Monday 5 September 2011
It appears that I’ve overestimated the scope of the change of heart my partner has had.
I thought that I was joining a completely reformed Isabella, one who had turned over a new page, and had a new outlook on life. And while it’s true that Isabella seems to have taken a more positive mindset, she obviously isn’t as concerned about mending her bridges as I had originally thought.
I thought Isabella wanted to beat Scarlett in a wrestling match- not completely take her head off with a steel chair. It was absolutely disgusting the way she levelled Scarlett like that. Scar didn’t deserve that in the least, and the fact that it was a teammate of mine who hit her with a chair makes me sick to my stomach. It’s equally sick that Robbyn levelled Isabella after grabbing the chair from her, instead of simply throwing it out of the ring, but I suppose at that point things had pretty much deteriorated beyond the point of control.
Obviously, considering the differences we have in our approaches to this sport, this is a team that simply is not going to work out. I’m sure Isabella thinks me a wet-blanket and a worrywort for caring about something so trivial as rules, and I’d simply rather not tie myself to a compulsive cheater.
Besides, it just felt too awkward tagging with someone other than Terrence. When you have as amazing chemistry as he and I did, teaming with someone else just feels so awkward.
Still, my mind can’t help but keep going back to last Tuesday, where I stood with Isabella on the Baltimore waterfront. She had seemed so genuine then, and, despite the disaster of tonight, I do think she is sincere about wanting to atone for her most egregious offenses, and about stopping Samantha’s latest attempt at domination. And I gave my word to her. That’s not something I do lightly.
So even if Great Expectations was just a one-time deal, Isabella still has me if she needs me. The more and more I think about it, the more and more I realize just how necessary it is that the A-List doesn’t hurt anymore people. I don’t need to be completely in agreement philosophically with someone to recognize a threat to both of us.
To all of us.
At least outside of my disappointment in my partner, I had a great time out here in New York. The autograph session was a blast- so many eager fans! And knowing that we raised so much money for Komen... that makes it even better. And from what I heard, my speech on the necessity for early detection and treatment was very well received. I’m glad that I was able to do my part.
Even better, Terrence’s race was rained out at DuQuoin today, which means that they’ll have to run it tomorrow. That means I’ll be able to attend- I’ve already got my early morning flight to St. Louis booked. There’s only four races left in the season, and Terrence is trying to break into the top ten in points. Terry seems to figure that top ten finish will give him a significantly better chance of securing a competitive ride next year.
I just better bring some old jeans. DuQuoin is a dirt track, and if it’s been raining all weekend... ICK!
-WCBT
=============================
Tuesday September 6, 2011
DuQuoin State Fairgrounds Racetrack- Pit Area
DuQuoin, Illinois
4:13 PM Local Time
“Terry!”
Even before the engine had shut off, I was running towards the car, trying my hardest not to slip and fall in the seemingly millions of mud patches that littered the area. Speaking of mud- Terrence’s car was covered in it. And, from the looks of things- fairly heavily damaged as well. Nearly every section of the car was crumpled in some way, but the most damage sat on the right hand side, where the fiber glass had peeled away after Terrence had slammed into the wall on the last lap.
Even with the safety net up in the car, a fairly decent amount of mud had splatterred in through the window onto Terrence’s racesuit. Still, I was just happy to see he was okay after that hit with the wall, and I dove at him and embraced him. There weren’t many dirt tracks on the ARCA circuit, and after watching the mess of a race that had just finished, I was certainly grateful for that fact.
Terrence was more concerned about removing his helmet and gloves than he was about hugging me back, and as he tossed them in through the car’s window onto the seat, I could tell that he was in a bad mood. He gave me a perfunctory hug back, but was looking around in the meantime.
“Where’s Hamilton?” He asked, his voice low.
I blinked. “The winner’s circle, I’d bet. He won after...”
“Right,” Terrence replied, cutting me off. He shoved by me, purposely walking towards the exit to the pit area. “Stay here, Wendy” he called back over his shoulder.
