Sunday October 16, 2011
Toledo Speedway- Main Grandstand
Toledo, Ohio
5:10 PM Local Time
“Yellow! Mommy, Yellow!”
“What?!” I yelled over the roaring of 30 car engines, back at my daughter. It wasn’t too long before I realized what she was yelling about, however. The flagman was waving the yellow flag over the field, the cars on the track quickly slowing down as they heeded the notice for the 10th caution. I frantically looked around for the cause- there, in turn two, a couple feet from the outside wall, a cherry red car with black stripes and a large white 84 on the side, spun around so it was facing backwards.
“No...” I moaned, running my hand through my hair as I looked at the track scoreboard. The top number, the lap counter, read 199- one lap short of the required distance for the Federated Car Care 200. The number below it indicated the leader of the race- the #38 car. My husband’s car.
The track announcer was babbling, trying to be heard over the engines. “And that’s the eighty-four of Louis James who spun... what a heartbreak for him- he was running seventh at the time! I didn’t see what happened, but I’m hearing reports there was contact...”
It was a potential heartbreak for Terrence as well, I groused as the spun car, finding a gap in the traffic, angrily spun its tires, wheeling around to the correct direction, and taking off to join the pack. My husband had been leading by nearly six car legnths, and had the 84 not spun around, and the race remained green, it was very likely he’d have been the first to cross the 200th lap. But under ARCA rules, a race must finish under green flag conditions, no matter how many tries- or extra laps, it took. It was a rule designed to ensure the fans didn’t have a finish under caution, an anticlimactic finish that would send no one home happy. But while it was bad the race was extended for Terrence, it was worse that the pack chasing him would be completely bunched up behind him on the restart. One missed gear, one slip, and he was a sitting duck to be passed.
*CRUNCH!*
The crowd was roaring, some cheering, some booing in disapproval, and I looked over. The spun car, apparently in a rage-filled attempt at revenge, had plowed into the yellow #65, noticeably putting a dent in the chassis. I shook my head in disgust at the idiotic move. Even if the 65 had turned him around, there was just no room for that. It was childish and dangerous.
But ultimately profitable for the track announcer, who was shilling the contact with a flair that would have made Mr. Showtime jealous. “James just went straight into Bob Olsen, and I think he meant to do it! Oh my, I think we know who our prime suspect is in who got James spun around! But that... oh that’s not a good thing to do! And.. yes, I’m getting word now that ARCA officials are kindly asking Louis James to remove his car from the racetrack!”
Sure enough, the flagman had the black flag- indicating a car was required to leave the track- out, and was pointing directly at the 84. James had to have known it was coming- he was already halfway to the smaller, quarter-mile track that was being utilized as pit-road for the race. En route to his own pit box, he had to pass the yellow car’s, being treated to a barrage of shouting and obscene hand gestures from 65’s crew.
“Why did he do that, mommy?”
“Because he didn’t think it was fair that he got spun, hon.” I replied, looking down at my daughter. “But it was a dangerous thing to do... using his car as a weapon like that. He could hurt somebody by being a sore loser.”
“Oh, a sore loser! Like how you’re angry when a wrestler keeps fighting after the bell!”
“Pretty much,” I grinned, giving her a quick hug. I looked back at the track and felt a tingle up my spine, my arms suddenly covered in goosebumps. With little actual debris on the track, and the accident so minor, the track had been clear in just a few minutes, and they were already preparing to go back to green. The cars would start double-file, in two lines, with the leaders in the front. Terrence, as the race leader, had pulled to the inside of the track, while second place, the black #13 of Matt Bronson, lined up outside of him.
Directly behind Terrence was the green #47 of Wesley Hamilton.
While Terrence had all but sewn up the Rookie of the Year points race, Bronson and Hamilton had entered in a virtual tie for the overall championship. It was pretty simple- whoever finished higher in this race would be the 2011 ARCA Re/Max Series champion. Until the accident, Bronson had it locked up, but now, with his teammate right in front of him, Wesley was back in it. If Terrence could get a jump on the restart, and the two could coordinate it, they’d lock Bronson out high, Hamilton would slide under, and take over second place, giving Diamond Motorsports the 1-2 finish, and Hamilton the Championship.
While the thought of Terrence actually helping Wesley win the championship galled me after all that Wes and his wife had done over the past few months, I still knew that Terrence would help him. It was his job, after all, to be a good teammate, even if Hamilton hadn’t been for him. I glanced over a few seats down, where Wes’ wife, Andrea sat. As much as I disliked the woman, I had to feel for her, as she sat, her hands clapsed in front of her, her lips moving in some sort of mantra designed to help her husband out.
The track announcer didn’t miss the impending drama at all, and he was again shilling it for all he was worth. “Thunderstruck” by AC/DC was playing over the speakers, and as one, the crowd rose to its feet as the flagman furled his yellow flag, raising it high in the air, the indication that there was one lap to go until green. “We’re one lap from GREEN-WHITE-CHECKERED folks! Two laps to the win and the championship, and it’s anyone’s game!”
The pace car pulled away- the field was Terrences now, as he lead the pack along the backstretch, almost at a crawl. I felt my throat dry up. Whether or not Hamilton won the championship, I wanted Terry to come away with the win here. Winning the season finale would go a long way towards securing a sponsor for the next year...
Turn three... turn four... still at a crawl. Bronson hovered close to Terrence- if he could jump ahead and take the inside lane into the turn, it’d be over. But Terrence wasn’t going to-
GREEN FLAG!
It was deafening, a score and a half of cars tearing away in a wild two lap sprint to the finish. I whooped as Terrence leapt in front of Bronson, Wesley right on his tail, as they hit the first turn. Bronson, trapped up high and on a bad line, slowly drifted back as Hamilton scooted under him. Terrence led Wes onto the backstretch, the race Terrence’s, the championship Hamiltons. Bronson, desperate, fell in behind in third place, but the ground was too far to make up.
The announcer was trying to scream all that ws going on, but there was no way he could be heard over the cheering crowd and the roaring engines. The lead three were pulling away from the pack as they came to the front stretch, white flag waving for the final lap, Terrence in front, Hamilton behind, Bronson trying to find some way to make up the ground he needed.
Onto the backstretch they roared. I kept taking my eyes off and looking around to the pack behind- one simple miscue, and there’d be another caution, forcing us to do this again. But the pack had spread out nicely on the restart, no incidents. They wouldn’t stop it now, with just two turns-
“WES! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” the words exploded from my mouth as Wesley, wanting to take the win as well as the championship, tried to sneak under Terrence. It was a massive show of selfish greed- he didn’t need to win the race to win the championship, and he would be finishing second in the race only to his teammate, a huge coup for Diamond Motorsports. Terrence, obviously caught completely off guard by the move, was nearly thrown into the wall. But he held on, and to my surprise, fought back against his greedy teammate, moving down to try and hang on to first place.
The checkered flag began to wave as the two came out of four, and the cars collided, a horrible shrieking sound of metal echoing through the arena. Terrence spun across the front of Wesley’s car, saved it, oversteered, and plowed nearly head-on into the outside wall just as he crossed the finish line, illiciting a horrified scream from my throat. Wesley smacked the inside wall, and spun up across the track, clipping Bronson’s car, forcing it into a spin as well. The two crossed the finish line, side by side, spinning like dance partners.
The rest of the field desperately tried to avoid the crashes, spreading out as they came to the finish, trying to avoid the three crippled leaders. A couple cars slammed into each other, and a purple car came within inches of nailing Terrence. But somehow, miraculously, the pack made it through with no one else losing control.
As the field began to slow down on the backstretch, I looked down to Terrence’s car, which had skittered to a stop right in front of me. He was the winner- there was no doubt about that, but at the moment, I was more concerned for his safety. It didn’t take long to get my answer, and I breathed with a sigh of relief as i looked down, and saw him moving inside, quickly detaching his window net as a sign to emergency workers that he was okay. I looked at Hamilton and Bronson’s cars, and was happy to see that they too were moving inside.
