.
Understand what I mean about cycles now?
Who knows what I’ll have and what I’ll be in a month. Other than the holder of the Super Falcon Cup. Whether they make one special for me or Mr. Miles has to give up his like they do with the Miss U.S.A. crown, I don’t know… Wouldn’t it be something, though, to watch my opponent’s boyfriend have to give me the cup? That's predicting the future, of course, and last I checked, even Nostradamus got it wrong a lot. Listen, I can't predict that Roxi will win her match and defeat Mr. Grin, take ownership of the Reyes de Reyes title, something she earned a long time ago. but I do have faith and confidence in her. She has the chops and I believe she will do it, no problem.
I can, however, predict the future about myself because I know what I can do and what I want. I'm pretty good at keeping my word, too. It's, like, a thing for me. I'm road tested and road worthy on that aspect. Hell, this tournament stands as a testament to that. I said I was going to get to the final round and I'm in the final fuccking round. Granted, it's not against who thought but I'm allowed to be partiality wrong sometimes. Nobody’s perfect, after all. We can try to be but all the boxed blonde hair dye, California accents, sunny demeanor, and training in the world can only cover up so much.
As I said, I'm far from perfect.
In fact, I kind of have a super shitty track record in tournaments like this. Get to the end game, but I fail. Y'all know this. Y'all seen it. Please, y'all were there when I blew my shot against Mr. Miles last year. Then again, just about a month ago when came in second to a redheaded proud carny with a fetish for thumbtacks in Carnage’s Monarchy of Anarchy tournament.
But I ain't bitter.
Fuck, yes, I am.
I’m a lot of things, but I ain’t a liar.
It's written all over my face. Or it was, anyway. See, I'm still worked up about MoA, yeah, but this, not quite the same thing. What’s that that they say? Don't be bitter, be better. I’m going to put these feelings to good use and make it into something that will get me exactly what I want, what I need. I intend to be better and I will be better. There will be no bitterness after Super Falcon concludes, not for me anyway. I'm fucking tired of that feeling and even more tired of losing these things and coming up short. Just like I said about world titles. Just like I said about MoA. Just like I'm saying about AFI. But, look, I fucking won a world title.
Now I want to win this.
I've taken too many hits, too many losses in these things to want to do that again. I'm not Sisyphus and I'm not pushing my rock up a hill just to watch it come back down again. It's about fucking time that I won a tournament and got first place, got to take home the trophy, and brought something back to L.A.W. to be proud of. Nobody likes being runner up, nobody remembers the runner-up... I won't be the runner up. That time is done.
Shit. Time is running out for me. I know it, you know it, this entire community knows it. Sure, I'm in peak physical condition, great shape, no major injuries to speak of - for once - and I’ve been on a roll. But if a year has gone by in terms of GoL, then, well, I've gotten a year older. You don't get to do this for all your life, no matter how much you love it. And make no mistake, I love it. However, that's the reality I'm facing. Things have changed on that level. Retirement for me isn't something far away, long off. It's creeping up on me. At the same time, I'm doing better than I have my entire career. This is evidence of this.
Nonetheless.
You can linger on my past, so can I. The things I've done, the things I haven't done, my successes and failures, the things I missed out on… Like so many others do for themselves, I'm looking at my future. It's bright. It's shiny. I still have road left to travel on and if the road ends before I'm ready to stop, I'll just go off-roading.
Vroom-vroom, bitches.
Y’all, I’m not ready to retire just yet. I’m not ready to end this run yet. Not even close. There is something that needs to be done. A few things, actually. Goals that need to be accomplished before I can hang up my boots. I’m zeroed in, hyper-focused on a certain on. It’s a want, a need. Something that some people will not ever understand. Especially when you’ve been denied it so many times.
Ms. Honey-Can-Rana over there can’t even begin to understand it.
Most people can’t even begin to grasp how much I want this and what I’m willing to do to get it.
___________________________
In the Continuing Adventures of Our Hero...
◀◀ Be Kind, Rewind
Something about my last batch of blood work wasn’t exactly right. Maybe my electrolytes, maybe my blood sugar, I don’t know - I was only half listening because I was staring at my wife. So this means, on doctor’s orders, I’ll be staying overnight in the University College London Hospital. Which means one more damn day in this city. I never even got my fucking Snickers bar.
