Line Without a Hook

As she heaved, body almost convulsing, and hurled into a toilet in the empty women's restroom at the Camp Crystal Lake Arena, Ash Blake cursed Daniel Fehl's name. She winced as another wave of pain jolted through her right ear, as if stabbing her already ruptured eardrum. Bile rose in the back of her throat once more as she caught a sight of her reflection in the hazy, detritus-filled water.

Ash threw up once more, collapsing on her haunches and spitting into the bowl. Her eyes darted up towards the ceiling, squinting at the dim overhead glow of the bathroom's fluorescents. She wasn't sure which was worse: the nausea or the cause.

She didn't vomit this much when Johnny Bacchus took his bat and ruptured her eardrum in the first place; she didn't vomit at all that night. Yet, here she was. All it took was Daniel Fehl dropping her facefirst into his knees and POP! Knocked right back into October. Of course, that might not be the only reason this one hit harder.

Another jolt of electricity surged through Ash's body as she felt a hand on the small of her back. She lurched forward, unsteadily pushing herself to her feet and whipping around to see the source.

"Settle down there, Cobra Kai," Olive Adler began with a weak chuckle. "It's just me."

Ash sighed, one hand covering her mouth, as her heart rate steadied. "Could've given me a heads-up."

Olive rolled her eyes. "I did! I said—"

She cut herself off as the lightbulb in her head sparked to life. "Right, wrong side."

Reaching up to grip the top of the stall divider, Ash shifted gracelessly, knees buckling as she tried to steady herself. She cocked her head, offering her good ear to her intern with gritted teeth as once more, the ache in the other made itself known.

"You good?" Olive asked, resting a hand on Ash's shoulder to help keep her upright. Her boss grinned, lips parted, baring teeth slick with the slimy residue of emesis.

"Furthest thing from it," Ash hissed, smile still bolted to her face as she shakily reached behind her, shoving the trip handle down with her knuckle. The toilet whirled, erasing all evidence of the scene. As she attempted to look her protege in the eyes, Ash's shoulders slouched and her eyes instead darted towards the floor.

Olive's hand drifted down Ash's shoulder until she found her boss' hand. Taking it in hers, she offered a supportive squeeze that only served to sour Ash's expression.

Saliva filled Ash's mouth as her face grew hot. She could feel the blood coursing through her veins as her eyes darted from the floor, all around the cramped stall both women found themselves in.

"We gotta get out ahead of this," Ash muttered under her breath in between shallow breaths. "We need a plan, ^{an approach}, _something. This is not going to kill us. This can't kill us."

Olive, eyeing Ash nervously, leaned back on her feet. Gingerly, she stepped away, backing into the doorframe of the stall.

"Let them have their little win tonight, we're gonna come back ten times harder. We'll make goddamn sure they'll all live to regret—"

Ash's body spasmed once more and she lurched forward, falling into her intern's arm as another wave of puke spilled from her lips, drenching Olive. Her hands clamped on her protege's shoulders, fingers tangling with Olive's sling as Olive instinctively recoiled, unleashing a torrent of incoherent profanity, punctuated with:

"Get a fucking grip, Ash."

Despite being wobbly on her feet, Ash's back straightened at the barb. Looking up at Olive (who'd begun desperately trying to wipe the gunk off her face), she snarled in response.

"That's rich, coming from you."

Face twisted in a scowl, Olive shoved her boss away, instinctively reaching out to steady her nonetheless.

"Fuck you."

She turned on a heel, heading for the row of sinks.

"And you're paying to get this shit drycleaned!"

Ash's hands balled into fists and she took a deep inhale, steadying herself. The tightness in her chest subsided on exhale.

"Look, I'm sorry, 'Liv," she finally said after a heavy, awkward silence. She stumbled forward, finding confidence in her stride as she made her way over towards her still-fuming intern.

"Flying off the handle like that ain't gonna do wonders to inspire confidence there, General. You're freaking out over nothing."

Ash shook her head, her expression grim.

"No, I'm not. This is not good."

Gripping the edges of the sink, Ash allowed herself another deep breath. The corners of her lips curled into a familiar plastic smile once more.

"But they don't have to know that."

---

So this is it, isn't it? This is the moment so many have been dreaming of, praying for. Fifteen months and twelve days into her 'career' as a professional wrestler, little Ashley Blakesley has finally been pinned. Has finally been beaten, and of course the honor and the burden of doing so fell on the shoulders of the same man who stuck her with her first official loss. How quaint; maybe this time it'll even be the boost he needs to finally get over the hump.

