Post by distortedamber on Aug 29, 2022 21:01:06 GMT -5
… “Anyone could scratch your surface now
It's all amphetamine
You're blasting yourself into the present
To blur some past indignity, say that…
You say that you hate it
You want to re-create it.”...
So Fast, So Numb - R.E.M
There was a certain mythos about teenage girls- something deeply innate that could only be marvelled at from afar for fear that it might be contagious, a simple flutter of an eyelash or the crumpling of fingers into a loosely balled fist. Oddly enough, they usually seemed to garner the same effect- at least in Avalon’s experience.
Unfortunately for the 17 year old, trying to fix the loose plait that fell across her shoulder, she had been genetically gifted with her father’s stunted eyelashes and not nearly the bank account nor willingness to artificially enhance them. Besides, one badly thrown punch and she’d be stabbed in the eye with whatever synthetic horse hair they’d plucked into a socially appropriate facsimile, something akin to what an AI might have thought human eyelashes were supposed to resemble based off of a picture of some trimmed pubes.
No, eyelashes were high maintenence and her younger sister, Saige, already held the monopoly on that title in the Blackthorn household.
Teenage girls were inhuman. Avalon knew that wholeheartedly- nothing human could exhibit the cruelties and underhandedness of a teenage girl who thought that her boyfriend of the week was talking to any other girl- even if it was his 11 year old cousin from the next state over. Nothing in nature could replicate the speed to which a mood swing might create, inexplicably shifting reality itself onto a plane where literally nothing could be considered ‘right’.
You get her starbucks. Drink isn’t made right, in spite of the fact that 4 baristas have quit because of her order, and that there is a written instruction manual for those brave - or stupid - enough to find themselves in that scenario. You got her a diamond ring- it's not a princess cut for a princess mind, despite the fact it actually is and that she just has no clue what it actually looks like and will die on that godforsaken hill.
You get her a puppy - breed isn’t right, its ears aren’t fluffy enough. A car? Wrong colour and make, cup holder isn’t big enough for that bucket of vaguely caffeinated sugar she insists on calling coffee.
After all, hell hath no fury such as that of the entitled teenager.
It was no wonder that Avalon seemed to find herself at odds with most of the ones that sought her out- apparently her willingness to simply say ‘no’ was a world collapse triggering event and needed to be documented for prosperity.
Goods and services at any juncture came at a price, and while Avalon was a seasoned amateur lacking enough balance to successfully define morality to financial gain ratio, she likely didn’t charge nearly enough for what many of the upper-middle class eventual participation trophy wives were asking.
Most of the time it was simply to ruin the ‘ugly’ features of a rival, vandalise a car before some hot date - occasional sabotages and subtle rumour mill spreading.
She wasn’t proud of it- but she’d been fired from enough entry level jobs for what could only be described as ‘poor attitude’ which translated to; not being willing to sacrifice herself on the altar of customer service for less than minimum wage. Jobless and with the elder Blackthorns insisting on rent payments - because ‘her older sisters did it too’ - there were few other ways to make a quick buck and keep a hand-me-down bed from becoming a park bench.
Quietly, she knew they would never actually kick her out. However the ever lingering comparison between the four sisters always dragged a thin layer of bile into the back of Avalon’s throat. She wasn’t ‘Mama’s mini me’, she wasn’t ‘Miss Independent Career Woman’ and she sure as fuck wasn’t ‘Mommy and Daddy’s baby girl’... Four girls, four vastly different people born of an otherwise unremarkable genetic pool.
Still, in hopes of looking vaguely presentable enough to avoid further interrogation of days events beyond ‘where have you been’ being promptly responded to with ‘out’, Avalon tried to brush the creases out of her t-shirt in hopes that the bloody patch up towards the shoulder wasn’t as noticeable as it felt against her skin, nor that the scrapes and bruising on knuckles shone quite as prominently as they did in the suburban afternoon sun.
Maybe if she was really lucky, they wouldn’t even think to ask why she wasn’t wearing the same clothes she left the house in hours before. Yeah, she really would miss those jeans too… was a real shame about the fact one leg had almost entirely been torn away and the bloody spit stains that seemed to freckle what was left on that side.
One day though, she reassured herself as the white picket fence fell away into the periphery and the sound of familiar voices seemed to knock at the otherside of the door, one day she wouldn’t have to be like this anymore. One day she might be able to get a real job… something that didn’t leave her feeling strangely guilt ridden when she’d been promised so vehemently that it was fine ‘cause ‘they deserved it’.
“---and your resume is very… impressive … but you’ll have to forgive my forwardness, in that you certainly aren’t what we had anticipated.”
Statements like that were usually made in job interviews or brothels- given the words were drenched in her mother’s best ‘good christian’ tone, Avalon quickly realised how ill-prepared she was to even consider either of those scenarios. Slipping between the door and the frame as though anticipating friendly fire and trying to maintain a low profile in case whoever was being addressed might scatter like a cockroach when the lights flickered on, Avalon less than subtly crept the few steps towards the living room door.
“I get it. Alot less blonde, probably a few more tattoos… I’ll admit I generally don’t dress for stepping off magazine covers. Many say as much when they first meet me, however I try not to judge those who value appearance over proven qualification.”
A veiled sarcasm echoed and stopped Avalon in her tracks, or it would have if she hadn’t already committed to the step that would have brought her into the proverbial firing line. That voice… the tone dry and acerbic, a faint southern politeness twanged with Satan’s best impression of cordiality. Normally it would have echoed through a TV speaker, less tinny in the flesh and a lot… softer.
Human.
Bullshit. Never was a doubt about articulation, Avalon had never quite heard the range of four letter words articulated in such a way you almost thought they might not even be that offensive.
In the truest of cliches, everyone in the room seemed to turn to Avalon within the same moment- although the younger woman suspected that it might simply have been her mind slowing down in an effort to try and process that someone she’d idolised was sitting politely in her mother’s pastel pink walled shrine to reborn christianity and collectible kitten porcelain plates.
“Ah, excuse you. What time do you think you call this?”
From ‘good, welcoming Christian’ to disappointed motherly glare, the temperature dropped almost 10 degrees as the eyes narrowed and the deepening furrow of her mother’s seemingly constant frown drew the rest of the room in.
Glancing at a watch she didn’t have while actively trying to ignore the crooked smirk emanating from beneath the virulent shock of red, Avalon paused a moment.
“Given the level of disappointment, I’m hazarding a guess that it's not ‘peanut butter jelly time’ so---”
“Where have you been?”
A shrug suggestive of disinterest but intended as avoidance, Avalon took another brief pause, although this time successfully failed to pull her attention away from Amber Ryan and that magnetic blue green gaze. It really was no wonder that people were drawn into someone so openly caustic and---
“Avalon. I’m talking to you.”
Stern, almost to the point that it might have been classed as domestic violence if the air were any thicker with tension, a frustrated sigh escaped in lieu of an answer not being spewed quickly enough as the older Blackthorn turned to Amber with a softened disappointment.
“I’m so sorry, as you can see… this … is just part of the reason that we were referred on to you.”
Hurt and rage bubbled beneath the surface, the blatant disregard coupled with humiliation in front of someone that she openly admired. A brief look to her father did little more than elicit a half hearted shrug that he only gave because his wife was preoccupied elsewhere. Finding her voice though, trying to disguise the cracking with confidence and teenage determination, Avalon straightened up and met eyes with the redhead.
“I was out. I told you I was going to be out, I just lost track of time.”
By lost track of time, what she really meant was that she’d sold her watch three days earlier to make up the difference on a loan repayment, one she’d taken out to get a pair of basketball sneakers she had been eyeing off for 5 months but couldn’t afford due to an increase in rent at home- something along the lines of cost of living or inflation. More likely, Avalon quietly seethed, there was probably a cash drive at the church and her mother wanted her ‘generosity’ to be more heavily noticed.