They want me to eat and rest. This hospital food is like eating peppered, warmed-up cardboard and that’s saying a lot for hospital food. And rest? I’ve been resting for over twenty-four hours. That’s more sleep than I get in four days most weeks. I’m good. I’m wired. I’m ready to go. Give me some Gatorade and let’s fucking party. I’d do naughty things with my wife but the hospital forced her to leave when visiting hours ended. It’s like a prison here!
Not really, though.
I’m so bored. Save for the occasional low and calm page for a doctor or nurse, the squeaky wheel of a cart being rolled down a hallway, ding of an elevator, or the muffled, hushed conversations of nurses and orderlies, it’s calm and quiet on my floor without a stitch of excitement to be had. I don’t even know what time it is or when the sun will come up, but shit, I’m gonna get up. A walk will do me some good.
Hospitals are strange places at night. Sounds that one doesn’t normally hear or notice during the day seem to echo like explosions; the creaky metal wheels, a click of nurse’s pen, the yawning of a tired orderly, each one an offense to the quiet. Sounds that one hears normally in the day, the chatting, the laughing, the coming and going of people - the sounds that come with people - are gone, because the people have gone. People are noisy creatures. It’s in our nature to make our presence known and leave all kinds of signs of life. I have no idea why.
The less people, the less noise. Simple math. It's part of the reason I worked the graveyard shift when I was a cop. That, and the craziness that always seemed to challenge even the best of us. It was always cooler, too. During the day shifts, with so many more people around, including tourists doing what tourists do, it was a barrage of calls, annoying calls that required nothing more than documenting an event or telling a tourist not to trust street peddlers.
There was something so nice about the dead of night. It just has a different feel to it. Just like walking around this hospital. Kinda feels like I'm breaking some kind of unwritten rule almost. Nobody told me I couldn't, though. It's super weird walking around in a public place in just hospital provided grippy socks. At least I don't have to worry about slipping and sliding to my doom. Or chilly toes.
Small things.
To my right, the nurses’ station. The curving desk glows with multi-colored Christmas lights. Some hang off the front of the desk, others wrap around a small fake pine tree. The holiday isn't too far off which means my birthday isn't too far off, either. I have lived to see another birthday and this, this is a success. I never thought I’d die young or before my time, but with the way things have been going, I didn’t think I’d get this far. Hell, I thought I was dead and done five years ago in a swamp, shot in the skull by a serial killer. By fate, by luck, by chance, by good timing, what should I appear but my partner with a perfectly aimed bullet. It wasn’t my time then. Wasn’t my time this go around either. Or maybe it was my time in that hotel room a few days ago but I rejected the offer, much against the wants of whatever force has the responsibility of assigning death to a living thing.
Like most people, I try not to think about death, my death or the death of the ones I love, very often. If at all. It’s a reality, though, and it’s not something I fear too much anymore - not in the standard sense, anyway. My fear of death is leaving the ones I love with that kind of pain and loss. I faced it again, I defied it again, and here I am, up, walking, on the hunt for trouble. No need to dwell. Though, I will say this, I’ve come to realize that most of everything I do is to, in a sense, cheat death out of its growing collection. Whether my own life or the lives of others. I’m all too aware that sooner or later, that proverbial skeleton in a cloak carrying a sickle will come to cash in on the debt.
The on-duty nurse has her nose buried in her work or a book or phone or might even be asleep for all I know so she doesn't realize I've gotten up. I turn left and start to just wander. Some rooms have their doors closed, others are wide open. Open or closed, it doesn’t stop me from peeking inside the rooms and being all around nosey. Everyone is asleep, some medically induced, others naturally, all covered in the same white blankets that move up and down gently with steady, rhythmic ingoing and outgoing breaths.
Trouble is none to be found here.
I start looking through charts, trying to read the nonsensical notes scribbled in the pages and make sense of the typed up lab reports. For the sake of science, of course. The chemistry in the lab reports is pretty basic but it’s still chemistry. Most of these people are absolutely normal - in for observations or recovery from basic surgery to prevent deeper, more life threatening issues. This guy had an appendectomy. Damn. This is the most exciting floor in this whole place. I’d go have a look-see downstairs, find the emergency room, but they’d throw my ass back upstairs right quick. Plus, ya know, I don’t want strangers seeing me in this - this gown.
Next chart up.
