EPISODE 251: INCOMING! (Part 1)

From the private journal of Wendy Briese 5-28-14 What a weekend. Started off well enough. Stephanie Sullivan was every bit the snot-nosed pretentious stuck up brat I’d figure she’d be, but she actually gave me a decent contest which just belies that there is talent buried under that cruddy attitude she parades around.  Either way, a loss there would have been utterly humiliating, so thank God I avoided it! The race Friday Night was a godsend.  We had nearly as many people as we did for opening night, and this time we didn’t have the FFW name to help draw people in.  The first 100 Pieces of Eight was a blast, even if Terrence ended up flipping his car and catching on fire on the 46th lap.  He was okay, and I let him watch the rest of the race before I made him go to the hospital to get checked out.   We spent Saturday unwinding after a couple packed days, which was nice. And then came Sunday. Going to the Indy 500 was fun, as usual but… God did it get marred.  Pollaski somehow thought the caterer was Marla Lee in disguise, and attacked her.  He beat up a defenseless woman in front of everyone, and is lucky he’s not in jail.  Luckily the caterer is alright, and agreed not to press charges, but Indianapolis Motor Speedway still threw him into the parking lot.  So now that’s TWO Indianapolis race tracks that Daniel has gotten himself banned from. I’m frustrated.  This war between him and Marla got out of hand several weeks ago, and it’s only getting worse, and now completely innocent people are getting hurt.  I’ve seen Pollaski get upset and lose his temper before, but NEVER to that extent.  And he’s contrite, at least about what happened at the speedway.  But he’s placed the blame fully on Marla as well, as if she’s a witch haunting him, and the only way to end it all is to completely and utterly destroy her. That thought scares me, because it’s going to end in ruin, and I doubt it’s going to be Marla’s.  If Pollaski doesn’t destroy himself in his hatred (and even if he does), there’s going to be more collateral damage.  I’m not about to allow myself, or- even worse- my family, to be sucked into that.  I’m not going to watch people I love get hurt because Pollaski wants his Segway paid for and Marla wants her skull back and neither is capable of dealing with this like a rational person.  I’ve thought many, MANY times about just cutting my ties, and walking away. I can’t do it now, not more than any of the other hundred times I’ve thought about it over the last thirteen years.  Despite all the frustration and grief he gives me, Daniel Pollaski is still my friend, and one of the few people in this industry I trust implicitly.  He’s gone to bat for me more than enough times, the least I can do is not evacuate the stadium when it’s his turn.  If anything, that’s all the more reason for me to be here for him.  No man is an island, and Pollaski is no different.  He needs friends, and positive relationships, and I don’t mean the minions he’s made out of the Scarborough fair.  Ditching him now is only going to make things worse for him, and I don’t want to do that. But the truth of the matter is, right now, Daniel Pollaski needs to be my manager far more than I need Daniel Pollaski as my manager. At least the SVW show’s have stopped for the time being as they prepare for their own PPV.  With Tara Thunder and her vengeful insanity hovering on the horizon, I need minimized distractions, not additional ones.  Tara will pick her teeth with splintered shards of my knee if I go into Saturday Night’s match anything less than one hundred percent, and at least now I don’t have to worry about my manager and his nemesis slaughtering each other until after the PPV. But that brings in its own concern.   Tara’s a unique case of wrestling opponents I’ve faced lately.  I’ve been by and large spoiled lately, most of the women I’ve gotten in the ring with recently I’ve been on fairly good terms with, and those I haven’t been haven’t had much opportunity to do anything for one reason or another.  But Tara… there’s no sugar-coating… she HATES me.   And even worse, most of her hate is based completely on skewed perspective, so there’s no chance that it’s going to be rationalized. I’ve heard some analysts say that in this match I’m trying to defend my main event spot, which is crazy.  That’s assured, and will continue to be assured through at least Unstoppable, provided I remain healthy. And THAT is the major crux of all of this.  Tara’s the most fearful thing you can face in professional wrestling- an extremely talented competitor who is emotionally unbalanced and has already sidelined at least two wrestlers for an extended period of time.  Tara could injure me just as easily as she did Caroline or Undine.  The only problem is- I really can’t afford another major injury.  Not so soon after my back. No, on Saturday, I’m not defending my own place on the card.  