Post by Ash Blake on Jul 24, 2022 2:36:53 GMT -5
Rainfall greeted Olivia Adler as she reached the roof of the Detroit Marriott at the Renaissance Center, striking her face as her footsteps scattered water across the synthetic rubber. She spotted Johnny immediately, just as she'd assumed she would. His hair was slick, eyes fixed on the dark waters of the Detroit River below. She mustered a smirk to her face and cleared her throat as she approached. "Gotta hand it to you, you sure know how to rebound," she said with a chortle. His eyes didn't leave the inundation. “Shut up.” Her mouth hung open, but Olive didn't respond. Averting her eyes from the back of his head towards the ground, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in a puddle by her feet. Wordlessly, she wiped her face. He turned to face her, head cocked. “You’d normally keep taunting me – something’s wrong.” Olive shrugged. "Maybe I'm just respecting your boundaries?" “You have literally never done that once.” She opened her mouth to protest, but shook her head. "You're right; we need to talk." A beat. Johnny raised an eyebrow. "About what happened that night after Evolution. With her." "Her?" "No. Her." "Okay. Let's talk about her." You're embarrassing, Elisabeth. For as much as you bloviate about your personal growth, for all the ink that's been spilled gaslighting the world into thinking you've atoned for the blood on your hands, you're still the same person I said those two damning words to back in November of last year. And you sure as hell are the same exact person I rehashed those words at back in January. Y'know, before I dropped you on your head in what was supposed to be your grand exorcism. And here I am again, admittedly with an unexpected partner in tow, primed and ready to do it all over again. You know Jonathan, don't you Elisabeth? Of course you do. And you hate him for this. It digs at the pit of your stomach to see us aligned; but no matter how much you try and spin things, I see through it — even down to just one eye. No matter how much the lady doth protest, this isn't about me. It never has been. Just like you insist it always be, this is about you, isn't it? This is about your fragile self-image. How dare my colleague look me in the eye and see anything other than a reason to be disgusted, yeah? Doesn't he know that you're the most special girl in the world — the only one of us who could be branded with the Scarlet Letter of Philidor and come out unscathed on the other side? You, the girl who never believed in the mission for a second. You, the girl who needs me to be her scapegoat. You, the girl who can't answer for the blood on her hands otherwise. Go ahead and blame me for the distance between yourself and my associate all you like. I'm no stranger to bearing the weight of your shitty decision-making, but I hope you know this. No matter how much you insist on the contrary, no one buys your spin of events. Jonathan Backus is not the man who sold the world because he decided that his doesn't revolve around you. But you can't accept that, can you? Of course not. Because that's your problem, isn't it? At the core of it all, you just can't seem to find happiness because it's all take and take and take. There's no give with you, is there? I know I felt that, as I bent over backwards to appease you. But fine, I have enough experience with it, I promise you I'll oblige here as well. I'll give you a black eye. I'll give you a bloody nose. And I'll definitely give you another reason to hate me when we take the belts off of you and Adelaide. If there's one thing I'm sick and tired of being, it's your scapegoat, Elisabeth. That's what this has always been, hasn't it? From the day you kicked me under the chin and declared yourself redeemed, I've been the corrupting invisible hand that made you commit atrocities. So, please, answer me one question: What did you do it for? Because I can give you a full, unequivocal index of all the blood on my hands, and I can follow it with an explanation of the world I hoped to build upon the foundation of it. Meanwhile, you bloodied your hands and stained your soul for what, exactly? Don't you dare condescend to me about principles. About accountability. You desire one thing: accountability without consequence. The veneer of absolution because your trembling hands can't grapple with the weight of your actions. With the weight of your motivations. Spare me the sob story, Elisabeth. You're just a sad song with nothing to say. And come the 25th, you'll be the champion of nothing you were born to be. I don't know what to say to you, and at this point, it wouldn't make a difference – you never listen. You're going into this match wrapped in the banner of all your scars and failures, alongside your on-again-off-again "sister", and act like this is about to be the moral triumph of the year. It isn't even some cynical act of obfuscation; you genuinely believe you're the hero in this story. But there's a reason few take it seriously, and the only people who seem to quickly reveal themselves as opportunistic vipers ready to cloutfuck you and suck the blood from your slit wrists. And it's because you're so transparent. I get that you're surrounded by thirsty Yes-Men, but do me one favor, so help me god: please do not insult my intelligence by giving me a spin. Yeah – I chose Ash Blake. I also forced you to accept this challenge, held you down as you watched