I nearly drop the thing when I see the name. Edward Griffin. Edward Griffin, a name I never wanted to see again. Not in this life, not in the next. I especially didn’t want to see him in person again. Even though I know I’ll have to come back for his trial - if there was a trial. If he makes it long enough to get to trial; the gangs in prison would eat him alive. Do they have prison gangs in British prisons? It doesn’t matter. I’d like to know why he’s here. Who, in their right mind, thought this was a good fucking idea. He’s been sleeping in this room, getting care in this room, for just as long as I have been in my room. Why doesn’t he have an armed guard? He better be fucking strapped to that bed and the bed is goddamn bolted to the floor with bridge rivets made of adamantium.
They didn’t even lock his fucking door. It’s fucking ajar.
According to his chart, I managed to do some serious damage his larynx and trachea. He also suffered a loss of oxygen and blood to the brain which caused some kind of possible neurological damage. The rest of this is just Japanese to me, full of words that I’ve never seen in my life, mostly because the doctor has illegible handwriting. I once read that bad handwriting is rampant in the medical field and kills up to thirty-thousand patients a year, mainly from prescription forms that have been misread and incorrectly filled.
I supposed one of the write-ups on my chemistry experiments would read the same to a layman. Bad handwriting and all.
There’s a rage bubbling up in me. Even with the random thoughts, with trying to appease my mind with chemistry and science - the truest thing I know, the refuge I run to when all things seem outside my control, the calm - the anger is above it all. I figured that if I never saw him or heard his name again, I’d never feel this - this feeling again. Throughout my many years I have felt all kinds of things about the people I’ve dealt with, the things I’ve seen, but nothing like this. I didn’t even feel this for the man who stalked me, my family, threatened my future wife, and tried to murder me. Didn’t feel this way about the guy who shot me in the thigh and nearly succeeded.
This man, he makes me want to do things that I never thought I was capable of. I’ve done things I didn’t think I was capable of doing and I’m ready to do them again.
And it scares the ever living shit out of me.
This thing inside of me, it moves me forward and find myself pushing open the door slowly, quietly. I’m suddenly standing at the end of his bed, staring at his head, at the plastic brace around his neck, at the tube sticking out of his neck. I follow the tube to the ventilator and the little plunger that works to put air into his lungs. It isn’t that he can’t breathe, but rather the damage that I’ve done to his trachea and larynx makes breathing laborious, painful, and inefficient.
I am fucking proud of that damage, too.
They’ve had the sense to handcuff him to the bed. Doesn’t seem likely that he’ll be going anywhere anytime soon, though. The man, if one wants to go so far and call him that, is being chained in place and kept alive by a mass of wires and tubes. There’s a bag hanging above him, feeding a tube that’s giving him intravenous fluids and medication while another tube carries away the waste product produced by those fluids to be stored in a bag hanging below him. The pulse oximeter gathers information about his, body temperature, heart rate and oxygen levels and sends it to the monitor to detect and notify physicians of any dramatic, life threatening issues. Without all this, he’d probably be dead or at the very least, in a lot more than he is in now. The shit feels no pain right now, that’s for fucking sure, thanks to painkillers and the benefits of sleep.
Humans are at their most vulnerable when they are relieving themselves and when they sleep. In the deepest stage of sleep, REM, our bodies completely shut down. Four out of our five senses completely shut down, most of our body functions are stopped, it is hard to wake us, and our muscles become completely paralyzed - outside of those who have some kind of sleep disorder. During this twenty-minute or so block, we are sitting ducks.
Griffin is a sitting duck, or a laying duck.
I grab and chair, slide it close to his beside. “Look at the little baby sleeping,” I say softly. “So comfortable. So completely harmless. So - so completely defenseless.” Out of a spite I’ve never felt before, I kick the side of his bed at full force, moving the thing, shaking his body, disrupting the natural order of his sleep and the machines. Something sinister and evil clicks on in my brain.
With accuracy that is far from quiet and peaceful, I remove the pulse monitor from his finger and fling it away. No need to draw attention with an alarm or upsetting beeps. I will not have any disturbances or disruptions. This will be a slow and steady process, thought out, skillfully done with expert care and attention.
“Wake up, fuckface,” I say, pushing him hard then shaking him violently. He doesn’t stir. I slap his face, gently of course. No marks. It’s important not to leave any marks or detectable injuries. His eyelids start to flutter. The miracle of pain medication and sleep aids can only go far in reality. “Wakey-wakey, eggs and bakey.”
