Post by Valiant_ESQ on Aug 1, 2017 17:18:54 GMT
...
Hhhhhh. Okay.
It's been a while since we've caught up. How've you been? That was small talk, I don't actually give a shit. Just filling air time to put you at ease.
Things've changed a bunch for me. Not in the usual ugly, terrible ways either. It's actually pretty close to experiencing a 'win', but thanks to other factors I can't bring myself to smile about it. So I hope you don't mind if I give you the CliffsNotes version.
That moron Goichi gave in eventually. Could've been the blood loss and gangrene building up in his extremities - last I checked his toes were turning black - though I like to think it was the sight of split ends amongst his fringe that broke him. Idiot. He didn't know where Melanie was, because why would anyone tell him anything so useful, but he knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a bisexual trapeze artist who knew where to really look.
I threw in the bisexual trapeze artist bit to make sure you were still paying attention.
The 'where' was a thrown-together warehouse out in the Cotswolds of England, slap-bang between the crumbled walls where my family's home once resided. A smart move on my enemies' part, since I'd never been back there after the fire on account of bad memories. I expect they were more interested in the supposed 'symbolism', though. They had speakers mounted on telegraph poles outside, and started bleating right after me and the boys pulled up in our armoured cars, something about unpaid debts and...and my family being doomed for a thousand years? I wasn't really paying attention. What was the point? They had something of mine and demonstrated no interest in negotiating. Words no longer had value. So we blew the fucking doors open and bullets started flying everywhere.
Not sure exactly what the final death tally was, just that it didn't include me, obviously. I remember walking through the building before the fighting had really died down, just...sort of in a trance, really. Only bits and pieces stand out now. A thick smell of cordite all around, and burning ozone from some bastard's near-miss shot at my face. Loose tiling crunching under my shoes. One of my own soldiers weakly gripping my ankle as he suffers from a sucking chest wound. Moving to kick a last-ditch defender out of my way only for him to catch five bullets and crumple in a lifeless pile before I could touch him. And then, finally, journey's end.
"Melanie? Look at me."
Melanie. Oh, that dumb little thing. Pallid, trembling, undernourished but mercifully not...violated in any way. If she had been I'd've stormed right back out of her cell and put the boots to the nearest still-living man until his ribs caved in and my heel punctured his heart. But no, she just gave me a smaller version of her usual smile, and whispered in a voice spider-webbed with cracks from a dry throat:
"Nice to see muh - kaff! - my bad sitch didn't make you take time out of your haircare routine, boss."
I'd like to say at that moment I burst into tears of joy at having my employee and emotional sounding board back, but despite everything, that level of expression was beyond me. I might've attempted a hug while I carried her out to the car, though it didn't seem to register with Melanie. Maybe I was doing it wrong? To be honest, I don't think I've ever wrapped my arms around someone without the intention to strangle them or fuck them, neither of which require a gentle touch. I did keep the girl's head inclined to my shoulder so she wouldn't have to look at all the dead people, which definitely counts as compassionate if anyone's interested in keeping track.
The drive away home was silent. Was hoping Melanie would say something, anything, to keep me diverted but the poor girl lapsed into dreams almost immediately...so my mind couldn't help wandering away from this sole example of my life un-fucking itself, and toward the metric-ton fuck sandwich over the next horizon. I wasn't ready for Johnny Rebel just then.
Something...painful needed to be done first.
"Wait, this is - are you firing me?"
"I..."
Technically it's not a 'firing'. Melanie has done nothing in violation of her terms of employment, after all. But looking at her now, her face caught somewhere between betrayal and despair, it's very difficult to make a point about technicalities.
"You go to all the trouble of saving my life from those - those whoever-they-weres and now you just turn around and - and - there better be a damn good reason for this, I swear to God!"
"It's...ah..."
Should've done this in the office, not the car park. Feels too public here. My palms are sweating.
"Melanie, I'm a mess. Okay? I've been one for a long while now. And I thought maybe getting you back would fix everything, but that's just me throwing all my troubles onto someone else and I know that never works. I'd just wind up blaming you when things aren't magically perfect all of a sudden. You don't deserve that - "
"No, but why are you making me leave over it? I've been with you through shitty times before!"
"Because I'm leaving."
That part takes a while to sink in with her. I'm not even sure it's sunk in with me yet.
"Leaving...what? The Vegas offices?"
"The business. All of it. Not totally my choice but I'm not going to fight it."
I hold up a hand to stop her response.
"I'll be fine, alright? I'll just go build a cushy retirement home on one of the Canary Islands or something. But the break-up isn't gonna be pretty, and I'm damned if I let you be a part of it. So I want you to leave before the shit starts flying. And please, take it with you. It's not much but I want to at least know you'll land on your feet."
