Awakening VIII - Through The Looking Glass pt. 1
Jun 2, 2019 13:55:00 GMT -5
Shadowlove, Estrella Luiz ✨, and 1 more like this
Post by Lissie Hope on Jun 2, 2019 13:55:00 GMT -5
Valentine's Day, 2017
New Orleans
5:45 AM
A buzz on the nightstand caused objects to jump in unison.
Isaac finally opened his eyes but didn't notice the pale of her skin, the hardness of her body.
"Babe," he said, closing his eyes again. "You gonna get that?" No response. "Babe?" he asked again, the realization slowly creeping in. "Lissie?? You 'aight?"
It took a few seconds but Lissie finally nodded her head and shook the demons controlling her. She shared a lot with Isaac, her rock of fourteen months, more with him than anybody else in fact. Never the nightmares; those wrought with trauma and sadness. She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and silenced the call before noticing how many icons were lit up.
Six notifications.
Eleven missed calls.
Fourteen unread text messages.
"I gotta take this," she said softly, planting her feet on the rough carpet. She went into the living room and accepted the call. He never called this early; something was up.
"Robbie? Everything okay? My bad, I was passed out."
"Sis," he finally said, his voice cracking. Pained.
"What's wrong?" She'd never heard him so vulnerable before.
"It's dad," he cried out. "He's gone."
Today
iLKB Gym
New Orleans
5:45 AM
"Left, left, right," the kickboxing coach instructed. Lissie instinctively followed suit, jabbing the gloves with a thud. She ducked under a defensive move. "High kick," and she followed with a roundhouse, but the coach caught her leg and placed a heel behind her ankle, tripping her. He pounced on top and she tried to defend with a butterfly guard but he was too big for her.
"Dammit," she sighed to herself, removing her mouthpiece.
"Things you gotta look out for," Coach Savage warned. "From what I know, he's pretty skilled in grappling and defense. You've gotta be on your heels because he's going to look to exploit everything you do."
"Got it, coach. He's a defensive fighter... too scared to throw the first punch," she ridiculed, her nostrils flaring. "I know his type. I used to be his type."
"That's the mindset of a fool," Coach told her. "C'mon, get up. Run it again."
They went through a tough training session, working on her defense, attacks, and submissions. Her Jiu-Jitsu background wasn't a focus, but more ancillary to her methods of attack in the ring. But she had a nice foundation, and spent the morning honing her craft. Knowing one-half of the team that she would soon face opposite in the ring was an MMA specialist, now was as good a time as any to return to one of the gyms that took her in in the first place.
"I missed you guys," she said as they took a water break.
"We're all incredibly proud of you, Lis," he told her, his voice beaming with pride. "The minute you stepped in here you were something else," he said. "Something special. We could all see it. You had a fire in your belly to let out some pent up aggression, and I was happy to be your guinea pig. But damn," a pause. "I didn't think it would happen this quick. You're a fucking star, girl."
"I owe a lot of it to you, Coach," she said, holding back some emotion in her voice. "It's hard believing in yourself. When other people do, it makes it a hell of a lot easier."
"You're so young and so assure of yourself and who you are," he began. "It's a gift, dude. Not a lot of people are aware of how good they can actually be. You are. And it's pretty damn clear you're enjoying every minute of it. I hope you're not taking any of this for granted."
"Some big things are on the horizon," Lissie responded. "Just gotta keep my focus on the prize. I've had to really evaluate what the best decisions are for my career, what's going to put me on the fast track to stardom. And baby, here we fucking go!"
Lissie and Damon Savage spent a little more time catching up, reminiscing about how she began and how far she's come since she first stepped foot in the gym. From an early age, everyone in Lissie's inner circle could see that she had buried so much anger internally and simply needed an outlet to release it. It shocked everyone to see, however, that there was a competitive spirit in her that enhanced her natural talent. And here she was, at the top of her game, perfecting her craft, ready to make leaps and bounds.
It took her by surprise when an enormous pair of bear hands spun her around and lifted her up into a warm embrace.
"Look what the cat dragged in!"