your "sister" lose, and was ready to plant you without batting an eyelash. And you fucking deserved it. You know it. I've dealt with enough of your two-faced, self-aggrandizing bullshit to apologize for it anymore. I could talk about how hypocritical it is for you to question my allegiance with Ash Blake while you're patting Serenity Holmes on the head with the same hand you use to play Grab-Ass with Alice Gemini. I could remind you that you've never apologized for coronating Regan Voorhees, even after she nearly put your "sister" in an iron lung. And there's how you've spent the past month playing the victim over my tactful decision to not cheat on my girlfriend with you – the same woman who sat up in a hospital room at your side. But we're not litigating any of that; we're having a championship tag match that I have every intention of winning. The measure of a champion is defined by their ability to bear the lash and bend without breaking, and once, I believed in a Lissie Hope who could be that champion. I journeyed into Hell for her – took beatings for her – lost a championship reign for her. You ask me to choose you and love you? Wake up, Tiger – I did everything for you. I put your soul on my back and carried it to salvation. And what did you do? You went to that empty-headed kookaburra and let her push you into a blood feud with her sewer rat ex-boyfriend. If you wanted my help so badly, you could've asked. But you didn't. And when Emma threw you to the wolves, it surprised nobody. But I was there. I was ready to help you back up. You have the audacity to say I don’t hold you accountable? I am the only one who has ever held you accountable. You wonder why you can't maintain a reign? A champion needs to hold their ground, not run for the hills at the sight of her shadow. An emotional glass cannon throws a hard shot as challenger but has a weak chin as defender. You haven't atoned for shit. You haven't changed since last year. And you still don't have the guts to look yourself in the mirror – how the fuck do you expect to have the guts to be a dominant champion. I loved you, Lissie. But the Lissie I love died back in Miami. And when you lose, you are going to face the reflection of who you’ve become. When the bell rings, after we’ve raised your belts, I'm going to make you look into my eyes, and I'm curious if you'll see me, yourself, him, or her looking back at you. Either way, the expression will be the same: Pity, regret, and utter disgust. You’re embarrassing. |
"It's her, isn't it?" Mae hissed as a tear ran down her face. She stood on the other side of the hotel room as Johnny kept his eyes out the window, the sinister glittering of the Strip offering him a convenient distraction. "Stop blaming her," Johnny said quietly and firmly, his expression dark and serious even if aimed at nobody, "I am making this decision." "Bullshit," she replied furiously, "You're going back on your decision.” "I never said I'd quit," he snapped as he wheeled around to face her, his eyes locking with hers across the Luxor hotel room, "I said I'd consider it." "And that's what I mean by 'bullshit', John!" she screamed back, the barrier that contained her seeping pain finally bursting as the tears flowed. "You're backsliding into someone else, and this isn't you! We've spent over a year fighting to be together – you fucking flew to Johannesburg to find me! We traveled to Europe together, wearing hats and sunglasses so we could be discrete – you sent me a Sullivan Ballou letter before you went off to fight her, and I sobbed into it until the letter fell apart because I thought you'd die! I moved to Oakland for you, and she pulled a gun on you. And now suddenly, you're just going to stand at her side while refusing to tell me anything?! Now, after you lost and have an out – when it's already abuzz you're gone – you're staying because of her?!" "If I knew Lissie was gonna run to John Thomas, I wouldn't have told her shit!" he yelled back. "Lissie didn't go to John Thomas! I did!" And then the screaming suddenly ceased. The room fell quiet, other than the sobs she was unable to stiffle. "You told John Thomas," he snarled, in quiet and dark acknowledgement. His eyes left hers, looking over at his reflection in the black mirror of the television. On shaky legs, she crossed to the edge of one of the two queen sized beds that furnished the bedroom. "I did it for us," she said in a shaking voice, "Because you are not the man I love. You're so... wedded to this – this "team"... but what about our team?" He looked from the TV back to her. Her blue eyes stared unblinkingly at him. "Choose me," she whispered, "Not her. I love you. She is using you." The room fell quiet. Johnny looked down and sighed. "I already made my choice, Esmé," he replied. "Then good-bye, John," she whispered with a sob, "I hope she's worth it. I hope whatever little fucking grand scheme you have involving her pays off..." She paused. "I wish you'd never come after me." Johnny turned back towards the window, his eyes on the lights of the Strip once more as she shuffled around behind him. Even after the door closed, and he was alone again, Johnny didn't cry. There was still too much work to be done. | They'd walked from Allegiant Stadium back to the Luxor in silence, exchanging pensive smiles with one another at Hacienda Ave., when Olive took Ash's hand in hers. Their fingers intertwined somewhere on the bridge and