Post by Lissie Hope ♥ on Jul 4, 2021 22:45:41 GMT -5
AFTER EVOLUTION | The murmurs lift to a crescendo as I entered the conference hall. Blinded by camera bulbs, I glanced towards the masked faces of journalists sitting six-feet apart - they’d ‘laxed the requirements to three by now. My body was aching; I could feel the muscles throbbing, pulsing more now that I’m no longer dependent on painkillers. Numbing myself to the wear-and-tear after wrestling matches was no longer an option after making the life-saving choice to go clean. It’s been over two-hundred days since.
My pockets were getting heavy with the monthly chips celebrating each level of my recovery.
But my mind though? It was still working overdrive. Their faces vibrated, blurring the line between reality and fiction. I couldn’t process the enormity of my showdown with Bonnie Blue. It was her final match - even if it wasn’t announced, I think everyone in the industry knew. This was the ending of an era, a finality that could only be overshadowed - arguably - by the final match of another.
Howie.
I wasn’t ready to talk. Bonnie Blue was the blueprint I followed; Howard Black was the biggest regre. The indelible impression they’ve left on me cannot be explained; equated. I couldn’t do them any justice in the span of a twenty-second soundbite for John Thomas to dissect on Tuesday morning.
“Please, don’t ask me any questions about them,” I thought to myself. Before I could even get a word out, a voice lifted over the commotion.
“Lissie, where do you go from here?”
“I, uhh…” I stuttered, looking down at my pulsing fingers as they tapped on the lectern. I didn’t have control over my limbs at all. I hovered too close to the microphone, a piercing squeal of feedback reverberated. I felt the gentle hand of Dr.Brower on my shoulder, and he whispered into my ear. Just relax, he said, obviously privy to the indications of my impending fits of anxiety. “I don’t know. I needed that win.”
I was now torn open, lifeless and alone, clinging to life under the tide of the #deepbluesea as the sharks circled around me, craving the blood pouring from my gaping wounds. I felt their barbed fangs tearing at my intestines that trailed behind my dying corpse.
“Did you underestimate Bonnie?”
“Do you regret asking for a match of this magnitude?”
“Do you think you can still win a big one?”
“Where do you stand in Philidor Holdings after that performance?”They blurted out those questions; all of them bled together, and I couldn’t process them.. This was my seventy-fifth match. I’d fulfilled my subsequent press junket obligations every time; well, almost. The only times I didn’t were the devastating losses.
“I… can’t,” I choked out, knowing the cascade of tears was rearing it’s head. I stood and the flashbulbs increased in volume. My agent attempted damage control - “She’s exhausted tonight. She’ll answer your questions tomorrow,” he announced. Dr. Brower supported me to the green-room. Carter Shaw was standing in the entry-way. You okay?, he asked me, and I nodded, moving past.
I looked for Ash Blake in the green-room. I knew she could relate with me.
She was nowhere to be found.
MONDAY MORNING | One more day in Detroit; journalists lingered in the cordoned conference room, hoping to get a few more interviews. President Torture was bombarded with questions regarding Tokyo Fite and Philidor Holdings’ involvement. He did an incredible job dodging them.
He was asked about Carter Shaw,After a short presentation where he unveiled the upcoming card, he reminisced to one year prior: a fatal four way number one contendership that featured Corey Black, Dandy DiVito, Alex Richards, and James Nightingale - Nightingale’s win was a career-defining moment, and Torture concentrated on that, promising the chance that 2021’s version could mirror that star-making performance.
He revealed the names - Mason Jones, a burgeoning upstart fighting through heartbreak. Regan Voorhees, a talented potential main-eventer who was in pole position to climb further. Spencer Adams, the Havoc Rumble winner who came up just short against Philidor Holdings. And they were all waiting for the name of the fallen champion, like Richards, who’d be granted a well-earned rematch.
“...and the final participant will be Lissie Hope!”