“Terry! Wait!” I called after him, a sudden feeling of dread rising in my chest. I didn’t like Wesley Hamilton any better than Terrence did, but the two had spent the last seven laps of the Southern Illinois 100 banging into each other, until Terrence had eventually been plowed into the backstretch wall, into an eleventh place finish. Wes, naturally, had gone on to win. Considering all that, I had a feeling that if Terrence so much as saw Wesley Hamilton, all hell was going to break loose.
“Terry! Stop!” I called again, trying to run after him. At least Theresa wouldn’t be around to see this, I realized with a sigh of relief. Even though the race had been postponed, classes at College Park Elementary hadn’t, and Cassie had taken Terrence’s Charger and driven Theresa back home to Indianapolis. It was only a four hour drive- we’d be home ourselves later this evening.
Provided my husband didn’t end up in jail for assault.
The crowd was simply too thick for me to catch up. Terrence was still a pretty big guy- standing over six feet, and still about two-thirty, even though his wrestling days were over. He was a natural crowd clearer, second only to Pollaski. Pro-wrestler might I be, I was still merely a hundred thirty pounds, and five-eight. Against the onrushing tide of people, it was all I could do to not actually be pushed backwards.
Still, I managed to work my way through the enveloping ensemble towards the Winner’s Circle. Wes’ car was every bit as muddy as Terrence’s was, and only slightly less banged up. But Hamilton was grinning, holding the trophy- his fifth of the season aloft. Even more annoying, the win had given Wes the points lead... made all the more frustrating by my husband actually falling back into twelfth in the standings.
“Oh, god, no.” I groaned. Terrence was pushing his way through the throng of onlookers, heading dead on at Wes. I gritted my teeth, and tried shoving my way through the crowd as well. “Excuse me! Pardon me! I’m sorry!”
The responses I mostly got were words I’d never ever want my daughter repeating, but still, I continued to push through the crowd. Maybe I could still...
“WHAT THE FUCK, THOMPSON?!”
Nope...
A massive explosion of noise from a couple hundred throats told me that the confrontation had begun, the fans hooting and hollering, hoping to see a brawl to cap off what had been a wild race to begin with. With the crowd becoming so rowdy and volitaile, I had to pick my way through even more carefully, but I finally made it to the front, sighing in dismay at what I saw.
Terrence and Wes weren’t exchanging punches, but both men had the front’ of each other’s race suit in the other’s fist, and both men were letting the other know exactly what they thought of each other. Around me, I saw other’s now pushing through the crowd as well- members of both driver’s pit crews, and several security guards. I could even see Terrence’s crew chief, Jimbo McNulty, shoving his way towards his driver.
“Terry, please,” I said, coming forwards, and grabbing his free hand. “Come on..”
“Not now, dammit!” Terrence snarled, jerking his hand away.
“Yeah, better run away, Thompson,” Wes snarled. “Gonna let you old lady fight your battles for you?”
“Fuck you, Wes! And fuck your driving! You know you’re dirty! Everyone knows you drive dirty!”
“Of course I drove dirty! The track was a fucking mud pit, you idiot!” Wes retorted, a sneer on his face.
“Terry! Please! You’re making a scene!” I tried pleading again, looking around. Both pit crews were emerging from the crowd now too, and some had taken to yelling each other as well. Emotions were high, too high.
“I SAID BACK OFF!” Terrence roared, jerking his hand away, and sweeping his hand out to push me behind him. “Stay out of this, Wendy!”
Frustrated, I took a step back. To heck with it... if these boys wanted to act like children, let them. Get it out of their system. Whatever, I had no desire to get involved. I took another step back, throwing my hands up in exasperation, and beginning to turn around.
I stopped as my elbow hit something hard, and heard a squeal of pain, followed by the gasp of the crowd. Massaging the point of my elbow where I had connected, I turned around... and felt my jaw drop.
Andrea Hamilton was three feet away, clutching her face in her hands, mewling in agony. As I watched in horror, a small stream of blood dripped through her fingers, running down her hand, then her arm.
“Oh God...”
Andrea slowly pried her hands from her face... blood was liberally dripping from her nose, and was covering her face, her hands, the dress she was wearing. I swallowed hard.
“Andrea.. I’m so... sorr..” I was stammering.