The baritone voice was almost heavenly, but she knew it instantly. Coach Boom, the former heavyweight boxer who taught her everything she knew. The one who treated her more like a daughter than a protege. Lissie hadn't seen him in a few months, but he was the first person she told when she decided to embark on this journey of professional wrestling. And he couldn't have been more supportive. It was a relationship she had never had, but one she had always dreamed of.
"'Yo!! Why 'ya been ghostin' us?! You know we be watchin' 'ya every week, fam. Kickin' ass, just like I knew 'ya would!"
"Thanks, Boom! I would have never had the courage to get in this business if ya'll didn't feed my drive and my passion. G'damn I missed y'all!"
"Don't sell 'yaself short, babygirl. This was all you."
"You had all the pieces," Savage interjected. "We just helped you put it all together."
"What is she, 'yo, some sort of fuckin' Humpty-Dumpty lookin' ass?" Boom joked. "We ain't fixin' nothin' broke, y'know? Savage comin' in with some philosophy and shit. Ain't got no time for riddles... we 'bout 'dat action!"
Lissie missed the banter. All three of them could spend hours retelling the same stories and creating new ones, but nothing could fill the void of the elephant in the room. After twenty minutes of catching up, the unspoken connection finally came to fruition.
"You talk to Izzy lately?"
Boom was referring to Isaac Slade, Lissie's first love. They dated for over a year, and were on the brink of engagement, before Lissie abruptly sabotaged the only meaningful relationship she ever had. That was the common thread any time Lissie had something good before it would eventually fade into a cloud of dust. The same story ever since she could ever remember. Hope thwarted, dreams shattered, all by her own undoing.
Isaac also happened to be Coach Boom's only son.
Four Days Later, 2017
Conroe, TX
11:00 AM
The service was, by anybody's reasonable standard and definition, quite beautiful. The eulogy had been graciously written and emotionally read by Robbie. Dottie Hope listened intently to all of the stories that were shared by George's brothers-in-arms from Vietnam. The local townspeople that had taken a keen friendship to George throughout the years had all signed the guestbook with uplifting and motivational messages. But when Elisabeth was asked if she would like to share her thoughts on her late father from the podium, she froze. Her feet were glued to the creaky floorboards in the local church. A sound that brought distinct and traumatic memories back up to the surface.
She knew the truth, though she hadn't ever told anyone about it.
And it shook her to the core having to bury it while others imparted these falsehoods.
Izzy Slade had made the trip with her. Her family had never met him, but had heard a lot about the impact he was having on her life. But he was a troubled young man with a shocking appearance, and though Dottie had tried her best to be gracious with his arrival, she couldn't help but think that this was one final act of defiance by her resilient daughter to dishonor the father she could never quite connect with. Izzy was African-American, with multi-colored braided hair and facial tattoos. He was someone who stood out in a whitebread crowd like Conroe, Texas, a small suburb littered with farmers with preconceived judgments about men like him. He felt uncomfortable the minute he stepped in the church, his hand clasping hers. But he was there for all the right reasons; someone like Lissie needed that sense of comfort and support, and he was deeply in love with her and would move the earth to make sure she knew it. But in the back of his mind, he knew Lissie had brought him home for more selfish reasons.
Lissie made frequent bathroom breaks during the service, discreetly downing cheap whiskey from the flask she hid in her purse. Izzy smelled the alcohol on her breath but decided not to address it, learning over the last few months that Lissie needed to cope in her own way. But when she stumbled back before the final prayer, people noticed.
"I can't believe you're drunk already," Robbie whispered, shaking his head in disgust. "How can you do this to 'ma?"
Lissie slunk back into the pew and Izzy threw an arm around her, pulling her into his body. Tears fell from her eyes; not because she was grieving, but because she never felt more distant from her family than she did at that second. The only thing she wanted to do was finish the warm liquor that remained, right in front of everyone, as a final 'fuck you' to the man who robbed her of her youth and her self-worth and her innocence. It would have been an appropriate closure. Finality. But even she knew that she couldn't do that to her 'ma, who she loved and respected more than anyone in the world.
