-
Los Angeles. I hate this place.
The smog is so thick, I can't breathe. I can't see because of the tears in my eyes. Flying in to LAX is always a terror. The place is packed. Takes an hour to get through security on a good day. And then there's the drive down the 405. Three hours to go 15 miles. If I was in a taxi, I'd be sitting still, just watching the meter roll up. Fortunately, I'm not in a taxi. Oh, no. Fuck that noise. I get myself a limo. If I'm gonna be sitting three hours in traffic, I'll be doing it in style. My bags in the trunk, I sit back and drink a 2015 Kathryn Hall Cabernet until we reach the hotel. Thousand Oaks, California. A little better than that pit, Los Angeles. Only a little. Just a hop, skip and a jump from the Buck's hometown. Someone I know would appreciate that. Probably even go all fangirl. Get giddy. Star-eyed.
Shake it off, Chance. Shake her off.
I have a suite on the top floor, of course. I open up my iPad and pull out my Contacts. Give a call. My boy shows up and I give him a tussle. Leave him KO'd while I shower. A nice warmup for tonight.
Tonight. FAW. Furious Angels Wrestling. Cute.
When my boy recovers, I kick him out. He shows me some kind of objection, asking if he can use the shower before he goes. I tell him, "Showers are for closers." And he's gone.
I sit down on the bed. On my lap is my iPad. Just next to me is a long, thin leather case with a zipper. I open my iPad again and go to the FAW website. (I'm a subscriber; just $9.99 a month!) And I tune in to last month's episode...
* * *
I see the local top babyface, Jack Hex. Such a pretty boy. Look at those long arms. The tattoos. Those lips. Boy is wasting his time devoting himself completely to wrestling. He would have given me more of a challenge than the boy I just kicked out. He's doing his interview time. Wearing that nice belt of his. He wears it around his waist. Old school. Not thrown over the shoulder. He shows the belt respect. I like that.
He's talking about needing new blood in the promotion. Needing a new challenge. I can't help but smile.
That's because a few moments later, yours truly shows up. I club him on the back of his head with both fists and he falls down like a man who just got hit in the back of the head is supposed to. Flat on the concrete floor. Look at him writhing in pain.
"Poor boy," I say, my wicked grin curled on my blood red lips. I look at the monkey in a suit holding the mic. "We should end that pain, shouldn't we? It's the sympathetic thing to do."
I grab the belt from behind him, ripping it off his waist. He slowly gets himself to his feet, staggering the whole way.
And when he gets up, I put the belt up into his face—metal side facing him—and I suddenly jump up, shoving my knees against the leather side of the belt, grabbing the back of his head, falling backward.
Chris Jericho's Codebreaker. With the belt between my knees and his face.
His body ricochets off the belt, slapping backward. There's blood on his face and on the belt. And he's out cold. Laying still and helpless on the concrete floor.
I pick the belt up and hold it above my head. I look down at the champion's still body.
"When you want this back...let me know." And I leave the building. Of course, I throw the belt over my shoulder.
The camera lingers on Hex for a long moment. His bloody face. His still body. Arms splayed out wide. The medical team arrives. They take him away holding an ice pack against his forehead. He's wearing a neck brace. They're carrying him off on a board.
I hit pause. That was a month ago.
Tonight is the match. For the championship. No DQ. Exactly what I wanted.
I unzip the long, thin leather case sitting next to me. There's the belt.
And it's still got his blood on it.
-
It's called complacency. It's the worst enemy you ever face, but you never face it alone. It always has an ally.
Before Rowan Chance jumped me from behind, leaving me unconscious on the floor, my face a bloody mess, leaving with my belt over her shoulder, I had faced every opponent FAW could throw at me. I was in the promoter's office, telling him I needed more competition. Ticket sales were slowing down. I stood over his cheap Ikea desk full of empty snack bags and beer cans, telling him I needed someone who could get real heat.
"I've got an idea," he said through the cigar smoke and stubble. He dialed his phone with thick, greasy fingers on that smeared screen. He said one name. "Rowan Chance."
I smiled when he said that. I'd been a fan of hers for a long time. I followed her career like a fanboy. The living legend Rowan Chance. Wrestler and sexfighter. I was in the crowd when she fought Punky to a standstill. I cried like a kid watching The Princess Bride for the first time, seeing two ex-lovers beat each other into bloody messes. I was holding my breath when she was about to deliver that devastating DDT and her back gave out. And then I had to turn away when Punky really became Punky and held up Rowan's life for ransom. I'd never seen anything like it and I don't think I'll ever see anything like it again. It was then and there I knew I wanted to do this for a living. Not something I did on the side, because you never get the kind of emotion I saw doing this kind of work as a hobby. You had to live it, breathe it, bleed it, and suffer for it. What Punky and Rowan did was Art. And when the promoter said her name, I knew my next match was going to be special.
Next thing I know, I'm in the hospital. She's got my belt and I'm in the hospital. I'm watching the show in my bed and she sends in videos for FAW to play between matches. She shows off my belt. The blood still on it.
What's that old cliche about being careful for what you wish for?