Now, those same sneakers were roughly stuffed in an overflowing trash can just outside a mall three blocks away, muttered in bodily fluids and gravel dust.
“Honestly, I just… I don’t know what to do with her anymore Miss Ryan---”
Avalon tuned out as her mother’s incessant complaints seemed to wash over her, it seemed as well though that they had washed over the redhead too given she was far more curiously studying Avalon than the watery cup of coffee she’d been so politely presented with and had proceeded to not bother touching.
Unblinking, the staredown culminated in a smile… predatory and yet knowing.
A spark flickered between the two of them as the ramblings of how hard it was to raise a child like Avalon and the comparisons to her sisters as though perfection was more than an unrealistic standard set by those vastly unable to fulfill it. A sense of belonging inside someone else.
Amber gave what appeared to be a veiled wink, the kind that screamed ‘watch this’ before trying to jump a skateboard between two high rises, yet so subtle that Avalon wasn’t even sure it existed until the redhead cleared her throat with the kind of authority Avalon had expected from her all along, sending the older woman to a spluttering halt as her train of thought utterly derailed.
“--- obviously I hate to interrupt, but the matter at hand was whether I would be willing to take on your daughter as a student. I’m sure you understand the implications of such things- awkward schedules, late night and early mornings. Travel. Unexplained absences. Unquantifiable bruises.
While I appreciate whatever warnings you might feel you need to preface this with- I was a problem child in my own right, and I seemed to have turned out just fine. If nothing else, I’ve already decided that I’m agreeing to it Mrs Blackthorn, as eagerly as you might try to persuade otherwise.”
Venomous in it's politeness, even Avalon’s mother couldn’t help but stumble back on the defensive, trying to spit out some kind of platitudes and excuses that she wasn’t trying to deter and that she was, in fact, grateful and thankful that Amber wasn’t easily put off by Avalon’s supposed difficulty.
Another lock of eyes between the women and the flutter in Avalon’s chest that she’d tried to repress seemed to burst forth like paradoxical butterflies spewing from the spaces between her ribs.
Avalon couldn’t explain it, but for what felt like the first time that she could recall… someone else just seemed to get it.
… Seemed to get her.
******
“There's a sickness going around here.
It's not something you can pop a few pills for, or that your gynaecologist will tut their tongue at while wondering why there are so many teeth…
No, it's far deeper than that. Ingrained in the flesh and bone of the industry, socially accepted as just the way things are with little argument ‘cause acknowledging it means accepting that it's a problem. It runs deeper than the flaccid words of some half wit waving a cardboard sign or the biblical nonsense spouted by a dirt sheet reporter out of his league and over his head, opinionated about things that bear no meaning and provide no insight.
I might be an outsider trying to get in, but I’m not blind nor stupid. Wouldn’t have gotten this far if I was… or maybe I would have given the status of some of the otherwise ‘competition’ levelled against us so far. That's not to say we’ve had it easy- ours has been straight down the garden path littered with obstacles and nuisances determined to trip us as we skip along our merry way.
Still, it doesn’t leave me ignorant to the psychological locusts razing the industry from the outside in…
You see, there's this problem I have with the current definitions of success.
A dictionary might tell you one thing spoken a thousand different ways, such is the flaws of the English language and our innate inability to understand what we ourselves have created. However it is the way it is so eagerly misinterpreted into validation for what is otherwise complete and utter fucking drivel is where I tend to get a little… disillusioned.
So many, so so many base their self-inflated grandeur on a conflated laundry list of minor technicalities and call it ‘success’, when in fact it's a self induced celebration of mediocrity that everyone just shrugs and goes along with.
Let me put it this way- you cannot sit there and tell me that showing up to a job and doing nothing for ten years makes you worth a promotion, it doesn’t make you any better than the person who just walked through the door actively looking to make a difference. It makes you a liability with a contract that's more expensive to break than ignore.
When it comes to pro wrestling- having 20 title reigns in two years doesn’t make you some extraordinary talent, it makes you a glorified choke artist that cannot win under pressure.
In the greatest sense of the term- I am not successful. I’m the only member of this match who doesn’t have a resume stretching as far as the eye might dare, I don’t have achievements and awards to speak of and I’ve done little to warrant the praise that's been wrought towards me.
Shane Donovan is successful for what he’s contributed to this industry, for what he’s done and actively continues to try and do- you think any of the Level Up brass sought me out after Last Of Us? Do you think they did more than a cursory phone book glance before declaring me too much hassle to find and offer a contract to?
I did well, but lets face it- I wasn’t the kind of ‘successful’ they deemed worth the effort.
Shane Donovan sought me out and made me successful by proxy. He’s the one that saw something in me, walked into a dingy fucking strip club and talked plain and simple english about why he thought I was deserving of another chance. Whether anyone else believes it or not is irrelevant- I’m not in the Multiplayer Gauntlet finals cause the powers that be thought I deserved it… It's because someone with the resume and insanity of Shane fucking Donovan decided I was worth the potential anchor around his neck that I could have been.
‘Chronic’ Chris Page is successful. I can’t deny the level of work I’ve seen from you. I asked myself whether you even slept coming into this, whether you might just drop dead from sheer sleep deprivation and save us all the hassle. Successful under any basic definition, in any broad sense- arguably, you are.
A legend of the industry? Perhaps in selective lunch boxes, derided by those who feel like they owe you a debt of gratitude for being included in the perpetual hustle- but this isn’t a brand deal, this isn’t just another business merger that you’re looking to secure.
It's a fucking wrestling match and truth be told, from what I’ve seen of your team’s ‘dominant’ run through the tournament so far- you’ve done little more than just show up and claim your paychecks. It's not to say you haven’t done anything, but it's safe to say that the heavy lifting certainly hasn’t been done by those manicured hands of yours.
When it comes to life- sure, you’re wildly successful. More than I could ever strive to be…
Wrestling wise though? Compared to everyone else, you’re feeling a little lacklustre. Falling behind ‘cause your demanding schedule makes this tournament less of a priority than a booking at a charity signing table for disadvantaged ferrets. You’re distracted Chris, you’re not mentally here with us… You’re a body on autopilot hoping that we’ll cave under pressure like the rest of the nobodies that you let your partner crush faster than a big mac box in a weight watchers meeting.
Problem is, you already see yourself at the end of the rainbow- you’re already celebrating imminent success cause it's what you know best, be damned if you lose- right?
…and to a pair of otherwise nobodies, heaven forbid that you might lose a couple twitter followers finally disillusioned by your lack of actual wrestling rapport, over-inflated ego in relation to talent and ability to do what it says on the marquee, without feeling the need to pull your phone out to make another ‘important’ call to someone to fight on your behalf instead.
That's a bit unfair to you though, isn’t it Mac?
You’re far more than some pleb on the end of a string, more than a lackey waiting to jump when told to. No, we know each other well enough for you to look me in the eye and call bullshit the moment I even try something so inane… Let's be honest, you’d just tell your wife and she’d come and deal with it for you.
A low blow? Hardly. You’re the yin to her nitroglycerine yang, you’re the reason that the collective male population sighed in relief cause they weren’t having to be the ones to fall on that emotional grenade and you’re the reason that people don’t frown so heavily on beastiality anymore.
You took Satan’s worst nightmare and put a ring on it, and for that I commend you for your noble sacrifice.
Seriously though, you are the primary reason that your team has even a sniff of a chance at these Power Gloves. That's not for nothing Mac, that's impressive that you’ve taken all that dead weight and turned it into a workout you can do at home in under 15 minutes.
Arguably, you might be the man to beat in this tag team tournament, you will be the reason that Shane and I aren’t walking out as newly minted champions- however there is only so long that even Atlas could carry the world on his shoulders before his knees buckled.
How much longer do you think those aching joints have in them, Mac?