The clock struck 11:11 AM.
Those numbers meant so much to Lissie. It was a time that had appeared in the most random of moments, and one that she shared so many significant memories in her life. Good ones, bad ones, it didn't matter. It just seemed like the universe was speaking to her, telling her to take action. Grab the moment by the balls, and dream big. To not let that window of opportunity, those sixty seconds, pass her by.
"I'm glad he's dead," she finally said, loud enough for Dottie to hear. She clutched her pearl necklace, an anniversary present, and released the most gut-wrenching yelp. The levee broke and the tears flooded from her eyes, releasing all of the emotion that up until that point, she had been strong enough to keep inside.
Robbie grabbed their mother and pulled her in tightly. The look of anger and disappointment in his eyes was something that Lissie had never seen before. Luckily, this exchange wasn't loud enough for the rest of the congregation to hear, but the damage was irreparable. Robbie mouthed the words "just go" and Izzy was cognizant of the fact that he needed to get Lissie the hell out of there. He grabbed her by the hand and led her back to the waiting room, the loud thud of the church doors slamming shut behind her.
She was finally leaving her father behind.
Once and for all.
She immediately regretted it as she looked into the full-length mirror and saw the reflection of a woman completely broken. She wondered what it was like to see herself from another dimension. She wanted to see what her life would've looked like through someone else's eyes.
She wanted to dive in, headfirst, through the looking glass.
New Orleans
5:45 AM
BEEP - BEEP - BEEP
I woke up in a panic.
My mind had been engulfed in a gripping dream, but my lucid brain was incapable of interpreting it.
I could feel my tight undershirt glued to my body, the chill of the air stinging my skin like needles.
I stared at the ceiling, the blades of the fan taunting me at a devilish pace.
Isaac stirred in his sleep beside me. His warm body provided no comfort.
I tried to call out to him, but cement had replaced my vocal chords, and I couldn't choke out a breath, much less a word.
My limbs were frozen, my heart was racing, the tears began to run.
A buzz on the nightstand caused objects to jump in unison.
Isaac finally opened his eyes but didn't notice the pale of her skin, the hardness of her body.
"Babe," he said, closing his eyes again. "You gonna get that?" No response. "Babe?" he asked again, the realization slowly creeping in. "Lissie?? You 'aight?"
It took a few seconds but Lissie finally nodded her head and shook the demons controlling her. She shared a lot with Isaac, her rock of fourteen months, more with him than anybody else in fact. Never the nightmares; those wrought with trauma and sadness. She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and silenced the call before noticing how many icons were lit up.
Six notifications.
Eleven missed calls.
Fourteen unread text messages.
"I gotta take this," she said softly, planting her feet on the rough carpet. She went into the living room and accepted the call. He never called this early; something was up.
"Robbie? Everything okay? My bad, I was passed out."
"Sis," he finally said, his voice cracking. Pained.
"What's wrong?" She'd never heard him so vulnerable before.
"It's dad," he cried out. "He's gone."
Today
iLKB Gym
New Orleans
5:45 AM
"Left, left, right," the kickboxing coach instructed. Lissie instinctively followed suit, jabbing the gloves with a thud. She ducked under a defensive move. "High kick," and she followed with a roundhouse, but the coach caught her leg and placed a heel behind her ankle, tripping her. He pounced on top and she tried to defend with a butterfly guard but he was too big for her.
"Dammit," she sighed to herself, removing her mouthpiece.
"Things you gotta look out for," Coach Savage warned. "From what I know, he's pretty skilled in grappling and defense. You've gotta be on your heels because he's going to look to exploit everything you do."
"Got it, coach. He's a defensive fighter... too scared to throw the first punch," she ridiculed, her nostrils flaring. "I know his type. I used to be his type."
"That's the mindset of a fool," Coach told her. "C'mon, get up. Run it again."