His eyes open and I lean over his face, make sure I’m the first and only thing he sees. I stare directly into his eyes, watching the fog of all those drugs, sleep, confusion, and uncertainty float on the surface. A dozen or so rapid blinks and most of it has wash away. His pupils dilate with fear and unfettered panic. The rest of his body follows suit, going into instinctual attempt to take flight, to run away from me, the woman who strangled him, crushed his larynx, and nearly killed him.
It’s only natural.
“Good morning,” I say.
He makes sounds, strange sounds. He tries to shout, but nope, sorry, not possible. They’re just low-pitched squeaks and guttural grunts.. Noises that mainly come from air escaping his mouth and the breathing tube. He tries to lift his arms. The handcuffs violently clank and scrape against the railings on his bed; the comforting sound of hollow metal on hard-forged metal that would take superhuman strength to break. A comforting sound for me, anyway.
“Aw, poor thing, trapped…” I say with a smirk, taking up a huge hunk of his cheek in between my thumb and bent forefinger. Unlike a charming elder uncle does to his enduring five-year-old nephew, I am anything but sweet and gentle. “Now you know how it feels. Look at you. Fucking terrified of me. There’s one difference between you and me, though. I was never afraid. You are. You’re a fucking coward. If you could, if there wasn’t a tube up your microdick right now, you’d piss yourself.”
Griffin tries to pull away, make sounds to signal his pain. He can’t go anywhere and the sounds mean nothing to me. I finally release and stand upright. As I do, I grab the call button and make damn sure that he watches what could be considered a lifeline far away from him.
“How quickly things change…” I say, sitting in the chair. I lean back, throw my feet up on the bed, kicking his legs. “You are no longer in control. You’re not in control of the situation, me, or - or even your own life anymore. Fuck, you can’t even control your own body right now.”
His eyes follow me, look at me through the fear and worry.
I look down at the chart, start reading, flipping up the pages in a dramatic fashion. “Will you look at that?” I say, tapping my finger on a page. I turn it so he can look, but he can’t see. “Right there. The doctor says you probably won’t be able to talk again. Extensive damage from crushing.” I chuckle. “Humans are superhumans when they’re faced with what seems like certain death. I mean, you can’t fucking point a gun at someone’s head and expect us not to want to survive and do anything it’ll take to survive…”
More dramatic page flipping. More careful reading.
“Brain damage,” I say, nodding. I let the pages fall back down with a quick slap and toss the clipboard at him, letting it crash into his stomach. “I did some serious shit to you, huh?”
He makes another one of his attempts at sound. Whistling Dixie.
“You fucked with the wrong bitch. Thinking you were big and bad but look at you. Look at you. Then look at me. I’m up, I’m walking around, talking, gonna go home in the morning. You didn’t do shit to me, fuckface. Meanwhile, you’re never going to speak again, your pea-sized brain is broken - not that it already wasn’t - and, and, you’re going to jail for the rest of your fucking sad, sorry life…” I say and sit upright, lean forward. “But I - I happen to think that jail is too good a place for you.”
My hand reaches up, takes a hold of the tube that leads to the ventilator. “How long can you hold your breath?” I ask, smirking. It’s so easy to remove the end of the tube from the machine and cover the hole with my thumb. The machine keeps working but not his lungs. He can’t get air any other way. Within a few seconds, his body does what it naturally does - fights against it and seeks out oxygen. He flails, pulling his arms up but is only met with resistance thanks to the handcuffs while the rest of him shakes.
“What you’re feeling right now,” I say softly and seriously. “It’s what is called air hunger. You’re suffocating right now. You want precious oxygen, don’t you?”
He manages to nod. My fingers stay firmly in place. An excitement and joy overtakes me. I know it’s sick and what I’m doing is wrong but I cannot control myself. It feels too good.
“I want you to feel what I felt To suffer. To feel pain like I did. To think - to honestly and really think that you’re going to die,” I say with a slight growl. “We’re not even. We will never be even. See, unlike you, I’m not a killer like you. I am a killer. I’ve killed before. Shot a man dead where he stood. I’m not like you. I suspect we have things in common.”
I release my hold on the tube and quickly plug it back in. The air flows freely again. Relief rushes over him as his lungs fill up air.
