Saturday December 11, 2010
The RV- Main Cabin
Eastbound Interstate 70 near Richmond, Indiana
11:41 AM Local Time
“Mommy, can I have a cookie?”
“I’m sorry Theresa, but no,” I replied, looking up from the papers I was reading, and giving my daughter the best sympathetic smile I could, even while I shook my head. “We’re going to be stopping for lunch soon, and I don’t want you to spoil your appetite.”
I watched, half-amused, as my daughter’s lip turned down, into the usual pout four-year olds get when they’re not getting her way, and she folded her hands across her chest. “But I’m hungry NOW!” she protested.
“Well, we have some grapes in the fridge if you want. Would that be okay?”
Theresa paused for just a second, and I could almost see the gears turning in her head beneath the lovely long light brown hair that covered her scalp. Finally, realizing that there was no way that she was going to get her cookie, Theresa reluctantly nodded.
“Okay, I’ll get them,” I said, unbuckling my seat belt, and standing up, nearly losing my balance as I did. The couch was so comfortable that sometimes it was easy to forget that you weren’t sitting in an actual house, but a moving vehicle. Nevertheless, I regained my balance, and cautiously worked with the swaying of the RV as I moved across the cabin- a short trip, but a difficult one under the circumstances.
“I’m up, Terrry!” I called forward to my husband, up in the driver’s seat. We had long ago found out that it was a good idea to let the driver know when someone was out of their seats- otherwise even merely tapping the brakes without warning could lead to unexpected (and often painful) consequences.
I suppose it could be considered ostentatious that we travelled to our shows in a recreational vehicle, especially one as nice as a Newmar King Aire. But long ago, during our first run as wrestlers, Terry and I had realized that it was so much nicer to travel from show to show amidst familiar surroundings, instead of sleeping in a different hotel room every single night.
Terrence had wasted no time in buying the King Aire upon our return to wrestling, taking advantage of a great deal in both the price of the RV and the financing to cover it. The extravagance had been unsettling at first- economic times seemed too hard to be throwing around a half-million dollars for a vehicle. But the RV had turned what I was afraid would be a hard transition for Theresa into an enjoyable one for her- every week she couldn’t wait to see where our adventures would take us next.
As it turned out, with five people crammed into the motor home week in and week out, we ended up needing every inch of the forty-five foot vehicle that we could get.
As I grabbed the small tupperware container that held our supply of red seedless grapes, I looked over at the small blond woman sleeping on the RV’s other, smaller couch. Other than Terrence, there was no one more in the world that I would trust my daughter to than Cassandra DeSlair. We had hired Cassie as a full-time babysitter for Theresa back when I ran the Marion County Community Theater, and had kept her on after I lost my job there, and returned to wrestling. She had solved the logistical problem of who would watch my daughter while Terrence and I were training or competing, but even more than that, Cassie had become a true friend to me, a feminine voice of reason in this crazy, testosterone filled business.
The fifth member of our little entourage currently sat shotgun up front, no doubt in deep philosophical discussion with my husband over tomorrow’s slate of NFL games. From pretty much near the beginning of our careers, Daniel Pollaski had been our manager. While at times he could be the rudest, most insensitive imbecile I had ever met, Pollaski had also grown into a true friend over the years, even more-so now that he had matured from the juvenile antics that had plagued our first run. With his obesity, and horribly clashing Hawaiian shirts, Pollaski seemed like an unassuming buffoon, but there was no one better to have in your corner- or at the negotiating table- than him.
It was a strange quintet, I mused, as I cautiously worked my way back to the couch, the tupperware container in my hand. But it worked well. I was able to travel, train for my matches, compete, and still find time to spend with my husband and daughter. Being a professional-wrestler was always a hard life, but for us, at least, we had been able to soften it up somewhat.
I sat back down on the couch, and quickly buckled my seat belt, opening the tupperware and holding it out to Theresa. “Now, what do we say, hon?”
“Thank you!” Theresa said in a sing-song voice, then grabbed a handful of grapes, popping one into her mouth, and turning back to the television that hung on the back wall of the main cabin, where a DVD of The Mr. Men Show (a new favorite of hers) was playing.
I helped myself to a few of the grapes as well, then turned back to the papers I had been perusing. It was a mishmash of information about the upcoming Shatterpoint show- a map of the arena showing the location of my locker room, a brief synopsis of the rules and regulations of X3 wrestling, and several scouting reports that Pollaski and I had managed to create on various participants in the tournament. I found one page in particular- a printout showing the full tournament bracket, and I looked at it closely. There was something about looking at a set of brackets that made everything seem so clear.