Andrea looked at the blood, and then at me, and her face contorted into one of a raging demon, her fingers curling into claws. The scream that came out of her was enough to curdle my blood.
“You.... BITCH!”
Then she was charging, headlong at me, her hands out as if she intended to tackle me and strangle me. With so little time to react, instinct took over. I sidestepped slightly, turning my hip into her. As she moved into me, I caught her arm, and pivoted with my body, taking her off her feet. She flipped completely over, before landing hard on her back in a puddle of leftover rainwater from the previous day.
I was stunned. I had hit thousands of armdrag hiptosses before, both in training and competiton. Never before had I won a fight with it.
But as Andrea began thrashing in pain in the puddle, clutching her back and screaming as if the Inquisition itself had arrived to torture her, I knew that the fight was over.
At least between me and her...
The crowd had been stunned into silence when Andrea went flying, but now had found its collective voice, and was roaring its approval, some even going so far as to chant ‘catfight!’. Flashbulbs were going off from several dozen cameraphones. The cacophony redoubled as the two crews had collided with each other, pushing and shoving. Apparently Hamilton’s team had taken the hiptoss as a declaration of war- something my husband’s team was more than happy to answer.
For their part, both Terrence and Wes had gone still. Terrence was staring open mouthed at me in shock, while Wes was staring at his screaming and convulsing wife. For a second, I thought that maybe this would maybe jar some sense into them, and realize that this was just stupid.
Then Terrence’s rear tire changer, a lanky Kentuckian by the name of Deuce, drove his fist into Wesley’s jackman’s face. And with that, the riot was on. Both teams were suddenly rolling around in the mud, swinging at each other with abandon, while the three or four security guards tried in vain to break it up. Wes looked as if he was going to swing at Terrence as well, but then thought better of it, and turned, running to attend to his wife, who was still dramatically screaming as if she was dying.
Terrence looked over at me, a note of accusation in his glare, and I could only shrug back, too stunned to do anything else. Then one of Hamilton’s boys charged at Terrence. Terrence barely moved, just grabbed the guy, and chucked him into Wes’ car, the young man rolling off the hood, and falling to the other side.
Terrence then looked at the brawling pit crews, shook his head in disgust, and walked towards me. Grabbing me by the upper arm, he forcibly- not violently, but not giving me much room to resist- led me away from the melee.
“And that,” Terrence sighed, “Is why I told you to stay back by the car.”
I risked one final glance back at the chaos. The pitcrews were still fighting, with the crowd around them hooting and cheering them on. Wes was helping a sobbing Andrea to her feet, while more security guards joined the fray.
I looked up at my husband. “We’re in big trouble... aren’t we?”
The look on Terrence’s face was grim.
“Yup.”
Tuesday September 6, 2011
The RV- Main Cabin
DuQuoin, Illinois
5:45 PM Local Time
We cut in just as the cameraman is entering the RV, climbing up the steps, past the driver’s seat into the main cabin, with its television, pull-out sofa, and table on one side, and smaller couch, kitchenette, and storage on the other. A small, lithe, redheaded figure is leaned over the sink, in mud splattered clothing, dipping her hands in the water, and cupping them over her face. Wendy Briese, of course.
It should be noted that since the fight happened in front of like three hundred people, several of which were auto racing journalists, the preceding scene is very, very usable.
Pollaski: “Ah, there she is! The NEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEW ARCA WOMEN’S CHAMPION OF THE WOOOOOORLD!”
Pollaski’s voice comes from behind the camera, giving a strong indication that he’s holding it. Wendy glances at her manager, her face sour. She turns back to the sink, shutting off the water, and drying her face.
Wendy: “Shut up, Dan.”
Pollaski doesn’t shut up. Instead, he laughs. Much to Wendy’s irritation.
Pollaski: “Oh, don’t tell me you’re upset about this.”
Wendy looks over at her manager, and yes, she definitely looks upset. She swallows hard, and looks away.
Wendy: “Get that camera out of here. I don’t want to...”
Pollaski: “What? You don’t want to commemorate the best goddamn thing you’ve ever done?! I mean, you just put a shrill, annoying little bitch in the hospital! That has to count for something.”