The confusion was palpable, traipsing into the green-room, waiting for my turn to rectify the previous night. My agent, Dr. Brower, and Mr. Garvey lent their support beside me. Ian stood in the doorway, watching as Torture fielded the questions: a true professional - standing his ground, behind his decisions, even as conspiracies were levied at him.
“Why would he choose me?” I asked, under my breath, towards no one in particular. “I didn’t even beat Bonnie.”
“That don’t matter” Ian assured me. “The ratings were through the roof. Everyone was watching; you ladies put on a hell of a performance.”
“I don’t get it, though. Why not Ash? She deserves it.”
“She di’nt get tha job don’, Miss ‘Ope,” Mr. Garvey explained. “Now iz’ yer turn to ‘elp keep tha title belt in Philidor.”
I hadn’t been in this position in over a year - having the World Championship in my crosshairs. It was an unfamiliar feeling; I’d been dreaming of it, but knowing it was on the horizon was overwhelming.
“It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“This is it,” Dr. Brower told me through a toothy grin. “You’ve grown so much since I first met that broken girl sitting across from me, still wearing those hospital bracelets. I can’t believe you’re the same person.”
“Because I’m not anymore,” I said, confidently. And for the first time, I meant it.
***
“Let’s try this one more time, shall we? Thank you for sticking around, we know you’d like to get home to your families.”
My agent backed away from the podium as the flashes followed me to the lectern. I think I had a different look in my eyes, a little more confidence in my step - it meant a lot knowing I had the backing of Philidor Holdings, and the trust from Action Wrestling leadership, even after a big loss at Evolution.
“Sixteen-months-ago at Battlefield 2020, I valiantly defended the Action Wrestling World Championship against Frank Venable and Addy Ainsworth. In the time since, sure, I’ve held a World Championship twice elsewhere, but more importantly, I was one-half of one of the greatest tag-teams in the history of Action Wrestling. During the shining beacon, the golden era of tag-team-wrestling in this company’s rich history, we withstood legendary matches against some of the greatest competitors in this business. I know you remember them - you still ask about us till this day.”
A questioner attempts to interrupt; I hold up a finger to show that I wasn’t finished.
“We were the Tag-Team-of-the-Year. I took home my second Woman-of-the-Year trophy fresh out of a fucking hospital bed. And we changed - dominated - the industry while I was enduring the biggest tragedy you’ll never fathom; not unless you’ve experienced it yourself. The loss of your lifeline, the only person who pushes you forward. And it nearly destroyed me.”
The buzz was growing amongst the journalists in the front row. I looked over at John Thomas, who was obsessively scribbling down notes.
“Sixteen months ago, Frank Venable pinned Addy Ainsworth to win my World Championship. 500 of the longest, most painful days of my life followed - I cratered down to the bottom of the earth; nearly met my maker; and still - I was resurgent. I pulled through. And here I am now, finally, ready to get my Championship back!”
“Lissie! Lissie! Was this contendership unexpec--”
“Stop. Stop. I get it, you’re here to do your job, but I didn’t come here for this.”
I point at all the sportswriters in the front rows. I know the vitriol and the disgust is oozing from my eyes.
“Not for you. For this dog-and-pony show, to come out here and give you cute little soundbites to run in your articles or talk about on your podcasts. I’m not here to be lectured, to placate you and answer the way you want me to answer, using my words to spin whatever narrative you’re crafting. I’m the architect of my own narrative.”
I pause again, noticing John Thomas has stopped transcribing, and instead has his phone out recording.
“I’m talking, and you’re listening. For 500 days, I’ve been waiting for my chance to regain what is rightfully mine, to avenge what was taken from me, to strap that World Championship around my shoulder once again. And I know you’re thinking I sold out my soul for this opportunity, that I’ve benefited from my place in Philidor. That we’ve kept our hold on this title, and this company, for this long - because we knew the belt was in our control. That at Tokyo Fite, we’re not only maintaining that control, but we’re asserting that control; we’re leaving no fucking doubt.”
I noticed Carter Shaw peaking out from the green-room. He had a smirk on his face, very encouraged with the way I had validated my devotion to the mission of Philidor Holdings.