They went through a tough training session, working on her defense, attacks, and submissions. Her Jiu-Jitsu background wasn't a focus, but more ancillary to her methods of attack in the ring. But she had a nice foundation, and spent the morning honing her craft. Knowing one-half of the team that she would soon face opposite in the ring was an MMA specialist, now was as good a time as any to return to one of the gyms that took her in in the first place.
"I missed you guys," she said as they took a water break.
"We're all incredibly proud of you, Lis," he told her, his voice beaming with pride. "The minute you stepped in here you were something else," he said. "Something special. We could all see it. You had a fire in your belly to let out some pent up aggression, and I was happy to be your guinea pig. But damn," a pause. "I didn't think it would happen this quick. You're a fucking star, girl."
"I owe a lot of it to you, Coach," she said, holding back some emotion in her voice. "It's hard believing in yourself. When other people do, it makes it a hell of a lot easier."
"You're so young and so assure of yourself and who you are," he began. "It's a gift, dude. Not a lot of people are aware of how good they can actually be. You are. And it's pretty damn clear you're enjoying every minute of it. I hope you're not taking any of this for granted."
"Some big things are on the horizon," Lissie responded. "Just gotta keep my focus on the prize. I've had to really evaluate what the best decisions are for my career, what's going to put me on the fast track to stardom. And baby, here we fucking go!"
Lissie and Damon Savage spent a little more time catching up, reminiscing about how she began and how far she's come since she first stepped foot in the gym. From an early age, everyone in Lissie's inner circle could see that she had buried so much anger internally and simply needed an outlet to release it. It shocked everyone to see, however, that there was a competitive spirit in her that enhanced her natural talent. And here she was, at the top of her game, perfecting her craft, ready to make leaps and bounds.
It took her by surprise when an enormous pair of bear hands spun her around and lifted her up into a warm embrace.
"Look what the cat dragged in!"
The baritone voice was almost heavenly, but she knew it instantly. Coach Boom, the former heavyweight boxer who taught her everything she knew. The one who treated her more like a daughter than a protege. Lissie hadn't seen him in a few months, but he was the first person she told when she decided to embark on this journey of professional wrestling. And he couldn't have been more supportive. It was a relationship she had never had, but one she had always dreamed of.
"'Yo!! Why 'ya been ghostin' us?! You know we be watchin' 'ya every week, fam. Kickin' ass, just like I knew 'ya would!"
"Thanks, Boom! I would have never had the courage to get in this business if ya'll didn't feed my drive and my passion. G'damn I missed y'all!"
"Don't sell 'yaself short, babygirl. This was all you."
"You had all the pieces," Savage interjected. "We just helped you put it all together."
"What is she, 'yo, some sort of fuckin' Humpty-Dumpty lookin' ass?" Boom joked. "We ain't fixin' nothin' broke, y'know? Savage comin' in with some philosophy and shit. Ain't got no time for riddles... we 'bout 'dat action!"
Lissie missed the banter. All three of them could spend hours retelling the same stories and creating new ones, but nothing could fill the void of the elephant in the room. After twenty minutes of catching up, the unspoken connection finally came to fruition.
"You talk to Izzy lately?"
Boom was referring to Isaac Slade, Lissie's first love. They dated for over a year, and were on the brink of engagement, before Lissie abruptly sabotaged the only meaningful relationship she ever had. That was the common thread any time Lissie had something good before it would eventually fade into a cloud of dust. The same story ever since she could ever remember. Hope thwarted, dreams shattered, all by her own undoing.
Isaac also happened to be Coach Boom's only son.
When you look in a mirror, what do you see?
Do you see the scars of the past, hoping they don’t resurface?
Do you see an ambition that could never be stifled?
Or do you see an irrelevant future, impotent and unfulfilled, castrated before it even began?
Think about it for a second, Dane. What are you trying to prove? And to whom? Yourself? Your fans? Your wife? What have you done to deserve a second, third, even a fourth chance? You couldn’t swing it in the EWA. You think it’s gonna be any different in A-Dub? Here you are, your dick tucked between your legs, ready to make a lasting! impression! in the harshest waters you’ve ever dared to take a dip in.
This ain’t for the weak, you fucking clown.
So you fought in a cage.
