🅷🅴🆁🅂🅃🄾🅁🅈 🅸🅸🅸: 🅃🄷🄴 🄲🅁🄴🄰🅃🅷🅴🆁
Nov 6, 2022 14:44:44 GMT -5
Karlie Nash, CJ Phoenix, and 2 more like this
Post by Lissie Hope ♥ on Nov 6, 2022 14:44:44 GMT -5
“In the beginning, God created heaven and earth.” Lissie Hope sits alone in a center pew, the sun showering her from the clear New Orleans sky, filtered through the kaleidoscopic lens of the stained glass windows. Her voice is quiet, just above a whisper, her fingers linked over the leather bible on her knees. “On the first day, God created the light in the darkness. And on the second,” she continued. “God created the skies.” Her eyes are pained, the tears beginning to trickle down her face. The clock makes it’s rotation, turning the time to 11:11. She squeezes the pendant around her neck - the daily reminder of Robbie that she carries with her at all times. “On the fourth day, God created the sun,” her pacing slows. “And the moon.” Her words are deliberate. “And the stars.” “On day six, God created people.” Lissie exhales under her breath and shutters her eyes closed. But after her brief meditative state, she turns and looks straight to the camera, her eyes burning with the fire of a thousand suns. “And on day two-hundred-sixty-nine,” she began with the intensity of a rabid dog foaming at the mouth. “God will speak through me, with one purpose: to show the world just how big a piece of shit Sam Kidsgrove is,” she says, with her nose wrinkling with anger. “...and always will be.” “So you’re ready to make a change?” she asked. Her question hung in the air like a demon lurking in the shadows. “I think I am,” I replied, feeling the shackles of my home releasing me. “It’s time for me to move on - to something bigger. Something better. Somewhere I can heal,” I said, fighting through an emotional chokehold. “Finally.” “You don’t think you can heal here?” “I’ve tried,” I admitted. “But I can’t.” I was startled by my phone - sitting next to hundreds of pages of a contract - buzzing on the table. “Are you gonna take that?” What is this journey, Sam? Who the fuck are you to invite us on it? You’ve been counting down 269 days until what exactly? What gives you this false sense of importance that people actually care what you’re intending to create? Is it a false narrative of a champion who never was? Are we going on this journey with you so you could force us to empathize with your plights and your struggles as we watch you fail, time and time again, repeatedly running into a brick wall and showcase your inability to break the championship threshold that will forever evade you? Sure, your United States Championship lineage is untouched. It probably will remain forever. But it’s when the lights shine the brightest, when the stage is the biggest, when the make-or-break moment of your entire fuckin’ existence is in the balance when we can always bet on Sam Kidsgrove not getting the job done. It happened against Dandy DiVito. It happened against Gerard Angelo. And here’s yet another opportunity - but with the weight you’re putting into winning this Turmoil Tournament? It’ll happen again… against me. And I can relate to you, Sam. It was two years for me, too. I failed against Angelo, just like you did. But the difference is that I’ve tasted it before. Twice. And like a shark in the depths of the ocean, once you taste that blood, you fuckin’ crave it. You can’t live without it. So this tournament may mean a shot at glory for both of us - but your motivation doesn’t compare to mine, Sam. For you, it’s this fruitless justification where you’d like for the world to appreciate the legacy you’ve carved. But that missing piece is an unreachable hope. But for me? It’s the steak dangling from the hook. And mama’s hungry, and she’s ready to devour. “We understand your concern, Lissie - but we don’t need you to play a role.” Her voice sounded more and more sincere with every phone call. “We just want you to be yourself. We want the Lissie we’ve fallen in love with.” “I don’t know if she’s there anymore.” “We don’t believe that, Lissie,” she said. I could sense she was crafting her pitch meticulously. “You are a dynamic person - all of the good, and all of the bad. We want the world to see 🅷🅴🆁, more raw and unfiltered than you’ve ever allowed 🅷🅴🆁 to be.” “Well, that’s terrifying,” I admitted. “You have so much to offer the world, Lissie,” she continued. “And it goes way beyond the wrestling ring.” “That’s such a scary commitment,” I said, feeling an uneasiness in my throat. “I would have to leave the life I’ve crafted behind.” “What if you consider it more of a beginning?” she challenged. “A way to let more people in? To make them understand you - on a level you haven’t shared before?” “You’re a good saleswoman,” I said with a laugh. “I’m not selling you anything,” she offered. “You’ve sold us. Just remember - this isn’t a casting call. This isn’t an audition.” The silence hung in the air. “It’s yours - if you want it." Places like this ground me. They keep me centered and focused - and the biggest moments of my career always seem to occur in front of the fans I share the streets with. Winning All-In and the World Championship in Las Vegas - and now the Turmoil Tournament begins - while yours ends - right here in New Orleans. There are times when this life is a fairytale, Sam - a scripted movie where a young neurotic meets the man of her dreams, but never sacrifices her integrity or her wastes her talent to ascend the tallest mountains. I mean, Zooey