“I’m a good person. I think I’m a good person, anyway. People tell me I am. I do good things. Hell, some people call me a hero. I’m not a hero, Eddie. I thought I was. I wanted to be. Not anymore, because I want to hurt you. I’m not a good person. I’m just - I’m just a woman trying to do the right thing,” I start. “You - you made me realize… You thought what you were doing was the right thing. Completely convinced that you’re a good person, enabled and blessed by God in killing hundreds of people, that killing your aunt was completely justified. Because she was going to prevent you from carrying out your mission. I killed a man to protect myself, other people, to carry out my mission. Eddie, I tortured a man to near death to carry out my mission. And you know what, I fucking loved it.”
His eyes watch me with such intent. I sit up and take hold of his finger. I bend it back, far beyond its natural and normal range of movement. He squirms. There is visible pain on his face.
“I broke his fingers,” I explain. “In exactly the same way I’m doing right now.”
Panic. Fear. The sight, the sounds, the smell even, it excites me, creating a powerful, shaking thrill in my loins. His eyes light up like they did when I startled him, throttled him, crushed his throat.
“I wish that they hadn’t stopped me,” I say. “I wish they had let me kill you. You’re a piece of shit. A waste of oxygen.” I release his finger and pull out the tube again. “You don’t deserve oxygen. Nobody loves you. Nobody will miss you. You’re meaningless. You’re not a fucking martyr. You’re a fucking mistake.”
He violently shakes, reaching up with his hands, trying to beg me without the use of words.
“You were so fucking hyped up to die in that hotel room,” I say. “You remember that? I do. But you weren’t ready to die. You’re a fucking coward.” I shove the tube back in place. “How does it feel? How does it feel to be on the edge of death?”
I stand, grab his head, take hold of his hair, and force him to look me in the eyes.
“I could kill you right now,” I say, pulling his head forward by the hair. “I could kill you right now and it’d look completely natural. Some kind of unexpected complication of your injury. There are so many ways to do it. Maybe you shifted in your sleep, cut off your breathing tube. A computer error. A mis-dosage in medication. Fuck, you could have a stroke. I can actually make you have a stroke…” I laugh. “I could make you vomit and oops, you choke on your own vomit. You woke up, panicked, and pulled out your tubes. Seizures are a good option, too.”
Griffin starts to cry.
I throw his head back onto the pillow, disgusted. “I’d call you a pussy, but I like pussy and they’re tough. I don’t like you and you’re not tough. You’re more… Well, a dick. Weak. Easily hurt. I don’t like them,” I say. My hand finds and latches onto his cock and balls. Squeeze. I increase the pressure as I go along, careful of the catheter. “I bet this is the first time another woman has touched your dick since your momma wiped the shit off your ass.”
More squirming. More fighting back. He’s able to grab my forearm and do some squeezing of his own. It doesn’t have much in the way of power. It’s more annoying than anything else. Out of sheer boredom, I release his microdick and pry his hand off my arm.
“I hope - hope that you nightmares about me,” I say. “I’m the monster that lurks in your closet and around every corner. For as long as you live, I’ll haunt you. If they don’t put you away, if you ever get out, I’ll find you and make your life a living fucking hell.”
He shuts his eyes, tears streaming down his face.
“And if you ever tell anyone that that I was here,” I say, bending his finger back again, “and they’re not going to believe you. You had a nightmare. Induced by the drugs. You’re a liar, a killer, nobody will believe you. I’m a fucking hero. Saved the day. Who are they gonna believe?”
He nods and I release his finger.
“This fun, though,” I say and yank the tube out again.
“AJ!” a voice calls out. “What are you doing?”
I whip my head around. Roxi Johnson stands in the doorway, staring at me with these wide, shocked, scared eyes.
“Put that back, right now,” she scolds, screaming in a whisper, pointing at the tube and machine. “Now!”
“What?” I ask.
“The man is dying,” she says. She rushes over, takes it from my hand, and pushes it back into the correct position. “What the hell? What is wrong with you?”
“When did you get here?” I ask, looking at her. “Why are you here?”
“Thankfully just in time and I’m apparently here to stop you from doing something terrible,” she explains.
I keep staring at Griffin, lying there, crying, breathing as best he can with the machine.
“Hey, hey,” Roxi says as she moves around him, replacing things, putting things back in order.
“Why are you doing that?” I ask.
“Because nobody can know you were here,” she says.