Tell me, and be honest: this is the part where I'm supposed to spiral, right? Where my carefully practiced routine slips and you catch a glimpse of what's underneath. When I snap, that smug look on my face is wiped away as you attach a spigot to my abdomen so you can all watch me spill my guts. This was supposed to be cathartic, wasn't it?

Sorry, huns. You don't get that. No, it's time we keep moving. Eyes ahead. Focus on the task at hand.

Hello, Jill. What a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. Little ball of poison you are, I doubt you'll reciprocate the pleasantries. That's fine, of course: we wouldn't want to make this any harder than it has to be, right?

Truth be told, Jill, I've been feeling a bit reflective recently. Maybe it's because of what happened last week, maybe it's because of this brutal earache of mine, or maybe it's just because there's something about this time of year that puts me in a morbid mood. Whatever the reason, I look at you and I can't help but feel like I've been here before.

Time is a flat circle, after all, but I don't think it's that. No, I look at you and I feel a simmer disgust in the pit of my stomach that I haven't felt in a long time. Over a year, in fact. I see your face, watch how you carry yourself, the pomp and circumstance you afforded yourself in lieu of others seeing the light and doing it for you.

And I can't help but be reminded of every story I ever heard about my father. I never knew him, myself; I think that'd hold true even if he hadn't shuffled off this mortal coil when I was still a baby. But, enough of that sob story, right? Let's get back to the part that's all about you.

Do you know how my dad died, Jill? I wouldn't blame you if you didn't; it's been a while since I spun that little yarn. Well before you staggered, starry-eyed and punch-drunk into this company with the stated goal of winning championships, no matter the cost. But there's a certain poetry to this moment. After all, who better to hear this morbid reprise than little Winifred DiVito herself?

---

"Take a seat, Miss Blakesley," beckoned the Dark Man as Ash's eyes adjusted themselves to her environment. Straight ahead, Samson Saltair sat at a cement chess table, an oasis in the inky, black void that engulfed them.

She paused, shaking her head as her eyes darted around the seemingly infinite space of weighted nothingness around her, before doing as commanded. Her feet dragged with each step, the ground below soft and tarlike, threatening to wrap around her ankles and drag her under. The Dark Man barely acknowledged her presence as she took a seat across from him, and glanced at the table.

"Play."

Ash scoffed and shook her head, saying through a forced giggle: "Oh, I've never really been one for—"

"Play."

Around her the void seemed to swirl, inky tendrils swimming in her peripheral vision. She glanced down at the board, towards her own black pieces, then back up at Samson. A soft smile settled in the corners of her mouth.

"Game on."

Across the table, Samson scanned the board, gingerly moving his pawn to e4. He eyed his opponent, clearing his throat.

"You know what this is about."

Ash nodded, swallowing hard as she slid her pawn out to e5 to meet his.

"Of course. How could I not?"

Knight to f3. Pawn to d6. Ash could feel the darkness stroking the back of her neck.

"Rot has begun to fester in the name of staying the course. You were tasked with keeping your house in order."

In the blink of an eye, the board changed. Pieces exchanged, positions solidified, white clearly with the advantage.

"Instead, those you've sought to protect at every turn have repaid your judgment with a string of black eyes, each harder to cover than the last."

Ash's fingers tremble as she fiddles with her pawn, pushing it to c6.

"Your judgment has been called into question on numerous occasions."

"I just need a little more time to right the ship. After everything I've done, don't I at least deserve that?"

Ash shriveled, seeming to shrink in her seat as the Dark Man glared a hole through her. She'd never gotten used to being seen by Samson Saltair. Bishop to g5.

"Make no mistake, the only reason your decisions to this point have not been overruled is for your devotion. A trait the lot you've brought in seems to lack."

Another blink. Another shift of the board. Black is in deep shit.

"They take what is offered to them, but wish not to sacrifice."

"Spies in the house of love," Ash murmured to herself, pondering her options.

"It should come as no surprise that we are forced to restructure."

She drew a sharp inhale, eyes widening as she futilely studied the Dark Man's face, looking for any sort of tell.

"We can course correct!" Ash suddenly blurted, a knight pinched between her fingers as her gaze shot down at the board. "I can fix this, Sam-Sam."

"It is far too late for that; the knives have already come out for the familial dynasty that sought to stage a coup. Further purging shall undoubtedly be necessary."

Ash's eyes darted from the knight to her King. The tendrils continued to swirl around her, one reaching out and snaking around her wrist with the same tarlike consistency of the ground below. It tugged against her arm, pulling it back as she reached for the King.

"I suppose it's too much to ask if I have a place on the Ark?" she asked through gritted teeth as the tendril continued to wrench back. A second tendril wrapped around her other wrist, ripping it away from the board in the same manner.