Then Terrence quickly climbed out of his car threw his helmet back inside, and gave a primal roar of victory that he hadn’t even given after the biggest of his wrestling wins. The crowd, taken by the emotion of the roar, cheered him back, and I couldn’t help but laugh as Terrence beat his chest in a Tarzan yell. A short ways away, Bronson and Hamilton had gotten out of their cars as well, both men looking around confused, trying to figure out what had just happened.
With the engines off, the track announcer was slightly more audible, and he was trying to helpfully sort things out. “Well, we’re definitely sure Thompson is our winner, and that’s his second of the year! But I know you’re all wondering who finished second, and ARCA officials are looking at photos and telemetry now to figure it out! I’ll have it here in just a sec.. wait... I have word that it’s the number thirteen-”
The arena exploded with noise at the announcement, and on the track, Matthew Bronson fell down, overcome by the emotion of the moment, as his pit stall erupted in pure abandon. Wesley, for his part, stared gaping-mouthed at the scoreboard, which indicated the final top 3 as 38-13-47. I glanced over at Andrea again, and she had the exact same expression on her face, although tears were beginning to leak out of the corner of her eyes as she mouthed repeatedly "No...no...no..."
As Bronson was tackled by his jubilant pit crew, Terrence was handeda checkered flag. It was customary for winners to do a “Polish Victory Lap” with the flag- driving the course in reverse, so the driver side faced the fans, but since Terrence’s car was completely undrivable at the moment, he was just content to wave the flag at the audience, conducting us in our cheering as if he were a maestro. For a second, he managed to catch a glimpse of me, and he mouthed “I love you!”, and I grinned back, tears forming at the corner of my eyes, as I hugged my daughter close to me.
Wesley Hamilton could take no more. His victory, his championship, his season, everything had disappeared in those last few seconds, and he was quickly finding a scapegoat to his sudden downfall. Screaming unintelligibly in rage, he charged at Terrence, screaming unintelligibly as he bore down on the one thing, outside of his own greed and stupidity, that had cost him everything.
*POW!*
The right hook had been as fine as any Terrence had thrown in his ring days, and Wesley immediately crumpled to the asphalt. Terrence looked down at his soon-to-be-former teammate, shrugged, then stepped over his body, purposefully walking towards Bronson to congratulate the 2011 champion. Andrea, uttering a high pitched wheezing noise, started running down the stairs, stumbling in her high heels as she tried to get closer to her husband.
“Mommy? Why did Daddy punch him?”
"Because he was being a sore loser, Terr-Bear," I couldn’t help but chuckle as I picked up Theresa in my arms, and began walking towards the track myself. Chances were they’d want the wife standing beside her husband in the victory interviews. I looked at Hamilton, who was slowly getting to a sitting position, rubbing his jaw in stunned silence, as Andrea stood near the fence, demanding to security that she be let in. “Wesley was being a VERY sore loser.”
Sore, in a lot more ways than one!
Tuesday October 19, 2011
Chase Tower- 48th Floor
Indianapolis, Indiana
3:11 PM Local Time
The scene opens with a smiling Wendy Briese, standing at the top floor of the tallest building in Indianapolis, near the windows. She looks at the camera, her red hair tied behind her in a pony tail, and tugs at the cyan blouse she is wearing, giving it a last second straighten.
“So, Rose, welcome to Indianapolis!”
The grin widens.
“I know that FFW visited the Circle City just a few months ago, and you were here, although you didn’t wrestle, but I doubt really had a chance to experience all that this wonderful city had to offer. So, I thought that, since neither you nor any of your A-List buddies are from anywhere near here, it would be nice to show you around, and tell you about some of the things you can do in the downtown area. After all, I wouldn’t want any of you to leave here thinking I was a negligent hostess or anything.”
Another smile, although there is a faint edge of sarcasm to it. Wendy beckons to the camera, which approaches the windows. She points down, and the camera follows, focusing in on a rather large traffic circle over eight hundred feet directly below, a spire sticking about two hundred fifty feet back up.
“That’s Monument Circle, the heart of the city, with the Soldiers and Sailors monument in the middle, honoring the Hoosiers- or at least those of the territory- who gave their lives in the Revolutionary War, and the War of 1812. You can actually go up the spire- three hundred stairs to the top. Obviously, the view up there’s not as awesome as it is up here, but its open to the public, while you normally aren’t allowed up here atop the Chase. And over there is Lucas Oil Field, where our Colts play, and the next Super Bowl’s going to be held in February. It’s a shame they won’t be playing in it...”
Wendy points from one stadium to the next, then quickly points to another stadium, a little further away, and then a clasically designed structure with a large dome.
“That’s Victory Field, where our minor league Indinapolis Indians play. And there’s the capital, where the assembly meets. It’s even more beautiful on the inside than it is the outside. And over there is the White River! That park there has the zoo, and our state museum.”
Wendy leads the camera around the windows, pointing out other landmarks as she does, starting with a group of buildings further in the distance that looks like a campus.
“That’s IUPUI, where I got my associates degree... go Jaguars! And up there’s the World War Memorial park- they built that in 1919 to remember those who fell in the Great War, and later expanded it after the second one. And there... that’s Conseco Fieldhouse. You’ll DEFINITELY want to go there.. of course, that’s where our show is on Thursday night.”
A short, cheesy grin from Wendy, but then she points beyond the Fieldhouse, to a silver ribbon running across the viewscape, turning slightly southward and continuing out in the distance. Even from this far away, tiny dots can be seen moving back and forth on it.
“But I think the most important landmark you’ll want to find is that one right there. That’s Interstate 70, and it’s real easy to get to from the arena. Just take a right onto Maryland, and another right onto Washington. Take a third right at the interchange, and you’ll get right on, although you’ll want to be in the right lane, otherwise you’ll end up on 65, and you don’t want to do that.”
Wendy’s voice turns decisively icier, as the camera fades away, to find that she’s no longer smiling.
“That’s the quickest route to the airport, and it should take about twenty minutes. That’s already twenty minutes too long that you and the rest of the A-List will be infesting MY CITY after the show, so please be expedient.”
A small shrug.
“Of course, I’m sure the lot of you will be more than eager to get the heck to the terminal yourselves, and put this town behind you, considering what I’m about to do to you, Rose, and any other member of the A-List that dares to get in my way.”
Wendy looks back out the window again, grimacing.
“I’ll confess. When Samantha announced this match a few weeks ago, I was nervous. I’m not exactly a powerhouse here, and you’re by far the biggest woman on the FFW wrestler. Heck, you could probably outpush my manager. And you know how to fight- you’re a vicious power-brawler, and one blow can knock any girl on this roster out just like that.”
Wendy snaps her fingers, and laughs quietly, shaking her head, looking almost impressed.
“I think we both know that I won’t be standing toe to toe with you in that ring, Rose, and slugging it out. I’m not pushing you around.. heck, I’ll be amazed if I can even throw you. But I’ve beaten people your size and stregnth before- I just have to outmaneuver you, outperform you, and most of all, outthink you.”
Another grimace.
“But then you throw in the A-List, and I’m a longshot, aren’t I? Five of your cronies, each one as blindly loyal to your master as you are, patrolling outside. And I know at least two of them, if not all five, who’d love to get a piece of me at any opportunity she can. I go outside that ring, whether vouluntary or not, and I’m in for a world of hurt. Heck, I get too close to the ropes, and all it takes is a quick swipe through the ropes, and I’m off-balance and a sitting duck.”
Wendy laughs softly, although its obvious that she doesn’t find much humor here.
“And that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? You’ve got me in a corner, and you’re about to use me to send a message to the entire FFW roster about what happens to anyone who interferes in the A-List’s business. And of course prove that your little ‘Bad Girls Club’ reigns supreme over the land.”
Wendy’s gaze hardens in determination and she bites her lower lip, her voice growing quieter, but taking on an edge.
“Rose, I hope you listen, and you listen well. The only thing that will be reigning supreme on Thursday night is the disappointment and panic you and your friends will feel when six people isn’t anywhere CLOSE to being enough to bring me down. There’s no way in HELL that I’m going to allow myself to be beaten, humilated, and made an example of in my own hometown.”
A deep breath.
“I know it’s not going to be easy. But I made a promise to myself after I lost to Crystal at Sin & Sacrifice that I was going to stop worrying about implications so much. Just get in there and wrestle- and it worked at Byte this. I won the battle royal, I elminated four people, and I beat Colleen to do it. That’s exactly what I need to do again.”
