Labyrinth VI: ᴱ ⱽ ᴼ ᴸ ⱽ ᴱ , ₘₒₙₛₜₑᵣ
Nov 7, 2021 12:40:48 GMT -5
Karlie Nash, Max f'n Daemon, and 2 more like this
Post by Lissie Hope on Nov 7, 2021 12:40:48 GMT -5
EXECUTION CAGE versus GRAHAM BAKER Back up to her feet, Lissie wasn’t wasting time. In fact, she was going straight to the wall and pulling off a nearby chair, folding it out and setting it down, but something caught her attention and she paused, blinking, and hitting her knees with one hand still on the back of the chair. She looked distraught, a hand pushing through her mane of hair. F̷̡̡̻̬͖̥͇̙̦̣̞͋i̷̗̓͒͛n̶̡͇̠̝͔̖͍̅͗̄i̶̡̜̞̗͈͚̟̯̙͐̀̿̈́̏̑̕s̶̛̝̯̝̟̆̉͛̓͋̐̓̽̿̂͠͝h̸̛͚̘̮̞̣̥̮́̂̃̕ ̴͚̰̥̱̊̊͊͑̊̂̎̀̀̊͋͛̅̾̚̚t̶̖̟̘̫͙͓͈̉̍̾̎ͅh̸̡̡̲̦͙̤̦̰͍͐e̸͇͚͚͖̲̝̱͕̬̤͔͚̿ ̷̨̝͚͕͇̗̜̜̩̤̙̿͋j̴̡̛̰͕͙̙̞̠̥͉͈̥͖͇̺͓́̂̏̀̔ö̶͕̮̝̗̘̯̺̮̦̘̦͙͉̘͙́͒̋̾̾̏̈́͌͂̓̇̀̓͂͂̕͜͝b̴̧̛̤͙͖̣̲͖͖̩͕̞͖͖̂̐́̐͌͗̾̕̚.̶̢̛͙͈̳̖̱̘̦̫̬̺͒̒̽͗̊̉̐̚͘ Do you ever feel it, Regan? I always feel the struggle, the tugging in my brain; the angels and the demons sitting on my shoulders, jockeying for position. They’re tearing me limb from limb, and I can feel their presence, whispering in my ear, infecting my lost mind. Can you relate? Do you know what it’s like to lose your inhibitions, to sacrifice your morals to satisfy one side? Knowing deep down that at the same time, you’re sullying the other? In a battle between good and evil, there’s no negotiation. No compromise, no concession. You have to pick a side, and go all-in, and have faith in yourself that you’re making the right decision. In this industry, you cannot succeed unless you wage a war, and if you pick the wrong side, you find yourself under the gun. Everyone takes their turn looking through the lens of the microscope, picking out your indiscretions, picking at your flaws as if they were crusted scabs hiding the mistakes underneath. There are no scars to remind you of how far you’ve come, there’s no remedy to hold onto when others question your motives. You have to answer for the things you’ve done, no matter who is asking the questions. You watch as the scab regenerates, hoping that it’ll finally leave that permanent discoloration on your flesh, until the next person comes and rips it back open. Rinse, repeat. I’ve had to hear the same shit, over and over and over, ever since I stepped foot in an Action Wrestling ring. I’ve been an easy target, because people know my mental fragility. They know I wear my emotions on my scarred wrists, and since they couldn’t ever bury me for good athletically, they try to steer me to a river of doubt and wreck me emotionally. This has been the method used by everyone from Dandy DiVito to Gravedigger to Odin Balfore to James Nightingale - and even irrelevant wimps like J.C. Keeton and Max Daemon - but it’s especially blatant during this time of year. Hashtag-WrestleSeason. Hashtag-SpookySeason. Hashtag-TurmoilSeason. Hashtag-Wrestler of the fucking Year. This is when the clowns come to play. They’re here to perform all their tricks, to mindfuck you to oblivion, to take the attention off themselves. Everyone has insecurities and failures to answer for, but people like them try to find the right targets to take the magnifying glass off themselves. So they choose someone like me to step on because they need some way to lift themselves up. But here’s the thing, Regan. For as evil as you are, or as evil as you’d like to present yourself to be? I think you’re above it. I think you recognize, and appreciate, and admire who the hell Lissie fuckin’ Hope really is. But I haven’t had the best year. I fell short of my own lofty expectations for myself more times than I’d like to admit over the course of the last eleven months. I’m my own biggest bully, I expect the impossible. The extraordinary. But I haven’t exactly been the dominating force I promised Philidor Holdings I’d be when they took me under their wing. There’s even a part of me that thinks I don’t even deserve to be in this tournament. I only held one championship for fifty days, and I