Fourteen wrestlers.
One winner.
The X3 Championship.
Well, eleven, now, as I looked at the scratched-out names of Graham Clausen, Alex Rettop, and Yvonne Knight. I had known “Ivy” from her brief stay in PWX, and had been surprised to see someone of her caliber go down in the first round. That immediately marked Joey Jenova as a potential opponent to face in the finals. In fact, with the names on this list, there was no telling who would be the ones to advance through the rounds.
And that included me. I had faced only one of these wrestlers in a previous match, and Tweeder had defeated me just a month ago, on a night where it had seemed I couldn’t do anything right. If someone like him was a typical participant in this tournament, I most certainly had my work cut out for me!
Still, there were others that I knew by reputation. William Just had spent limited time in the PWX over the summer, but unfortunately had never really managed to find success. Katherine Stryfe was yet another member of the infamous Belmont clan- Terrence and I had faced Valerie and Jeremiah far too many times, and knew better than to take any member of that family for granted. Thatcher Rex was the CWC North American champion, a distinction he had earned by beating former PWX star Darin Zion (and a small part of me had to admit that I was jealous of anyone who got to beat the living stuffing out of Darin as thoroughly as Thatcher did).
And then, of course, there was Kris Keebler, who had a reputation of being the most egotistical jerks in pro-wrestling today, a reputation that was well-deserved, if last week was any indication. And finally, Madman Szalinsky, the ‘Most Hated Man in America.’ I doubted the truthfulness of his claim, although I had to admit it wasn’t due to any lack of trying on his part.
Unfortunately, my opponent for the first round, Kenneth X. Rockwell, was one of the few I had trouble finding any information on, although I had found some things. I shuffled through the papers I held until I saw Rockwell’s face smirking back at me. I had never met this man in person before in my life, but already I wanted to slap that smirk off his face. If scientists ever found a way to harness arrogance as an energy source, Kenneth Rockwell could power a small city all by himself.
In a way, Rockwell was almost the perfect opponent for me to face in the first round. Like most wrestlers, I loved winning matches, but I always felt that there was no victory that was sweeter than when I got to put some smug, grinning, egoist in his place. Just the expression on their faces, as if they couldn’t even comprehend that anyone- let alone a one hundred thirty pound girl- could best them in the ring, was priceless.
And Rockwell was a cruiserweight, to boot. I’d love to think that I can hold my own in the ring against anyone, regardless of size, style, or gender, but people of Rockwell’s size had somewhat become my specialty. I was arguably the greatest cruiserweight wrestler in the ten-year history of the World Wrestling Alliance, being the only three time champion in that organization’s history. Speed, agility, and technical prowess counted more than raw power, and I had all three of those in abundance.
I couldn’t afford to get overconfident, but the more I thought about it, the more I felt I matched up well against Rockwell. If I went out, wrestled to my game plan, and kept up the pressure, especially by attacking his legs to slow him down, I should be walking out the winner. Unless...
“Who’s that, mommy?” Theresa’s voice broke me from my thoughts. Theresa’s show had ended, and she was now sitting next to me, pointing at the picture I was holding in my hand.
“That’s my opponent for the week,” I replied, smiling at her.
“His hair is silly!” she replied, and I burst out laughing. Whatever resources the Rockwell wrestling family had, a good stylist was certainly not among them.
Theresa grinned with pride that her joke had made mommy laugh, but then she turned serious. “Are you gonna win?” she asked, almost in a whisper.
“I hope so.” I replied, looking at her. “I’ve beaten a lot of men like Rockwell before, so I think I can beat him too. But I am worried about her.” I flicked the picture, where an attractive blond woman was standing next to Rockwell, wearing some skimpy outfit I wouldn’t be caught dead in. She was doing her best to strike a seductive pose, but the puckering of her lips made her look more as if she had just eaten a piece of moldy cheese than anything else.
“She’s pretty!” Theresa said, almost in awe.
“Her name is Veronika,” I continued, sliding the picture behind an image of Thatcher Rex. Such images were unsuitable for my daughter’s eyes. “She’s Rockwell’s manager, and I’m worried that she might try and cost me the match.”
“How would she do that?” Theresa asked, looking up at me with curiosity.
“She could interfere. Either attack me, or try and distract me, anything to get my momentum off, and help her man win.”
“Isn’t that against the rules?” Theresa asked
I nodded, “Yes, but the referee always seems to manage to miss it when it happens,” I sighed, not without a bit of bitterness in my voice.