He just lays there, eyes clamped shut, motionless except for a general shiver that radiates from his entire body.
“Woohoo, AJ,” Roxi says, waving her hand in front of my face. “Anybody home?”
“What? Huh?” I ask. “When did you get here?”
“Wow,” she says softly, alarmed.
“Roxi,” I say. “What’s going on? I don’t - I don’t. I can’t remember. What did I do? Did I do something bad? Did I kill him? I remember wanting to kill him.” I put my hand over my mouth and look at her. That’s when I start crying.
“You didn’t kill him,” she says, wrapping her arm around me and pointing at the heart monitor. “See. Beep-beep-beep. Lots of beeps.”
“Beep-beep-beep. The average resting heartbeat of healthy male is sixty to a hundred beats a minute,” I say. “Human hearts produce atrial natriuretic peptide. ANP for short, but it has a variety of names. Discovered by de Bold in the 1980s. It is a twenty-eight-amino acid peptide containing a seventeen-amino acid ring in the middle of the molecule…”
“Great,” Roxi says. “C’mon, we gotta get back to your room.”
“Beep-beep-beep,” I say. Roxi leads me along, taking me down the hallway slowly. “Do you like my socks? They are anti-slip. I won’t slip and fall down.”
“That’s good. Those are some safe socks.”
“They have little rubber dots,” I say. “C-five-H-eight”
“What?” Roxi asks as we turn into my room. “Never mind. Let’s just get you back into bed. I think you need to sleep.”
“Okay,” I answer. “Can you take off my slippy socks?” I fall into the bed and stick my feet out.
She stares at my feet. “Um, okay…”
“You’re the best,” I answer. “You’re a hero. A real hero. I’m just - I just. I’m not a hero.”
“You should just sleep,” she says.
I nod and put my head on the pillow. “Ninja Turtle!”
...To Be Continued…
Call it a want. Call it unfinished business. Call it something that must be done. Call it hunger. Go ahead, you wouldn’t be wrong. It’s all of those things. For me, it is a need. Something I need to do just like I need to breathe. A powerful want that will drive me to do anything and everything to get it.
Yes. Anything and everything. All bets are off, Ms. Honey Boo-Boo. Speaking of bets, I’m probably not the odds on favorite to win here, but a lot of people lost a lot money last month when I defeated Ms. Rydell to get here. If you thought I was a beast last match, you have not seen anything yet. Last time I wanted something as badly as this, I broke a few arms to get it. Hell, who am I kidding? I’ve never wanted anything as badly as I want this, as much as I want to win the Super Falcon Cup.
That puts you in a dangerous, dangerous position, Ms. Honey Butter.
If you’re any kind of wrestler, if you’ve learned anything in your short, illustrious career, then you know to do your homework. That means you’ve seen what I’m capable of and that’s without the added bonus of having this kind of reward on the line. You can’t fully grasp what this means to me or why I need it so much, want it in the way I do. Sure, you want it. Everyone wants this kind of thing when in this kind of situation. Not like this, though. You’ve never experienced what I’ve fucking experienced and I hope to God, that you don’t. I mean, sure you won’t win this tournament, but you can surely win the next one and the one after that. Another one that I’m not in. But not this one. This one is mine, all mine. I don’t have next year. Or the year after that. I have this year. I have this, the now. This moment and only this moment.
While I’m looking ahead, I’m also only looking at this, that far ahead. When I’ve won and have it in my hands, it’ll be able to look to the next thing. Right now, though. I’m in the present. Only the present and what is at stake.
Yes, I have a future and I have a lot more time, but let’s just be fucking serious here… Honey, she’s got a lot more time left than I ever will from this point on. She’s young, she’s pretty, she’s so fucking full of rainbows and sparkles and kittens. Wouldn’t she just look fucking perfect with a little glitter in her eyes? Don’t tempt me, because I’ve done it before and I’ll gladly do it again. Remember, I’ll have this by any means necessary. Going back, there’s a word there that’s important in that statement. Young. She admits to her youth, to her inexperience, to being a rookie on a upward slope needing training from Mr. Miles, the first Super Falcon Cup winner, a former Reyes de Reyes…
Even that won’t save you here, honey.