lost several high-profile dream matches throughout the summer. It’s been a year of highs and lows, physically - but mentally? I’ve never been more sure of myself in my life. And there’s people biding their time, waiting for the moment to tear me down. That comes with the territory. A win over me gets their dick hard, because a win over a two-time Woman of the Year and a two-time World Heavyweight Champion actually means something. It’s a resume-builder, a career-definer, because it’s not something that’s shared by too many people. But you’re in the club, Regan. I had big dreams at the start of 2021. I thought this was going to be my rebirth, where I was going to reclaim everything that’s ever been taken from me. And in a way, I did - I got my life back. And that means more than any trophies, and any titles, and any glory. But still, we’re competitors. And it’s in our nature to need those accolades. We’re proud of them. We cherish them. Those three Cruiserweight Championships? Those Execution Cage victories? There’s an entire roster on CruiserClash who envies that you’re the standard-bearer, that you’re the first name Torture calls to represent your colleagues in the big leagues for United States title matches. For World Championship number-one contender four-ways. Teo Blaze and Karlie Nash might pretend to be satisfied passing around the CruiserTags like a whore in her compound, but deep down, you know they hate you because they’ll never get that call. They used to, but they don’t anymore. Not since you’ve terrorized the division. You’re welcome, Regan. I legitimized you. When everyone else thought you were merely a spoiled, sociopathic trust-fund brat with a sausage kink, I looked at you and I saw a warrior. I knew that the women of CruiserClash had the potential to change the course of Action Wrestling, to dominate the division, and all they needed was a fearless progeny and someone with clout to give her a little push. And you dominated. Now, you have three reigns to your name, but you stopped giving a shit about the championship and started setting your sights on specific targets, and now the supremacy of the division is in ruins with that heartless, no-good “Cretin’ Keeton” heading the table. But despite that, we’re back where it all began. The genesis of the Regan Voorhees we know now didn’t begin with your less-than-stellar debut at CruiserHavoc. And granted, you might have showed potential in the weeks that followed. But it was when I gave you an opportunity to flourish under lights you hadn’t been under yet - not in Action Wrestling anyway - that you really demonstrated that you weren’t just some psychopathic art student’s archetype of the maniacal pixie deadly dream girl; a paragon of the evil incarnate, only bleached-blonde and swinging a croquet mallet. You are a savage. You are for real. You are e̸̢̨̳̭͖̲̪͓̜̱͖̟̊̃̏͐͐̈͋͒̚̕͝v̶̧͕̰̹̭͙̣̣̘̩͍̲̂̈̍̍̀͝ͅǫ̸̨̧̙͓̤̬͈͇̞̘̰̠̈́̔̓͊̓̌͆͑̑̄͜͜l̵̖̩͎͉̿͂̒̾̓͛̑̔͑̇̽̿̆͘͝v̴̢̡͚̻̖͉̖̥͍̙̝̪̥̠̼͆͊̾͗͆̏̀̑͘͘ę̷̧͇̻̱̱̙̣͔͖͕͖͛́̏̔́̈́̓̉̍͝d̸̬̑̈́̒̉. You’re welcome, Regan. You are my pride and joy. My greatest creation. But I don’t give you legitimacy without getting back what I’m owed. You’ve had your biggest moment at my expense, and now, Regan? I’m here to take back what’s mine. After I ran my fingers through my hair, I tugged on the ends, trying to jar myself from the floating omnipotence, and it was only then when I felt like flesh and bone again. The tears in my skin burned - but it wasn’t a feeling of relief. I hadn’t felt that calming sense of control for a year, ever since the last time I sliced myself open, physically tormenting myself to mask the guilt and hurt in my heart. The bruises on my face and arms began to transform my appearance, the busted vessels were like a high-speed collision on the freeways of blood under my delicate flesh. Strands of hair were tangled in the wire of the cage, ripped from the root of my scalp. My once-manicured fingernails were now a