Cause you’re not just here… you’re bearing the weight of the world across multiple promotions. You are a man of the universe, and you bear the burdens of everywhere you choose to ply your trade. Let's be blunt, seeing as this rapport is such- this isn’t really your top priority. Hell, this tournament isn’t even in your top 3 most important reasons to be watching videos on the throne.
You’re a divided man, claiming territory where you see fit without the remaining manpower to defend what you’ve won- you’re like the French if they had an army able to wield something not resembling a white flag.
Gold is king, gold equals success but there is such a thing as ‘too much’ and lets be real- even your broad shoulders can only handle so much. You’ve reached your limit and the SS Bane is springing leaks faster than they can be patched- only hope left for your recency bias is to reassess necessary baggage and seeing as your lovely wife has her claws sunk deep enough to be tickling your soul- it's safe to say she’s not exactly high on that ‘to throw overboard’ list.
Probably would add years to your life if you did, just saying…
Truth is though, I have a great deal of respect for what you’ve done and what you’re doing Mac. It's not easy to be on top of an industry determined to be untamed and unbridled, yet you manage to keep it barely contained under your thumb.
What you need to remember though is that what goes up, must come down- while we might be a small piece in your overarching puzzle, we won’t just be floored by your tremendous legacy either. We might just be another pair of names and faces set before you, built up to be knocked down. Another match to be won, another notch in the belt and a pair of bodies left in the rearview as you move on to the next biggest and brightest.
Problem for you is, that's the exact reason that we’ll win.
For you, this is just a match. One in a thousand. I’d be mildly surprised if you remembered what you were fighting for half the time, if you didn’t have Page at your back reminding you of your next obligation to his brand. For you, this is business casual as usual.
For us though, you need to understand that this is our life line, this is the last breath in a drowning man's lungs or the sip of water on a dying man's lips. It's no longer just an opportunity to make a name- if we fail here, we don’t just go to the back of the line, we don’t step aside and wait for another chance.
We don’t get gifted these matches ‘cause of our successes, Mac. We don’t get fifteenth chances ‘cause our names look good in lights.
Make or break is an understatement.
It's my career on the line. Literally. There's no reason for the Level Up hierarchy to keep someone like me around if I have nothing to offer them- I’m trying to earn my roster place, you’re sidling in cause it's convenient for you.
Tournaments like this are for crowning new glory, not celebrating the badly aging, tarnished legacies of men too stubborn to understand that their time is passing. That they have nothing left to give, reaching a point that they feel ‘owed’ whatever achievement might be presented before them instead of thankful for the chance to keep their heads above water.
I’m indebted, I’m in far too deep to let go so that Mac Bane gets another shiny toy to add to his sagging mantle. I’m not just some Amber Ryan clone- trying to build a name off a woman who plucked me from some mid-western void, I’m not some twisted and bitter jaded protege trying to spite those who didn’t see her for what she was.
I can do better than that, Mac… and maybe I already have.
Match after match, win after win- that's momentum, that's tangible. No one can call it a fluke anymore without being looked at like they’re smoking the cheap stuff, they can’t just say that I’m some flash in the pan or a novelty act that's going to clap like a clockwork toy before shuffling off the shelf ‘cause I was left unattended for too long.
You have your legacies boys, you have had your precious time in the sun. Maybe a little too much cause it's softened the mush between your ears- you have everything you already always wanted. You don’t care nearly enough about these power gloves to do anymore than show up and expect your status to win them for you.
Shane and I, we have everything to prove. We have everything to gain and more to lose- I won’t be the reason his faith in me succumbs to the me shaped anchor around it's throat, I won’t be the cause and effect that proves I was always just ‘nearly good enough’.
I’ve spent enough time watching everyone go ahead of me- trainees from the Corvid Combat Academy getting their chance cause I shined them up and made them more than what they walked in as. Professionals looking to square up and resharpen their game against someone who can match with them in whatever style they choose to adopt- I spent enough time making those around me better for my atonement.
I’m not nearly as good as they all say I am boys…
I’m much fucking better.
Amber Ryan saw that in me and lost her faith. Matt Knox saw that in me and lost his will. Shane Donovan has seen it in me- and I’ll be damned if a third time makes a curse.
Fact is- you’ve both had your shot ten times over- so how about you go back to smoking your fucking cigars in strip joint back rooms, hustling for signatures on dotted lines that mean less with every scribbled wording change and stick to whatever spotlight you deem as a real priority and let those that actually WANT to win this tournament prove they deserve it. Step the fuck to the side and let those that actually WANT to be here long term secure spots that would otherwise go to part-time industry tourists looking to make a quick buck to prop up a failing venture, that would remain in flux cause your precious elitist whims dictate that you spread your proverbial professional seeds through as many fertile grounds as possible.
Maybe we aren’t as successful, we don’t have the same shimmer and shine that you both carry so effortlessly into whatever podunk bingo hall or all-star arena you deem worth your attention. Maybe we don’t have resumes that run longer than Red’s list of things that irritate her daily…
What we have though is something that you both managed to lose along the way, on the road to success you seemed to forget why you started in the first place- what brought you from second hand velcro strapped boots to gold plated aglets and woven kashmir kick pads.
Passion.
You haven’t been passionate for a long time guys, and no amount of success can blind anyone to that.
By all means though, go ahead and show up. Go through the motions like you’ve perfected, that autopilot beast mode that's got so many convinced you still care enough to remember which company you’re working for on any given night.
Give us the best of what you’ve got left- maybe you’ll even manage to generously spare us a flicker of something that looks like a memory of what desire used to be. Oh, how we should be so lucky.
You can teach a man, or woman a great many things in life… You can teach them to be good, you might even teach them to be great. Perhaps one day you might teach them to be successful- but the truth is… none of that matters cause you can't teach someone how to care. How to live for something that won’t ever love you back.
You can teach greatness, you can show them the way to the top and hope they stay on the path- but trying to teach someone to have passion… Well, I imagine it's much like trying to describe to a blind man what the colour red feels like.
Yeah.
I bet you really miss that one, don’t you?"
******
“Well that’s some bullshit right there, you know.”
With full blown snark, Avalon rested her hands gently on her hips with a disapproving gaze. Below Shane Donovan seemed otherwise oblivious or rather- determinedly and deliberately passive in the face of her indignation.
“Damn right. I haven’t accomplished what I have in my career by letting a crazy woman stretch me.”
Crazy is what crazy did, maybe the younger woman was… It certainly would have explained a lot, however a huff escaping her lungs in further disapproval at Shane’s reluctance to engage, broke the reverie of whether she was mentally unstable or simply a product of her surroundings.
“Grow a pair.”
It was childish and Avalon immediately found herself questioning herself the moments left her lips- honestly, a poor effort for a comeback even under the circumstances. She’d do better next time, or she’d have planned to if Shane hadn’t less than subtly signalled to the blonde gorilla trying to stealth into position behind her. With an eye roll that might have echoed like the grinding of stone against stone, the real indignation kicked in and her fingers slowly reflexed into loose fists.
Shane was testing her patience. Her resilience in the face of competition and refusing to simply react, of course he wouldn’t be the one under the influence of such consequences though. First mistake.
Jake, the hulking blonde muscle trying to square up like it wasn’t the worst idea he’d had since pre-workout and tequila shots, gave her the further once over as though his sweaty frame hadn’t already taken the brunt of her frustrations. A whisper of something lingered between them, something suggestive and mildly misogynistic enough that Avalon’s already simmering blood started to bubble under her skin.
Combat sports weren’t supposed to be a women's forte. She knew that intimately and had spent much of her life trying to duck and weave the combination of stereotypes and old-fashioned views. Many also said that tattoos weren’t lady like either, that she’d ‘ruined’ her body with all the ink, that being muscular wasn't attractive as though every 50 year old truck driver named Steve, flirting with a barely legal bartenders all the way through their third divorces with a belly pooch bigger than most full term pregnancies knew much about what beauty really looked like.