Been to prison.
Learned to protect your asshole from dudes making you their bitch.
But how’s it gonna feel when the two baddest bitches finish the job?
I ain’t taking it easy on you, boi. You might think you need to handle us with kid gloves, patting us on the head and wishing the best of luck, but we've beaten far bigger and better than you can even dream of. No shit's given if you take us lightly, if you think our pretty faces are just too precious to take seriously, because the fact remains, Dane.
You better bring your A-game.
Don't hold nothing back.
Because you're going be staring at the rafters and spotlights above, wondering what the fuck went wrong.
Listening to a massive chorus of fans chanting our names.
And you're going to realize that stepping foot in AW was your second biggest mistake.
A loss here won't rob you of five years. But a loss to begin your AW career against a pair of girls that you take for granted merely because we have big tits and a fun field to play in... it'll be your own undoing. So give me a fucking break, Dane. I don't need your respect. I don't want your praise. I don't fucking play that game. I know I'm better than you, and I'm going to prove it. So take your backhanded compliments and shove 'em straight up your ass. Let 'em hit a nerve ending you haven't had tickled since your days in the pen. Because I don't want a fucking thing from you but your best. When I beat you at your best, there's no question I can beat you any given night.
You think I give two-shits that you and your idiotic partner have years of experience and traumatic life lessons over me? I don't. They've lined up all of these failed, grizzly veterans in front of me, from the moment I stepped in this business, and I've knocked them all down. You two are no exception. Like taking a sledgehammer to a gazebo, I knocked each of them off their hinges, one by one, and I intend to continue hammering away until there's nothing standing. Until I'm staring from the top of the mountain, down on every last one of the bodies I've led to slaughter.
Kincaid.
Vayden.
Diderot.
Elias.
You're the next domino to fall, homie. It's inevitable. Beyond your control. There's absolutely no way you'll be able to coexist with that parasite of a human you're forced to have in your corner. And unfortunately for you, you'll have to swallow your pride if you even have a chance of starting your career on the right foot. It's a sad reality, my man. You two are destined to take that L against a pair of females that you hold in such disregard but who have so much continuity that it scares you, deep in the pit of your core. We're going to be the impetus of your unraveling, and there's not a fucking thing you can do about it.
Yo' Tweedledee, get on 'outta here with this bullfuckery.
Pick your poision.
Sacrifice your integrity for that cancerous cunt attached to your hip.
Or surrender your dignity and lose it all before it even begins.
You're no wrestler, homeboy. You ain't got the skill or the discipline or the variety to be a professional wrestler. You're a dog on a leash, barking from the kennel, hoping to chomp down on whoever steps in your cage. But this ain't no motherfucking cage. This ain't a goddamned fistfight. Everything you know, everything you do well, everything you can hang your hat on -- none of it matters in a ring surrounded by ropes. You can't throw caution to the wind here. And that's going to be your biggest mistake, this Clash and any Clash after that. You think that just because you've knocked out a few people with less skill than you that it makes a damn difference... breaking news, pussy; it won't. And that's another reality that you're going to have to painfully accept, forcing it's way down your throat until you choke, like that big Mandingo cock you blew to even get a chance in this place.
Eat my ass, Dane.
Suck my motherfucking dick.
I know you've had a lot of practice already.
Four Days Later, 2017
Conroe, TX
11:00 AM
George David Hope
Jan. 06, 1954 - Feb. 13, 2017
Beloved Husband & Father
The service was, by anybody's reasonable standard and definition, quite beautiful. The eulogy had been graciously written and emotionally read by Robbie. Dottie Hope listened intently to all of the stories that were shared by George's brothers-in-arms from Vietnam. The local townspeople that had taken a keen friendship to George throughout the years had all signed the guestbook with uplifting and motivational messages. But when Elisabeth was asked if she would like to share her thoughts on her late father from the podium, she froze. Her feet were glued to the creaky floorboards in the local church. A sound that brought distinct and traumatic memories back up to the surface.
She knew the truth, though she hadn't ever told anyone about it.