didn't separate until Ash leaned against the wall of the hotel's elevator, hoping to alleviate the searing pain in her back. Olive's gaze met Ashley's, a look of consternation apparent in her eyes, but she bit her tongue. It wasn't until they crossed the threshold into their room and let the door swing shut behind them that Olive finally piped up, her voice barely a whisper: "You scared me half to death, y'know?" Ash grimaced — her eyes shot involuntarily towards Olive's now sling-free arm. "I didn't choose to careen to my near-death," she offered in response, paired with a weak chuckle. Olive pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head. "I know that. It's just—" "You were worried about me," Ash interjected, a smug grin on her face as she took Olive's hands in hers, seated at the foot of the bed. "Someone has to," Olive retorted, perhaps more forcefully than she intended. "And what's that supposed to mean?" Olive's face flushed, a scowl creeping across her face. "That you're an idiot, Ash." Ash guffawed. "Oh, am I?" "Yeah, you fucking are," Olive shot back, pulling her hands free of Ash's grip. "How many more near-death experiences do you have to have out there to realize that you aren't fucking invincible?" Ash could feel the heat in her beet-red cheeks as she pushed herself to her feet. "I'm not invincible." She drew nearer Olive, her lower jaw quivering. "My back is killing me right now. When I hit the ground I was afraid I'd dislocated my shoulder again. I'm beyond lucky I avoided a concussion tonight." "But?" Olive hissed. "But I do feel invincible when I'm with you." Olive's face reddened. "Oh, so it's my fault you keep doing this stupid bullshit—" "Jesus Christ, Olive!" Ash exclaimed. "I'm trying to tell you that I love you." And then the pair fell silent once more. Their eyes fixed on each other, mouths hung agape in shock. Ash wrapped her arms around her girlfriend, her lips curling into a soft smile as she felt Olive reciprocate, stifling a wince as her arms snaked around Ash's ribcage. "I was hoping that'd come out a little less clumsily, but it's true. I love you, Olivia Adler." You better fucking hope that's true, Ash felt the voice at the base of her skull whisper as the words left her mouth. She stifled the thought as best she could and flashed a crooked smile as Olive rested her head on Ash's shoulder. "I love you too." The pair lingered in their embrace for what felt like an eternity, neither willing to pull away. "Promise me you'll stop being a fucking idiot, though," Olive whispered. "I promise." And then their lips met. |
But speaking of pity, regret, and utter disgust, Adelaide Ainsworth, shut the fuck up. It's now been enough time spent on the less than stellar side of you that I can firmly say I wish Regan took a fifth or sixth swing so you'd have half the volume. It's no longer funny or endearing to listen to you prattle on like an inarticulate WALTER about all the violence and misery you're going to inflict. You broke Ash's orbital. We’ll break your legacy. When I hear you launch into some tangent about "The Cunt", my partner, I spend less time laughing at your antics and actually listening to what you say. I used to wonder how someone so worked up and impassioned could get so routinely clowned by every other clumsy doofus who passed by, but I've realized it now: you say nothing. Piss and vinegar – sound and fury – there is not a single person in this company more full of shit than you. Your threats are as empty as your loyalties, and when you walk out empty-handed, you’ll return to the bar alone again, draining the bottle so you don't see his reflection in the bottom. You cling to that title of "Baddest Bitch in Action Wrestling" because you spent the past year being picked apart and pinned to a board like an insect. We saw Regan Voorhees get in your head, week after week, and rile you up into a blind, swearing rage so stupid and chaotic it was practically from a cartoon. She mocked you – she humiliated you – and she fucking. won. And all the day-late revenges in the world won't wipe the slate clean; we all know the full text of your moniker reads "The Baddest Bitch in Action Wrestling, South of Regan Voorhees." Do you know what I was doing this year as you had slunk back to lick your wounds and fight rookies? I was cleaning up the mess you made. While you were content to sit on your hands or pick up the second fiddle behind Emma fucking Langdon, I was going to war with the monster your "sister" created and you could not put down. While you were acting like a big shot and staking your claim in this division, I was getting my head kicked in by Affluenza. And where were you during that? You were in the back wrapping Lissie in a weighted blanket and feeding her chicken soup so you could feel less like shitty people for abandoning your "friend." Adelaide Ainsworth, you vacuous loser, shut the absolute fuck up. I didn’t change, Addy – I’ve said from the start that Action Wrestling is sick and only recently decided to stop preventing it from choking on its own vomit. I have as little desire to explain myself and my affiliations to you as I do explaining Historical Materialism to a Walmart shopper. And I won’t renounce the person who lost her tooth and title to protect me because it hurt the Baddest Bitch’s friend’s fee-fees. You think Ashley Blake has no soul. Very well; she may have half of mine. But that wasn’t a sacrifice