Avalon had faced criticism in everything she’d ever wanted. Been told her dreams and aspirations weren’t valid cause of what lay between her legs, that her model-esque height and build were wasted on 24 hour gyms and tattoo guns.
Another pretty boy with a ‘background’ looking to prove that overcompensation was still alive in the upper middle class with too many opinions about other peoples bodies.
Jake shifted Avalon into a hammerlock position awkwardly, his technique rushed for fear of losing an advantage he’d yet to properly claim- he was moving too fast for his ability level, trying to impress the man stood outside with a half-smile preparing to enjoy the impending implosion.
Shane knew what was coming. He’d have been stupid not to…
Or at least he thought he might know.
A wink. Crude and untoward.
Yeah, this was always the fun part.
Maybe it could have been an accident, with the right tone and frame of reference anyone could have believed that Avalon simply reared her head back fiercely in an attempt to escape. Recklessness, such a shame really. Satisfyingly, perhaps more so than she expected, the crunch that echoed from behind her head sent a ripple of warmth through her body- although that could have also been due to the gush of blood that spewed from Jake’s very obviously broken nose and down between Avalon’s shoulder blades.
Feeling her arm being released, Avalon subtly shook her arm out as the collective gasp from the other trainees- mostly kids who thought that wrestling training might be ‘fun’ - died in the space as Jake stumbled silently back towards the corner.
Shane approached cautiously as Avalon returned to leaning on the ropes, the fizz in her blood returning to a low, manageable simmer. Sure as fuck wouldn’t forget those words for a long time…
“Well, that was probably unnecessary.”
Shane commented matter-of-factly, a glance between Jake and Avalon doing little more than confirming the thought. He wasn’t wrong, and Avalon knew that, however she wasn’t going to simply throw Jake under the bus either for his uninformed world views- likely a product of a white picket fence upbringing that never left him wanting and a life being conditioned and exposed to chauvinistic world views.
He wasn’t a bad guy, just a little less bright… Shane would have kicked him out for his commentary, however Avalon didn’t feel such a detail to be necessary.
Message sent and received in kind.
“I didn’t realise he wasn’t standing a bit off to the side like he should’ve been. Sloppy Shane, you should make sure their body placement is better.”
Deflection was the key, Avalon mused while subtly shaking out her arm a little more. Speed and recklessness, that lack of proper technique in favour of seeking leverage would get someone hurt one day soon- Avalon counted herself minorly grateful that it wasn’t her given their upcoming match.
He’d learn though, Avalon internally sighed, they always did cause she'd make sure of it… and then they’d get their contract offers not long afterwards.
“Duly noted. Damn shame though, while he’s not nearly as skilled as ol’ Mac Bane he’s about the same size, could’ve been good for you to get the feel for wrestling someone that size.”
Shane wasn’t wrong, however Avalon knew that Mac would have never allowed himself to get into that position either. One thing she'd learned from Amber Ryan was to never let yourself get into a position you weren’t willing to fight your way out of- Mac had spent enough time around and against Red that he’d have picked up on her ability to seemingly scratch and claw out of any impossible scenario. Avalon had learned the hard way- and even then she wasn’t 100% sure she’d ever truly matched Reds houdini-esque lack of ethics.
No, Mac wasn’t dumb, his choice of life partner might have been questionable at best, but the man himself wasn’t to be taken lightly.
“Mm. So it’s that and not you being afraid I’ll show up in front of your students?”
“If they want to watch you show me up, they need only turn on their TV whenever EXP is on.”
Avalon failed to restrain the scoff, drawing a couple of sideways glances from those still attending to Jake’s somewhat imploded face. Hands falling back to her hips, Avalon wrinkled her nose as her gaze narrowed.
“Listen. You might feel like you need to prove yourself to everyone else, but you don’t need to do that shit with me. I didn’t go looking for you because I was looking for a protege or some other cliche shit. We’re partners, equals. Just because everyone else insists on treating you like you don’t know what you’re doing, don't project that onto me.”
Rolling her shoulders, Avalon took a moment for the words to sink past the ‘tough girl’ armour she’d insisted on wearing despite how ill-fitting it really was. A glance back towards Jake muffling something through a bloody towel sent a brief wave of regret washing over her tightly wound nerves before she broke the growing silence.
“Yeah. Yeah, I get it.”
“We cool then?”
“Perfect.”
Whether it was or not was irrelevant, however it was a strange feeling- an reaction like that would have gotten her expelled from any number of schools, regardless of the derogatory nature of the provocation or how ill of intention it might have been. Hell, she’d been kicked out for giving a guy a concussion cause he’d bailed up a female trainee in a locker room and wasn’t planning on taking no for an answer.
Apparently his mommy was a ‘generous sponsor’, likely busy putting out fires he caused with wads of cash and ill-gotten favours- needless to say Avalon was the one who took the fall, the girl stopped pursuing her ambitions and the guy was probably in some promotion somewhere propositioning ring rats to flash for cash.
“You’re so damn good, Avalon, you don’t got shit to prove. Remember that.”
“Guess we’ll see where I land on that after our match.”
She hadn’t meant to mumble the response, but it still rang loud and clear enough for Shane to give her a reassuring smile before finally fulfilling his duty to Jake and making sure the blonde didn’t bleed too much more on the canvas cause getting it replaced was more work than any of them intended in that moment.
“Then we better keep working to be prepared for it.”
Rolling out of the ring, Avalon knew in her heart that he was right. She’d spent all her time in Level Up so far trying to prove that she belonged- there was no reason for her to continue throwing herself under every bus only to roll out the otherside into the path of a Mach truck cause backstage etiquette told her to.
Deep in her heart, she knew she was as good as anyone else in that company- all she needed was that once chance to prove it…
Shane already believed it. He’d believed it from the first moment they’d met, and he hadn't been shy in telling her so- only now… she was starting to catch on to it as well.
Many had said that he was using her, they wouldn’t be shy about declaring her as a golden goose shooting a decrepit veteran back to the top- however those same voices failed to mention that they too had to find their start somewhere. That they too, needed a veteran to take a chance upon them and hope they could find a foothold in the glass mountain of pro-wrestling before they were dropped for the next new plaything promising a one way trip back to a glorious summit.
She wasn’t the first, she wouldn’t be the last. Maybe it was easy to forget where you started once you reached the point of resting on your laurels.
A faint crunch of cheap plastic wrinkling beneath her hand was soothing as half a bottle of water disappeared down her throat in moments, the hum of chatter back across the ring little more than background noise to Avalon’s self-reflective reverie. Almost encompassing enough that she paid little heed to the set of footsteps that seemed to approach- something leather on concrete, the lackadaisical pace of someone who didn’t find themselves intimidated or seemingly out of place between the sweat-stained walls. Instinctually, Avalon prepared herself to direct whatever inane question might be presented towards Shane- who had yet to acknowledge the presence of a new face in his facility. As the bottle uncrumpled in her loosening grip though, her fingers seemed to fail and the bottle started it's tumble towards the floor.
A slow motion moment in a movie before all hell broke loose. Only there was no hell, no action sequence to make Tarantino blush. Water spilled out across the floor, pooling around the edge of Avalon’s sneaker as her jaw dropped, leaving her mouth slightly agape in recognition.
Female. Tall and rail thin to the point of looking unhealthy, the easy smile left her skin prickling uncomfortably as the voice rang through her system and dredged up a place and time that she’d rather hoped would fail to see the fluorescence of her new life. Dirty blonde tumbled in curls around a face that looked like it could have graced a magazine at some point, atop a body that didn’t know what the word carbohydrates were. Pretty, like a windchill on a late autumnal afternoon.
Which made the heavy set scar tracing beneath the right eye, along the cheekbone seem that much more tragic.
Softly spoken, with a certain ease and comfortability that only served to make Avalon shift uncomfortably on the spot, the woman addressed fondly. Re-acquaintance as though it shouldn’t have been a surprise.