She looks down at the envelope with her release bonus. It's about three million dollars. Still feels like too little, honestly. But after a beat, Melanie nods. Her lip is shaking, and she sort of...wobbles on the spot, like she doesn't know whether to walk away or come closer. I...
"Have a good one, Melanie."
I turn and walk away before she can move. If I let her touch me I'd probably take everything back and insist she stay, and she doesn't deserve to suffer under Phoenix' campaign against me. Not after everything.
My eyes sting. My breath hurts. But I'm just about ready for you now, Johnny.
...Maybe one more thing, though. Digging into my coat pocket, I find my phone and tap in a number I haven't used in a very long time - but one that's still a part of my muscle memory, it turns out. The receiver buzzes into my ear for a tense few seconds, where I pray that he's not around to just cancel the call on sight - or, worse, answer it himself.
The answering machine message, still unchanged after all this time, makes my heart flutter in relief. It takes a second after the beep for my tongue to come unstuck, then I speak as clearly as I can manage...
"Hey, it's me. Uhm...I know we were supposed to be done, but I've made mistakes and, ah, I'm okay admitting that, so...we can talk sometime. I'd like to talk sometime. Really talk. Just...call me back, Jun-kun. 'Bye."
And as I hang up on my ex-husband's machine, I feel a dead weight somewhere inside melt away. Didn't even know it was there before, but as I return to the office my steps are lighter, my mind is clearer - and the task ahead of me, while no less unfortunate, at least seems bearable.
My fatalistic tone has likely clued you in already, but to be clear: there is no doubt in my mind that UTCL6 will be my final night in Phoenix.
There's two ways this match can end but both reach the same point. Either I win, and Johnny Rebel fires me out of spite; or I lose, and he fires me to rub it in. More likely the latter, since, y'know, he has control over everything in the Phoenix ring. You think he won't just order the referee to give him the result he wants? I would. You would, too, because it's easy and satisfying and in such a position you're without professional peer to make you feel any trace of guilt. And does anyone who's so much as seen Johhny Rebel come away thinking, "now that's a man with a surplus of integrity"?
...I admit that the Venn diagram crossover of "people who know Johnny Rebel" and "people who know what 'integrity' is" may be very slim.
Suppose I could protest to the board - uh, Phoenix has a board, right? - but for that, I'd need some pretty substantial justification for keeping me around, meaning either friends in the company who'll vouch for me, or a track record with credibility. I have neither, and it's...it's...nnk...m-muh...my...fffffault. It's my fault. That is...wow, that is extremely difficult to admit. But it's true. Never set out to make friends; you never get to proceed at your natural pace when you're dragging someone else up to your level, and tag partners are only valuable in the short term before the inevitable tearful break-up that's a mess to navigate. And my track record's a joke. I know it, you know it. My only victories came against a Catholic schoolgirl who clearly had no business here, and one of those weird rappers nobody knows how to get rid of. Everyone else has punked me.
And, man...that almost makes me welcome an enforced retirement. If you ask a hundred wrestlers what the game's about, what a fight really comes down to at the end of the day, you'll probably get a hundred different answers, but the truth behind them all is ego. The drive to succeed, the boldness to take chances, the will to keep pushing even when your body feels like it's tearing apart in five different directions - it all stems from our personal ambition, and how well we stoke that flame. Used to be, I didn't even think about it. Just barrelled through every new company like a Louboutin'd landslide, uncaring of how my rookie status made me look, taking whatever I wanted and laughing as others had to pick up the pieces in my wake. That's what it feels like when your ego is in ascendancy. Such a long, long time ago now...but you never forget the feeling.
These days, well. I think that last loss to Finn Whelan seals it. If my ambition is so withered it pales next to that of someone who looks like they're fronting an MCR tribute band, maybe it's time to call it a day.
Of course, in an ideal world, I'd at least be allowed to pick the opponent who'd send me on my way. See if I couldn't compel Mercedes Vargas or Crystal Hilton to play along, maybe. Unfortunately this is Phoenix Wrestling, about as far from an ideal world as it's possible for me to get, so...heeeeeeeere's an out-of-shape, unhygienic manchild with a haircut that looks like stalagmites of spunk! Cue limpest possible fanfare!
Funny thing, though, Johnny - you actually remind me of me a little bit. Apart from the various ways in which you fall short - good looks, class, poise, verbal diction, odour, straightness of teeth, BMI, education, mostly everything else - there's a different familiarity in how you've handled this business with Seth Black.
