From the Private Journal of Wendy Briese
6-3-2014
Losing to Tara Thunder hurt.
I mean that literally. I don’t think I’ve ever taken a shot as hard as I did when Tara connected with that Down and Dead. It certainly lived up to the name- I don’t remember being pinned, the bell ringing, the ref raising Tara’s hand… I was going for the Cyclone, then Pollaski was helping me up. Pretty scary to think you took a shot that hard that you blacked out, and can’t even remember a good fifteen seconds. Thankfully, the concussion tests came back negative.
And I can’t fault Tara. She wrestled that math like it was a referendum on her very existence. That match was her career or bust, her one chance to shatter this bugaboo that had haunted her for twenty-two months, and she pulled it off. And it meant a lot to her. Honestly, hearing that a win over you means THAT much to someone is an excellent salve for whatever sting your pride takes in defeat.
So Tara’s finally pinned me, has that feather in her cap and that monkey off her back. I hope it makes her happy, brings her peace, and quiets the voices of self-doubt that had been plaguing her for so long. I know that won’t be the last I ever see of her, but hopefully in the future it’ll be more about two excellent wrestlers positioning themselves for the FFW Championship than any particular “have to beat or else” mentality.
All in all though, the show was great. The fans were into it, the wrestling was high calibur, Eileen won. Caroline knocked off that obnoxious loudmouth, and Val knocked off that even more obnoxious loudermouth. Pretty much every result at Relentless was satisfactory.
Except one.
Watching Jennifer Stringer’s hand hit the mat for a third time after that Soviet Burial ruined Relentless. For me, for the fans, for anyone who cares about this company, watching Mika Demidov win that title ruined EVERYTHING. She ruined what could very well have been the biggest dream match in FFW history, at the biggest show of the year. She ruined the reputation of one of the brightest stars this company has ever seen, and she’s ruined (or at least is about to) everything the belt her grubby little hands now hold stood or.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be me and Scarlett, one magical night in a contest where it didn’t ultimately matter who won or lost, because the simply beauty of the purity of the competition would have shone over all. But that’s gone, shattered, and I don’t even know if we’ll ever get the chance again. Not in the way it was going to be.
Mika ruined that.
And now it does matter who wins or loses at Unstoppable. Now I’m no longer fighting for an idealied manifestation of competition at its purest, but on a rescue mission. To save the title from an arrogant Russian toerag who devalues the belt every second she holds it.
I won’t be saying this out loud of course. I don’t want to sound bitter, no matter how much of a right I have to be. That’s why I have this journal, after all- so I can say what’s on my mind without saying what I really oughtn’t to others. So I’ll go ahead and brush off the acting skills and play the Stepford smiler. I’ll smile and nod as Mika goes on to trash everyone who has ever made this company great, let her go on her rants and celebrations and self-effacing dramatics that no one cares about. But all the while I will be counting the days. Days until Unstoppable. Days until I take away what Mikaela Demidov never should have had. With interest.
Days until I save Femme Fatale Wrestling from a fluke.
So the pressure is on, and the clock is ticking. Fifty-Nine days until Unstoppable. Fifty-nine days until I fight for the soul and heart of this company. Fifty-nine days until I become the FFW Champion for the second time. Because I *WILL* win this.
I have to win this.
Because God help this company if I don’t.
-Wendy
====================
Wednesday June 25, 2014
2:19 PM Eastern Daylight Time
The Nest- Front Driveway
Indianapolis, Indiana
Theresa Thompson finished drawing her pirate ship, and stood up, stepping back to admire her handiwork. It was a fairly rudimentary drawing, of course- she was only seven years old, after all, and seemed to have inherited far more of her father’s artistic ability than her mother’s. BUt still, she was pretty happy with it. But it needed a cannon.
She went back to the ship, kneeling down on the adjacent hopscotch board she had drawn earlier for her and ANgela to use. That hand’t gone too well- the sudden heat wave that had gripped central Indiana was making most outdoor physical activity unbearable, and it wasn’t long before Angela was fleeing home to the sheltered air-conditioned bliss of her own home. Theresa almost wished she had followed her, on two accounts.
The first was that the Thompson family had arrived home just the previoius day to discover that their own air-conditioning system had been broken. Even now, her father was on the side of the house, banging away on the large metal box, his hammering blows (and occasional curse words) echoing off the Parkinson’s house next door to rattle around the neighborhood.