I could see the panic that entered Theresa’s eyes. The thought of me losing a match not because I was out-wrestled, but because someone interfered against me, was clearly reprehensible in her eyes. Inwardly, I felt a wave of satisfaction- I wanted Theresa to grow up with the same sense of honor and fair play that Terrence and I felt.
Well, at least that I felt.
Still though, I wasn’t exactly liking the idea of Viktoria costing me the match myself. Luckily, I did have a card of my own to play.
While Pollaski was forbidden from interfering in our matches, he was certainly allowed (and in fact encouraged), to prevent interference from happening, regardless of on who’s behalf. Pollaski had ultimately proven himself a master at this- more than once a potential interferer was sent scurrying to the back, trying to rub pepper spray out of their eyes, or still shaking from taking a cattle prod.
But there was nothing in the world Pollaski was better at than screwing with an opponent’s valet. Just the sight of the three-hundred pound man (who had more than his share of libido, to boot), strutting on the other side of the ring tended to give even the most devoted valet second thoughts about getting involved.
I didn’t like having to resort to this, but I wasn’t about to let this half-dressed sourpuss knock me out of the biggest opportunity I had in years. If Kenneth Rockwell was going to advance, it was going to be on his own merit, and not Veronika’s.
I was pretty certain that wasn’t going to be enough for him.
=======================================
Sunday December 12, 2010
The Prudential Tower- 50th Floor
Boston, Massachusetts
8:46 PM Local Time
“Just as beautiful as I remember it.”
[The observation deck of the Prudential Building is where we open our scene, a three hundred sixty-degree panorama of Bostonian skyline. Its fairly late in the evening, and the deck is by and large empty, with only a few last stragglers, mostly couples, remaining.]
[However, the focus is on one, single young woman, leaning against the glass, looking out over the city. Wendy Briese is certainly dressed for the elements, in a pair of black jeans, a heavy black coat, gloves, and a headband, her long red hair spilling over the top, to cascade down her back. Even so, the deck is inside, surrounded on all sides by thick glass, and heated, so she’s not exactly freezing to death up here.]
[Anyone else find it ironic that Wendy, well-known for her conservative style of dress and mannerisms, would be on top of the PRUDEntial building?]
“My wrestling career actually began in Boston, nine years ago, almost to the day. It started down there, in one of those warehouses. A small, now long forgotten company, called the RWF. After that, Terrence and I toured for just a little while, before returning to compete in the old NGWA. For over a year, he and I toured New England, performing in shows for fans from Maine to Connecticut, but there was no denying it- Boston was the flagship town of our company.”
[Wendy’s face is wistful in remembrance, as she continues to stare out the window. Her voice fills with slight emotion]
“I’ll never forget my last match here. A man named Jacob Harrowsmith saw fit to snap my ankle in two, even though I had already conceded the match against him. For a while, it was doubtful I’d ever wrestle again. Even though I battled back from that injury, by the time I was cleared to compete in the ring, the NGWA had dissolved, and Terrence and I had been forced to take our careers elsewhere.”
[A sad smile crosses Wendy’s face, as she turns away from the windows, and faces the camera.]
“Despite my ties to the Bostonian wrestling scene, I’m sure there are many who are going to disparage me as an outsider. Especially now that my home company, Pro-Wrestling X, has shut it’s doors for good, leaving Terrence and I, essentially, homeless.”
[Wendy’s face hardens just a bit, and she steps towards the camera just a bit, turning her back fully on the skyline now.]
“I’m not a carpet-bagger. I did not come to X3 Wrestling because I see an easy title for the taking. In fact, just the opposite. I’m here because I know the challenge that awaits me. I’m here, because if I can be the one to win this tournament, and become the X3 Champion, I’ll know that I’ve done something special. I’ll have earned every bit of the accolade that awaits me at the end.”
[She steps forward again, a bit of anger glinting in her emerald green eyes.]
“Eight months, I was in PWX. Each week, I gave everything I had in that ring. I won my matches, I entertained the fans. Terrence and I dominated the tag team division- we were never defeated, and we never lost our belts, right up until JPO shut the company’s doors. And yet, when the time came for individual title shots to be handed out, somehow, each and every time, I managed to get lost in the shuffle.”
[A small sigh, Wendy glances back out the windows for just a second, then turns back to the camera.]
“Maybe I sound like I’m whining, but when you have as much frustration built up as I do, if you don’t vent and let a little out, its going to overwhelm you. And I am frustrated. Frustrated that a company that I fought, bled, and even risked my career for wouldn’t even do the courtesy of giving me a fair chance to prove myself.”