Look: I know I didn't take him out. I don't know who did. But that still leaves us with only two possible courses of action from Johnny Rebel. The more innocent option features a currently-unknown third party who did the dirty deed, while Johnny was simply the first guy to try and make something for himself out of the situation. An opportunist, and a damn successful one. The second option - the spicier one - is that Johnny threw Seth down those damn stairs himself, upgrading from opportunistic to outright malevolent and reinforcing my earlier point about friends in wrestling being only a temporary convenience. I know which option I prefer, but either way, due credit to Rebel for noticing I made the perfect scapegoat. Game recognise game, Johnny. Couldn't have planned it better myself.
Hah...there it is. There's the spark I was waiting for.
I hate you, Johnny. I barely even know you but sure as dogshit smells, I hate you. You're an ugly, abrasive, walking trashcan that belongs hosting shock jock radio or doing something else where nobody can see you and only idiots can hear you, yet you've somehow wormed your way into a position of authority somewhere I freely chose to work. If there's a better symbol of everything wrong with Phoenix Wrestling than you, I can't think of it. There's nothing in this world I'd enjoy more than knocking your Cheeto-filled ass off its unjustly high perch - and the knowledge that I can't do that burns my guts more than bad whiskey.
But there's no way, no way in seven layers of hell that I'm leaving without giving everyone in Phoenix a reason to remember me. They'll never see my name on any championship records, and I'll never qualify for a hypothetical hall of fame, so I guess I'll have to get creative. I'm thinking about carving my name into your forehead, deep enough to leave grooves in the bone. Maybe cut off a finger or two - it's not like you need all ten just to pick your nose, and you don't do much else most days. What's that? It's not a street fight? Who gives a shit? If I'm losing anyway I may as well enjoy myself. I'm making it a street fight. I'm gonna drink your filthy blood, Johnny, and even if you break both my arms first I'll still tear your double-chinned neck open with my teeth. You wanna steal my gig with all this double-clever planning, be 'the Mastermind'? Then you'll get to feel just as miserable as I've felt these past months, all in one night. Can't say fairer than that.
Enjoy your big winning comeback, Johnny Rebel - but more to the point, enjoy the feeling of a functioning body while you've still got one. And to the rest of you Phoenix people, expecting call-outs or some tear-stained thankyou speech you can laugh about later? Yeah, you all can fuck off.
I was too good for this place anyway.
Hhhhhh. Okay.
It's been a while since we've caught up. How've you been? That was small talk, I don't actually give a shit. Just filling air time to put you at ease.
Things've changed a bunch for me. Not in the usual ugly, terrible ways either. It's actually pretty close to experiencing a 'win', but thanks to other factors I can't bring myself to smile about it. So I hope you don't mind if I give you the CliffsNotes version.
That moron Goichi gave in eventually. Could've been the blood loss and gangrene building up in his extremities - last I checked his toes were turning black - though I like to think it was the sight of split ends amongst his fringe that broke him. Idiot. He didn't know where Melanie was, because why would anyone tell him anything so useful, but he knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a bisexual trapeze artist who knew where to really look.
I threw in the bisexual trapeze artist bit to make sure you were still paying attention.
The 'where' was a thrown-together warehouse out in the Cotswolds of England, slap-bang between the crumbled walls where my family's home once resided. A smart move on my enemies' part, since I'd never been back there after the fire on account of bad memories. I expect they were more interested in the supposed 'symbolism', though. They had speakers mounted on telegraph poles outside, and started bleating right after me and the boys pulled up in our armoured cars, something about unpaid debts and...and my family being doomed for a thousand years? I wasn't really paying attention. What was the point? They had something of mine and demonstrated no interest in negotiating. Words no longer had value. So we blew the fucking doors open and bullets started flying everywhere.
Not sure exactly what the final death tally was, just that it didn't include me, obviously. I remember walking through the building before the fighting had really died down, just...sort of in a trance, really. Only bits and pieces stand out now. A thick smell of cordite all around, and burning ozone from some bastard's near-miss shot at my face. Loose tiling crunching under my shoes. One of my own soldiers weakly gripping my ankle as he suffers from a sucking chest wound. Moving to kick a last-ditch defender out of my way only for him to catch five bullets and crumple in a lifeless pile before I could touch him. And then, finally, journey's end.
"Melanie? Look at me."
Melanie. Oh, that dumb little thing. Pallid, trembling, undernourished but mercifully not...violated in any way. If she had been I'd've stormed right back out of her cell and put the boots to the nearest still-living man until his ribs caved in and my heel punctured his heart. But no, she just gave me a smaller version of her usual smile, and whispered in a voice spider-webbed with cracks from a dry throat:
"Nice to see muh - kaff! - my bad sitch didn't make you take time out of your haircare routine, boss."