Wendy’s practically trembling, as she continues to have her back to the camera.
Wendy: “She had no professional training. No experience whatsoever. I shouldn’t have...”
Pollaski: “Hang on... she came at YOU, remember?”
Wendy shakes her head, her head still down in shame.
Wendy: “I’m the professional here. There was no justification for what I did. I’m not proud of it.”
Pollaski: “Would it help if I told you someone uploaded a video of it to YouTube? And eight hundred forty seven people already ‘like this’?
The glare Wendy’s shooting Pollaski would suggest ‘no’.
Wendy: “The only thing I have to say is that I truly regret my actions, and whatever consequences arise from this, either with ARCA, or FFW, I’m fully willing to accept them.”
Pause.
Pollaski: “Well, that’s kinda lame.”
Wendy: “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you. Throwing a defenseless woman into a mud puddle is not my idea of how to solve my problems. It’s not who I am, and it’s not what I’m about. I don’t advocate street fighting. I don’t advocate...”
Pollaski cuts Wendy off with a laugh.
Pollaski: “Wait a second... I’ve seen you do this before. This whole overblown ‘I’m sorry I’m a horrible person’ thing.”
Pause.
Pollaski: “You’re not feeling guilty because you slammed Andrea Hamilton into a mud puddle. You’re feeling guilty because you ENJOYED doing it!
Wendy: “NO!”
The look on Wendy’s face could only be described as scandalized. Oh, and about as dishonest as we’ve ever seen her.
Pollaski: “LIARFACE! FACE OF A LIAR!”
Wendy takes a deep breath, her teeth clenched.
Wendy: “Okay... I’ll admit that, there might have been... some part of me... that felt... a really.. tiny bit of... satisfaction.”
Pollaski: “HAH! I KNEW IT! There was this little flicker of a smile on your face after you chucked her, before you went all like ‘Oh shit! I’m not supposed to do this!’
Wendy’s starting to turn red. Fairly impressive, given her normally pale complexion.
Pollaski: “Oh, Wendy. What is everyone going to think when they find out that you love to pick fights with defenseless women, and drop them into mud puddles? I mean, Colleen would have a field day with...”
It’s like you can hear Wendy’s patience audibly snap.
Wendy: “Oh, shut up, Pollaski! And to hell with Colleen! Like her opinion actually matters!”:
The outburst seems to have startled even her, and for a moment, she looks at the camera, stunned. Finally, she shrugs, as if an “oh well, I said it.” aura.
Wendy: “Any credibility that Colleen actually had died two weeks ago, when she decided to turn herself into one of Samantha Star’s little dogs. Considering all that boloney she spewed in the weeks after Unstoppable... I’d had thought she’d at least have had better standards than that.”
Clearly agitated, Wendy begins to pace.
Wendy: “Do you even remember why Colleen supposedly decked Robbyn and I at Unstoppable, then spent ten excruciating minutes insulting the fans about it a couple weeks later? It’s because the fans had the audacity to cheer for all three of us, despite the fact that the three of us all had differing philosophies. Apparently that signifies that the FFW faithful are weak minded, unable to think for themselves, and willing to cheer for whoever they’re told to.”
A snort, and an eyeroll from the scarlet haired woman.
Wendy: “Well, maybe if Colleen actually used her BRAIN, she’d come to the conclusion that our philosophies didn’t mean ANYTHING at that moment. The fans had just seen a great match, against three great wrestlers who had given everything they had for it. Of course they’re going to cheer, and show appreciation. The effort Robbyn and I gave deserved at least that much, even if Colleen didn’t think so.”
Wendy shakes her head.
Wendy: “But that’s all beside the point. Colleen apparently criticizes the lack of independent thought in the people that buy tickets to watch her compete, and then she goes and signs with Samantha Star? How the heck is that independent thinking?”
Both Wendy and Pollaski chuckle, but while Pollaski actually sounds amused, Wendy’s is more sarcastic.