“Because when it boils down to it, Rose, the lumberjacks in this match are little more than distractions. They can pace, they can taunt me, they can wail and grunt and gnash their teeth, but its you and me in that ring. You’re the only person I need to beat out there.”
A small, determined smile.
“And rest assured, Rose, I CAN beat you. I’m absolutely nothing like you’ve faced yet in FFW.
I’m not Nina, I’m not Lumina, and I’m not Michelle. I’m Wendy Briese. I won the first Chase for the Crown, I won the Byte This Battle Royal, and I’m a one-time Evolution Championship. And at Velocity, I’m going to become the first person to pin or submit the great, supposedly invincible Rose Jenkins. And I won’t use a chair. I won’t use a screwdriver. I’ll do it the way it was MEANT to be done- with my skill, my technique, and the countless hours I’ve spent practicing and studying for a night like Thursday. You may have me cornered, but like any other animal, I fight my best when my back’s against the wall.”
Another small shrug, and Wendy just shakes her head.
“But you’re laughing at all this, aren’t you Rose? My little defiant declaration of victory is probably the most hillarious thing you’ve heard all week. Little Wendy Briese, the White Knight, couldn’t possibly bring YOU down, could she? Not with the odds so stacked against her.”
Wendy snorts.
“Well, keep laughing. I’ve gotten used to it by now, no small part in thanks to your friends. And you truly are sitting in the catbird seat. You’ve got the target of stage, and standing under the bucket of blood. All you need to do is pull the rope, and the real fun can begin.”
Small pause, Wendy looks at the camera.
“But you’ll find out real soon that the time for laughing is over, and the time for running away has begun.”
Wendy wheels on her heel, and heads towards the elevator, not looking behind her, although she does call over her shoulder.
“Just remember while you’re running to stay to the right. You get on 65, and your night will only get worse than it already was.”
Fade
The following is from the private journal of Wendy Briese
Sunday 16 October AD 2011
As I write this, I’m sitting on a Chicago bound CRJ, sandwiched in between my sleeping daughter and husband. It’s been a long, but very enjoyable night. I probably set an FFW record in terms of fast-matches tonight in Toronto- Charity Deas predictably offered minimal resistance. After that, it was a quick flight to New York, for Cara and Anders pre-Ground Zero bowling party. That was enjoyable, although I’m grateful that we got a more... quiet lane than some of the other wrestlers had- the scuffle between Undine and Isabella was better viewed from a distance. We left Pollaski behind after the festivities began to break up, and once we land in Chicago, it’s only a short layover before we board our flight to Toledo, and Terrence’s final race of the season.
Considering he’s the one driving tomorrow, I’m glad Terrence is getting some shuteye. Qualifying starts at 12:00, just a few hours after we land, and I know he’s going to want to be well-rested for the race. Theresa’s been an absolute doll throughout our trip. I’m so proud of her how well she has managed to handle our occasionally frantic schedule. As for me, I know I’m going to regret pulling these long hours at some point tomorrow afternoon, but I think it really meant a lot to Cara and Anders that we showed up to support them.
Part of me is worried about tomorrow, of course. I always get nervous when Terrence races, and the fact that it’s going to be the last race of the season, with him trying to hang on to his ninth place standing (and his lead in the rookie of the year race!), isn’t exactly settling the butterflies.
But it goes beyond tomorrow as well. This side of Breaking Point, the upcoming Velocity show seems a heck of a lot closer. On one hand, it’s something to look forward too- a return to my hometown, which was so awesome for both me and the rest of the FFW roster when we visited back in June. But at the same time, I know what I’m up against, and I know the implications behind this match.
The last time the FFW was in Indianapolis was a bittersweet memory for me. The response had been tremendous, and I had felt the adrenaline every step of the way as I came out for that match. And I accomplished what I had set out to do- I advanced to the finals of the Chase for the Crown. But there was no denying that I left the Fieldhouse with egg on my face that evening. Crystal had embarassed me, just when I had thought I was at my high point, and she left my lying on the canvas while she pinned Kassandra. I still consider the match a victory for me, but at the same time, it was certainly a sinking feeling.
Obviously that moment was an insipiration for Ms. Star. She praised Crystal in the aftermath in my own manager’s column. And now, four months later, she’s out for a repeat performance. Rose Jenkins, her own personal attack dog, comes to Indy to face me. Outside the ring as lumberjacks, the rest of the A-List, and that includes Colleen, who has taken unabashed delight in mocking me at every single opportunity, from her attack at Unstoppable, to her antics in our ladder match, to the blatant disrespect she showed me at Byte This. That I won in San Francisco can’t possibly sit well with her, and I’m sure she’ll love every opportunity she can to get her hands on me should I leave the ring.
But not as much as Jo McFarlane. It’s tough to believe that once it seemed that mutual respect existed between us. How quickly that’s soured! And for what, because I didn’t think it was wise for her to go out and party so hard that she can’t remember anything by the next morning? I don’t even know. But the one time Jo and I were in that ring together was just a little under two weeks ago, and I doubt she could possibly ever drink so much she’ll forget the spinebuster I gave her.
Add in Alyssa Foxworth, Starla McCloud, Arabella de Rossi, and the prognosis gets even uglier. Five women, every single one of them loyal to my opponent, prowling outside the ring like rabid hyenas, looking to bite me in my ankles any chance they get. I almost see what Isabella was talking about back in Little Rock. How could I possibly come away from this with a win by fighting fair? Forget winning, try surviving. Samantha didn’t book a match here- she booked a hit, to be carried out in front of my neighbors. My former students at the MCCT. My daughters teachers and classmates. The people I stand in line with at the supermarket. The mechanics at Terrence’s garage. Samantha wants to embarrass me to the point where I can’t even show my face outside my house, much less in FFW ever again.
Well, to hell with Samantha, to hell with her goons, and to hell with the odds! It’s been said that the best way to measure the character of a person is when they at their most desperate, and I think its time some members of FFW’s roster learn just what exactly I’m made of! I’ve been in unenviable situations before, and I’ve fought my way out, and who the heck is going to say I can’t do it this time?
No, I’ve said it before. If there’s a will, there’s a way, and I’m going to find it. I did in the Finals of the Chase. I did on top of that ladder with Tara Thunder. And I did a week ago in Golden Gate Park. And I’ll find it in Indianapolis, too. I’m walking out of Indianapolis with my head held high, and Rose is going to be limping out after taking the first fall of her FFW career. And the rest of her A-List buddies will be limping up that ramp right after her- that is if they haven’t turned tail and run already.
Darn it! I’m getting psyched up thinking about it already, and I’m stuck in this little airplane seat. I need to calm down- I’ll need all the energy I can get to get me through today, much less the next week. I’ve resolved to focus on the here and now, and be prepared for what’s ahead of me. That worked at Byte This, and it will work here. Rose will come. The A-List will, too, an invading force with all their fanfare and pomp.
And I, the lone defender of the Circle City, will be waiting for them.
-WCBT
=========================
Sunday October 16, 2011
Toledo Speedway- Diamond Motorsports Pit
Toledo, Ohio
9:14 AM Local Time
“I thought racing was a SUMMER sport,” I muttered, my clouded breath hanging in the air in front of me, as I shivered. I hadn’t thought to bring a coat with me on this trip- something that I was infinitely regretting this clear, crisp morning.
Still, there was a massive aura of excitement in the air. The chilly weather hadn’t deterred a good thousand fans, who currently sat shivering in the grandstands waiting for the morning practice session to start. Throughout the morning, more would be joining them, with the expected capacity crowd of over 15,000 having fully arrived by the 3:00 start time. Considering that ARCA raced on such high-profile tracks such as Daytona, Talladega, and Michigan, Toledo seemed like an odd place to hold the final chapter of the championship. But the series had concluded here for years, including a memorable finale five years ago, which saw two of the series then-top drivers brawling on the backstretch during a red flag.