“The coalition of snipers we’ve recruited and accumulated have pinpoint accuracy; we’ve prepared ourselves for the war that you’ve started. And many of you here now think this war is going to go a certain way; but I’m here to assure that this war is going our way.”
“This is what this belt means to me. It’s not just a trinket on a mantle for a belt-collector. And it’s not a feel-good story for an upstart who’s fighting through a grueling tragedy. And it’s not a second-chance justification for a budding star who couldn’t get it done the first time.”
“This is a debt that is owed to me - for everything I’ve done for Action Wrestling and for Philidor Holdings. This is me regaining the property that was robbed of me - twice. This is me clawing my way back, taking on Wrestlers of the Year, and future Hall-of-Famers, and putting on matches-of-the-fucking century. Breaking records in Havoc, reestablishing myself, in my rightful place, as one of the best who’s ever competed in Action Wrestling ring.”
Carter Shaw was now flanked by other members of Philidor, and they were obviously confused by the route I was taking. How I’d likely veered off script, the company line on the back of my mind as I asserted just how important the World Championship was to me.
“Mason Jones is in over his fucking head. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to release himself from the shackles of his own tragedy and push beyond, even when everything in his mind and body is telling him he can’t. That there’s no way he could do it when his soulmate recovers in a hospital bed. But it is possible, Mason - you have a recipe you can follow. If you ignore who’s staring you in the ring, you can’t blame it on a bad short-term memory. Your attention-span; you can’t give it free-reign to neuter you, and render yourself incapable of moving past that debilitation. That even when that inspiration, that lifeline, is begging for you to call it quits, you’ve got to understand that you can carry that motivation beyond. Because I did - I proved that I could. I was burying my brother; and despite that, I was crowning myself a champion.
But this is Action Wrestling. This is my venue, my temple, my sanctuary. Robbie knew what I envisioned for myself; he wasn’t in half-way. Not like Jayson Price. Did he ever know how you felt? Are you carrying unrequited love? When he’s dead and buried, will you ever have closure? I worry for you, Mason. You’re not going to win this match, this contendership. Let’s be real.
But is that even what you want? Was that ever your destiry? Or did you want the satfisfaction of having your soulmate give you the big win in your career… in your life? He was never going to lead you to the World Championship, but he would’ve encouraged you to fight faster. Harder. And now? You’re lost.
I feel for you, Mason. But you haven’t earned my empathy.
I want you to know what it means to fight for reasons beyond your control. For the people who are depending on you. I want you to know how it feels to fail, when everything in your heart is telling you that you need to win.
You could’ve learned a lot from me, because I did everything that nobody’s expecting of you.
Regan, though?
I was your masterpiece, right? The Caravaggio you held in your mantle, the Medusa whose sole purpose was to derive the motivation to move beyond what was ever expected of you, to escape the shadows of the B-card in order to arrive at your pinnacle, amongst the names that’ve always exceeded you. But you had your chance, after I gave you the chance on a silver platter - you could’ve gone and won the United States Championship after I laid down for you, and you could’ve held it high in the air and you would’ve owed it all to me. That preparation, that legacy that was blossoming; it was on the heels of winning a match over the biggest name. Mine.
But you let it slip through your nimble fingers. Because you talk a big game, Regan - you Wiki a cocktail and slither into the conscience of those who are too weak to find your weakness. But what do you find when you attack those who don’t have a target hovering around them anymore? You’re so one-dimensonal, Regan. You get into our heads before we get in the ring, but at this point, when my purpose is clear and when my motivation is undeterred, you’re going to find yourself out of your fucking element. That Cruiserweight Championship? It’s something I could’ve owned in my sleep. If I wanted to, I could’ve stripped that title from the waist of Spayde Martinez and I’d still hold it captive to this day. But you? You owe your entire identity to it, and to Joey Bunga assuring you’d mindfuck your way to way to it. It’s the only thing you owe your entire Action Wrestling career to; how does it feel to know that if it wasn’t for me, deciding it was beneath me, that you wouldn’t even own it in the first place?