revolting mixture of skin cells, dirt, grime, and dried blood. And I smiled. I felt a sense of calm wash over me. I had a mission to complete. And the Gods were listening. Turmoil has seen me at my best, and at my worst. Two years ago, I beat Dandy DiVito for the World Championship in the second round. I was a final-four semi-finalist. One year ago, after being seeded in the top four, I was dropped and buried and nearly shoveled six-feet-under by James Nightingale in the first round. This year? I’ve got Regan Voorhees - and I couldn’t be more excited. There’s no personal vendetta here. No mutual hatred. Regan’s done her thing, and I’ve done mine - we traveled our own paths this year, had our own objectives and our own plans and with the exception of one match following Evolution where we both vied to become the number one contender to the World Championship, we’ve largely stayed out of each others’ way. And that’s why I like this opportunity, why I appreciate this pairing. Torture curated this tournament, pitting together first round matches that he would like to see. And there’s always something you can latch onto to make a match mean something, and in this case, for me? It’s avenging my defeat to her at the start of the year and taking back my rightful place in the upper echelon of Action Wrestling. When I first saw the bracket, I foolishly began looking ahead to round two - and seeing that either Corey Black or Spencer Adams would be waiting for me next week, I knew my vested hatred for either of them would fuel me to make it to another semi-final. But the Gods were looking out for me, and they told me not to look past you, Regan. They told me not to let my resentment consume me. And Dune was the harbinger of hatred sent to demolish Spencer Adams, knock him from the tournament, and shift my focus back to you. You and I, Regan? We’re not so different. We are e̸̢̨̳̭͖̲̪͓̜̱͖̟̊̃̏͐͐̈͋͒̚̕͝v̶̧͕̰̹̭͙̣̣̘̩͍̲̂̈̍̍̀͝ͅǫ̸̨̧̙͓̤̬͈͇̞̘̰̠̈́̔̓͊̓̌͆͑̑̄͜͜l̵̖̩͎͉̿͂̒̾̓͛̑̔͑̇̽̿̆͘͝v̴̢̡͚̻̖͉̖̥͍̙̝̪̥̠̼͆͊̾͗͆̏̀̑͘͘ę̷̧͇̻̱̱̙̣͔͖͕͖͛́̏̔́̈́̓̉̍͝d̸̬̑̈́̒̉. EXECUTION CAGE versus ADDY A Regan couldn’t possibly conceive that Addy had the will to kick out of the Abbatoir. And in that moment, her lip twitches, and her skin pales. She grabs an extinguisher and drives it into Addy’s face, her mouth exploding like a volcano with the blood pouring onto the canvas. And she continues the assault, deliberately smashing the extinguisher into her ribcage - five times. People may find parallels in us, Regan. In our paths, in our triumphs, in our failures - I see it, too. I see how you’ve blossomed out of the seed I cultivated back in February in that Battle of Women; that battle for women. And though you’ve never really cared about being an example, about ushering in the wave that I wanted to create, you still missiled through Action Wrestling like a torpedo, and made your own wave. We were all just along for the ride, and for awhile, I sat on the sidelines, beaming with pride. Only four people were fearless enough to step into the Execution Cage, and two of them are sitting at home nursing broken bodies. Now, we may never see one of them again - God willing - but the other? I have a deeply intense personal attachment to her. You may have never seen our chemistry, and what we did for the industry, and you may not even care. I don’t expect you to. But that shit you pulled, Regan? There’s no honor, no integrity in that. And who am I to be the moral compass, right? I’ve had to hear from every corner of the locker that I’m disgraceful and that I’ll forever live in infamy - but no matter how black it is, I have a heart. And I know right from wrong. I’ve done a lot of shit I’m not proud of. But you’ve done a lot of shit you shouldn’t be proud of. And that’s where we differ. I’m not going to let you torment anyone else again, Regan. Your days of terrorizing Action Wrestling are done. This stain I’ve had on my conscience needs to be repaired; I can no longer