The facility was actually two tracks. The race would be held on the longer, still only a half-mile in legnth, although well-banked which lead to faster cars, more passing, and, hopefully, more excitement for the fans. The smaller-inner quarter mile track served as a pit row, where cars would travel up and around the inside loop, actually exiting pit road behind the spot they entered it. With thirty-six cars entered, meaning thirty-six pit stalls, it was a tight fit, even with the stalls lining both sides of the track, and once race-time came around, only the most essential personnel would be allowed. I’d be watching this one from the stands.
I jumped as the roar of another engine came to life nearby, and turned to watch as my husband’s car, the purple and white Taco Bell paint job glistening in the morning light, pull away from his pit box, slowly working his way around the inner loop, then speeding up as he roared down the front straightaway into the first turn. A small pack of three cars already at full speed swung high to go around him, easily overtaking him as he accelerated onto the backstretch.
Shivering again, I turned away, walking slowly to the refreshments table that had been set up between Terrence’s and Wesley’s pit boxes. I grimaced as I saw another woman standing at the table, pouring herself a cup of coffee. I stood silently to the side as she stirred in half-a-dozen creamers and almost as many packs of sugar, then pick up her cup and walk away, leaving her garbage on the table, even though a small wastebucket wasn’t two feet away. Rolling my eyes, I swept the trash into the bin, and grabbed a styrofoam cup of my own.
The coffee pot was completely empty.
“Really?” I demanded, intentionally making my voice loud enough so that the retreating woman would hear me. Even if there hadn’t been a sign requesting that whoever empties the pot makes a new one, common courtesy simply required it.
Of course, after six months of dealing with her, I should have figured out by now that common courtesy wasn’t exactly one of Andrea’s strong points. I quickly rummaged through a small box next to the coffee machine, pulling out a new packet of Folgers and a filter. I tossed the old grounds in the bin, emptied the packet, and started the brew, helping myself to a glazed doughnut as the machine began to hiss.
I looked up just in time to see Andrea dumping the entire contents of her cup on the ground, then toss her cup into the grass. Seething, I quickly bit into the doughnut- so fast I nearly accidentally chomped on my own thumb, as Andrea looked over at Wesley’s crew-chief. “Lester!” she barked, “Who the fuck buys this shitty excuse for coffee?”
I had enough. “Hey!” I protested, walking away from the table towards her. I slowed as I realized that nearly every mechanic between the two garages had stopped what they were doing, and were looking at us, half expectantly, half nervously. Evidently they’d been waiting for this confrontation for the better part of a month and a half.
I was hoping to disappoint them. Dropping my volume, I tried to keep my tone civil. “Could you PLEASE watch the language?” I asked, swiftly gesturing to side of Terrence’s pit stall, where Theresa sat on a small stool, playing with an activity book.
“It’s a free country. Leave her at home if you’re worried about it.” Andrea snapped in reply.
I couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculous notion. “Right. Just put out a couple of loaves of bread and some peanut butter and jelly, right? She’ll be aces.” God forbid this woman ever reproduces!
Andrea merely shrugged. “Then stay home, as well. Trust me, I think there are many of us who’d prefer it that way.”
It was another laughable notion- I had a lot more cordial interactions with most of the pit crew members- even those on Hamilton’s team, mainly because I didn’t try to act like a princess around them. Still, I merely shrugged back, glancing over at the rest of the mechanics. Since our volume was down, and a catfight hadn’t broken out, most of them had turned away, back to whatever tasks they had been doing. . “That’s your opinion. I’m here to support my husband, just as you are to support yours. Trust me, I’d much rather enjoy it if you were still banned.”
I couldn’t have resisted tossing that barb out, and fought hard to keep a smile off my face as Andrea bristled. I could see her clench her fist at her side, and almost hoped she’d take another swing at me. To give her an opportunity, I turned my attention back to the doughnut in my hand, taking a bite.
Andrea composed herself, however, and pulled out her most superior looking grin. “I heard otherwise... it’s a good thing you got that belt fixed up before you lost it. I’m sure the new champion would have been very upset to win a damaged belt.”
I stood rigid- Terrence, Pollaski and I had been extra careful about keeping what had happened to the Evolution Championship under wraps, so Andrea’s remark was as good as a confession. I forced myself to remain calm, and folded my arms over my chest. Still, my voice was icier than the morning air when I said “Is there something you’re trying to tell me, Andrea?”
That smirk widened, to almost infuriating levels. “And what would you do if there was?” she taunted. “Throw me into another mud puddle?”
“No,” I responded, then quickly moved foward, putting my arm around her shoulders, and pulling her towards me. She tried to break away, but my grip was too tight. I leaned foward, and whispered into her ear. “Defacing a wrestlers title is, in no unclear terms, a challenge to a match, and I would accept that challenge right here. I would put you in the Banshee- that’s my favorite submission hold. You know why it’s called that? Because when I put it on my opponent, they scream and wail just like the banshee’s of old Irish legend. And I wouldn’t let go until I heard enough joints pop and muscles tear to ensure you knew just who you were messing with.”
It was more or less a bluff- I didn’t like hurting people, even someone like Andrea. I noticed that the mechanics were looking at us again, and I quickly released her, taking a step back. “Now,” I continued, my voice filled with false-sweetness, “you were going to say something?”
Andrea had gone white, and she stammered, “I thought you couldn’t...”
“Oh, no. I CAN. Every good wrestler knows several ways to cripple someone, and I’m a submissionist, so I know more than most. I just don’t see the point of wrecking another woman’s career. But you’re a fashion designer...I’m pretty sure you can still do that with a shattered ankle.”
Andrea’s lower lip was quivering, and she was slowly backing away. She looked as if she wanted to run, but was afraid turning her back on me would invite pursuit. Tears were glistening in her eyes. For a second, I felt a pang of guilt at my threat- a small one, but nevertheless one. I looked over at the paddocks, and sighed.
“Look, Andrea. I know we don’t like each other, but let’s not wreck today. My husband’s on the verge of winning Rookie of the Year, and all Wesley needs to do is finish ahead of Matthew Bronson, and he’s the series champion. We can both leave Toledo happy, and then you and Wesley can go to Nationwide, and we won’t ever see each other again. So, let’s just get through this without biting each other’s heads off, okay?”
“THAT.” boomed a voice behind me, so loud I jumped, “would be an EXCELLENT idea.”
I turned around and saw Kevin Anderson, the owner of Diamond Motorsports, standing just a couple feet away, and immediately blushed crimson. “Mr. Anderson...” I stammered.
“Morning, Andrea,” Kevin said amicably, “Wendy, I was wondering if I could have a word with you?”
I nodded, glancing at Andrea, who was suddenly smirking. I knew immediately that Kevin had seen everything that had happened, and I fully expected to be kicked out of the pits. Chagrined, I turned away to walk with Kevin, as we walked away from the blonde haired wretch. “Mr. Anderson, I...”
“Figured something was going on between you two,” Kevin interrupted with a chuckle. “Didn’t think you two were on hugging terms,”
“Oh, we’re not,” I said quickly. “I was just... demonstrating the proper arm placement for a Russian Leg Sweep.” It was a lie... had I tried a Russian Legsweep from that position against a trained wrestler, I’d had been tossed halfway to Akron. Still, it was worth a shot.
Kevin didn’t seem to care about the bluff one way or another. “I wasn’t here about that anyways. I wanted to talk to you about Terrence. He’s been... distant with me the past few weeks. Even a bit cold. Something wrong?”
I started to lie again, but I had a feeling that Kevin would be able to detect this one. I grimaced. “Well, honestly, sir. He’s been wondering why you haven’t offered him an extention yet.”
It almost seemed like this was the answer Kevin was expecting, but it didn’t make him any more comfortable. “Yeah, well, unfortunately, I might not be able to. Taco Bell’s already withdrawing for next year, and Deere might too. I don’t think I can get two new sponsors, and I’m going to have to drop a team.”
I didn’t understand. “But.. Wesley’s moving to Nationwide. Terrence will be your only driver, so what’s the-”
“Ducharme” Kevin replied, beckoning to Wesley’s pit box, where Hamilton’s crew chief stood, talking to his driver on the radio. “Lester’s made it very clear that he will not work with Terrence. I doubt Terrence wants to work with him either.”
I still didn’t see the problem. “So cut Les, and keep Jimbo,” I replied, referring to Terrence’s crew chief.