“Oh Avalon, I was hoping you’d be here. Gosh, it has been so very long…”
It's all amphetamine
You're blasting yourself into the present
To blur some past indignity, say that…
You say that you hate it
You want to re-create it.”...
So Fast, So Numb - R.E.M
Blackthorn Residence
Undisclosed City, Undisclosed State
October 16th, 2014
There was a certain mythos about teenage girls- something deeply innate that could only be marvelled at from afar for fear that it might be contagious, a simple flutter of an eyelash or the crumpling of fingers into a loosely balled fist. Oddly enough, they usually seemed to garner the same effect- at least in Avalon’s experience.
Unfortunately for the 17 year old, trying to fix the loose plait that fell across her shoulder, she had been genetically gifted with her father’s stunted eyelashes and not nearly the bank account nor willingness to artificially enhance them. Besides, one badly thrown punch and she’d be stabbed in the eye with whatever synthetic horse hair they’d plucked into a socially appropriate facsimile, something akin to what an AI might have thought human eyelashes were supposed to resemble based off of a picture of some trimmed pubes.
No, eyelashes were high maintenence and her younger sister, Saige, already held the monopoly on that title in the Blackthorn household.
Teenage girls were inhuman. Avalon knew that wholeheartedly- nothing human could exhibit the cruelties and underhandedness of a teenage girl who thought that her boyfriend of the week was talking to any other girl- even if it was his 11 year old cousin from the next state over. Nothing in nature could replicate the speed to which a mood swing might create, inexplicably shifting reality itself onto a plane where literally nothing could be considered ‘right’.
You get her starbucks. Drink isn’t made right, in spite of the fact that 4 baristas have quit because of her order, and that there is a written instruction manual for those brave - or stupid - enough to find themselves in that scenario. You got her a diamond ring- it's not a princess cut for a princess mind, despite the fact it actually is and that she just has no clue what it actually looks like and will die on that godforsaken hill.
You get her a puppy - breed isn’t right, its ears aren’t fluffy enough. A car? Wrong colour and make, cup holder isn’t big enough for that bucket of vaguely caffeinated sugar she insists on calling coffee.
After all, hell hath no fury such as that of the entitled teenager.
It was no wonder that Avalon seemed to find herself at odds with most of the ones that sought her out- apparently her willingness to simply say ‘no’ was a world collapse triggering event and needed to be documented for prosperity.
Goods and services at any juncture came at a price, and while Avalon was a seasoned amateur lacking enough balance to successfully define morality to financial gain ratio, she likely didn’t charge nearly enough for what many of the upper-middle class eventual participation trophy wives were asking.
Most of the time it was simply to ruin the ‘ugly’ features of a rival, vandalise a car before some hot date - occasional sabotages and subtle rumour mill spreading.
She wasn’t proud of it- but she’d been fired from enough entry level jobs for what could only be described as ‘poor attitude’ which translated to; not being willing to sacrifice herself on the altar of customer service for less than minimum wage. Jobless and with the elder Blackthorns insisting on rent payments - because ‘her older sisters did it too’ - there were few other ways to make a quick buck and keep a hand-me-down bed from becoming a park bench.
Quietly, she knew they would never actually kick her out. However the ever lingering comparison between the four sisters always dragged a thin layer of bile into the back of Avalon’s throat. She wasn’t ‘Mama’s mini me’, she wasn’t ‘Miss Independent Career Woman’ and she sure as fuck wasn’t ‘Mommy and Daddy’s baby girl’... Four girls, four vastly different people born of an otherwise unremarkable genetic pool.
Still, in hopes of looking vaguely presentable enough to avoid further interrogation of days events beyond ‘where have you been’ being promptly responded to with ‘out’, Avalon tried to brush the creases out of her t-shirt in hopes that the bloody patch up towards the shoulder wasn’t as noticeable as it felt against her skin, nor that the scrapes and bruising on knuckles shone quite as prominently as they did in the suburban afternoon sun.
Maybe if she was really lucky, they wouldn’t even think to ask why she wasn’t wearing the same clothes she left the house in hours before. Yeah, she really would miss those jeans too… was a real shame about the fact one leg had almost entirely been torn away and the bloody spit stains that seemed to freckle what was left on that side.
One day though, she reassured herself as the white picket fence fell away into the periphery and the sound of familiar voices seemed to knock at the otherside of the door, one day she wouldn’t have to be like this anymore. One day she might be able to get a real job… something that didn’t leave her feeling strangely guilt ridden when she’d been promised so vehemently that it was fine ‘cause ‘they deserved it’.
“---and your resume is very… impressive … but you’ll have to forgive my forwardness, in that you certainly aren’t what we had anticipated.”
Statements like that were usually made in job interviews or brothels- given the words were drenched in her mother’s best ‘good christian’ tone, Avalon quickly realised how ill-prepared she was to even consider either of those scenarios. Slipping between the door and the frame as though anticipating friendly fire and trying to maintain a low profile in case whoever was being addressed might scatter like a cockroach when the lights flickered on, Avalon less than subtly crept the few steps towards the living room door.
“I get it. Alot less blonde, probably a few more tattoos… I’ll admit I generally don’t dress for stepping off magazine covers. Many say as much when they first meet me, however I try not to judge those who value appearance over proven qualification.”
A veiled sarcasm echoed and stopped Avalon in her tracks, or it would have if she hadn’t already committed to the step that would have brought her into the proverbial firing line. That voice… the tone dry and acerbic, a faint southern politeness twanged with Satan’s best impression of cordiality. Normally it would have echoed through a TV speaker, less tinny in the flesh and a lot… softer.
Human.
Bullshit. Never was a doubt about articulation, Avalon had never quite heard the range of four letter words articulated in such a way you almost thought they might not even be that offensive.
In the truest of cliches, everyone in the room seemed to turn to Avalon within the same moment- although the younger woman suspected that it might simply have been her mind slowing down in an effort to try and process that someone she’d idolised was sitting politely in her mother’s pastel pink walled shrine to reborn christianity and collectible kitten porcelain plates.
“Ah, excuse you. What time do you think you call this?”
From ‘good, welcoming Christian’ to disappointed motherly glare, the temperature dropped almost 10 degrees as the eyes narrowed and the deepening furrow of her mother’s seemingly constant frown drew the rest of the room in.
Glancing at a watch she didn’t have while actively trying to ignore the crooked smirk emanating from beneath the virulent shock of red, Avalon paused a moment.
“Given the level of disappointment, I’m hazarding a guess that it's not ‘peanut butter jelly time’ so---”
“Where have you been?”
A shrug suggestive of disinterest but intended as avoidance, Avalon took another brief pause, although this time successfully failed to pull her attention away from Amber Ryan and that magnetic blue green gaze. It really was no wonder that people were drawn into someone so openly caustic and---
“Avalon. I’m talking to you.”
Stern, almost to the point that it might have been classed as domestic violence if the air were any thicker with tension, a frustrated sigh escaped in lieu of an answer not being spewed quickly enough as the older Blackthorn turned to Amber with a softened disappointment.
“I’m so sorry, as you can see… this … is just part of the reason that we were referred on to you.”
Hurt and rage bubbled beneath the surface, the blatant disregard coupled with humiliation in front of someone that she openly admired. A brief look to her father did little more than elicit a half hearted shrug that he only gave because his wife was preoccupied elsewhere. Finding her voice though, trying to disguise the cracking with confidence and teenage determination, Avalon straightened up and met eyes with the redhead.
“I was out. I told you I was going to be out, I just lost track of time.”
By lost track of time, what she really meant was that she’d sold her watch three days earlier to make up the difference on a loan repayment, one she’d taken out to get a pair of basketball sneakers she had been eyeing off for 5 months but couldn’t afford due to an increase in rent at home- something along the lines of cost of living or inflation. More likely, Avalon quietly seethed, there was probably a cash drive at the church and her mother wanted her ‘generosity’ to be more heavily noticed.