"That remains to be seen."

"Of course." Ash thrashed at her newfound restraints like a coyote in a bear trap as Samson watched, unmoved.

"It's your turn. Make your move."

"I'd love to," Ash began with a chuckle. "But my hands are kinda tied here."

"You know why that is."

The blackness around them swirled violently, tearing itself apart at the seams. Through the splits and cracks, blindingly white light flooded the abyss as Ash grinned.

"If it's my choice, then I choose this."

She leaned her head forward, a third tendril looping around her throat. Before it could tug her away, she nudged her King with the tip of her nose, sending it clattering to its side. Once more, Samson's eyes drilled through her as the tendril jerked her backwards, throttling her as it dragged her under the sticky surface.

"Devour me," Ash choked out in croaking gasps, her eyes meeting his unabashedly as the tendril snaked into her mouth and surged down her throat—

Ash's eyes snapped open. She lurched upwards into a seated position, gagging, and hurled a mouthful of seawater onto the hotel mattress.

---

Of course, comparing you to the slovenly degenerate who chucked you across the finish line last week isn't quite fair, is it? Oh, sure, if the silver spoon fits — and make no mistake: the same gaudy second generation nouveau-riche sensibilities radiate off of you both like you took a stroll through the Trinity site. No, it's an unfair comparison because when I beat Winston DiVito, he was already a star. He'd already proven himself.

You're still a prospect, aren't you? Leaping forward onto the precipice of stardom, reaching out for the one golden, tangible accomplishment to prove to everyone what you already know: Jill Park is the next big thing in this promotion. Hell, the whole world. It's a cute fantasy, but I think you know as well as I do that your little hype train is dangerously close to veering off the tracks. Because that's all you are, at the end of the day. Hype. Incessant bloviating, chest puffed out as you insist that you're in the upper echelon. To get anyone who'll listen to buy in as your stock soars to the moon. All bluster, with very little to show for it at the end of the day, almost like another snot-nosed little rich kid I know.

Don't worry, Jill. I wouldn't dare compare you to Cassidy Adler: he's actually won something.

Because that's what eludes you, isn't it? That's been your mission statement the whole time, right? You're here to win championships, plain and simple. Except it really hasn't been so simple, has it? And it isn't even for lack of trying. You've had that spotlight on you with every big time opportunity you've let slip through your fingers. That's what you want, right? All eyes on you?

Then how come every single time all eyes fall upon you, you wither and die? When the lights aren't quite that hot, you're impressive: worth that hype train and more. Beating legends here, breaking FPV's ankle there, all things worthy of padding out the legacy.

In the 'Other Accomplishments' section.

You know, Jill, there's a point where a prospect isn't a prospect anymore. And when you're no longer a prospect, all you are is all you have been. But you aren't there yet, right? No, you have so much growth left in you. After all, you've even found your way into the fringes of World Title contention. Nipping at the heels of Kyle Kemp — a man who has seemingly been one step ahead of you the past few months — but still. That's something, isn't it?

Forgive me if I'm cynical about the prospect that you finally slayed that dragon, Jill. Regardless of circumstance, it must feel like a ten ton weight was lifted off your shoulders the second Winston called for the bell. But the unfortunate truth is this: that's the exact kind of match that Jill Park wins. One with implications, but no actual stakes.

You're the Queen of qualifying matches, Jill. I would never take that away from you. But when it comes time to put up or shut up, when there's nothing left but you and the person you claim to be, when those lights start shining… well. How many times can the dark horse lose before you stop betting on them?

So tell me, how much longer do you think you can fight that rising tide? How much longer will your inability to perform when the pressure's on will be chalked up to growing pains? How much longer before this is all you are, and all you ever will be?

And while I have you, one last question: how much longer until the rabid crowd that jeers every breath you take, those haters whose disdain fuels your every step, realize you aren't even worth the effort?

Don't act coy, everything you do is as much for the benefit of these people you despise as the most twee of the panderers. That's why you mention them any chance you get, even if it's just to dismiss them. Because all these people hating you means that people care enough to hate you. That you have an audience that cares. That you have the attention you so desperately crave.

Is this what you wanted, Jill? Are these the parts of yourself that you hoped I'd pick at? That I'd validate your delusions of grandeur by digging into that inflated head of yours in order to pick your brain?

Well, sorry to disappoint, but I'm unmoved. Thing is, Jill: I'm not one of your haters. No, I'm not waiting patiently for you to fail, I'm not praying on your downfall. I think I've made it quite apparent that I don't care much for you, Jill.

But I care even less about you. And perhaps that's the worst thing I can say to someone like you.