“Can’t,” Kevin said, looking slightly guilty. “McNulty’s an easier buy-out on the contract. Besides, Jim’s gettin’ old. Lester’s one of the best crew chiefs in ARCA. Wesley wanted to take him with him, but his new team said no.”
It was the ugly head of politics, rearing its head again. I sighed, and looked out at the racetrack, where Terrence was still running, being the one passing other cars now that he was at full speed. “This is his dream, Kevin. He gave up our tag team, his future in wrestling for this. It can’t collapse now, not after a year.”
“I’m sorry,” Kevin said. “Look, your husband’s gonna win Rookie of the Year today, it’s practically a given. Even if we drop him, some other team will pick him up.”
“A team as good as this?” I asked, my voice quavering. “Diamond’s one of the few teams capable of winning races, let alone the championship. It’ll kill Terrence if he has to start running for some lower-budget team, where he’s lucky if he stays on the lead lap. He only took this job because it’s a big shot.”
“And he knew it was temporary when he did,” Kevin replied. “Look, Terrence has done well, he’s done everything he’s been asked, and then some. But budget is budget, Wendy. You know that. Without a sponsor, I can’t afford a team. And without a team, I don’t need a driver.”
I tried to put on a brave smile. “Well, maybe something will come up.”
“Maybe,” Kevin replied, although he sounded less than convinced. “But it better be soon- I gotta figure everything out by the end of the year. Just do me a favor, Wendy. Don’t mention this until after the race. Terrence needs to focus on his race, not this bullshit.”
“Yeah,” I agreed half-heartedly, as Terrence slowed down on the front stretch, breaking heavily onto pit lane. “Not today.”
Dear Cockbite,
Tonight, in front of twenty thousand screaming fans at the worlds most famous arena, I finally make you my bitch. Honestly, considering that you’ve spent the last three and a half months whining about me and my presence in SVW every chance you got, it’s something you’ve had coming. Because let’s face it, the only reason you’re even in this match against me is because you’re jealous. I can’t blame you for that- the fact of the matter is that I’m pretty much flat out better than you at every single thing. I’m a better manager. I’m a better wrestler. I’m a better ladies man. And yes, Millar, I’m a better announcer too.
Want proof? You haven’t announced a main event in FFW since the September 5 Byte This. Think on that. Did you ever think that the only reason Michael Meadow’s petition wasn’t signed was simply because we didn’t want him either? No, we’ve gone with choice C- none of the above. That’s why instead of you behind the desk for the big matches, it’s been a revolving door of commentators. Wolf Ramsey. Myself. Leander Apollo, who’s obviously been hired as your replacement. Fuck, even Valerie Belmont.
Think on that, Millar. Management would rather have that uneducated marble-mouthed Scottish LARPer calling a main event than you. And you still want to stand there and tell me that you’re viewed with any sort of confidence?
No, CCM. The fact of the matter is, the only reason your around is because your wife is a piece of hot ass (albeit as equally untalented), and Gambini wants to make you happy so that he can keep Millar around, and she can keep exposing her tits to the world and think it actually means something, all the while being overshadowed by the true talent of the T&A division, Nikkii Spainhower. You know, the woman who put your balls into your throat three weeks ago with her soccer kick of death? Trust me, that was worth every single “ding” of the bell that rung to disqualify us.
Ah, jealousy. The green eyed monster (well, other than Wendy during the possum incident). You and your wife have a problem with it. Arianna’s been jealous of Nikkii since day one. That’s because Nikkii has outsmarted and outperformed her every single step of the way. And like I told you time and time again, I did not cost your vacant-eyed fuckhole her title. Nikkii had her beat, and she jumped on top of me, which is probably what she does with any guy she comes within fifteen feet of. The only difference is that instead of me sticking her in the pogo she pogoed her stick into my foot. I’d have even been willing to forgive it write it offBy the time I’m done, was an accident, had you not gone all Pissy McRagerton on me.
Well, tonight, payback will be every bit as big a bitch as your wife is. I’m serious, here. What I started on you three weeks ago finishes tonight. Only this time, there won’t be any nutshots from my friend Nikkii. Just a whole lot of punches, kicks, and a big hot bowl of F3 with a steamy side of Lycan Drop. I hope Arianna saves some strength during the wet t-shirt contest, because by the time I’m done with you, she’ll be on the first bus to Soho, hoping to turn enough tricks and raise enough money so that they let you stay in the hospital. It could take a while- at five bucks a pop, it could be months before she can raise it.
It’s a shame that I actually have to divide my focus here tonight, thanks to the presence of one Don Tirri. First of all, thank you for that wonderfully hillarious video of Tirri losing to a baby. It’s about the only amusing thing you’ve done in the past six months. But ultimately it’s irrelevant. I can’t even call Don Tirri a troll. His remarks are so asinine- all they ultimately amount to are little more than a waste of time.
But this idiots involvement is your fault anyways, Millar. Had you been a good boy and stayed in your seat and let me kick his ass properly, instead of giving him a DQ victory over me, this would be over. So yet another mess of yours I’m going to have to clean up after.
It ends tonight, Millar, and I move on to bigger and better things. You can send your worthless wife over to FFW, where she can wreck Desirae Kain’s career, and slowly get ousted more and more from the announcers booth. And Tirri can go back to Fagland and try and see if he can get a Nobel Prize for stupidity. Me? I got places to go, things to do, and asses to kick.
Starting with yours.
Polla. Out.
-DP
Cara threw her hands“What do you mean we only have six lanes! There’s like a hundred fifty bajillion people coming to this thing. That means there will be like..” She stops and seems to think about, counting on her fingers as if actually dividing the imaginary number in her head. “...like twenty-five bajillion people to a team! THAT’S WAY TOO MANY!”
Anders raised his finger as he corrected her. “Actually, it’d be 12.5 bajillion. There’s two teams to a lane, Cara.”
Cara stopped and narrowed her eyes at her tag partner before suddenly throwing a slap at him. For once, Anders managed to dodge the attack and her hand goes by inches from his face. Cara’s eyes go wide as she realizes for what could possibly be the first time in twenty years, she has failed to smack Anders at the appropriate moment.
Clearly, this is unacceptable.
Cara runs at Anders, who immediately turns and sprints away, bowling lanes and tables passing by him in a blur as he tries to escape the wrath of Cara Rainbow Stonewall (And yes, that is her actual middle name-- parents were hippies. It happens.) He finally reaches the glass door at the front of the bowling alley and he stops himself to reach for the handle and open it. But it is too late: she is upon him.
Cara bends over and drives her shoulder into Anders’s back, slamming the front of his body into the door. She presses hard, squishing his face and contorting his features against the glass.
“AAAHHHH!!! WHY? CARA? WHY?!”
Cara continues to push him against the glass, but now she lifts her head so he can yell in her ear. “You know why!”
The struggling continues, as do Anders grunts of pain, until suddenly Anders manages to tap on the glass with his index finger. Cara stops for a moment to look at what he’s pointing at, and she finds that there are people on the other side of the glass door trying to enter the bowling alley, now instead being treated to a showing of how Anders’s face looks when flattened. Cara lets go of Anders, and he falls away from the door, freeing it so it can be opened.
The door swings open, and both members of Stark and Stone blink as three people walk in. SVW wrestler Daniel Pollaski (holding his own bowling bag), followed closely by Wendy Briese and her husband Terrence Thompson. All of them are looking at the duo with fairly uncertain expressions. “I’m sorry... did we interrupt something?” asks the redhead.
“WENDY!” Cara screams and immediately jumps at her, hugging her tight despite never having met this woman in person before. “You totally came! Awesomesauce.”
Anders rubs his neck as Cara continues her lovable mauling of poor Wendy. “No, it’s okay. Cara was just...y’know...acting like a crazy person, like she always does. Also, hurting my head again...like she always does.”
Cara, still hugging the clearly uncomfortable FFW wrestler, turns her head and yells at her tag partner. “You deserved it! Besides, stop complaining in front of the guests.”