I believed in you, Regan. I wanted you to escape the corner you’d pigeon-holed yourself into; despite having that win over the serpent-headed Prometheus, you were always meant to exceed beyond all expectations. Become a champion not only for the pig-loving vegans, but for every woman who’s ever arrived with their own personality, their own mission, and their own talent.
And you let me the fuck down.
I should’ve laid-the-fuck-down for somebody else, Regan.
But that ain’t happening now. This World Championship means way too much to me to give you another free-pass. You don’t know what you missed out on, what you’ve become complacent to, because there isn’t a soul behind the scenes and in those stands who believes you even want to be a World Champion.
You’ll bank on that win over me - the first loss of mine since I was nearly buried under the soil. But it’ll never mean anything beyond that.
You could’ve learned a lot from me, Regan.
I could’ve been your Bonnie Blue.”
I pause, looking towards the back of the room. All afternoon, I’d wondered how she’d taken this news, but finally, I tracked her rigid, austere eyes staring back at me.
“This World Championship means more to me than you ever know. More than the 500 days my once-sister Addy A cost me. Venable robbed of me. Action Wrestling deprived of me.”
She was staring at me with heat from burning from her eyes.
“The 500 days where I was replaced… by Ash Blake.”
Ash ducked out of the room.
“And where I was forgotten… by Spenc--”
THE SCOTTISH ARMS | ST. LOUIS | I’d picked the place - a charming and antiquated, yet quaint and caliginous whiskey room with fanciful whimsy and Victorian decor. A bar patroning the eccentric, the oddballs, appealing to the techies, the hipsters, and even the queer community as well. I’d always felt most comfortable in these establishments, and I’d hoped he would understand. I nuzzled his neck, grabbing his neck, hoping he’d know a way to penetrate my armor.
“Oh man, there’s a shit-load of lesbos in here,” he uttered, letting go of my hand. “Of course you’d bring me here.”
Small-groups sat at tables talking quietly as he strolled ahead with an exaggerated limp, pulling up a stool and slapping his hand on the bar-top. The bartender held up a finger and I joined him under the dim haze of the oversized, primitive lightbulbs.
“What can I get for you?” he asked as my boyfriend(?) leaned over the bar-top to read the labels closely. Eyeing the specialty whiskeys on the shelf, he mouthed - Aberlour and Glenfidditch, Talisker and Lagavulin --
“Alizé, my man,” he said proudly. “On the rocks, since this is a fancy place, I guess,” he followed up, glaring at me as I shook my head in embarrassment.
“Yeah, bud… we don’t carry that here,” he said, dismissively, handing him a menu. “And you, ma’am?” he asked with a charming smile. My date was getting aggrieved by the second.
“Just a Topo and lime for now, thank you,” I answered.
“Whatever, man. Tito’s and something, no calorie,” he said, sliding the menu back too hard and watching it flutter to the floor.
“So… Topo?” the bartender snickered.
“I watched it,” he told me, referring to the conference. “It was cool... but when are you going after that twiggy loser you used to fuck, anyway?”
We spent the next twenty minutes or so joking around, flirting, being touchy-feely. Nothing deep; all casual. The bartender kept my Topo topped off and his Tito’s flowing.
“Lissie??” I heard, a voice that was vaguely familiar, yet I couldn’t place it. “Is that you?” I looked back in their direction, and I recognized them immediately. “Oh my god! Look, Brit! She’s here!”
Savannah and Britni - the two girls she met in Miami, Florida on the day the world ended.
They approached quickly and I felt chained to my seat. The claustrophobia kicked in as the walls around me closed in. Their faces blurred, and my man didn’t even realize how badly my panic was setting in. Britni wrapped her arms around my neck as Savannah stood back, observing. He watched with a smirk on his face, pulling out stools.
“You’re welcome to join us.”
“Lissie! I was hoping we’d see you out before the show.”
“Y… you still watch me?”
“Of course!”
“How is everything, Lissie?” Savannah asked, noticing how uncomfortable I was.
“I’m doing… better,” I answered, hoping I sounded convincing.
