Jurys Inn- 3rd Floor Hallway
Belfast, Northern Ireland
2:11 PM Local Time
“Three eighteen...”
Augustus Briese muttered as he eyed the three gold-plated numerals that had been nailed to the door in front of him, and took a deep breath. He still wasn’t exactly sure why he had even bothered coming down here today, other than stark curiosity. As attractive as he had found the girl, he barely even knew her. He’d much rather be at home... ‘rehearsing’ with Gayle. Or even better, celebrating the marriage proposal he had surprised her with following the wake. After all, now that he had money to call his own, what reason was there to not get married, and become the greatest husband-wife acting duo in history?
But first things first, of course. And that meant this little sidetrip to a hotel to answer a summons. Oh well, get this over with.
Gus raised his hand, and knocked three times on the door, stepping back and impatiently tapping his foot while waiting for an answer. The sound of not one, not two, but three locks sliding open greeted him, and soon the door open, and the young dark haired Ukranian stood in the doorway, exhaling with relief as she saw her guest.
“Gus, you came. Thank God.”
Her accent was still strong, but her English had improved leaps and bounds since April. But Gus barely noticed her words, so intent was he on trying not to stare. Ivana was wearing a similar style to the black dress she had worn in Eoghans, but here, in the brighter light of the hotel, everything seemed... impossibly better. Her breasts were rounder, bigger. Her hips were more perfectly proportioned. Her white skin was even creamier, her lips fuller, her hair more silky.
“Come in, please.”
The invitation jarred Gus from his thoughts, and he smiled, entering the hotel room. Ivana closed the door behind him, and beckoned for Gus to sit down in a chair. Gus obliged, and looked around. The hotel room was hardly a dump, but neither was it the luxury suite HE would stay in if he were to ever travel. There was a single bed, a dresser, with a small television atop it, the rabbit ears poking away at two odd angles. There was a small table, and two chairs over by a window, which would open up to a view of the Belfast Opera House, although now, the shades had been pulled tightly shut.
Ivana sat down on the bed, crossing her legs. For a while, a pregnant pause hovered in the air between the two of them, until finally the Ukranian found her voice, albeit a shaky one.
“Vassily’s dead.”
All the air seemed to be forced out of Gus’ lungs at the impact of the news. He blinked, and looked back at Ivana. Just the two words had caused tears to begin to trickle from her cheeks. “When was this? What happened?”
Ivana took a shuddering breath, and forced herself to continue. “It was last week. We were walking through an alley in Beechmount, and... they ambushed us. There were four of them. Russians, I think. Two of them had clubs, and one pulled out a knife. My brother... shoved me away, told me to run and don’t stop. I wanted to stay and help him, but... he kept screaming at me to run, even as he tried to fight them off. I did... I ran, and I thought they were chasing me, but... I got back here without seeing any of them.”
Gus nodded silently as he took in the story. He had known that Vassily was sending the money he had earned here in Ireland back to his homeland in the Ukraine, to support a militia of soldiers who were trying to resist the Soviet occupation. Some Kremlin jackass must have discovered Vassily’s identity and whereabouts, and setup the attack.
“I waited all night for him to come back, but he never did. I couldn’t sleep, or eat, or anything, I was so scared. I waited all that night, and until the middle of the afternoon the next day, and then I went back. He was gone, everyone was gone. But there was... so much blood.” She broke down into sobs, and Gus grabbed a tissue from a box on the table, and leaned forward offering it to the distraught girl.
“You didn’t see a body?” he asked. Ivana shook her head no, then dabbed at her eyes. Gus sighed. “Then maybe he’s not dead. Maybe they just captured him.”
“Then I hope he IS dead.” Ivana whispered. “It would be more merciful than what those jackals would do to him...”
Gus had to agree there. The Soviets were hardly known for their hospitality when it came to captives- especially ones known to be leading an armed rebellion.
Ivana had managed to calm down, slightly. “Vassily had all our money. He took care of everything, and when they got him... I don’t know many people in this city, Gus. You’re one of the few people I knew here, and... I can’t turn to anyone else, because I don’t know who to trust.”
“So you called me, looking for help?” Gus asked. He wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or amused by that.
“Please,” Ivana said again, her eyes pleading. “For the memory of my brother, your friend...”
“Yes, Vassily was my friend,” Gus replied, sitting up a little straighter in his chair. “But Vassily never did anything for me without a fee, nor did I expect him to. I think its only fair to expect the same of him, or you for that matter.”