With youth comes inexperience. With age comes experience. Thing is, you can say that my age - I ain’t young but shit, I ain’t old. For an almost forty year old woman, there’s no denying my prowess. Would you even know that, that I am this old had I not told you? No. I get in that ring and I’m as capable, healthy, and spry as a someone as young as Honey. And, not to toot my own horn, I still got the face of a twenty-something, too. Toot.
On top of that, I’ve got the experience that comes with this kind of age. The level of skill, the awareness that comes with just being in the ring thousands of times against everyone and anyone, the things I’ve seen and done, fuck, the things I know. Compared to what Honey knows, even with what Mr. Miles has worked to teach her, it cannot compare. Hell, she’s even got a leg up on me thanks to Mr. Miles.
He can give her some first hand knowledge about me.
Go ask Mr. Miles what it’s like to face me, how fierce of an opponent I can be. The man still talks about me and our match to this day, calling it one of the hardest in his career and how much he respects me. Mr. Tillman, though neither of us lost by mere bullshit technicalities, he speaks highly of me. In my home fed, L.A.W., there is a small, blonde young lady who I’ve worked up so much that she can’t stop talking about me, so much so that I cloud her vision in terms of all other things. Her focus is is squarely on me, she can’t see anything else, and has such confidence in her ability to defeat not just me, but everyone else in a tournament to get to me. Thing is, I understand that kind of focus. I get it, I really do. It’s what I feel and know for Super Falcon.
It’s all I’ve been thinking about. It’s all I’m focused on. It’s my whole being.
Now listen closely, Ms. Honey, I’m going to win. Do you understand me?. Like, do you, like, totally understand? Insert valley girl giggle here. Cher Horowitz called and she wants you to stop. You’d do the world, like, a serious favor. That aside, this isn’t your time. It’s mine. The cup belongs to me. This is about winning for me, doing something that I haven’t yet been able to do, to defy everything they’ve said, to break the ceiling I’ve been unable to break for a long time. I’m going to shatter it. You will not and you cannot take this from me. You will need to do things that I don’t believe you to be capable of to defeat me. You just don’t have it in you. This isn’t for you. I’m intense. I’m fire. I’m taking what I want, damn the cost and consequences.
No different than before.
Last time I had a shot at the Reyes de Reyes title, I wrestled against doctor’s orders, with my ankle in a special brace, with an severe ankle sprain that had I re-injured it, welp, no more wrestling and no more walking without a cane… And I ran around, chasing my opponents. No risk, no reward. I won. Because I wanted it. Because I wasn’t going to be denied. Nor miss out on a golden opportunity. Nor blow it.
Blowing things is for straight girls like yourself.
This is another golden opportunity. No more fucking games. No more letting them slip through my fingers like sand. I’m going to grab it. Like a shark does their prey.
I’m not called a shark because it’s Shark Week and I’m glued to my TV watching Tara Reid and Ian Ziering get gobbled up by flying sharks… It’s because I’m vicious, seemingly unstoppable, I go for what I want without fear, and I’ve got some sharp teeth that lock on and tear you to shreds. You’re a small fish in my pond and fish are not friends, they are food. Especially when they’re in the fucking way of what I want, what I need. I’m not going to be nice, even if you do put me on that silly list of yours. Funny, if I had made lists during my years, I’d have enough to paper the walls in the great room of a plantation house.
For those that don’t know, that’s a lot.
That’s because I’ve put in the time and effort, did the time, paid my dues. I worked just as hard as you have, if not harder. You don’t know hard work, struggle, rejection and failure, of getting so close, having worked so hard and having it ripped away from you without any remorse. You will soon, though. I don’t fucking appreciate anyone saying that I shouldn’t have this because of the Tillman incident nor do I appreciate insinuations that I’ve somehow gotten a pass here. Bullshit remarks from petty, bullshit opponents and peers who remain bitter about their placement in this tournament.
Too bad, too fucking sad.
I’m here. They’re not. Honey is here and they’re not. That’s the way shit fucking goes. Same with how this is going to go down. You gotta suck it up, Buttercup. Honey, sweetie, darling, you have that kind of spunk and personality, you’ll bounce back just fine and recover from this. You’ll put it behind you and that’s that. You just - you just don’t want this as badly as I do and you can’t keep up with that. I don’t know how many times I need to say this but I just want it to be clear to you and everyone else. It almost hurts how much I want it.
I’ll have it too.
No hard feelings, of course. You're just not ready to fight the war I'm about to bring to Eternal Lucha Dos.
See ya then, Honey.