Now, those same sneakers were roughly stuffed in an overflowing trash can just outside a mall three blocks away, muttered in bodily fluids and gravel dust.
“Honestly, I just… I don’t know what to do with her anymore Miss Ryan---”
Avalon tuned out as her mother’s incessant complaints seemed to wash over her, it seemed as well though that they had washed over the redhead too given she was far more curiously studying Avalon than the watery cup of coffee she’d been so politely presented with and had proceeded to not bother touching.
Unblinking, the staredown culminated in a smile… predatory and yet knowing.
A spark flickered between the two of them as the ramblings of how hard it was to raise a child like Avalon and the comparisons to her sisters as though perfection was more than an unrealistic standard set by those vastly unable to fulfill it. A sense of belonging inside someone else.
Amber gave what appeared to be a veiled wink, the kind that screamed ‘watch this’ before trying to jump a skateboard between two high rises, yet so subtle that Avalon wasn’t even sure it existed until the redhead cleared her throat with the kind of authority Avalon had expected from her all along, sending the older woman to a spluttering halt as her train of thought utterly derailed.
“--- obviously I hate to interrupt, but the matter at hand was whether I would be willing to take on your daughter as a student. I’m sure you understand the implications of such things- awkward schedules, late night and early mornings. Travel. Unexplained absences. Unquantifiable bruises.
While I appreciate whatever warnings you might feel you need to preface this with- I was a problem child in my own right, and I seemed to have turned out just fine. If nothing else, I’ve already decided that I’m agreeing to it Mrs Blackthorn, as eagerly as you might try to persuade otherwise.”
Venomous in it's politeness, even Avalon’s mother couldn’t help but stumble back on the defensive, trying to spit out some kind of platitudes and excuses that she wasn’t trying to deter and that she was, in fact, grateful and thankful that Amber wasn’t easily put off by Avalon’s supposed difficulty.
Another lock of eyes between the women and the flutter in Avalon’s chest that she’d tried to repress seemed to burst forth like paradoxical butterflies spewing from the spaces between her ribs.
Avalon couldn’t explain it, but for what felt like the first time that she could recall… someone else just seemed to get it.
… Seemed to get her.
******
“There's a sickness going around here.
It's not something you can pop a few pills for, or that your gynaecologist will tut their tongue at while wondering why there are so many teeth…
No, it's far deeper than that. Ingrained in the flesh and bone of the industry, socially accepted as just the way things are with little argument ‘cause acknowledging it means accepting that it's a problem. It runs deeper than the flaccid words of some half wit waving a cardboard sign or the biblical nonsense spouted by a dirt sheet reporter out of his league and over his head, opinionated about things that bear no meaning and provide no insight.
I might be an outsider trying to get in, but I’m not blind nor stupid. Wouldn’t have gotten this far if I was… or maybe I would have given the status of some of the otherwise ‘competition’ levelled against us so far. That's not to say we’ve had it easy- ours has been straight down the garden path littered with obstacles and nuisances determined to trip us as we skip along our merry way.
Still, it doesn’t leave me ignorant to the psychological locusts razing the industry from the outside in…
You see, there's this problem I have with the current definitions of success.
A dictionary might tell you one thing spoken a thousand different ways, such is the flaws of the English language and our innate inability to understand what we ourselves have created. However it is the way it is so eagerly misinterpreted into validation for what is otherwise complete and utter fucking drivel is where I tend to get a little… disillusioned.
So many, so so many base their self-inflated grandeur on a conflated laundry list of minor technicalities and call it ‘success’, when in fact it's a self induced celebration of mediocrity that everyone just shrugs and goes along with.
Let me put it this way- you cannot sit there and tell me that showing up to a job and doing nothing for ten years makes you worth a promotion, it doesn’t make you any better than the person who just walked through the door actively looking to make a difference. It makes you a liability with a contract that's more expensive to break than ignore.
When it comes to pro wrestling- having 20 title reigns in two years doesn’t make you some extraordinary talent, it makes you a glorified choke artist that cannot win under pressure.
In the greatest sense of the term- I am not successful. I’m the only member of this match who doesn’t have a resume stretching as far as the eye might dare, I don’t have achievements and awards to speak of and I’ve done little to warrant the praise that's been wrought towards me.
Shane Donovan is successful for what he’s contributed to this industry, for what he’s done and actively continues to try and do- you think any of the Level Up brass sought me out after Last Of Us? Do you think they did more than a cursory phone book glance before declaring me too much hassle to find and offer a contract to?
I did well, but lets face it- I wasn’t the kind of ‘successful’ they deemed worth the effort.
Shane Donovan sought me out and made me successful by proxy. He’s the one that saw something in me, walked into a dingy fucking strip club and talked plain and simple english about why he thought I was deserving of another chance. Whether anyone else believes it or not is irrelevant- I’m not in the Multiplayer Gauntlet finals cause the powers that be thought I deserved it… It's because someone with the resume and insanity of Shane fucking Donovan decided I was worth the potential anchor around his neck that I could have been.
‘Chronic’ Chris Page is successful. I can’t deny the level of work I’ve seen from you. I asked myself whether you even slept coming into this, whether you might just drop dead from sheer sleep deprivation and save us all the hassle. Successful under any basic definition, in any broad sense- arguably, you are.
A legend of the industry? Perhaps in selective lunch boxes, derided by those who feel like they owe you a debt of gratitude for being included in the perpetual hustle- but this isn’t a brand deal, this isn’t just another business merger that you’re looking to secure.
It's a fucking wrestling match and truth be told, from what I’ve seen of your team’s ‘dominant’ run through the tournament so far- you’ve done little more than just show up and claim your paychecks. It's not to say you haven’t done anything, but it's safe to say that the heavy lifting certainly hasn’t been done by those manicured hands of yours.
When it comes to life- sure, you’re wildly successful. More than I could ever strive to be…
Wrestling wise though? Compared to everyone else, you’re feeling a little lacklustre. Falling behind ‘cause your demanding schedule makes this tournament less of a priority than a booking at a charity signing table for disadvantaged ferrets. You’re distracted Chris, you’re not mentally here with us… You’re a body on autopilot hoping that we’ll cave under pressure like the rest of the nobodies that you let your partner crush faster than a big mac box in a weight watchers meeting.
Problem is, you already see yourself at the end of the rainbow- you’re already celebrating imminent success cause it's what you know best, be damned if you lose- right?
…and to a pair of otherwise nobodies, heaven forbid that you might lose a couple twitter followers finally disillusioned by your lack of actual wrestling rapport, over-inflated ego in relation to talent and ability to do what it says on the marquee, without feeling the need to pull your phone out to make another ‘important’ call to someone to fight on your behalf instead.
That's a bit unfair to you though, isn’t it Mac?
You’re far more than some pleb on the end of a string, more than a lackey waiting to jump when told to. No, we know each other well enough for you to look me in the eye and call bullshit the moment I even try something so inane… Let's be honest, you’d just tell your wife and she’d come and deal with it for you.
A low blow? Hardly. You’re the yin to her nitroglycerine yang, you’re the reason that the collective male population sighed in relief cause they weren’t having to be the ones to fall on that emotional grenade and you’re the reason that people don’t frown so heavily on beastiality anymore.
You took Satan’s worst nightmare and put a ring on it, and for that I commend you for your noble sacrifice.
Seriously though, you are the primary reason that your team has even a sniff of a chance at these Power Gloves. That's not for nothing Mac, that's impressive that you’ve taken all that dead weight and turned it into a workout you can do at home in under 15 minutes.
Arguably, you might be the man to beat in this tag team tournament, you will be the reason that Shane and I aren’t walking out as newly minted champions- however there is only so long that even Atlas could carry the world on his shoulders before his knees buckled.
How much longer do you think those aching joints have in them, Mac?