I'd like to say at that moment I burst into tears of joy at having my employee and emotional sounding board back, but despite everything, that level of expression was beyond me. I might've attempted a hug while I carried her out to the car, though it didn't seem to register with Melanie. Maybe I was doing it wrong? To be honest, I don't think I've ever wrapped my arms around someone without the intention to strangle them or fuck them, neither of which require a gentle touch. I did keep the girl's head inclined to my shoulder so she wouldn't have to look at all the dead people, which definitely counts as compassionate if anyone's interested in keeping track.
The drive away home was silent. Was hoping Melanie would say something, anything, to keep me diverted but the poor girl lapsed into dreams almost immediately...so my mind couldn't help wandering away from this sole example of my life un-fucking itself, and toward the metric-ton fuck sandwich over the next horizon. I wasn't ready for Johnny Rebel just then.
Something...painful needed to be done first.
~V~
"Wait, this is - are you firing me?"
"I..."
Technically it's not a 'firing'. Melanie has done nothing in violation of her terms of employment, after all. But looking at her now, her face caught somewhere between betrayal and despair, it's very difficult to make a point about technicalities.
"You go to all the trouble of saving my life from those - those whoever-they-weres and now you just turn around and - and - there better be a damn good reason for this, I swear to God!"
"It's...ah..."
Should've done this in the office, not the car park. Feels too public here. My palms are sweating.
"Melanie, I'm a mess. Okay? I've been one for a long while now. And I thought maybe getting you back would fix everything, but that's just me throwing all my troubles onto someone else and I know that never works. I'd just wind up blaming you when things aren't magically perfect all of a sudden. You don't deserve that - "
"No, but why are you making me leave over it? I've been with you through shitty times before!"
"Because I'm leaving."
That part takes a while to sink in with her. I'm not even sure it's sunk in with me yet.
"Leaving...what? The Vegas offices?"
"The business. All of it. Not totally my choice but I'm not going to fight it."
I hold up a hand to stop her response.
"I'll be fine, alright? I'll just go build a cushy retirement home on one of the Canary Islands or something. But the break-up isn't gonna be pretty, and I'm damned if I let you be a part of it. So I want you to leave before the shit starts flying. And please, take it with you. It's not much but I want to at least know you'll land on your feet."
She looks down at the envelope with her release bonus. It's about three million dollars. Still feels like too little, honestly. But after a beat, Melanie nods. Her lip is shaking, and she sort of...wobbles on the spot, like she doesn't know whether to walk away or come closer. I...
"Have a good one, Melanie."
I turn and walk away before she can move. If I let her touch me I'd probably take everything back and insist she stay, and she doesn't deserve to suffer under Phoenix' campaign against me. Not after everything.
My eyes sting. My breath hurts. But I'm just about ready for you now, Johnny.
...Maybe one more thing, though. Digging into my coat pocket, I find my phone and tap in a number I haven't used in a very long time - but one that's still a part of my muscle memory, it turns out. The receiver buzzes into my ear for a tense few seconds, where I pray that he's not around to just cancel the call on sight - or, worse, answer it himself.
The answering machine message, still unchanged after all this time, makes my heart flutter in relief. It takes a second after the beep for my tongue to come unstuck, then I speak as clearly as I can manage...
"Hey, it's me. Uhm...I know we were supposed to be done, but I've made mistakes and, ah, I'm okay admitting that, so...we can talk sometime. I'd like to talk sometime. Really talk. Just...call me back, Jun-kun. 'Bye."
And as I hang up on my ex-husband's machine, I feel a dead weight somewhere inside melt away. Didn't even know it was there before, but as I return to the office my steps are lighter, my mind is clearer - and the task ahead of me, while no less unfortunate, at least seems bearable.
~V~
My fatalistic tone has likely clued you in already, but to be clear: there is no doubt in my mind that UTCL6 will be my final night in Phoenix.
There's two ways this match can end but both reach the same point. Either I win, and Johnny Rebel fires me out of spite; or I lose, and he fires me to rub it in. More likely the latter, since, y'know, he has control over everything in the Phoenix ring. You think he won't just order the referee to give him the result he wants? I would. You would, too, because it's easy and satisfying and in such a position you're without professional peer to make you feel any trace of guilt. And does anyone who's so much as seen Johhny Rebel come away thinking, "now that's a man with a surplus of integrity"?
...I admit that the Venn diagram crossover of "people who know Johnny Rebel" and "people who know what 'integrity' is" may be very slim.