Wendy: “Seriously, look at the A-List. Rose Jenkins is little more than a lackey, a hired muscle to make Samantha’s irritations go away. Payton’s a sycophant, always drooling over her boss. Starla’s a vulture, who seems to enjoy feeding on whatever scrap Samantha throws at her, and Jo, well, we all saw how easily she was bought over the course of a couple weeks on Twitter.”
Probably if she wasn’t already so wound up, she would be choosing her words carefully, especially where her boss is concerned.. But between the fight and Pollaski’s button pushing, Wendy’s a bit more open about her feelings than usual.
Wendy: “And I don’t think that we can forget about the LAST person who actually tried to think differently than Samantha. She got her bloody skull nearly caved in in the middle of the Elimination Chamber. So you tell me where thinking for oneself comes into this?”
Wendy pauses, as if she expects Pollaski to answer. When he doesn’t, she shrugs, and turns away, pacing again.
Wendy: “It doesn’t. Colleen doesn’t give a lick about people thinking for themselves, any more than she actually cared about respect, like she so long claimed to. Respect is a two way street- you have to GIVE some to receive some, something Miss Harmon never quite was able to figure out. But she wasn’t about that anyways. All Colleen cared about was validation. People telling her that so long as she got in the ring and made another girl tap out in pain every other week, it didn’t matter how crappy her attitude she had.
Another snort, and a shake of her head.
Wendy: “Well she never got it. The locker room got sick of her well before I had arrived, so she tossed them aside. The fans never really gave it to her her either. Sure, they respected her technical ability, like they do all talented wrestlers, but there’s only so much you can do before you start alienating your own supporters. Colleen didn’t like that, so she turned away from them. And Wolf wouldn’t just stand by and let her throw away the last vestiges of respect she had, so she tossed him aside too.”
Wendy stops pacing, and looks over at the camera.
Wendy: “Well, now she’s got it. Samantha’s put out her hands, Colleen saw what she wanted, and started lapping it up like Kibbles and Bits. I don’t know what drew those two together, and I don’t really care. But I’m sure Colleen’s happy that now that she’s in league with our owner, it doesn’t matter how awful her attitude is, so long as she comes when Samantha calls her.
More pacing.
Wendy: “Except every action has a consequence, and I think it’s time that Colleen received hers. Wolf Ramsey set it up nicely. Colleen fired him, so he used the last vestige of power to set this match up, and stick me in there. Me, the very first person who’s head Colleen saw fit to ram her microphone into. Well, I’ve sat patiently for nearly two months since that day, waiting for my chance for payback. And I’m going to get it, and hurt Colleen where it’s going to sting the most. I’m going to take her Evolution title away. And you know what that will be?”
Small pause, and Wendy breaks into a slightly vindictive smile.
Wendy: “Poetic justice.”
Pollaski: “Well, you better be careful. Tara might think this ‘poetic justice’ is just another conspiracy theory.”
Wendy actually bursts out laughing at that.
Wendy: “It’s funny... it really is. You’d actually think that someone who’s so dependent on coming up with paranoid conspiracy theories might actually pay a bit more attention.”
A small smile, then Wendy shakes her head, puffing a loose strand of red hair away.
Wendy: “Tara apparently thinks that the Byte This assignments were handed out in some secret meeting of the Illuminati, where we had to swear fealty to some new world order to get on the show. Reality is, the show was announced on Twitter several weeks before, with open sign-ups being conducted over the same media. There was absolutely no secret nature about it. All you needed was a computer, and a Twitter account, and you could have been on.”
Although to be fair, Twitter could possibly be a conspiracy in and of itself...
Wendy: “As far as my speech... I wasn’t out to make the fans LIKE me with that. I was doing my JOB. I am, after all, FFW’s ambasssador to the Susan Komen foundation. I’ve been asked to shoot several PSA’s concerning the necessity of screening and detection in breast cancer treatment, and it seemed fitting that at such a momentous event, I come out and give a little talk about it. If you’re going to count conspiracy theories, you might as well at least do enough research by watching the SHOWS. My PSA spots are ran during the commercials all the time!”
Wendy shakes her head in disbelief, and sighs, obviously still wound up.