required of me – it was one demanded by you. Bring it, Babygirl. Tell me how you'll bathe in my blood and you'll break Ash's other orbital. Call me any slur you can think up and question my manhood. I want all the smoke. Because you’re a loser, Adelaide, and I know your ass can't cash the checks your mouth writes. Nor can the Hopes. But when you walk out empty handed? I'll treat you like the clown you are. And laugh in your fucking face. Here we are again, Adelaide. Tell me, aren't you just absolutely thrilled? I'll bet you're beyond excited to break my fingers, to gouge out my good eye, to inflict a whole host of wounds and injuries upon me that I couldn't even begin to imagine. It makes sense, after all: I lack even one tenth of your creativity when it comes to these little fantasies of yours. Oh. That's right. Even through the double vision, I see you perfectly clear, sidekick. Because it happened again. Of course it did. You had your shot to put me on notice. To make me see you in any other way, and I did. I saw you sprawled on the floor, unable to hold yourself aloft without Elisabeth's support. I suppose, then, that I should have seen last week's incident coming, huh? A post-hoc equalizer, one last desperate pull to drag me down to your level. To hold your head high and lick the blood off your fingers. Day late, dollar short — that's the story of your life, isn't it? Of course it is: if it weren't, you two wouldn't be dedicating this one to the memory of Robbie Hope. But you got them back, right? That's almost as good as not getting him killed in the first place. Don't balk now, you pathetic goddamned mook. You're proud of what you are, aren't you? You live for it; so don't let anyone deny you the credit you so rightfully deserve. It might not have been your fists or feet, it might not have been on your orders, but you marked him for death the second you brought him into your orbit. It's the blood on your hands you just can't wash away. And the punchline is: here you are, clinging to his sister like a life raft as you two try to weather a storm of your own creation — and when you both topple into the sea under his watchful eye, you'll be letting him down one last time. How quaint. Oh, what's the matter? Aren't you having fun, Adelaide? Here I am, one eye, one ear, and a myriad of untreated maladies that I'm sure you're just licking your chops to exploit, giving you every reason in the world to want to cave my skull in for your sake, not just for the sake of the emotional Chinese finger trap you call a sisterhood. Go ahead, talk your shit, queen. Call your shot like Babe Ruth and strike out like Manny Machado. Or you can do the right thing for once in your life, and swallow the bile like a shot of tequila because we both know the only thing you're gonna kill is another bottle to drown your sorrows. Maybe I should thank you for this. For grabbing me by the chin and forcing me to stare you down, because I was content to just have eyes for my erstwhile colleague. Nice job breaking it, sidekick. Remember, you wanted this, Adelaide. You needed to take a pound of flesh from me to reaffirm your status. Reaffirm your loyalty. One small problem: I'm a firm believer in reciprocity. And truth be told, I can't think of a single better moment to rip from your clawing hands than this — your big commemoration for the man you got killed. When it's all over, when you're left flat on the mat staring up at the lights, left only with the reality of letting him down again wrapping you up like a weighted blanket, I hope the first thought that crosses your mind is a wish to return to the loving arms of Regan Voorhees. You broke my face, Adelaide. We're going to break your fucking heart. "It's happening again," Olive said quietly. “You’re referring to two weeks ago?” Johnny replied with the raise of an eyebrow. "I saw it on the monitor," Olive confirmed, "Something inside her just broke, and she knew it too." He lips curled down into a sneer. "And then your cunt friend goes and tries to brain her and she's doubling down." “Let’s not call her that.” "Whatever," Olive spit back before pausing, "She's backsliding, Johnny. Or, she's going to." Johnny let out a long sigh, his hands gripping and sliding back and forth on the railing before him in quiet frustration. “We’re on the same page, then, aren’t we? I’ve had my concerns.” "Oh, you've had concerns?" she scoffed. "That surprises you?" "Surprised to hear it now. You're not really one to bite your tongue." "We haven't had the time to talk," he said sharply before composing himself, "Don't think it's gone unnoticed or there'll be equivalencies drawn – they've antagonized her and she's responded in kind. I've tried holding the tiger by the tail, while they're waving steaks. Lissie and Addy can find out what it's like to get what you wish for, but..." His words trailed off as his expression darkened. He raised the cigarette to his lips as Olive cocked an eyebrow. "But?" she asked. "She's come so far. We can't let that happen." “Johnny," Olive implored before pausing. Her eyes fell from his down to the roof – she took a long sigh before looking back to him, the rain obscuring the mist in her eyes, "Please promise me something. Promise me you’ll be there for her. Promise me you’ll protect her.” “I promise," Johnny assured her, his eyes going back to the Detroit River, "I don’t have anything else left, Olive – anything else besides her.” |