Terrence quickly shook both Cara and Anders’ hands, and Pollaski gave them high fives, and the five of them entered the bowling alley. “So, you guys actually managed to go through with this,” the big manager commented, looking around. “Going to have the entire SVW and half the FFW gang in one place for a party. Have to admit, pretty impressive.”
“Twitter is a very powerful social networking tool,” Anders replied.
Cara nodded rapidly, clapping her hands together a little bit as well. “Also, people like us a lot. We think. Or we hope. Because they said they were coming. Unless, they’re really mean and this is like that prank those jerks played on us in High School and nobody showed up at my house party even though everybody said they would.” Cara eyes widen again and she grabs Anders by the collar of his shirt, pulling him to her face.
“Oh no. That’s not gonna happen again, right? RIGHT?!” And suddenly the woman looked genuinely terrified.
Anders lightly pushed his best friend off of him. “Breathe, Cara. Breathe. I mean, people are already here, THREE of them. So this party’s already better than that one was. Plus, now we have bowling.”
“Right,” Cara wiped her forehead.. “Thank God. We have bowling. Bowling...wait,” she suddenly reached out and grabbed Anders’s shirt again. “WE DIDN’T MAKE TEAMS!”
Pollaski chuckled. “Wow, someone who’s a bigger spaz than Wendy. Didn’t think it was possible.”
Wendy narrowed her eyes, and glared at her manager, although it didn’t help that behind her, her husband was trying hard not to laugh as well. Finally, she took a deep breath, and gave a pleasant smile to her hosts. “Well, there’s still time. How were you planning on dividing them up?”
Cara furrowed her eyebrows and seemed to be thinking very hard. Meanwhile, Anders started to pick at his fingernails, completely unperturbed by the issue. “Well,” Cara said, “we thought about doing SVW people vs. FFW people...but it wouldn’t be very original. Also, there are more SVW people coming...but that would give SVW an advantage..which is a GOOD THING!...Except I just joined FFW too. Damn it.”
“Well, you could just let the guests make their own teams...” Terrence suggested helpfully, putting his arm around his wife as to make it very clear the WhirlyBirdz would be bowling together tonight.
But Wendy scoffed. “Asking fifty professional wrestlers to nicely and orderly cooperate with each other? And everyone says I’M the naive one...”
“What if you drew numbers?” Pollaski asked with a shrug. “Figure out how many teams there are, then put numbers into a hat. Whatever number you draw, that’s the team you’re on.
“But that wouldn’t be fair,” said Anders, in a rare lucid, semi-intelligent moment, “because if its random the teams could end up being REALLY uneven. Like, Wolf is REALLY good, and so is Cara, so if they end up on the same team it’ll be really lame for everyone else. We’ll all feel like Lilah Carters.”
Cara shrugs. “Winning isn’t everything...unless we’re wrestling, since that’s our careers...but that’s tommorow. We could do random. It would be easy. ...Except Anders and I have to be on the same team.”
Suddenly, Anders threw his hands up in the air and backs away from Cara...”Absolutely NOT! There is no way I am going to be on YOUR team tonight.”
Pollaski and Wendy exchanged confused glances, but Terrence only smirked. “Let me guess, Cara’s a bit hypercompetitive?”
Anders shook his head. “No...well, yes, but every time I make a mistake she’s going to beat me up! And by mistake, I mean ‘not getting a strike’. I can only take so much abuse. Twenty years is enough, woman!”
Cara made pouty lips and her eyes moistened. “But...but...we’re a team.” Cara slouched over and again uninvited, violated Wendy’s personal space by leaning her head on her shoulder and making crying noises.
Wendy looked very uncomfortable, but she patted Cara on her head. “I’ll team with you, if you want. But I’m not very good...”
Cara lifts her head, smiles and nods. “Okay...but only if you can handle pyrotechnics in the bowling lane.”
Anders interrupted. “Wait...what?”
“Well, because Mr. Showtime’s gonna be on my team, obviously!”
Anders raised an eyebrow. “But where would we get fireworks?”
Cara shrugged. “I ordered them. They’re on their way.”
Anders put his hands on his face. “But Wolf said that’s illegal in New York! And the cops don’t like us very much after the time I accidentally stole the horse from Central Park...I don’t think this is a good idea.”
At the prospect of being blown up in the middle of bowling, Wendy looked over at her husband, suddenly worried. Terrence, who’d spent half his life in a racing firesuit, merely shrugged. Pollaski yawned, and shrugged. “I’ll be on Wolf’s team, then. Hell, we can have an all manager team, if it works out alright.”
“Manager team! That’s a good idea!” Cara said.
“Wait a second...” Anders said, pointing at Pollaski accusingly, “I see what’s going on here!”
“No you don’t” Pollaski replied, waving his arm in front of him, two fingers extended from his hand- the Jedi hand wave.
“No, I don’t?” Anders asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.
Pollaski looked at Terrence and Wendy, a ‘holy shit, it worked!’ expression on his face. “Nope. You don’t. In fact, you should put Ryan MacKenzie on our team. And Christian Kincaid-”
The very sound of Christian Kincaid puts Cara Stone into a blood rage. She literally LEAPS the seven feet or so between her and Pollaski, tackling him to the floor despite the massive size advantage the big man has.
“HE CAN’T COME!,” she shouts, though it’s not really clear if she’s yelling at Pollaski or just in general. “He is the Evil Warlord of all Jerkfaces! HE’S BANISHED FROM BOWLING! NO FUN FOR HIM! EVER EVER EVER EVER!!!!!” She pounds fists into Pollaski’s chests as she continues to shout.
Although Terrence looked amused by this, Wendy looked pleadingly at Anders. When she realized he wasn’t exactly going to be helping either, she bent down, trying to get the woman off her howling manager. “Cara, he was joking! Stop! Don’t...”
Anders finally relents and decides to help Wendy drag Cara off of Pollaski, who is defending himself by blocking Cara’s shot with his forearms (also with a clear WTF look on his face). it takes both professional wrestlers’ efforts to pull the woman off and free Dan, but she doesn’t stop, attempting to break free of them both while still yelling at the manager.
“YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO SAY HIS NAME! IT’S NOT ALLOWED!”
Suddenly, another loud voice echoes through the bowling alley and cuts Cara short.
“What the hell is going on here?!” Wolf Ramsey’s baritone silences the rest of the room as everyone turns to look at the manager who is, for once, dressed casually-- in jeans and a “We got the MAGIC, baby!” t-shirt.
The scene freezes, with Terrence still watching in amusement, while Cara continues to straddle Pollaski, Wendy and Anders trying to pry her off. All as one, look over at Wolf. “Mr. Ramsey!” Wendy suddenly says, standing up straight, and turning slightly red in embarrassment. Unfortunately, this also gives Cara’s right arm freedom, and she uses it to drive another fist into Pollaski’s face.
Wolf slowly walks over to the group, a judgmental look on his face. Once he is standing over Cara, and Pollaski, he looks from one to the other and then back again. Pollaski has a “please help me” look on his face, which contrasts nicely with Cara’s “Oh shit, I’m in trouble” features. A few more seconds of silence and Wolf shakes his head, looking at Dan again.
“Oh Dan...you said Chris-.. Ahem...his name, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t know he wasn’t invited!” Pollaski wheezed. “Now get this psycho off me!”
“Cara...please stop hurting Dan.”
Cara hesitated, but then stepped back of her own free will, even extending a hand and letting Pollaski up. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking like a two-year old who just got caught trying to steal something by her parent. “...and you can be on Wolf’s team if you want.”
“Teams!” Anders said, “We still don’t have a clue about teams for tonight!”
Wolf shrugged. “So, that’s easy, you just take everyone’s experience, body weight, and general upper body strength, plug it into a pre-determined formula and then place them according to the rankings.”
Blank stares.
“...What? I’m thorough.”
“Yeah, looks like you forgot the spreadsheet, dude,” Terrence chuckled. “Seriously, how hard can this possibly be? Isn’t tonight supposed to be about fun, anyways? Why overanalyze all this shit?”
“Because it has to be perfect,” said Cara, as if that was patently obvious.
“Ummm....” Anders strategically moved away from Cara and put himself next to Wolf as he spoke up. “ I think Terrence has a point, guys. Maybe we just make teams as people come in?”
“...Fine,” Cara said, “whatever.”