has built a career on this type of archetype, for fuck’s sake. She’s the moral center of that universe, making the audience care and empathize and relate to her struggles – all the while keeping her head above water by enduring the arrows being shot in her direction by society. By the people she works with. By the hand she guides along with her, no matter how much of a pansy, beta cuck he may be. You know the kind, Sam, because you are the kind. The one who holds her purse off to the side of the carpet while she’s got dozens of microphones in her face. The one who wants to speak up but knows who actually holds onto the leash. You’re not a fuckin’ dog, homie. You’re exactly the same, Sam. You and Holden Ross, the other sanctimonious simp whose head I shoved in the communal shitter just last week, will get to face - and be humiliated - by Action Wrestling’s queen bitch in consecutive weeks. How fun for me - and how fuckin’ embarrassing for you. You with this golden retriever puppy dog energy who just wants to play and have fun and fetch the fuckin’ frisbee because you’re like a boomerang with no direction, Sam. You’re repeatedly smacked on the nose and you won’t stop coming back. For every winner, Sam, there has to be a loser - and that’s the role that’s always written with your name in mind. And you might be used to signing onto those roles, Sam - but this is a classic case of fantasy meeting reality. This is not something you selected, after combing through every fine line on the contract. There’s no image rehabilitation, or any course-correcting for making truly awful decisions. Your constant bombs on the big stages aren’t due for a reclamation project. Because no one wants to see it, Sam. Nobody is invested in it. Nobody is invested in you. The United States Championship will forever be your ceiling, while you’re occasionally invited into my domain. Don’t you think it’s rather strange that we can share this company for four years, and despite all the successes we’ve had, and all of the routes we’ve taken to get to where we are today - that we’ve only shared a ring together three times? Isn’t that a little weird, how you’ve never really been in my orbit, in my stratosphere - and I’m the one Action Wrestling calls a future a Hall of Famer? I’m the one who is the face of our fuckin’ network, and I didn’t even need to ask - but here you are, begging to be the leading man of Action Wrestling on day 245 - only for your headshot to be slid across the table and into the fuckin’ trashcan? Only for when your audition reel pops up on the screen, and like the classic MTV dating show, the executives meet you with a repulsed “Next”? Does it hurt that when your face comes up on Action Wrestling’s Tinder, that you’ll forever be an immediate and reactionary left swipe? Passed over. Forgotten. Onto the next one. That’s your fuckin’ reality, Sam. And you can keep crying - it doesn’t matter to me - ‘cause I can wipe my tears away with these stacks of hundreds while you sob into Zooey's milky tits with yours. I can keep climbing these mountains, time and time again, because that’s the role that was meant for me - while you can keep complaining to anyone who will listen that it was never in the cards for you. I’ve fought through fuckin’ hell to win my World titles, to put my name in the Havoc record books, to excite the fans through four Turmoil tournaments - all with the deck stacked against me since the day I stepped foot in this fuckin’ company. And I’m not willing to step aside now and allow a sniveling little pussy like you to take center stage. That’s not your story, Sam. This is 🅷🅴🆁🅂🅃🄾🅁🅈. My hands were stiff and sore from the amount of times I signed my name on the contract. “So it’s a done deal?” she said with a warm smile. I nodded along with a feeling of resignation, knowing I was leaving a huge part of me behind. “This hasn't been my home for a long time.” “This is going to be very lucrative, Lissie,” she promised. “All the work you’ve put in will pay dividends. And your bank account will thank you.” “I know,” I said, already feeling the weight of my decision weighing heavy on my soul. “So where are you going from here?” With a smile on my face, my voice lifted and hung like a lullaby. “I’m going to Dreamland,” I said, handing her the key. I was ready to leave New Orleans behind. And I couldn’t fucking wait to tell Johnny. I am 🅷🅴🆁. I’m that bitch. There are sometimes when I forget - sometimes when Action Wrestling forgets - that this is the role that was made for me. I am built for this. Jill and Regan and Alice have carried the torch when I couldn’t, but when I’m ready to reclaim my spot at the top of this company, and when I have a stage like this to do it - honey, you’re gonna be the first of four necks I’m digging my heel into to achieve it. The first of four bodies getting stuffed into a locker - and we all know Action Wrestling gives me the biggest locker. I’m tired of being nice, Sam. Being nice has forced me to rescind my seat on the throne, allowing people like you to diminish the fight I’ve been on, while uplifting others who don’t fuckin’ deserve it. And plus? It’s easy to bully a petulant chode like you. I get pleasure from it. People wonder why I always seem to go hard on you when I’ve got an image to uphold. And it’s quite simple really. I just don’t like you, Sam. I think you’re a punk-ass bitch. And it’s going to feel fuckin’ amazing to end your tournament. |