Suppose I could protest to the board - uh, Phoenix has a board, right? - but for that, I'd need some pretty substantial justification for keeping me around, meaning either friends in the company who'll vouch for me, or a track record with credibility. I have neither, and it's...it's...nnk...m-muh...my...fffffault. It's my fault. That is...wow, that is extremely difficult to admit. But it's true. Never set out to make friends; you never get to proceed at your natural pace when you're dragging someone else up to your level, and tag partners are only valuable in the short term before the inevitable tearful break-up that's a mess to navigate. And my track record's a joke. I know it, you know it. My only victories came against a Catholic schoolgirl who clearly had no business here, and one of those weird rappers nobody knows how to get rid of. Everyone else has punked me.
And, man...that almost makes me welcome an enforced retirement. If you ask a hundred wrestlers what the game's about, what a fight really comes down to at the end of the day, you'll probably get a hundred different answers, but the truth behind them all is ego. The drive to succeed, the boldness to take chances, the will to keep pushing even when your body feels like it's tearing apart in five different directions - it all stems from our personal ambition, and how well we stoke that flame. Used to be, I didn't even think about it. Just barrelled through every new company like a Louboutin'd landslide, uncaring of how my rookie status made me look, taking whatever I wanted and laughing as others had to pick up the pieces in my wake. That's what it feels like when your ego is in ascendancy. Such a long, long time ago now...but you never forget the feeling.
These days, well. I think that last loss to Finn Whelan seals it. If my ambition is so withered it pales next to that of someone who looks like they're fronting an MCR tribute band, maybe it's time to call it a day.
Of course, in an ideal world, I'd at least be allowed to pick the opponent who'd send me on my way. See if I couldn't compel Mercedes Vargas or Crystal Hilton to play along, maybe. Unfortunately this is Phoenix Wrestling, about as far from an ideal world as it's possible for me to get, so...heeeeeeeere's an out-of-shape, unhygienic manchild with a haircut that looks like stalagmites of spunk! Cue limpest possible fanfare!
Funny thing, though, Johnny - you actually remind me of me a little bit. Apart from the various ways in which you fall short - good looks, class, poise, verbal diction, odour, straightness of teeth, BMI, education, mostly everything else - there's a different familiarity in how you've handled this business with Seth Black.
Look: I know I didn't take him out. I don't know who did. But that still leaves us with only two possible courses of action from Johnny Rebel. The more innocent option features a currently-unknown third party who did the dirty deed, while Johnny was simply the first guy to try and make something for himself out of the situation. An opportunist, and a damn successful one. The second option - the spicier one - is that Johnny threw Seth down those damn stairs himself, upgrading from opportunistic to outright malevolent and reinforcing my earlier point about friends in wrestling being only a temporary convenience. I know which option I prefer, but either way, due credit to Rebel for noticing I made the perfect scapegoat. Game recognise game, Johnny. Couldn't have planned it better myself.
Hah...there it is. There's the spark I was waiting for.
I hate you, Johnny. I barely even know you but sure as dogshit smells, I hate you. You're an ugly, abrasive, walking trashcan that belongs hosting shock jock radio or doing something else where nobody can see you and only idiots can hear you, yet you've somehow wormed your way into a position of authority somewhere I freely chose to work. If there's a better symbol of everything wrong with Phoenix Wrestling than you, I can't think of it. There's nothing in this world I'd enjoy more than knocking your Cheeto-filled ass off its unjustly high perch - and the knowledge that I can't do that burns my guts more than bad whiskey.
But there's no way, no way in seven layers of hell that I'm leaving without giving everyone in Phoenix a reason to remember me. They'll never see my name on any championship records, and I'll never qualify for a hypothetical hall of fame, so I guess I'll have to get creative. I'm thinking about carving my name into your forehead, deep enough to leave grooves in the bone. Maybe cut off a finger or two - it's not like you need all ten just to pick your nose, and you don't do much else most days. What's that? It's not a street fight? Who gives a shit? If I'm losing anyway I may as well enjoy myself. I'm making it a street fight. I'm gonna drink your filthy blood, Johnny, and even if you break both my arms first I'll still tear your double-chinned neck open with my teeth. You wanna steal my gig with all this double-clever planning, be 'the Mastermind'? Then you'll get to feel just as miserable as I've felt these past months, all in one night. Can't say fairer than that.
Enjoy your big winning comeback, Johnny Rebel - but more to the point, enjoy the feeling of a functioning body while you've still got one. And to the rest of you Phoenix people, expecting call-outs or some tear-stained thankyou speech you can laugh about later? Yeah, you all can fuck off.
I was too good for this place anyway.
~V~
final count: 2,448 words
final count: 2,448 words