Wolf patted Cara on the back. “It’ll be okay, Cara. I just got off the phone with Showtime and Isabella. They’re on their way, as well as about thirty other people. It’s gonna be a good party, because you did a good job...”
Cara’s face lights up at the praise.
“...and also because I called the place ahead of time and paid them enough that they’re gonna make it an open bar tonight,” Wolf finished.
Pollaski grinned, and even Terrence looked a bit happy with the premise, but Wendy merely cringed. “A bunch of people who fight for a living being given all the alcohol they want,” she muttered. “I’m sure absolutely nothing bad could ever happen there...”
Wolf shrugged. “Way I see it, if you’re going to have a party, it better be--”
“MAGICAL!” Stark and Stone both shout out, seemingly randomly.
“...sure. Why not? Magical. And I’m going to have my first glass of magic right about now...”
Wolf grabs his fellow manager and the two walk off to the bar, discussing Cara’s earlier actions.
Thursday October 6, 2011
Verizon Arena- Backstage Hallway
Little Rock, Arkansas
11:21 PM Local Time
“Excuse me” I murmured as I accidentally brushed against the stagehand carrying a large coil of cable. The man didn’t even hear me, just scurried away, off to deposit his quarry wherever. Velocity had just gone off the air from Little Rock, and once again, it was time to
pack up the show, and head out of town to the next venue. For the set, it would be on its way to my own hometown of Indianapolis in two weeks time, while the rest of us had five days to head to San Francisco.
Still, I wasn’t headed towards the exit of the arena quite yet. Instead, I walked deeper into the bowels of the building, further away from the bustle of the stagehands, towards where the trainer’s area was. It felt weird- normally I stayed clear of the medics unless I was being checked over after my own match. Nonetheless, I continued into the small room, looking around for her. And sure enough, there she was, on the examining table being looked over.
“Hey Isabella,” I said, slowly approaching her. “How are you feeling?” She glanced up at me, a pained look in her eye.
“Like some no-talent bitch just beat my ass with a kendo stick.” A slight smirk appeared on her face as she said that. “Thanks for making the save. God knows what might have happened...”
I nodded, pulling up a chair and sitting down next to her. “I’m sorry I didn’t come out sooner to stop her from interfering. I knew who you were up against, and I still wasn’t prepared to act when everything happened. I should have been more ready.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m pretty much a household name because I can take one hell of a beating. You got out there before I ended up severely mashed, that’s what’s important.” She clutched at her head while she spoke. “That was some of the crappiest officiating I’ve ever seen, just for the record. If you’re gonna cheat, at least have some subtlety. Damn amateurs...”
It felt as if there was a note of chiding in there, as if Isabella was baiting me. I didn’t take it- just smiled sympathetically. “That’s one thing anyone would agree on. Heck, Pollaski reckons that Shepherd was in on it. But it doesn’t matter now- he told me Mr. Horton fired him right after the match.”
“Good. I know a biased official when I see one. Starla should have been disqualified about six times over. I thought I taught her better than to be so blatant. Still, that’s not important. I don’t care about losing the match. What I care about is kicking the hell out of that pair of backstabbing bitches.”
“Probably won’t happen,” I muttered, although I really didn’t want to admit it. “The only time Samantha’s going to let you in that ring now, especially against Starla or another member of the A-List, is if she has something planned for you. She makes darn sure she knows where her cards are before she starts dealing.”
“I know that.” Isabella had a wicked gleam in her eye. “And maybe now you’ll see things from my perspective. If you have no chance of winning... cheat.”
I looked at her sharply, and from the smirk, I knew the reaction I had given her was exactly what she had wanted. “What’s the point? You tried it out there, and it didn’t matter at all!”
“One cheater won’t beat two cheaters. But two cheaters have a shot against two cheaters. Now you know why I play outside the rules. Screw unto others before they screw unto you. Because when you’re up against the odds, you need to break every rule in the book just to survive.”
I could feel my irritation rising in my chest. The old argument- the one that had nearly led to a falling out between us after the first Byte This- had resurfaced. “How we act under the most stressful of times is truly what defines us as a human being,” I simply replied.
“Exactly.” Her smile was even more pronounced. “Now after what you did tonight, you’re on Samantha’s hit list as much as I am. So riddle me this... do you want to win, or at least survive, or do you want them to scrape your listless body off the canvas with a spatula?”
“Of course I want to win!” I responded fiercely- a little more harsh than I had intended. “You think the A-List is the only group of bullies I’ve dealt with in my career? I’ll beat them, just as I’ve beaten anyone else who’s made the mistake of assuming that I’m weak because of what I believe.”
“You’d be the tenth or twelfth person to face Samantha with that frame of mind. Virtually no-one ever won. I know Samantha. She’s screwed me out of titles. I’ve held tag titles with her. She is the most devious mind in the game, and picks her battles carefully. We need every advantage we can get! This is no time to worry about a moral code Wendy!”
“This is every time to worry about it!” I snapped back. “We’re the good guys here! What makes us any better than they are if we stoop to their level?”
“It’ll make us less hospitalised for one thing! Listen, I just got the crap kicked out of me, and it is not a scenario I care to repeat. Okay? We have to fight fire with fire. If we do things your way, we’re just gonna get destroyed! There’s too many of them! We have to play outside the rules, trick them, and decieve them!”
“No.” I simply said, although I found myself not quite able to look at Isabella directly. “If that’s what you think you need to do, then so be it. I won’t condemn you. I won’t say anything. I’ll even run to your aid if you need it again. But... I can’t do it.”
Isabella sighed, with something of an air of defeat. “Fine. Do things your way... for now. But you’ll see in time that my way is the only way we stand a chance.”
“Or maybe you’ll see that all you do is cheapen yourself,” I responded. I was trying to keep my voice even, but I felt my face was warm, and I knew my cheeks were flushed. “Because when we do win, if we do it the right way, the honorable way, its going to make them look all the more pathetic.”
“Like I say, you’ll see in time. But right now, we’re never going to agree, so let’s just drop it.”
I nodded. “I didn’t come back here to fight about that, anyways,” I smiled ruefully. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”
“I’ll heal.” She nodded back. “And thank you for tonight. One way or the other, we’ll win in the end.”
“I know. Consider tonight my apology for Byte This. I shouldn’t have gone off on you like that. Especially that soon after the match, and publicly, at that.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She smiled at me. “Anyway, I’ll catch you in a bit, okay? They want to finish checking me over.”
I nodded, and stood up, offering my hand to her. She clapsed it briefly, and I turned and walked out of the room. This time, I did begin making my way out towards the exit to the arena, thinking about the events of tonight. My interview with Herbie. The disastrous main event. My tussle with Jo. And lastly, my conversation with Isabella just a few minutes ago.
She was wrong. She had to be. There was a way to beat Samantha Star and her goons without resorting to tricks or deception. There had to be, and I would find it. Isabella would see- I was right.
I didn’t even want to think of what the coming weeks would entail if I wasn’t.
=================================
The following is from the private journal of Wendy Briese
12 October AD 2011
That... felt GOOD
Tonight, I won my first ever battle royal- entering fifth out of ten, and lasting over twenty minutes to get the win! Heck, I even got four eliminations! (Although, truthfully, I think I was more surprised that I eliminated Knight than she was, and Pollaski deserves a HUGE assist for helping me unhandcuff Atherton from the ropes). After having such a miserable setback at Sin & Sacrifice, it felt so good to go out and get another big win on the rebound.
Even better, it goes what I’ve been saying all along. It’s perfectly possible to get ahead in this business by playing within the rules. I did it Tuesday Night, and that was after Colleen tried to embed that cursed microphone into my brain again.
But still, my mind can’t help but fade back to that conversation I had with Isabella Pazzini last week. She’s so adamant that I’m stubbornly walking into my own demise. And I don’t think she was just trying to irritate me to prove a point (although she certainly succeeded in irritating me!). I could see it in her eyes. She was genuinely afraid for me.
Maybe it’s because Isabella hasn’t really ever known otherwise. She’s been attached to Samantha Star for so much of her career, that she can’t possibly fathom not doing things outside the parameters of what’s acceptable. She just can’t simply allow herself to believe that there’s another way, a better way. Old habits die hard, as they say. And I can’t expect one result, even a result as big as winning this battle royal, to change her mind on the matter. Patience is the key with Isabella. She’ll come around eventually.