be responsible for creating the monster you’ve e̸̢̨̳̭͖̲̪͓̜̱͖̟̊̃̏͐͐̈͋͒̚̕͝v̶̧͕̰̹̭͙̣̣̘̩͍̲̂̈̍̍̀͝ͅǫ̸̨̧̙͓̤̬͈͇̞̘̰̠̈́̔̓͊̓̌͆͑̑̄͜͜l̵̖̩͎͉̿͂̒̾̓͛̑̔͑̇̽̿̆͘͝v̴̢̡͚̻̖͉̖̥͍̙̝̪̥̠̼͆͊̾͗͆̏̀̑͘͘ę̷̧͇̻̱̱̙̣͔͖͕͖͛́̏̔́̈́̓̉̍͝d̸̬̑̈́̒̉. into. I’ve stared in the face of demons like you my entire career, and I’ve never blinked. I keep my composure and I find a way to win. I’ve competed in barbaric matches just like you; I’m trained to endure the punishment, and I’m resilient enough to survive. When I smell that blood, I’m a shark in the water, Regan. And I’m going for the kill. But you? You’re in the deep end now, Regan, and you’re feet can’t touch the bottom. You’re going to panic, you’re going to smother, you’re going to drown because that’s what you do. That’s what you’ve always done, every time you’ve gotten the call. Der Metzger humbled you. The number one contendership evaded you. And Turmoil will suffocate you. You beat a recovering, rusty version of myself on a CruiserClash in the middle of February. This is fucking Wrestler of the Year. This is an entirely different beast. And you know what, Regan? So am I. The Dark Man loomed in the corner of the Execution Cage, it’s eyes piercing me and tracking my movements. I felt like a marionette, my limbs dangling on strings, and with every twitch of a finger I’d react just as it desired. I didn’t have agency over my behavior anymore; my body, my mind, and my heart all belonged to the shadows. I cried for it to stop, I begged for independence; I felt that it’s presence would undermine my honor. A victory under these circumstances - again - would be hollow. But I didn’t have a choice in the matter. It didn’t care for my predilection. I now had no doubt that The Dark Man was omniscient, it’s knowledge infinite - and the letter I’d penned was never lost in the shadows, because it was the shadows. And I was warned of the consequences, and now, I had to accept them. It whispered in my ear. E̸̫͑̾̌́v̷̡̡̫̀͑õ̴̭͖̙͋ľ̴̦͎̞̉v̸̲̣̰̈́̿e̸̠̺͋͌̈́, M̸̮͔͌ò̸̹̌n̵͚͉̅͗̃͜͜s̵̺̥͓̯̀̈́̚͠t̷͈͖̮̠̑̑̃e̶͚͌r̴̜̱̞͋̾̊͜. And the Gods were crying. ATLANTA “Love ‘ya too, Carter…” I said, slowly approaching the entry door of the Urban Grind coffeeshop on Marietta Street. Celebration was in the air in Midtown, Atlanta, with red and blue banners of the World Series Champions hanging from every awning, from every window. I felt in enemy territory, being a fan of the Houston Astros, but this was a position I’d grown accustomed to - having every eye watching, preying, waiting for me to make a mistake. Atlanta hadn’t had much to celebrate since Frank Venable was winning World Championships, and if there was ever a ghost of Action Wrestling Past, it was Frank Venable. “Everything will be alright.” I immediately felt nauseous, having reminded myself of Spencer Adams theme music. I couldn’t escape all of my ghosts that continued to haunt me. Every where I went, everything I did, it all reminded me of what I’d ineffectively left behind. As I pocketed my cell phone, leaving Carter Shaw without a goodbye, I’d been drawn back to the aroma of the freshly grounded coffee beans and the warm, gentle plucking of the guitar strings and the crooning voice of the troubadour. “What ‘ya need, babe?” the barista asked in a southern twang as I leaned my elbow on the bar. I acknowledged her with a kind nod, but my eyes were transfixed on Frank Watkinson sitting on a stool, the guitar resting on his knee. “Americano, please. Thank you,” I answered, never taking my eyes off of him. I wondered if he remembered me. I sure as hell remembered him. ♫♫ God help the beast in me ♫♫ After being handed my coffee, I took a seat on the barstool, turning away from Frank. I just listened to him sing every lyric, as if he were narrating the monologue of my soul. He had the tendency to do that. I could count the number of people who could tell everything I was thinking, everything I was feeling, on one hand. Cassidy wasn’t on the list. Neither were Ash, or Spencer, or Addy, or Carter. Robbie Hope. Frank Watkinson. Ś̵̘̜͉̠̳̫̪͙̺̟̭͋̄̊͋̑͗̑̑͐̐͌̈́͝ḁ̷̆͒͜m̷̧̛̫͓̜̹̺͈̗̾̑̿̒̀͗̕͠s̶̭̠̼̫̫̺̙͉̟͙̎͌͋̇͐̈́̚̕̚͝õ̸̯̗̞̫̬̹͔̀̓̄̿̌̓͘͝ņ̶̧͉̹̀̓͗͝ ̴̧̜͔̙̬͔̘͉̫̝̲͌̔S̶͕̱̯̹̬̼͎̜͑̋̏͊ä̸̦́̈́͊̍̏l̵̙͕̙͈͓̝̙͕͕̮̻̼̉̈́̔̅͒̂͛͆͗̏̃̄̚t̸̡̧̩̟̥̄̿̀̑̚ͅa̵͔̖͇͇̭̖̱͖̖͓͆͛̌̔̒̃̌̎̆͆͒̕͜͜͜ͅî̶̺͉̪͔̲̼͍͓͕̿̚̚ͅr̵̻̜̹͌͗͛̆͊̔̈́̚͠.