“I’m happy for you.”
“So what’s the story?”
The three of them engaged in small-talk as if I wasn’t even there. And in many ways, I wasn’t - I recalled that night in Miami, when everything changed.
My date listened intently as Britni revisited our weekend together. She must’ve been a few drinks in, because she didn’t even consider how uncomfortable I was. Savannah noticed, though - she leaned in, caressing my back. I turned towards the bar, spinning the Topo in my fingers.
“You okay?” she asked. “We’re really proud of you,” she continued, eyeing my glass.
...and we went dancing all night at this after-hours club and it was incredible!... ...met so many cool people, got into all kinds of trouble afterwards!... ...to the hotel room with some girls we met and just kicked it all... ...never did so much bl...
“Brit…”
I had stopped listening altogether. My eyes were laser-focused on one bottle behind the bar.
“--ou ladies wanna come back to the crib? We’re stayin’ a few miles away if you wan--”
The bottle of Wild Turkey 101 was inviting me in, like a forbidden apple hanging off the serpent’s fangs.
“It would feel (so) good.”
You felt good, Spencer.
Once.
I gave you my heart, my soul; I offered you something that I don’t give to fucking anyone. I gave you an inch, and you took a fucking mile.
You want to harp on the same shit everyone else does; that I sold out, that I looked for the easy way out. What you don’t understand, what you fail to realize, is that I found an outlet beyond you, in spite of you. I always recognized your devious intentions, masquerading behind this fallacy, this idea of you.
You told me you were a good man.
And I believed you.
But everything you’ve ever tried to convince me of always had an ulterior motive, didn’t it? You were never in this to better me, to save me. I never asked you to, Spencer. You assumed that’s what I wanted from you, but you gave yourself way more credit than you deserved. I’ve always seen through you. You’re transparent, like a ghost; a ghoul in the night.
You want to think you’re better than that. You don’t personify this amazing man you’ve tried to represented for so long. We all know you to be an opportunistic, glad-handing, kiss-ass with a self-serving, legacy-building, self-flagellating, masturbatory motive behind everything you do.
Between playing the role of a mentor for a child without a purpose - this secret you can’t reveal - and living under this self-created idea that you are Mr. Everything, the savior of Action Wrestling; the antithesis to the suffocating throes of the big, bad Philidor Holdings… wearing a jersey and pretending you are a man of every city… not just Slab City…
[/i][/b][/div][/b][/span][/div]
I half-fucking-expect you to show up to St. Louis with a bandaid on your cheek hymning the chorus of ‘Country Grammar’ just to kiss-ass to this crowd with a retro Marshall Faulk jersey. We see through you, Spencer. We know what you’re all about, what you represent, and how little you mean to the AW universe.
And we’ve thrived beyond you. Without you. AW is far beyond the shadow of Spencer Adams. We don’t even bat-a-lash at the fact that you continue to lose every opportunity you’ve been given to carry this company.
I sat in the press junket, promoting this event, despite your Evolution failure, and for what? We all knew you’d be given another chance. If you were to somehow get past Ash and Carter and defy the odds, this company would belong to you. You would be the first name they’d call, the first face we’d see in the cameras.
But it was a foregone conclusion.
This was never in the cards for Spencer Adams.
So I jumped in front of those cameras. They wanted to speak to me. They wanted to hear from me. It was my duty to stand in front of the flashes of those cameras, under the lights of that stage, with my voice permeating each microphone. It was on me to justify a loss to Bonnie Blue, while the expectation of you was purely to give an excuse.
You were never meant to win at Evolution.
The deck was stacked against you.
How was the ‘great’ Spencer Adams ever meant to survive in a handicap match?
It wasn’t a two-on-one, Spencer. Ash was meant to defend her title, and Carter was meant to win it. You were never in the fucking picture. That’s the fact you can’t understand, even if you managed to superkick me the-fuck-out-of Havoc and survivd an onslaught by Corey Black and Frank Venable.
I was proud of you, Spencer.
But I never believed in you.
I never will again.