Besides, what is it that makes people think that because I refuse to cheat in an athletic competition, that I’m utterly incapable of defending myself when it counts? I’m not an idiot- I know that there are people in this business who try and take things too far. Anyone who knows my history should know that I’m all too aware of that. Outside of those bells, I’ll do whatever I have to to defend myself or my family. I love my job, but I’m not going to die for it, nor let my family suffer for it.
And that’s the problem with the sport today. Everyone is so busy buying into their hype, we all fail to remember that we’re not warriors, or even gladiators. We’re athletes, competing in a sport that we know and love. This is a matter of pride, of winning and losing. It’s not a matter of life or death. No matter who we are, or how we do, we should be able to go home to our families at the end of the night.
And yet, I’ve seen all too many cases where that hasn’t happened, recently. Scarlett Kincaid has finally been able to talk after nearly a month being in nearly too much pain to breathe. That same incident seemingly ended the career of Rori Snyder, who was released from her contract earlier today. Sophia Black likely wrecked Gretchen Sanders career. Tara Thunder likewise with Lilah Carter.
What happened to the honor in this sport? What happened to arriving at the arena, wondering if you might win or lose, and how much the fans would enjoy your match, not whether or not this is your last match because your opponent, halfway through decided that she hadn’t had her sadistic tendencies fulfilled for the day? How much further will it be allowed to go on? Until we’re no longer athletes, but gladiators? Until this is no longer athletic competition, but pure bloodsport?
If that’s the way we’re heading, then I want no part of it.
That’s why Isabella’s way is so dangerous. It only escalates the violence, and pushes things further and further down that dangerous road. And I won’t lie, the A-List has taken a few more steps that way as well. But even they haven’t gone that far yet. I’m not afraid at the thought of facing Rose Jenkins, and I’m certainly not at the thought of facing Jo McFarlane. I simply want to get in that ring, beat them fair and square, and prove that I’m the better wrestler. Prove that all these tricks that they’re resorting to are lilttle more than smoke and mirrors to hide their ineffectiveness.
No, my way is the best way, and if Tuesday Night didn’t prove it, the next month and a half will.
-WCBT
Saturday October 15, 2011
Air Canada Centre- Briese Locker Room
Toronto, Ontario
4:13 PM Local Time
Scene is Wendy’s locker room, where the “White Knight” (although she still thoroughly hates that nickname) is sitting in a chair. She hasn’t quite changed into her ring gear yet, still dressed in a navy-blue Notre Dame sweater, and a pair of jeans. She smiles at the camera.
“So, here I am. Just four days after perhaps wrestling the best match of my FFW career, and beating nine other women in a battle royal, I try to make it two in a row against Charity Deas. Ironically, Charity is the one person in that battle royal I never actually was in the ring with during that match, due to an... unfortunate mishap on her part.”
The ‘unfortunate mishap’ being chucked over the top rope 58 seconds into the match.
“Now, I can tell that Charity is excited about tonight. It’s obvious that Charity is excited about getting into the ring with me, as she holds a lot of respect for me. You heard her earlier this week, she considers me a friend on Twitter. And despite the debacle about becoming her tag team partner, I do have to admit, she’s certainly been... pleasant towards me.”
It should be noted that Wendy almost looks as if she’s mentally mining her vocabularily, picking out one word at a time, trying to avoid saying anything that would offend her opponent, or, for that matter, encourage her into thinking that Wendy does anything more than tolerate her.
“She considers me a... um... friend. And... well... I guess.. um... ‘friends’ are honest with each other, right? So Charity, I have to be perfectly honest with you...”
There’s a pause more pregnant than Val Belmont here, and again, Wendy’s clearly mining her vocabulary for the best combination of words. But even for her, it seems to be to great a task, and she finally gives in with an exasperated shrug, and says it in the plainest way she possibly can.
“Charity, what on Earth are you doing in professional wrestling?”
Wendy still looks slightly uncomfortable, but she continues, getting more and more easy with what she’s saying- after all, she’s only being honest here.
“Look, I know you’re a nice person, and your brother is a Hall of Famer, and you look up to him, but... I mean... there are people who aren’t cut out for this sport. And, honestly? I think you’re one of them.”
A small, rueful smile.
“And I hate saying that. I’ve always believed that there is room for anyone who truly wants to be a professional wrestler. But... you. Well, let me put it this way. You were my first opponent in FFW. And about three minutes into that, I realized that you were a tune-up. Someone who was in there more to gauge my abilities than to actually give me a challenge. And if I’m truly honest, I kind of cringe looking back at that tape and realizing it took me so long to beat you...”
Wendy puffs a loose strand of red hair from her face and continues.
“And I know you’re a rookie, fresh off the Future Shock boat. But since that time, I’ve seen other Future Shock girls come in and push themselves into the title picture. Payton St. Pierre. Sophie Richards. Raven Wicked. Heck, even Desirae Kain and Arabella de Rossi have made more waves in a couple weeks than you have in the past six months.”
Noticibly missing from Wendy’s list would be Jo McFarlane. Just pointing that out. Wendy, for her part, looks half-guilty. The other half seems to be trying to keep her from sounding too condescending. She’s not exactly succeeding.
“And it’s not that you have lost match, after match, after... have you even won a singles contest since we faced? It’s that, you haven’t improved. At all. There isn’t one aspect of your game that I think is noticeably better than it was six months ago, and considering that you’re supposed to be learning the business... that’s not a good sign.”
“And honestly? I can kind of see why Allison didn’t want to team with you, although maybe a strongly worded discussion in the backstage area would have been more appropriate than what she did. The fact is... just from that one match, I could tell that it wasn’t going to work with you two. I know this sounds mean, but had you just tagged Allison in the first chance you had, that match would have been about five minutes shorter.”
Another apologetic smile.
“You dragged her down, Charity, to the point of frustration. I think you would have dragged me down, too, which is why I keep saying I was relieved when you picked Allison instead of me. And I’ve tried dropping hints before to you that maybe you’re not exactly in the best career for you, but you’ve kind of ignored them. So... I might as well say it bluntly.”
An exasperated sigh.
“Charity Deas, you’re probably the worst professional wrestler I’ve ever seen in my life.”
And there you have it, kids! Charity Deas is so bad even Wendy Briese has to admit she sucks!
“And honestly, I’m worried for you. You have heart, I’ll give you that, and I love it when someone gets up after being knocked down. But you have to be effective when you do, and... well, you really aren’t. You just simply get knocked back down again. Rinse, wash, repeat. All you’re doing is just setting yourself up for an injury.”
“Look back at your last match, Charity! The referee had to step in, because you were completely unable to defend yourself against Sophia Black. The same woman who crushed Gretchen Sanders throat, and she had you at her mercy. You could have been killed, and whatever anyone else thinks, I don’t want to see that.”
Another sigh, although this one is more of sadness than exasperation.
“Sophia’s not the only one who’ll do that. There’s so many women in this company who seem to consider a match a failure if they don’t send someone to the hospital, and I think your sister might be one of them. And I hate seeing that, but at least most of the other women in the company are capable of defending themselves so they aren’t crippled. You’re honestly an accident waiting to happen.”
“Now you know that I’m the type to take liberties on my opponent. I just want to beat you Charity, and move on to the next match against Rose. But I’m not holding back in that ring, I don’t care who it is. You step into that ring, and you agree to face me- all of me. Right on down to me making you scream and tap out in the Banshee.”
Wendy goes to stand up, grabbing her bag while she does.
“It’s time, Charity. I hate to say it, but this is one match that I already know the result of. You missed a step somewhere along the line- heck, you missed a whole flight of stairs. And I know what I’m saying is mean- but I’m getting into that ring to do the same as anyone else does- beat my opponent, physically and mentally, until I walk out the victor. There’s nothing nice about what we do. But consider it tough love, and sign that you are going to have to make a very difficult choice here soon.”
One last, rueful smile.
“Either step it up, or step on out.”
Wendy turns and walks out of the room, and the scene fades.