You've been a blip on my radar since more or less day one. The future star, the next big thing, lurking around the periphery, clinging to the fringes, expected to take that next step any day now.

It was supposed to be Glory. Then it was All-in. Then Kyle Kemp denied you your pound of flesh, only to go on to jump the queue and become World Champ. But that step hasn't been taken, and the failures just keep piling up.

So yeah, frankly, I don't care one bit about Jill Park the person. The woman underneath the vitriol and posturing. The tightly-wound narcissist so desperate to control the narrative she faked a car accident to write her sister off her MTV vanity show doesn't stir me. After all, who'd be dumb enough to expect anything more from you on that front?

No, my focus is entirely consumed by Jill Park the wrestler. The competitor. The woman who'll stare me down on Monday night, trying once more to take that next step.

And hun, if past performance is an indicator of future events, let me Nostradamus for a second:

I'm going to eat you alive.

---

The taste of saltwater lingered on Ash's tongue as the first pesky rays of sunlight leaked through the motel room's blinds. The liquid she hurled had seeped into the comforter, forming into an oblong stain. As she swung her legs over the side of the bed and got to her feet, she sighed in relief as the room did not spin around her. Small miracles.

She groped behind her along the nightstand, snatching her phone. Squinting into the searing glow of the screen, her eyes widened and pupils contracted as she saw the first notification: an e-mail. She'd recognized the source, but that knowledge did little to keep her jaw from dropping as she scanned the brief correspondence.


Her lips flared and twisted noncommittally, as if she couldn't decide on an expression. The phone slipped from her trembling fingers, clanging on the carpeted floor as Ash stared out at the would through the slits of the blinds. Finally, she settled on a smile, as the morning sun seemed to dim, black skies hanging overhead.

---

Because the truth of the matter is this, Jill: this is yet another moment, another opportunity for you to take that next step forward. Which means this is about the time the clock strikes midnight. And I know Halloween's come and gone, but it's just about time for you to turn back into a pumpkin. Because I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on you, you're soft.

That's what this is about. That's what it's always been about. Jill Park doesn't fade in these situations because she isn't good enough. Jill Park plays the wallflower when it's time to bloom because she doesn't have the guts for this.

Fifteen months unpinned, unsubmitted. I've stared down the barrel of matches with bigger stakes than this and on nearly every account I've called my shot and then delivered exactly as promised. I am everything you think you are Jill, and I'm everything you want so desperately to be. And the kicker is, most of it was never on my itinerary. I've been very clear from the moment that Philidor Holdings introduced ourselves in earnest how little regard I have for the conventions and priorities. And yet, here I've been. The titles and accolades have all been means to an end, and they've been means that I've had in such a stranglehold that even my successor for the top belt represented the Scarab Beetle logo, too.

That's dominance, hun. That's power and control, and it's worth a million moral victories over Kyle Kemp. You know him, of course: he's the guy who's been one step ahead almost the entire time you two have been intertwined. The same man my colleague Carter Shaw twisted against his closest allies, all by batting his eyelashes at him.

We are not the same.

Throw everything you got at me, Jill.

Johnny Bacchus did. I can't hear out of my right ear because of that imp and his baseball bat, and he still couldn't put me down. This little belt around my shoulder's a souvenir from that.

Corey Black did. Three times in a row. And three times in a row, it did not stop me from taking the greatest wrestler of all time out of his comfort zone. It didn't stop me from making his one haven in this world — the wrestling ring — an actively hostile, oppressive environment.

Downfall did. He threw everything he had, hell, he probably put in more than he even thought he had, all to be the first person to crack the code.

That's the guts. The spine. The killer instinct you lack in situations such as these. Perhaps if gold is your desire, drawing me was the luckiest thing that could've happened to you. You'll be free to focus solely on proving that you can actually beat Kyle Kemp when it matters soon enough. Ask Howard Black how well winning this trophy sets you up to take the following year by storm.

Oh, right. At least he was retiring regardless. You wouldn't have any such excuse.

And it's fitting, then, that your white whale is Kyle Kemp. The man whose skull you need to cave in to prove you belong at this level. Because really, for all the bluster about you the next big thing, you're the next Kyle Kemp.

Which is, strictly speaking, not an insult. He's managed to carve out a hell of a career for himself, and it's finally culminated with him getting the big one.

It's inspiring. The kind of thing they make movies about. And that's what you want right? Your moment in the sun?

Just keep your nose to the grindstone, Jill, and you too might finally get your moment at the top.

In half a decade.

Don't take it so personal, this is just what I do: see something the rest of the wrestling world desires and say "no, this is mine now."