The light of hope that had been shining in the girls eye dimmed, and true panic set in on her features. “I already told you I have no money! I can’t pay-”
“There are other ways of making payment than monetary ones,” Gus replied shortly, a cold smile coming across his face.
Ivana didn’t move, and Gus almost enjoyed her face as the words sunk in. The expressions weren’t overt, Ivana was doing the best to keep her emotions concealed, but the confusion she initially felt shown through, before understanding kicked in. Her eyes ran the gamut, from shock, to horror, to a sense of resignation. He fought down a chuckle that was building in his belly. So this is what true power felt like, to actually have control over people.
It was almost intoxicating.
Bravely putting on her most sultry smile, Ivana rose from the bed, and stood over Gus, swaying back and forth in front of him. Slowly, she pulled at one shoulder strap, then another, before letting the dress fall around her, revealing more of that creamy white skin and, at least in Gus’ opinion, some of the most wonderful feminine features he had ever seen.
Gus smiled, and licked his lips.
“My dear, I do believe we have a deal.”
Tuesday December 6, 2011
The Nest- Living Room
Indianapolis, Indiana
4:13 PM Local Time
The scene opens looking at what appears to be old television footage of a wrestling show. It’s not a very big show, set in a refurbished warehouse, with maybe one to two hundred spectators surrounding the ring. Inside the ring is a younger Wendy Briese, wearing a simple black full body leotard, her flame-colored hair tied back in a pony tail. She’s wrestling a man- altghough both would be considered a stretch. After all, the ‘man’ is little more than a boy, no more than an inch taller and ten pounds heavier than Wendy, a shock of blonde hair sticking to his forehead as he tries to catch his breath. And the wrestling... well, is some of the sloppiest, most godawful in ring action you’ll find anywhere.
Eventually, Wendy manages to dodge a massive haymaker from the boy, and catch him around the head. She leaps into the air, going for her now-famous Vortexinator, although the move, like everything else in this match, is botched, with Very little rotation, and the impact mostly absorbed by Wendy’s butt hitting the canvas well before her opponent’s head does. Nevertheless, it seems to be enough, and Wendy rolls the poor kid over, quickly gaining a three-count, and then leaping to her feet, looking as if she just won the lottery as the bell rings, and the fans, what little of them there are, clapping half-heartedly.
The image quickly shuts off, and we fade in now to the living room of the Nest, where Wendy Briese, now in her present day thirty-year old quasi-MILF state, sits on the couch, cringing at the brutality we have all just been subjected to.
Wendy: “Oh my God... was I really that bad? No wonder it took us three months and seven tries before we finally won a tag match...”
There’s a bit of laughter from the side, and the camera zooms back to see her husband Terrence, sitting at the other end of the couch. He looks over at his wife, grinning.
Terrence: “Well, to be fair, you’d been training for what? Two weeks at the time? Of course you were gonna suck. And you still won... although it’s not like Bruce Garrett was much of a wrestler either. You got better.”
He finishes with a conciliatory grin directed at Wendy, who merely sighs, and shakes her head, glancing over at the camera.
Wendy: “I just can’t believe it’s been ten years since my first official professional wrestling match! Ten years ago this week, I decided that yes, this was something I wanted to do with my life. It’s tough to believe that ten years, around two hundred and fifty matches, and twelve companies later, I’m still here.”
Terrence: “It’s been a hell of a ride, that’s for sure.”
Wendy giggles and nods, shaking her head in amazement.
Wendy: “Tell me about it. But God... watching that match. It’s almost cringe worthy. I look at the women coming out of Future Shock today, and it’s almost scary how good they are. You take anyone from that show,. I don’t care what season, and send them back to 2001 in a time machine, and they’d wipe the floor with the rookie me.”
Terrence: “Well, Charity Deas does have that DeLorean. We could send her back and put that theory to the test...
Wendy doesn’t look all that amused by the prospect of that. Then again, no one really wants to think about Charity Deas going back in time to possibly kick their ass.
Wendy: “Well, it just goes to show how high the bar has been raised, especially for female wrestlers. Future Shock Rookies today are that good because there’s so much competition to even get INTO Future Shock, you have to have at least some level of talent.”
Terrence nods in agreement, obviously conceding Wendy’s point.
Terrence: “Remember that one company pretty much took anyone who had two lumps up here and a dent down there, so long as it was good eye-candy.”
Terrence gestures, with his hands to accentuate his point, indicating first Wendy’s chest, and then her lower body. Wendy’s not exactly amused by the crude phrasing, but she still nods in agreement.