And it shook her to the core having to bury it while others imparted these falsehoods.
Izzy Slade had made the trip with her. Her family had never met him, but had heard a lot about the impact he was having on her life. But he was a troubled young man with a shocking appearance, and though Dottie had tried her best to be gracious with his arrival, she couldn't help but think that this was one final act of defiance by her resilient daughter to dishonor the father she could never quite connect with. Izzy was African-American, with multi-colored braided hair and facial tattoos. He was someone who stood out in a whitebread crowd like Conroe, Texas, a small suburb littered with farmers with preconceived judgments about men like him. He felt uncomfortable the minute he stepped in the church, his hand clasping hers. But he was there for all the right reasons; someone like Lissie needed that sense of comfort and support, and he was deeply in love with her and would move the earth to make sure she knew it. But in the back of his mind, he knew Lissie had brought him home for more selfish reasons.
Lissie made frequent bathroom breaks during the service, discreetly downing cheap whiskey from the flask she hid in her purse. Izzy smelled the alcohol on her breath but decided not to address it, learning over the last few months that Lissie needed to cope in her own way. But when she stumbled back before the final prayer, people noticed.
"I can't believe you're drunk already," Robbie whispered, shaking his head in disgust. "How can you do this to 'ma?"
Lissie slunk back into the pew and Izzy threw an arm around her, pulling her into his body. Tears fell from her eyes; not because she was grieving, but because she never felt more distant from her family than she did at that second. The only thing she wanted to do was finish the warm liquor that remained, right in front of everyone, as a final 'fuck you' to the man who robbed her of her youth and her self-worth and her innocence. It would have been an appropriate closure. Finality. But even she knew that she couldn't do that to her 'ma, who she loved and respected more than anyone in the world.
The clock struck 11:11 AM.
Those numbers meant so much to Lissie. It was a time that had appeared in the most random of moments, and one that she shared so many significant memories in her life. Good ones, bad ones, it didn't matter. It just seemed like the universe was speaking to her, telling her to take action. Grab the moment by the balls, and dream big. To not let that window of opportunity, those sixty seconds, pass her by.
"I'm glad he's dead," she finally said, loud enough for Dottie to hear. She clutched her pearl necklace, an anniversary present, and released the most gut-wrenching yelp. The levee broke and the tears flooded from her eyes, releasing all of the emotion that up until that point, she had been strong enough to keep inside.
Robbie grabbed their mother and pulled her in tightly. The look of anger and disappointment in his eyes was something that Lissie had never seen before. Luckily, this exchange wasn't loud enough for the rest of the congregation to hear, but the damage was irreparable. Robbie mouthed the words "just go" and Izzy was cognizant of the fact that he needed to get Lissie the hell out of there. He grabbed her by the hand and led her back to the waiting room, the loud thud of the church doors slamming shut behind her.
She was finally leaving her father behind.
Once and for all.
She immediately regretted it as she looked into the full-length mirror and saw the reflection of a woman completely broken. She wondered what it was like to see herself from another dimension. She wanted to see what her life would've looked like through someone else's eyes.
She wanted to dive in, headfirst, through the looking glass.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
A broken record skips once or twice.
That's when you can hear the blemishes, the inaccuracies ripe for exploitation.
Is that all you've got, Johnny?
I'm a whore? My tits are nice? I like to fuck? I give great head?
Holy fucking redundancy.
Ya' know what? Yeah. The answer is yes.
I can fuck anybody I want. Sorry to say though, you won't ever make the cut.
Even sluts have standards.
I think I can speak for anybody who managed to sit through your nonsensical tirade when I say this, Johnny. And I'll put it succinctly so even an idiotic junkie bitch like yourself can understand. In the poetic words of the Rap God himself, I think even my enemy Kennedy Matthews would agree with me when I say this.
Shut the fuck up.
Shut. The. (Ph)uck. Up!
G'damn, you're such an insufferable prick.