There’s something far bigger on the table now that Tara will rip away from me the moment I give her the opportunity. My career. - Wendy =========================== Wednesday May 28, 2014 The Nest- Living Room Indianapolis, Indiana 3:17 PM Local Time Irritable, the master opened his green eye, looking disapprovingly at the sudden terminus of his pampering.  He couldn’t recall giving the slave permission to stop scratching his chin.  No, she had picked up a pen, and was writing in a book again, as she was so wont to do when she was supposed to be pampering her master.  Annoyed, the master ducked his head, and drove it into her leg, rocking it back and forth to make sure he got her attention.  It was a fairly pleasant experience for him, as well.  She was wearing denim, which scratched against his face in a very comforting manner.  He loved it when she wore denim. His efforts were rewarded as the slave’s hand came down, scratching behind his ears, and let out a purr, nestling down to recieve more pampering.  But just as quickly as it had started, it stopped again, with her going back to writing in her book.  The master was annoyed, and about to ive the impudent slave something to REALLY make her pay attention when she scratched his ears again, and again a few seconds later, although she did continue to write in her book.  The master nestled in again.  He supposed that was satisfactory. Finally, the slave finished writing in her book, and shut it, setting it aside.  Her attention could now be fully devoted to him, and both sides began to scratch him, one on the head, one on his back.  Now this was more like it! “I wish my life could be as simple and pampered as yours sometimes, Chant.” the slave said with a sigh, using the shortened form of his full name, Chanticleer, as she was often wont to do. In truth, Chanticleer didn’t care one bit what she called him.  He really didn’t care about anything his slave said, so long as she continued to feed him, massage him, and clean out his literbox like the dutiful wench she was.  And she was dutiful, unlike the other two slaves he had.  The male, this female’s mate, was pompous, arrogant, and quite frankly uncontrollable.  Chanticleer had tried to assert his authority several times, but the man resisted, going so once to literally throw him out of the house in a jealous fit of rage.  That tub of butter had been bought for HIM, and he had every right to be up on that counter! The younger female was more tractable, to an extent.  While not openly defiant, she was flighty.  One minute she’d be petting his brilliant orange fur, the next she’s be running out of the house, or upstairs or God knows what, leaving Chanticleer to pamper himself.  She was sufficient for when the elder female wasn’t around to suit his needs, but too unreliable in the long run. There were other servants too.  A fat man frequented the house, and occasionally pet him.  And then there’d be moments where all his slaves would disappear- sometimes for months at a time, and two young females would come over to feed him, pet him, and play with him.  They were satisfactory surrogates, if a bit brief in their stays. Ultimately, he didn’t have it too bad here, Chanticleer decided as he rolled onto his back, an inaudbile order for the slave to scratch his belly.  He could ignore the recalcitrant male, and this female was completely and utterly devoted to him. Chant’s ears pricked slightly at the sound of a slamming, and his green eyes narrowed.  Generally such a sound indicated that the male had returned home.  This session of pleasant bliss was likely coming to an end. Sure enough, the door opened, and in walked the male, followed closely behind by the younger female.  But then something small and copper colored darted between their legs, making a beeline towards him, it’s glassy eyes shining and it’s tongue lolling out.  It wasn’t very big- indeed, Chant was probably a tad larger, but that didn’t make it any less of an enemy. In a flash, Chant was on his feet hissing, his fur on end, his ears flattened back.  Instinctively, his claws extended, his slave yelping in pain as they dug in through the denim into the flesh of her legs.  He didn’t care.  For this betrayal, she deserved to suffer.  They ALL deserved to suffer! And suddenly, he was airborne, having been shoved off.  He landed on the floor, glaring back at the redheaded slave who had just thrown him, literally, to the wolves.  The beast was closing in on him, sniffing, tail wagging.  Chant reared up on his hind legs, and with all the force he could muster, brought his front paw down as hard as he could into the evil creature’s nose, drawing a yelp, and an uproar from the younger female.  With one last scornful look at the creature he bolted from the room, flying up the stairs before anyone could stop him. Seconds later he was angrily sprawled on the sleeping bed of his slaves, licking himself in an attempt to groom his orange fur back into some semblance of dignity.  But his mind was furious.  How dare they!  How dare they bring a DOG under HIS roof!