Age of Innocence III: Cornerstone
Jan 16, 2022 14:43:20 GMT -5
Karlie Nash, Addy A, and 7 more like this
Post by Lissie Hope ♥ on Jan 16, 2022 14:43:20 GMT -5
An insurance adjuster and the only detective in Conroe stood quietly in the middle of the ashed remains. The beautifully-modest remodeled ranch-house now sat in the aftermath of a war-zone - thankfully, the charred grass wasn’t dry, otherwise the inferno could’ve spread. The clean-up crew waited patiently nearby and I watched the detective’s hand move, scribbling notations - I recognized “arson?” among the illegible hieroglyphics he called handwriting. ‘Ma knew him for years - he was a church-regular. Good-looking, on the right-side of thirty, a professional demeanor and a nice hair-cut. Exactly the type of man ‘ma wanted me to settle with - but being ambiguously physically-similar to Robbie was kind of a deal-breaker. I wouldn’t say I have a type, but I wouldn’t want to wake up next to my brother’s doppelgänger, either - for a multitude of reasons. And I definitely couldn’t fall for someone who wrote like a low-functioning toddler. My brain was wandering, my thoughts ricocheting, until the agent broke my daydream. “So this property was once owned by your late husband, George?” ‘Ma nodded her head quietly and pulled her shawl tight around her chest after a strong gust of Texas wind tore through. Debris floated into the air, and all I thought about was when I poured Robbie’s ashes into the cornerstone. “But the property now belongs to a residential investment firm-” “-Philidor Holdings,” I interrupted with vigor. “They’re responsible for this.” “Dottie. Liz,” the detective interrupted. “I know this doesn’t make any sense, but any evidence about this being deliberate arson? It doesn’t exist. No accelerants, no origins, nothing.” “That’s bullshit,” I cried out in protest. “This is fucking revenge, a consequence for -” I stopped before incriminated myself for Los Angelas. “-for defecting from Philidor. Their prints are all over this shit.” “Liz–” “It’s Lissie,” I snapped. “Lissie,” he smirked. “I believe you. Homes don’t just engulf into flames like this. But we need proof. If you think of anything, give me a call.” “So what does this mean?” I asked, snatching his business card. “Is she not entitled to anything?” “Miss Hope,” the agent reiterated. “The property doesn’t belong to your family anymore. We can replace the valuation of some of your insurable belongings, but the house itself?” ‘Ma squeezed my hand. I could feel her heart breaking, A lifetime of memories and mementos turned to “There’s nothing we can do. I’m sorry.” ‘Ma collapsed into my arms this time. I had to be the strong center, but I was useless under pressure. Robbie knew how to navigate the trauma - he was the cornerstone of the Hope family. Me? I have always been the crack in the foundation. “Sir, you’re gonna want to see this,” the technician waved over the detective. They investigated the painting that once hung upon the mantle - the only artifact left unscorched. “Bag it,” he said, eyeing me curiously. “Send it to forensics. I want a closer look at this.” I haven’t escaped your shadow since the day you defeated me, Sam. I dominated my first two matches - Ryan Kincaid, who we never saw again, and Derrick Vayden, who we wish we never saw again - until I was thrown into the lion’s den against the two-time United States Champion and then-International Champion. And this rematch has been earmarked for us for three years. You had the benefit of experience. The bright lights didn’t scare you - not like they scared me. But folding under pressure, sometimes my Achilles heel, is never everlasting. I know how to pick myself back up. I know how to persevere. And that’s exactly what this tournament is for, Sam. I know how to fight upstream without drowning at the bottom. I’ve gone to war with everyone who’s tied the anchors to my feet, and I survived. I fought the biggest demon of all - myself - and I won. I could admire what you’ve done, Sam. Throughout your career, you’ve waged war with animals like Dandy DiVito and James Nightingale and you catapulted them to superstardom. A three-time World Champion. A three-time World Championsip challenger. You’re a star-maker, the proverbial Action Wrestling gatekeeper - and you’ve been kind enough to take a backseat when it was their turn to take flight. And you did it for me. You showed me that I couldn’t be complacent. That I had to work hard, that I had to put on my big-girl panties and take what the fuck was mine. So thank you, Sam. Not for unleashing those hellions onto our television screens, but for knowing when to get the fuck out of the way. We all know you don’t have the courage or the hunger to be the cornerstone of Action Wrestling. And it’s time you finally understand why. I met Emma Langdon a week ago. After some online flirtation, I asked her to visit me in Sacramento, and she watched me quickly dispatch Max Daemon - I might’ve had a little extra motivation to spend the least amount of ring-time with him as possible; y’know, aside from his groveling creepiness. But she’s an outsider without any ties to Action Wrestling. And I like that. The progeny of an old soul named Rob who transformed into a menace between the ropes - appropriately named Shadow Demon - and she’s been trying to find her footing in the industry. But this business can chew someone up and spit them out - I nearly met that fate myself - and though I gravitate to her b I like that she doesn’t know me. Action Wrestling hasn’t poisoned her yet. I want her to know me, eventually; but I also need to know when to step back. Allow her to process what she’s even getting into. She’s back this weekend - we had an amazing time