Cause you’re not just here… you’re bearing the weight of the world across multiple promotions. You are a man of the universe, and you bear the burdens of everywhere you choose to ply your trade. Let's be blunt, seeing as this rapport is such- this isn’t really your top priority. Hell, this tournament isn’t even in your top 3 most important reasons to be watching videos on the throne.
You’re a divided man, claiming territory where you see fit without the remaining manpower to defend what you’ve won- you’re like the French if they had an army able to wield something not resembling a white flag.
Gold is king, gold equals success but there is such a thing as ‘too much’ and lets be real- even your broad shoulders can only handle so much. You’ve reached your limit and the SS Bane is springing leaks faster than they can be patched- only hope left for your recency bias is to reassess necessary baggage and seeing as your lovely wife has her claws sunk deep enough to be tickling your soul- it's safe to say she’s not exactly high on that ‘to throw overboard’ list.
Probably would add years to your life if you did, just saying…
Truth is though, I have a great deal of respect for what you’ve done and what you’re doing Mac. It's not easy to be on top of an industry determined to be untamed and unbridled, yet you manage to keep it barely contained under your thumb.
What you need to remember though is that what goes up, must come down- while we might be a small piece in your overarching puzzle, we won’t just be floored by your tremendous legacy either. We might just be another pair of names and faces set before you, built up to be knocked down. Another match to be won, another notch in the belt and a pair of bodies left in the rearview as you move on to the next biggest and brightest.
Problem for you is, that's the exact reason that we’ll win.
For you, this is just a match. One in a thousand. I’d be mildly surprised if you remembered what you were fighting for half the time, if you didn’t have Page at your back reminding you of your next obligation to his brand. For you, this is business casual as usual.
For us though, you need to understand that this is our life line, this is the last breath in a drowning man's lungs or the sip of water on a dying man's lips. It's no longer just an opportunity to make a name- if we fail here, we don’t just go to the back of the line, we don’t step aside and wait for another chance.
We don’t get gifted these matches ‘cause of our successes, Mac. We don’t get fifteenth chances ‘cause our names look good in lights.
Make or break is an understatement.
It's my career on the line. Literally. There's no reason for the Level Up hierarchy to keep someone like me around if I have nothing to offer them- I’m trying to earn my roster place, you’re sidling in cause it's convenient for you.
Tournaments like this are for crowning new glory, not celebrating the badly aging, tarnished legacies of men too stubborn to understand that their time is passing. That they have nothing left to give, reaching a point that they feel ‘owed’ whatever achievement might be presented before them instead of thankful for the chance to keep their heads above water.
I’m indebted, I’m in far too deep to let go so that Mac Bane gets another shiny toy to add to his sagging mantle. I’m not just some Amber Ryan clone- trying to build a name off a woman who plucked me from some mid-western void, I’m not some twisted and bitter jaded protege trying to spite those who didn’t see her for what she was.
I can do better than that, Mac… and maybe I already have.
Match after match, win after win- that's momentum, that's tangible. No one can call it a fluke anymore without being looked at like they’re smoking the cheap stuff, they can’t just say that I’m some flash in the pan or a novelty act that's going to clap like a clockwork toy before shuffling off the shelf ‘cause I was left unattended for too long.
You have your legacies boys, you have had your precious time in the sun. Maybe a little too much cause it's softened the mush between your ears- you have everything you already always wanted. You don’t care nearly enough about these power gloves to do anymore than show up and expect your status to win them for you.
Shane and I, we have everything to prove. We have everything to gain and more to lose- I won’t be the reason his faith in me succumbs to the me shaped anchor around it's throat, I won’t be the cause and effect that proves I was always just ‘nearly good enough’.
I’ve spent enough time watching everyone go ahead of me- trainees from the Corvid Combat Academy getting their chance cause I shined them up and made them more than what they walked in as. Professionals looking to square up and resharpen their game against someone who can match with them in whatever style they choose to adopt- I spent enough time making those around me better for my atonement.
I’m not nearly as good as they all say I am boys…
I’m much fucking better.
Amber Ryan saw that in me and lost her faith. Matt Knox saw that in me and lost his will. Shane Donovan has seen it in me- and I’ll be damned if a third time makes a curse.
Fact is- you’ve both had your shot ten times over- so how about you go back to smoking your fucking cigars in strip joint back rooms, hustling for signatures on dotted lines that mean less with every scribbled wording change and stick to whatever spotlight you deem as a real priority and let those that actually WANT to win this tournament prove they deserve it. Step the fuck to the side and let those that actually WANT to be here long term secure spots that would otherwise go to part-time industry tourists looking to make a quick buck to prop up a failing venture, that would remain in flux cause your precious elitist whims dictate that you spread your proverbial professional seeds through as many fertile grounds as possible.
Maybe we aren’t as successful, we don’t have the same shimmer and shine that you both carry so effortlessly into whatever podunk bingo hall or all-star arena you deem worth your attention. Maybe we don’t have resumes that run longer than Red’s list of things that irritate her daily…
What we have though is something that you both managed to lose along the way, on the road to success you seemed to forget why you started in the first place- what brought you from second hand velcro strapped boots to gold plated aglets and woven kashmir kick pads.
Passion.
You haven’t been passionate for a long time guys, and no amount of success can blind anyone to that.
By all means though, go ahead and show up. Go through the motions like you’ve perfected, that autopilot beast mode that's got so many convinced you still care enough to remember which company you’re working for on any given night.
Give us the best of what you’ve got left- maybe you’ll even manage to generously spare us a flicker of something that looks like a memory of what desire used to be. Oh, how we should be so lucky.
You can teach a man, or woman a great many things in life… You can teach them to be good, you might even teach them to be great. Perhaps one day you might teach them to be successful- but the truth is… none of that matters cause you can't teach someone how to care. How to live for something that won’t ever love you back.
You can teach greatness, you can show them the way to the top and hope they stay on the path- but trying to teach someone to have passion… Well, I imagine it's much like trying to describe to a blind man what the colour red feels like.
Yeah.
I bet you really miss that one, don’t you?"
******
“Well that’s some bullshit right there, you know.”
With full blown snark, Avalon rested her hands gently on her hips with a disapproving gaze. Below Shane Donovan seemed otherwise oblivious or rather- determinedly and deliberately passive in the face of her indignation.
“Damn right. I haven’t accomplished what I have in my career by letting a crazy woman stretch me.”
Crazy is what crazy did, maybe the younger woman was… It certainly would have explained a lot, however a huff escaping her lungs in further disapproval at Shane’s reluctance to engage, broke the reverie of whether she was mentally unstable or simply a product of her surroundings.
“Grow a pair.”
It was childish and Avalon immediately found herself questioning herself the moments left her lips- honestly, a poor effort for a comeback even under the circumstances. She’d do better next time, or she’d have planned to if Shane hadn’t less than subtly signalled to the blonde gorilla trying to stealth into position behind her. With an eye roll that might have echoed like the grinding of stone against stone, the real indignation kicked in and her fingers slowly reflexed into loose fists.
Shane was testing her patience. Her resilience in the face of competition and refusing to simply react, of course he wouldn’t be the one under the influence of such consequences though. First mistake.
Jake, the hulking blonde muscle trying to square up like it wasn’t the worst idea he’d had since pre-workout and tequila shots, gave her the further once over as though his sweaty frame hadn’t already taken the brunt of her frustrations. A whisper of something lingered between them, something suggestive and mildly misogynistic enough that Avalon’s already simmering blood started to bubble under her skin.
Combat sports weren’t supposed to be a women's forte. She knew that intimately and had spent much of her life trying to duck and weave the combination of stereotypes and old-fashioned views. Many also said that tattoos weren’t lady like either, that she’d ‘ruined’ her body with all the ink, that being muscular wasn't attractive as though every 50 year old truck driver named Steve, flirting with a barely legal bartenders all the way through their third divorces with a belly pooch bigger than most full term pregnancies knew much about what beauty really looked like.