Wendy: “And they really didn’t care how well we were trained either.. they just stuck us in matches. I remember week after week, where we’d get slaughtered in a match, then spend the next week trying desperately to figure out how to get better, only to get slaughtered again seven days later. It was a tough start.”
Terrence: “But you can’t say it was all a bad thing. We got better... we kind of had no choice.”
Wendy: “Yeah, we were fortunate. But how many didn’t? How many ended up washing out of what could have been a promising career because the promoters kept sticking them into matches they had no possible hope of being ready for? How many people got hurt because they simply weren’t prepared?”
Wendy shakes her head sadly.
Wendy: “And that’s yet another reason why Femme Fatale Wrestling is such a great place! The level of competition is high here, and while it causes some of the most entertaining matches you’ll ever see anywhere in wrestling, it also serves a far more noble purpose. You can’t step in the ring here until you’re absolutely ready. Newcomers don’t get thrown to the wolves... they don’t get thrown to anything until they can prove that they can handle it here.”
Terrence coughs, which sounds like strangely like “Astral”. Wendy pointedly ignores this.
Wendy: “And that’s why I think there’s someone who needs to be pointed out, because I think she’s taken a bad rap ever since she got here, and I know I’m one of the guilty parties. But ever since Jo McFarlane walked into FFW, she’s taken flack about so much, how she doesn’t take things seriously, her win/loss record. Her attitude in general.”
Wendy takes a deep breath.
Wendy: “There’s a lot not to like about Jo McFarlane. Her overall attitude, who she chooses to associate with. There’d be one heck of a list if we were to be thorough. But that’s not what I’m after. The fact is, anyone who saw our match at Violent Night can’t deny that Jo McFarlane has deserved her spot in the FFW roster. She’s young and inexperienced, sure. But she’s got heart, and she’s improved every single match she’s participated in.”
Another sigh, Wendy offers a crooked apologetic smile.
Wendy: “Jo took me to the limit at Violent Night, and I left Dallas feeling extremely fortunate to have won there. And I think I owe Jo an apology, for the callous, arrogant comments I made before that match. And I’ll say this, I know that’s not the last time we’ll be facing off in that ring. I look forward to the rematch, although if she’s any better the next time around, I can safely say that I’ll be in serious trouble!”
Terrence: “Not to mention listening to her rage on about how you’re a filthy hypocrite again.”
Wendy shoots an annoyed sidelong glance at her husband.
Wendy: “I was hoping that part wouldn’t be brought up. And certainly hoping that the next time around, Jo will take a more...enlightened approach to her view of my career. I think that match gave us both a bit of change in perspective...”
Terrence shrugged, breaking into a triumphant grin.
Terrence: “Yeah, but only Jo got a change in spinal alignment from that. That was beautiful. You looked like you enjoyed nearly bending her in half like that...”
Wendy shoots another glare at her husband, although she bites her lip, apparently thinking.
Wendy: “I don’t think ‘enjoyed’ would be the most appropriate word there. The most I was feeling was relief, because Jo was putting up a heck of a struggle to keep kicking out after everything I gave her, and I could tell that this was finally going to do the trick. But yeah, I’ll confess. That’s about as satisfying a victory as you can get.”
Terrence chuckles, and flashes a teasing grin at his wife.
Terrence: “Gettin’ a little sadistic there, hon?”
Wendy waves her hands a tad on the defensive side.
Wendy: “No! Of course not! But Terrence, there’s generally three ways to win a wrestling match. No one likes to win by disqualification, you gain nothing from it. And don’t get me wrong- there’s nothing wrong with getting a pinfall victory... heck, that’s how I win the majority of my matches. But for your opponent to ASK you to stop, to give up the match on their own free will, not because you forced their shoulders to the mat... I’ll admit it... it’s a heck of a rush when that happens. There’s not a single more decisive way to win a match than that.”
Wendy takes a deep breath, and grimaces.
Wendy: “At the same time though... it’s pretty humbling to be submitted, especially if you’re a submissionist in your own right. It’s remember it in the heat of the moment, when every inch of your body’s on fire from a hold, but when you tap that mat, you’re basically saying ‘I give up, please stop hurting me’. That’s a pretty tough thing to have to admit. Most wrestlers aren’t exactly known for being short on pride, and asking someone to give up is a huge blow to it. I mean, look at Payton St. Pierre... she couldn’t just tap a mat... she had to VERBALLY tell Sophie she couldn’t take anymore, and she never recovered from that.”