Pollaski: “Well, from the sound of things, Tara’s hell-bent on becoming the new Colleen... someone who bitches no matter what kind of opportunity she’s been given.”
Wendy nods, rolling her eyes again.
Wendy: “Well, you have to feel for her. It can’t be easy going through life that paranoid. But who cares if it’s two or three people you’re facing? Anyone in this match has a fair shot of walking out of this match the Evolution Champion. All we have to do is climb that ladder, and grab the title. Tara has two arms, and two legs, and seemingly some sense of balance. The only thing that will be stopping her from getting up there are Colleen and myself.”
Small shrug
Wendy: “If you want to be a true champion, you have to be ready and willing to try and win, or defend, the title in any kind of match, even if it’s not to your advantage. I’ve been in some that have favored me, and I’ve been in some that haven’t. It doesn’t matter. You go out there and you do whatever you can to win, and bring that belt home.”
Wendy scoffs, and stops pacing again, looking back at the camera.
Wendy: “And the match is on Breaking Point? WHO CARES?! It’s a title shot, for crying out loud! They don’t come around that often, so really, honestly, does it matter what the set looks like, or which channel we’re on? We win here, it still counts as much as it does a pay-per-view. And heck, free television has more viewers than pay-per-view. Which means whoever wins the title is going to be doing so in front of a much larger audience than we would at Sin & Sacrifice. And think about it, like me and Crystal two months ago, this is the LAST match before the pay-per-view. The last chance to convince fans to buy the show before the final buildup. And it’s going to be the three of us out there doing it. That’s a showing of as much faith as anything.”
Another shake of the head in disbelief.
Wendy: “And I do understand Tara’s frustration that she hasn’t been put in a match at Sin & Sacrifice yet. But there’s still one more show to go, and that card’s not final yet. She still can get on, and considering how talented she really is in that ring, I’d be shocked if she doesn’t. But she’s not doing herself any favors by ranting and raving like a psychotic madwoman on the camera.”
Wendy pauses, biting her lip.
Wendy: “Nor is she with her idiotic offhand comments about a certain anniversary we’re commemorating this weekend.”
Pollaski groans in disgust.
Pollaski: “Dear God, this is the second year in a row when some idiot’s used that in a promo against you on this week.”
Wendy looks at Pollaski, and shakes her head in sadness and disgust.
Wendy: “I was born in New York City. Colleen’s from Washington. If Tara wanted to get under our skins with the comments, she succeeded, at least where I’m concerned. But there’s a line you just don’t cross, for God’s sakes. I’d hope even the likes of Tara Thunder would show a little more class than that.”
Another disgusted shake of the head.
Wendy: “But then again, looking at Tara, holding a sense of perspective doesn’t exactly seem to be her strong point. From her delusions of paranoia, to her incendiary comments, to her apparent sense of entitlement, Tara is someone who is in need of a very stiff reality check.”
A small shrug.
Wendy: “She’s got a title shot. That’s a chance, but it’s by no means a sure thing. Tara seems to think that she’s coming for a coronation, and I’m going to be there to wreck it. Hardly. She’s coming for a triple-threat ladder match, and I”m going to be one of her opponents. There’s a huge difference there.”
A small smile.
Wendy: “And I might have moral quandaries about a lot of things, but beating Tara and Colleen fair and square on Saturday night isn’t going to be one of them. Because you know what? I have dreams to.”
The smile widens.
Wendy: “And at Breaking Point, I’m going to achieve one of them.”
Wendy suddenly starts as the door to the RV opens, and the camera turns, showing Terrence, looking fairly tired. He looks from Wendy (a small hint of irritation on his face), then back to Pollaski.
Terrence: “We’re leaving. Now.”
Wendy looks slightly apprehensive.
Wendy: “What’s going on, Terry? What did ARCA and Diamond say about the-”
Terrence: “Team meeting. Next Thursday. We’ll all find out our sanctions then. But before that, you and I are going to have a nice little talk.”
A small pause.
Terrence: “WITHOUT that thing on.”
He’s obviously talking about the camera. Pollaski takes the hint, and the last thing we see as we fade out is Wendy, still looking like a deer caught in the headlights.
Black.
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