Avalon had faced criticism in everything she’d ever wanted. Been told her dreams and aspirations weren’t valid cause of what lay between her legs, that her model-esque height and build were wasted on 24 hour gyms and tattoo guns.
Another pretty boy with a ‘background’ looking to prove that overcompensation was still alive in the upper middle class with too many opinions about other peoples bodies.
Jake shifted Avalon into a hammerlock position awkwardly, his technique rushed for fear of losing an advantage he’d yet to properly claim- he was moving too fast for his ability level, trying to impress the man stood outside with a half-smile preparing to enjoy the impending implosion.
Shane knew what was coming. He’d have been stupid not to…
Or at least he thought he might know.
A wink. Crude and untoward.
Yeah, this was always the fun part.
Maybe it could have been an accident, with the right tone and frame of reference anyone could have believed that Avalon simply reared her head back fiercely in an attempt to escape. Recklessness, such a shame really. Satisfyingly, perhaps more so than she expected, the crunch that echoed from behind her head sent a ripple of warmth through her body- although that could have also been due to the gush of blood that spewed from Jake’s very obviously broken nose and down between Avalon’s shoulder blades.
Feeling her arm being released, Avalon subtly shook her arm out as the collective gasp from the other trainees- mostly kids who thought that wrestling training might be ‘fun’ - died in the space as Jake stumbled silently back towards the corner.
Shane approached cautiously as Avalon returned to leaning on the ropes, the fizz in her blood returning to a low, manageable simmer. Sure as fuck wouldn’t forget those words for a long time…
“Well, that was probably unnecessary.”
Shane commented matter-of-factly, a glance between Jake and Avalon doing little more than confirming the thought. He wasn’t wrong, and Avalon knew that, however she wasn’t going to simply throw Jake under the bus either for his uninformed world views- likely a product of a white picket fence upbringing that never left him wanting and a life being conditioned and exposed to chauvinistic world views.
He wasn’t a bad guy, just a little less bright… Shane would have kicked him out for his commentary, however Avalon didn’t feel such a detail to be necessary.
Message sent and received in kind.
“I didn’t realise he wasn’t standing a bit off to the side like he should’ve been. Sloppy Shane, you should make sure their body placement is better.”
Deflection was the key, Avalon mused while subtly shaking out her arm a little more. Speed and recklessness, that lack of proper technique in favour of seeking leverage would get someone hurt one day soon- Avalon counted herself minorly grateful that it wasn’t her given their upcoming match.
He’d learn though, Avalon internally sighed, they always did cause she'd make sure of it… and then they’d get their contract offers not long afterwards.
“Duly noted. Damn shame though, while he’s not nearly as skilled as ol’ Mac Bane he’s about the same size, could’ve been good for you to get the feel for wrestling someone that size.”
Shane wasn’t wrong, however Avalon knew that Mac would have never allowed himself to get into that position either. One thing she'd learned from Amber Ryan was to never let yourself get into a position you weren’t willing to fight your way out of- Mac had spent enough time around and against Red that he’d have picked up on her ability to seemingly scratch and claw out of any impossible scenario. Avalon had learned the hard way- and even then she wasn’t 100% sure she’d ever truly matched Reds houdini-esque lack of ethics.
No, Mac wasn’t dumb, his choice of life partner might have been questionable at best, but the man himself wasn’t to be taken lightly.
“Mm. So it’s that and not you being afraid I’ll show up in front of your students?”
“If they want to watch you show me up, they need only turn on their TV whenever EXP is on.”
Avalon failed to restrain the scoff, drawing a couple of sideways glances from those still attending to Jake’s somewhat imploded face. Hands falling back to her hips, Avalon wrinkled her nose as her gaze narrowed.
“Listen. You might feel like you need to prove yourself to everyone else, but you don’t need to do that shit with me. I didn’t go looking for you because I was looking for a protege or some other cliche shit. We’re partners, equals. Just because everyone else insists on treating you like you don’t know what you’re doing, don't project that onto me.”
Rolling her shoulders, Avalon took a moment for the words to sink past the ‘tough girl’ armour she’d insisted on wearing despite how ill-fitting it really was. A glance back towards Jake muffling something through a bloody towel sent a brief wave of regret washing over her tightly wound nerves before she broke the growing silence.
“Yeah. Yeah, I get it.”
“We cool then?”
“Perfect.”
Whether it was or not was irrelevant, however it was a strange feeling- an reaction like that would have gotten her expelled from any number of schools, regardless of the derogatory nature of the provocation or how ill of intention it might have been. Hell, she’d been kicked out for giving a guy a concussion cause he’d bailed up a female trainee in a locker room and wasn’t planning on taking no for an answer.
Apparently his mommy was a ‘generous sponsor’, likely busy putting out fires he caused with wads of cash and ill-gotten favours- needless to say Avalon was the one who took the fall, the girl stopped pursuing her ambitions and the guy was probably in some promotion somewhere propositioning ring rats to flash for cash.
“You’re so damn good, Avalon, you don’t got shit to prove. Remember that.”
“Guess we’ll see where I land on that after our match.”
She hadn’t meant to mumble the response, but it still rang loud and clear enough for Shane to give her a reassuring smile before finally fulfilling his duty to Jake and making sure the blonde didn’t bleed too much more on the canvas cause getting it replaced was more work than any of them intended in that moment.
“Then we better keep working to be prepared for it.”
Rolling out of the ring, Avalon knew in her heart that he was right. She’d spent all her time in Level Up so far trying to prove that she belonged- there was no reason for her to continue throwing herself under every bus only to roll out the otherside into the path of a Mach truck cause backstage etiquette told her to.
Deep in her heart, she knew she was as good as anyone else in that company- all she needed was that once chance to prove it…
Shane already believed it. He’d believed it from the first moment they’d met, and he hadn't been shy in telling her so- only now… she was starting to catch on to it as well.
Many had said that he was using her, they wouldn’t be shy about declaring her as a golden goose shooting a decrepit veteran back to the top- however those same voices failed to mention that they too had to find their start somewhere. That they too, needed a veteran to take a chance upon them and hope they could find a foothold in the glass mountain of pro-wrestling before they were dropped for the next new plaything promising a one way trip back to a glorious summit.
She wasn’t the first, she wouldn’t be the last. Maybe it was easy to forget where you started once you reached the point of resting on your laurels.
A faint crunch of cheap plastic wrinkling beneath her hand was soothing as half a bottle of water disappeared down her throat in moments, the hum of chatter back across the ring little more than background noise to Avalon’s self-reflective reverie. Almost encompassing enough that she paid little heed to the set of footsteps that seemed to approach- something leather on concrete, the lackadaisical pace of someone who didn’t find themselves intimidated or seemingly out of place between the sweat-stained walls. Instinctually, Avalon prepared herself to direct whatever inane question might be presented towards Shane- who had yet to acknowledge the presence of a new face in his facility. As the bottle uncrumpled in her loosening grip though, her fingers seemed to fail and the bottle started it's tumble towards the floor.
A slow motion moment in a movie before all hell broke loose. Only there was no hell, no action sequence to make Tarantino blush. Water spilled out across the floor, pooling around the edge of Avalon’s sneaker as her jaw dropped, leaving her mouth slightly agape in recognition.
Female. Tall and rail thin to the point of looking unhealthy, the easy smile left her skin prickling uncomfortably as the voice rang through her system and dredged up a place and time that she’d rather hoped would fail to see the fluorescence of her new life. Dirty blonde tumbled in curls around a face that looked like it could have graced a magazine at some point, atop a body that didn’t know what the word carbohydrates were. Pretty, like a windchill on a late autumnal afternoon.
Which made the heavy set scar tracing beneath the right eye, along the cheekbone seem that much more tragic.
Softly spoken, with a certain ease and comfortability that only served to make Avalon shift uncomfortably on the spot, the woman addressed fondly. Re-acquaintance as though it shouldn’t have been a surprise.
“Oh Avalon, I was hoping you’d be here. Gosh, it has been so very long…”