Wendy looks over at her husband, a mixture of excitement and trepidation on her face.
Wendy: “And that’s the absolute brilliance of the No Surrender division. If you’re a submission wrestler, this is as high stakes, all-or-nothing as it gets. Either you get the satisfaction of making your opponent give up, or you have to swallow your pride, and give up yourself. No woman wants to be thought of as a quitter, and when you enter this division, you’re risking that.”
Terrence: “Well, not something you have to worry about, right? You haven’t submitted since, what? 2003?”
Wendy nods slowly, but then quickly shakes her head.
Wendy: “I think... but that’s misleading. Not many people have TRIED to submit me...”
Terrence: “Crystal Hilton did. Twice. And you held out beautifully.”
Wendy nods.
Wendy: “I did, but it sure wasn’t easy. It hurt, a lot. But I knew how I was doing, and I knew that I could hold out.”
Wendy frowns, and sighs.
Wendy: “The thing is, I’m not one of those women who are going to come on camera, thump their chest, and say that they’ll NEVER give up, even if it kills them. I can withstand pain as good as anyone else in this business, and I’ll hold out in any move longer than anyone else, but the fact of the matter is, if it comes down to me losing a match, or my arm being broken, I’ll take the loss. I’m sure someone who hasn’t a clue what they’re talking about will probably call me out on that, but I stand by it. Part of being a good submissionist is to know when you’re beaten, when its time to swallow your pride and give it up. I’m no good to myself, my company, or my family if I’m injured, or even crippled, because I was too stubborn to know when the match was over”
Wendy talks matter-of-factly, and it’s evident she’s thought this through a long time.
Wendy: “That’s not going to make me an easy out, and anyone who’s tried to make me tap before knows that they’ll have a devil of a time to even get me into a position that could make me tap. I can do a lot of things in that ring, whether it’s my kicks, or jumping off the top rope, or even high impact moves. But I’ve always been the most sure of my own submissions, and my knowledge of proper reversals. Back when I was in intergender competition, I figured out long ago that it was a great way to level the playing field when facing bigger guys. After all, a three hundred pounder is going to have a harder time throwing you if his arm feels like its on fire. A speedy luchador isn’t so speedy if the nerves in his legs scream in protest every time he tries to move. I’ve built my career on submissions. And now I can further it by putting everything I’ve learned over these years on the line.”
Another deep breath, and this time, Wendy’s eyes dance with excitement.
Wendy: “Honestly, a division like the No Surrender Divison has been a LONG time in coming. After all, this is wrestling, which is about holds and throws at its core. So if people who spend entire matches hitting each other over the head with various objects can get a title belt out of it, why not belt for us too? After all, you don’t get much purer in terms of technical expertise than two combatants in a submission wrestling match.”
Wendy looks away, her tone growing wistful for a second.
Wendy: “I was excited when the division was announced back in August. I was ecstatic when in September I found out that I was to be part of the process to select the first champion. And now, here we are in December, and its time. Two women are qualified to move on, Starla and Kassandra. Now its’ my chance to join them. And I’m facing Stephanie Sullivan, and I know she’s the so-called Technical Princess, and I’m certain she’s earned that name. But I’m not letting that stop me.”
Wendy shifts slightly in her chair, and leans slightly forward.
Wendy: “I’ll be honest. There aren’t many title belts I’ve wanted to hold more than this one. I know its ridiculous, but sometimes, I almost wonder if this belt was designed with me in mind. I’m drawn to it, like a moth to a flame. Over the past three months, every single time a card was announced, I was hoping there was something concerning this division, and no matter what else the match entailed, I’ll confess that I was disappointed when I knew I would have to wait another week. There’s no more waiting for me. There’s no more putting it off. On Thursday, December Eighth, I make my move.”
One final deep breath, Wendy’s eyes burning with determination.
Wendy: “And I know I can’t win the belt Thursday night, only lose my chance at it when Cold Blooded comes around. But that’s not going to happen. Because my pride, my ego, my reputation, I’m more than happy to put it on the line if it gets me one step closer to that belt. A belt that defines my career more than anything else- because I don’t give up. I don’t surrender Just ask the A-List how tenacious I am when there’s something out there that I feel strongly about..”
Wendy flashes a smile.
Wendy: “And don’t think I’m contradicting myself. Like I said, I’ll know when I’m beaten. But I know even more than it takes more than most people have to get me to that point.”
Exhaling slowly, Wendy leans back in her chair, and the scene fades.
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