[Wendy pauses for just a second, as if trying to collect and organize her thoughts. Finally, she breaks into a small, soft smile.]
“But here in X3, that chance awaits me. That’s what I love about tournaments- its so simple. To become the X3 champion, all anyone needs to do is win four consecutive matches. That’s it. Its something every single one of us has done over the course of our career. But only one can do it here. Only one can get that fourth victory, and step to the top of the mountain, and proclaim themselves the first-ever X3 champion.
[The smile gets just a bit wider]
“I fully intend that person to be me.”
[As she continues to talk, Wendy begins to pace, as if the mere thought of the upcoming tournament has filled her with energy.]
“While I never wrestled for Evolution Pro Wrestling, I’m well aware of that esteemed company’s legacy. It would be my honor to represent the spiritual successor of such an esteemed company as its champion. And at the same time, I think I’m someone the X3 would be proud to have representing them. Someone who values hard work and fair play. Someone who won’t back down from the challenges that would await them.”
[A small smile, and a shrug]
“I’m not sure if me being in the main event of the second Shatterpoint was by design, or by chance, but either way, its definitely a chance that I’ve been waiting for. In PWX, I was in several main events as a member of a team, but only once was I ever in the star attraction as a singles wrestler. But my very first Shatterpoint, my very first match in X3W, and I’m given the chance to be the one to send the fans home happy.”
[Short pause]
“I’m starting to like this place already!”
[Grin]
“Of course, I’m sure each of the ten remaining wrestlers in this tournament would take exception to my boasts. Especially my opponent in the first round, Kenneth Rockwell.”
[Wendy pauses in her pacing, and turns directly back towards the camera. For just a second, she pauses, biting her lower lip in contemplation. Finally she shrugs, whatever internal debate she had concluding.]
“Rockwell, talk may have been cheap before, but you’ve just depreciated its value to a new low.”
[A small dismissive shrug]
“I’m almost disappointed. I had thought that someone as revolutionary, as cutting-edge as the great Kenneth Rockwell would have brought something interesting to the table. But alas, you decided to stick to the manual on this one, didn’t you? I’m second-rate, weak, hiding behind Terrence. Throw in a few piggish chauvinistic remarks, add some crude sexual innuendo to heighten my indignation, and voila, you have the prototypical anti-Wendy Briese promo.”
[Wendy turns away, another glance out the window.]
“I’ve heard it all before, Ken, and it stopped bothering me years ago. I’ve learned that such remarks are generally made out of fear. And deep down, underneath your smug, superior attitude, there is fear there, isn’t there? Fear that a mere woman is about to bring your entire self-effacing facade crashing down around you.”
[Another small shrug. There’s a slight hint of sarcasm in Wendy’s voice as she continues to talk.]
“Luckily for you, there really isn’t any shame in losing to me. Like any loss, it may be a bit humbling, but a little humility might do you some good. It can’t be healthy walking around with that inflated of a head all of the time.”
[Wendy resumes her pacing, again buoyed by some sort of restleessness]
“See, you may be the scion of the Rockwells. You may have all the natural god-given talent in the world. But none of it, ultimately means anything. In professional wrestling, talent and natural ability, while important, can only get you so far. Grit, hard work, and determination are just as important, if not more. You might be the embodiment of excellence, but I’m the embodiment of heart and willpower. Every time you knock me down, I will get back up. Because now that I’ve finally gotten the opportunity I’ve been craving for so long, I’m not going to allow myself to lose. Especially to the likes of you.”
[A disdainful snort]
“But that’s a concept I doubt you’ll ever grasp. I’ve faced your type numerous times before, and I know the moment the opportunity presents itself, you’re going to try and take the easy way out of this match. But I feel obligated to warn you, if Veronika tries in anyway to interfere in this match, she’s going to be in for a rude shock. A VERY big, VERY nasty rude shock.”
[Like, say, Daniel Pollaski. That could get ugly.]
[Wendy slowly turns away, and begins walking with determination across the deck, towards teh elevator, the camera turning and following alongside her as she moves.]
“Rockwell, you’re acting like you’re coming to Shatterpoint for a coronation. Well, I’m coming for a fight, and I’m going to give you one. And when the dust clears, I’m going to be the one advancing to the second round, to face Psycho Soldier. And as for you?”
[Wendy pauses for just a second, then steps into the elevator, turning around, flashing a small, grim smile.]
“You better break out the thesaurus, because you’re going to need an entirely new set of adjectives to describe yourself.”
[The elevator doors close, and a few seconds later, the scene fades]