The second reason was her mother.
It certainly wasn’t helping that their house was now a veritable oven, but Mom had been a lot more irritable than normal since the last pay-per-view show, and when she was irritable, she got a lot stricter with Theresa. And when she got stricter with Theresa, she tended to be a lot better at remembering tasks she had assigned her that hadn’t been completed, like say, a pile of schoolwork that Theresa had absolutely no desire to do at the moment.
So, she stayed out here. At least here there was a bit of a breeze, too, so it wasn’t as stuffy as inside. And Dad had allowed her to bring Fireball out, so long as the goldendoodle was attached to a longline. The restraint wasn’t exactly needed- in this heat, all the puppy was up for was lying in the shade, ocasionally twitching its legs to bat at a butterfly or bee. Still, she could feel the suntan lotion Mom had slathered her with before letting her go out veritably melting under the shorching rays of the sun.
Theresa finished her cannon, complete with a ball being launched with copious motion lines behind it. She went to return the piece of dark blue chalk to her bucket, only for the stick to clatter on the driveway. Theresa looked, startled. Her bucket was gone. It was just here-
And then she saw what had happened.
Clinton Sickles stood at the edge of the driveway, the bucket of chalk in his hands, grinning evilly. “Thanks!” He sneered.
“Give it back!” Theresa howled, getting to her feet, angry both at the thief and herself for letting him sneak up on her while she was lost in thought- although to be fair, this heat made daydreaming easy. Furious, she started after the ex-third grader.
“Ah-ah-ah!” Clint admonished, wagging his fingers. “You can’t come within a hundred yards of me! In fact, you’re too close now, so start backing up.” He looked over at Fireball, who had roused from her nap, and was barking (well, yipping) at the neighborhood bully.
“The restraining order doesn’t apply if YOU come over HERE,” Theresa fumed at the bratty boy who had gotten her expelled from College Park. “Just give me my chalk back, and get out of here.”
“But I want this chalk,” Clint said simply. “Could come in handy.”
“Those are GIRL colors,” Theresa said pointing to the bucket, where sure enough there were plenty of pinks and purples inside, even though there were as many non-feminine colors as well. Still, she thought that maybe if she appealed to Clinton’s pride…
It worked… kind of. Clinton looked down in the bucket, and made a face. “Yeah, you’re right. Some of these suck. I don’t need them.” He picked out a pink, a purple, and a lavender, then looked up, grinning. “Guess I’ll just throw them down the storm drain.”
“NO!” Theresa yelled, running at him. She didn’t care anymore. She wasn’t going to let this jerk throw her chalk down the sewer and continue to torture her, especially after all he’d already done. She could hear Fireball barking behind her, and Clinton’s laughter as he backpedaled away, waving the chalk tauntingly. If she caught him, she would-
“Is everything alright here?”
Theresa looked up at the sound of her mother’s voice, and even Clinton stopped. Wendy had evidently heard the commotion and gone outside to investigate. Theresa grinned inwardly. Busted!
“Clint tried to steal my chalk, mom.” She said, pointing at the bucket.
Evidently her mom had already come to that conlusion, as she was nodding. “Why’d you steal her chalk, Clinton?”
The boy shrugged sullen and defiant. “Just havin’ some fun.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s very much fun for her. Give it back, please.”
For a second, Clinton looked like he was about to obey, but then stopped and defiantly shook his head. “No. You can’t make me, you’re not my mom. In fact I have a restraining order and if you come anywhere near me then-”
Wendy wasn’t listening. Instead, she was reaching down, grabbing Fireball by the collar, and unhitching the tether. Clint’s voice died in his throat as the now-freed puppy bolted straight at him, snarling as vicious as a four month old goldendoodle could. As Theresa watched with glee, the dog leapt, tiny jaws clamping down around his arm, and with a twist of Fireball’s head, Clinton Sickle’s arm was ripped clean off at the socket.
Clint screamed as the dog ran off with his arm, tail happily wagging, and he fell to his knees as blood seeped from the wound, using his free hand to try and cover it. Wendy looked over at Theresa, as if asking for permission, and Theresa nodded. Wendy ran at the obnoxious bully, giving a soccer kick connecting under his chin. There was a loud, anguished scream and a ripping sound.
And then Clinton Sickle’s head was free of his shoulders, tumbling end over end as it flew onto the neighbors lawn, where it rolled to a stop.
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