I'm proud of being me, Johnny. I know my worth, I know what I can offer people and what I can offer this company. These fans love me, the investors love me, the staff loves me, the scoop writers love me. They all see me for what I am and what I'm capable of and what I'll be doing for AW when my time comes. And it's fast-approaching, man, and I'm enjoying the ride! I'm on the fast-track to the upper-echelon of this roster, while you? There you are, doing everything you can to antagonize anybody who will listen. Nobody does, Johnny. Nobody gives a shit that you're pissing on gym bags, or blowing up cars, or victimizing poor girls like Dani who aren't strong enough to leave your dumb ass.
So you hold a mock-service for the death of a company no one gives a shit about.
Whoop-de-fucking-doo.
I know funerals, bitch. I've been to one too many. Most of all though, nobody gives a shit that you're taking up valuable time on Clash to run the longest fucking promos in the history of television promos and saying absolutely nothing. For fucks sake, even your last tweet was 363 words!
Your brutal insignificance is about the only thing interesting about you.
The fact that you think you've gotta make these grand gestures of disrespekt! to even be acknowledged would be sad to watch, if it wasn't so fucking hilarious. But it's your tired ass that's begging for relevancy and doing a piss-poor job of it. Nobody cares, Johnny. You are the last thing on anyone's mind, and it's a harsh reality you'll eventually have to face. Lay off the pills, put down the cheap whiskey, you broke-ass bitch. Let your brain function for just a second. Let the truth of it all marinate before your career passes you by.
You're an afterthought.
A worthless sack of shit in a business that demands the best.
I want you to make it, Johnny. Seriously! Hope you realize the potential you harness. Turn it all around and not have to settle for petty insults and grandiose actions of petulance. I want you to use whatever skill you have and put it on the line, week after week, until you're fighting me for championship belts; not tying belts to your arm to find a usable vein. I don't want you to join the 27-Club, being a story of unfulfilled promise and killing all of your hopes and drea--
Nah, wait.
Fuck that.
Die in a ditch, motherfucker.
Dig your own grave and I'll bury your ass, six-feet-deep.
Dani, girl. Holy shit.
Woman to woman, this fucking douche is textbook. He's a who's-who of everything you need to look out for in partner, and I hope you realize it before it's too late that this son-of-a-bitch is going to kill you someday. Get out! Now! I see the scenario where a bad loss to two 'cum-dumpsters' is going to kick his fragile ego in the nuts and he'll take it out on the naive girl doing his bidding. And unfortunately for ya'll, that clock is ticking, and Monday Night Clash will be here sooner than you think. I hope you're not willingly standing beside this piece of shit -- next time you're on camera, do me a solid and send me a signal. Blink, bitch! There's no reason for you to be shackled to this misogynistic anchor when I toss his stupid-ass overboard.
Listen closely, Johnny.
You aren't worthy of my time or energy. Unfortunately for you, I have a job to do, and I fulfill it always. They line 'em up, and I shoot 'em down. Your head in the scope, my finger on the trigger. You'll never be on the list with all of superstars; the one I'm destined to be on. Nope, no way, no how. I will end that dream of yours before it ever begins coming to fruition. You hold Ryan Elias in high regard? Cool man, go ahead and ask him what it's like to be on the receiving end of a beatdown from Lissie motherfucking Hope.
This is your eulogy, Johnny.
I was so (dis)honored to perform your (dis)service.
I know you, above all, deserve the upmost (dis)respect.
I humbly ask for your forgiveness, for you are the (dis)grace of A-Dub.
And so we part ways, Tweedledum.
Until we meet in the ring, I've only got one last thing to say.
Just so there's some semblance of unity on your dysfunctional team this Monday night, I sincerely hope you and your neutered partner can bond over one shared thing. A common thread that rounds it all out, an endless circle unifying ya'll over a fear of what Team #Bestie is fully capable of doing to you and your AW careers, which are still in stages of infancy. You can look at me over in my corner and share a hatred of me for saying what you never thought would come out of such a pretty little mouth.
Choke on a fat cock, you fucking jobber.
Earn your keep.
And learn your goddamned role.
Earn your keep.
And learn your goddamned role.
“And hast thou slain the Jobbercock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.