letting loose in Houston. But It lingers. And I’m afraid she’ll be caught in the crossfire with the Lissie Hope and a demure, petite young blonde woman are enjoying a bagel and coffee. Smiling, Lissie reaches over and wipes cream-cheese off her lip. “Cut!” Makeup artists rush into the frame. They reapply blush to Lissie’s rosey cheeks. The woman observes in admiration, trying to refrain from chuckling. “Emma,” he continues. “When we roll, I want you to laugh hysterically, as if Lissie just said the funniest thing ever.” She nods her head in acquiescence, readying herself for her big debut, and the team quickly rushes out of the frame. “Action!” Emma follows the director’s order. And Lissie’s smile transforms to a steely demeanor as her eyes pierce the lens. The director zooms in for heightened intensity. Oh, Sam, you smug motherfucker. Emma spits out her coffee. This industry has always been secondary to you. You’re interested in the lights, the camera - the production. You enjoy being pampered - prim-and-proper - the big star in front of the camera-lens. But life doesn’t imitate art, Billy Loomis. This isn’t “one great big movie”. We don’t deliver limousine rides to red carpets - only ambulance rides to stitch-up your moneymaker. You manufacture conversations with that doe-eyed, brainless twit who feeds your ego before cutting right into some contrived metaphor about your next match - but you’re transparent, Sammy. In Action Wrestling, those three United States Championships tell the story of a man who has always been a great co-star - but who’s never been, and never will be - the main attraction. You don’t have that in you, Sam. You would crumble if Action Wrestling ever invested in you like they’ve always invested in me. Corey Black and I are the ambassadors of Action Wrestling, sent to every company in orbit to show the rest of the industry how it’s done between these ropes. But you? No one even notices when you’re Missing in Action. Your face is pinned to the "Lost" bulletin board backstage and no one even bothers to check if you’ve returned. We’re three years removed from the first time we met, and you’re no closer to being the cornerstone of this organization than I was as a starry-eyed rookie with untapped potential. Instead…. The director inserts a cut-away graphic.  It’s always eluded you, but it hasn’t eluded me. I know what it’s like to battle through something unending, taking on all of the greatest in Action Wrestling. I’m failing to find a time in your legacy where your spirit hadn’t been pulverized after you’ve finally admitted you can’t hold serve. For fuck’s sake - we could replace you with some low-functioning moron from the Luiz family and it would still be a net-zero, if not an actual upgrade, since those idiots are at least dependably present. But you? You’d trade-in being the cornerstone to play Macbeth, if you even cared enough about that craft, either. But knowing Sam Kidsgrove, you’d be satisfied starring opposite Seth Rogen in another zombie reboot, or you’d let your contract expire for a chance to play a circus clown in the Hawkeye origin story nobody asked for. It wouldn’t hurt to purge a few big-name, big-money cowards like you, Sam. Products of a by-gone era - a mess of scraps and spares that Alex Pasternak inherited from the failed leadership of Camila Gonzalez. You could steer the “Dickheads Who Don’t Wrestle Good” boat with Shadowlove and TFK and Beau Blaze off the fucking earth but at least do us the courtesy of taking Odin Balfore with you. Hollywood Elite. Elite? In what fucking way, Sam? I can’t wait to torch your squeaky-clean image you’ve created to dust - for you to finally become the biggest laughingstock since Boris Johnson drunkenly grinded on an unsuspecting woman to the sweet sounds of Lionel Richie. ‘Cause at that point, you can finally pack up your shit and leave town, and we’ll be all the fucking better for it. Don’t forget your balls, Sam - I think Zooey’s carrying them in her designer handbag. You always need to be told you look good, right? That bug-eyed, emotionless Hollywood dolt validates you - your forgettable titles define you - and if you could run on a beach into your own arms, you would. Even if you aren’t swiping-right on your sister like Max Daemon, you probably created a second Tinder profile just to match with yourself. And people call me a narcissist? No one loves you like you love you, Sam. Not even Zooey - she’ll lay there like a fish and wonder how the hell she landed two spineless cucks who cry post-fuck. And she’ll watch you with that stupid unblinking expression on her face while you use her as a therapeutic prop - but we all know you’re preoccupied with your ego and she’s reminiscing about the songs Ben Gibbard used to sing her about her world-class pussy. You’re the wrestling equivalent of Bono - a supremely-talented man who would rather pat himself on the back than accomplish anything of note while still having the nerve to be a pompous asshole. Everyone might accuse me similarly - but there’s a difference, Sam. Those women I’ve tried to empower? They still believe in me in the end. We all serve a purpose here, Sam. I’m sorry that you’re the resident punching-bag. And I’ve got a mean right-hook. Emma observed quietly as my expression changed. The blood rushed from my face until I looked as opaque as a vampire. “You have so much on your mind, don’t you?” I nodded, shifting in my seat. “It’s amazing to me how you can just… transform like that.” “It’s… show-business.” A pause. “Do you wanna get outta here?” I reached for the bill, but she placed her soft fingers on my hand. “I got this one.” I watched her hand glide over the tip-line, and felt breathless. “I love your handwriting.” |