̴̻̪͒̏̎̀̉̈́̈́̓̈͋̑̕̚͝ Howard Black. I spun around in the stool because I wanted to see his fingers move. I wanted to see his mouth contort. And I wanted to look into his pupils. And he was already staring into mine. Drawn together like a moth to a flame, he smiled at me, that warm, kind, gentle smile I remembered from when I first met him. “Where’s ‘ya fella’ at, sweetheart?” he asked me as his show concluded. He had walked straight from his perch on stage to the stool next to mine; once occupied through the duration of the set, but that had peculiarly opened up, just as he finished. As if the Gods were watching, and had invited him into my space. “You were great,” I responded, evading the question. Frank knew not to press. “I’m glad you’re still performing.” “Well, the wife made a casserole,” he said, shaking his head in disgust. “I tell ‘er to save me a plate for when I get in, but Oskar likes him a midnight snack.” I choked on my coffee as he pulled out his phone to show me a screensaver of him huddled with his chihuahua-pomeranian-miniature pinscher mix resting on his lap. As the barista arrived, he turned his attention to her. “Lemme get one of them turkey and bacon wraps,” he said. “Double the bacon, half the rabbit food. And a refill for the lady,” he said, turning back to me. “Ya hungry, darlin’?” I shook my head no, and patting him on the knee, I leaned in. “Double the bacon? That ain’t good for your heart.” “We fill our hearts with poison everyday,” he said, matter-of-factly. I went silent, nodding my head in agreement. “But y’know how we cure it?” I shook my head no, losing myself in his eyes. My own started to water. “With the people who support you, the people who love you.” “Nobody loves me,” I admitted, almost reflexively. I immediately regretted it. “Well that ain’t true.” “I’ve made a lot of mistakes. I’ve broken a lot of trust. I’m a monster.” “I’ve done seen a lot of devils in my day, sweetheart,” he said, leaning in. “An’ ‘ya ain’t one of ‘em. Ya’ just lost, and ‘ya need to find ‘ya way back.” “I’m too far removed now, Frank,” I said, my voice breaking. “You just don’t understand.” “What makes ‘ya think an old fart like me ain’t been in ‘ya shoes, once or twice? I been there, honey. It ain’t ever too late.” “I failed my sobriety,” I said, reaching into my pocket, and pulling out my nine month chip. “Couldn’t even make it a year. I can never forgive myself for this. For everything I’ve done. For everyone I’ve disappointed.” “Is that why ‘ya fella ain’t here with ‘ya tonight?” “He’s not my boyfriend. He never was,” I said, quietly. “You don’t know what you saw.” “That’s horseshit, honey,” he said, the first time I’d ever heard him cuss. “I saw the way he was lookin’ at ‘ya. I know it when I see it.” “Well, it don’t matter. He’s gone. I’m never going to see him again.” Thankfully, Frank let me wallow in my own pity for a minute. As he took a bite of his bacon wrap, he finally broke the silence again. “‘Ya wanna know somethin’?” he asked. I turned to look at him once more. “He came back, few months later. Looked like shit, y’know? Just sat back here, listened to me, and didn’t say a word to no one. I tried to go find him after my set, and he was gone. Like a ghost.” “Howie was here?” “Ya, that's what I said, ain't it? And I was surprised he was by himself. I figured ‘ya woulda been here with him. But he didn’t have that light in his eyes. Not like that first time. Not like he looked when yall’s was dancin’.” “Please, Frank. Stop.” “I’m just tellin’ ya, sweetheart, that you may be lost right now, but you’ll find ‘yaself again. And who knows? Maybe the road is just a few hours thattaway.” |