I wanted a match with Rowan Chance. The woman who made wrestling into poetry because it was all too personal. What I didn't count on was getting exactly what I wanted: a match with personal stakes.
It's been a month since she took me out. There are still stitches in my head. My neck feels like it's made of match sticks.
And standing backstage, my leather jacket and black leggings and wrestling boots on, I think to myself, This is what you wanted. A match with Rowan Chance.
I'm the champion but she's got the belt.
More importantly, I'm wounded and she's at her prime.
I hear her entrance music. Another minute or so, I'll be walking down the aisle.
Be careful what you wish for.
They'll put that on my tombstone.
-
I arrived in the arena early. Found my dressing room. Got changed into my new gear. After watching WWE's Evolution, I decided plain black wasn't good enough anymore. Sure, it's iconic, but I wanted something different. Something new. Something shiny. Something that involved a lot of body glue and tape. Well, maybe not something new. Maybe something old with a new style. Go back to the classic.
No, not Lady DDT. I've had enough of that mask for the rest of my life.
The lights go out and my new entrance music hits the speakers. Halestorm's Black Vultures.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gnrKrFS6L0Y
I've got the timing down perfect. I wait for Lizzy's screaming break the speakers, then I part the curtain, stepping through.
I've got new boots. The dominatrix pair I used to wear put away. These new boots are just as tall, going up to just above my knees, but are tied with red laces up the front. Blood red.
My trunks are not the super tight, super short boyshorts, but a little like boxers. Still tight, but they're open at the side with the same blood red laces, showing a whole lot of hip. And a black widow spider on my ass. And of course, they're just short enough to give you a sneak peek at the tattoo under my navel: "UNBREAKABLE."
Thin but not too thin elbow pads. Black wrist tape. No taped fists. You know why.
I used to wear a fake half-corset showing off my lovely abs, but not this time. A stylized sports bra that keeps my tits in place with a lot of subliminal help. (Damn, that glue is fucking sticky.) Something gives my abdomen full exposure. It's also damn pretty. All black with red lining and piping. Thin straps over my olive-skinned shoulders. My back wide open with just spaghetti straps across my back like a spider's web.
My hair is usually tied back in a battle braid. Not tonight. Tonight, my raven blue-black hair falls over my shoulders, down to my hips. I made sure to get it all twisted and tangled so it looks like you've been pulling at it all night. My eyes are jet black. My lips blood red.
And that's what I'm wearing for tonight. Oh, I forgot one important detail.
The belt. I'm dragging it behind me, limply held with my left hand. Letting it bump and bounce off the floor.
I get to the ring and do my classic full splits over the top rope. After dropping the belt by the corner, I do a slow turn in the center of the ring.
New gear.
New attitude.
New Rowan Chance.
I look back at the curtain.
"Come and get me, boy."
-
Holy shit...
Watching Rowan Chance make an entrance when you're in the crowd is one thing. Watching her make an entrance when you are her opponent is something else entirely.
When her music's done, the crowd starts to get antsy. They know who's coming out next. They start pounding their feet and clapping their hands. Whoops and hollers. The real champion is about to make his entrance.
Jack White's "High Ball Stepper" (right at the 1:14 spot) blasts through the speakers. ( https://youtu.be/sRbnAxrS3EM?t=74 ) Spotlights flashing around the audience. And they. Go. Wild.
I step out through the curtain wearing my leather jacket, my tight vinyl tights and wrestling boots. My tights are red with blue enamel dragons flying, wings outstretched. That comes from a long time ago. I was in a feud with a masked woman calling herself "Reina de Dragones" when I was in Mexico. I started calling myself "The Dragon Slayer." I won the final match of the feud and we shook hands, but then her old boyfriend rushed the ring, knocking the shit out of both of us. I became her "Dragon Knight." Caballero Dragón. The name stuck. I don't mind. In fact, whenever I'm in Mexico, that's exactly what they call me.
I come down to the ring, shaking hands as I go. But I never quite take my eyes off you, Rowan. I know exactly what kind of treason you're capable of pulling. When I get to the ring, when the music pauses for just a measure, I'm on the top rope on the turnbuckle. I pause with the music. I bend down, grabbing the collar of my jacket. All the lights turn off except for a blue light on me.
Then, when the music rushes back to full volume, I drop the jacket around my waist, revealing the dragon tattoo completely covering my back. It's blue, it's wings spread out. Instead of flame, it launches something more akin to Godzilla breath. (Yeah, I was a D&D nerd. It's a blue dragon. It breathes lightning instead of fire. Sue me.)
With Jack White's music still pounding, I look at you across the ring, Rowan.
You summoned a dragon. Now you have to face him.
-
All right. Enough of this shit.
With your music playing and the lights all flashing, I dash across the ring with all the speed I can muster. Your leather jacket still wrapped around your waist, your wrists still in the sleeves, I'm at the corner in a heartbeat. What's more, my long legs split, my right leg kicking way above my head, aiming a savate kick straight toward your chin.
Not a superkick. Lame ass Americans—especially rednecks—throw superkicks. And those dumb ass Inland Empire jerk offs. No, this is a savate kick. Straight out of France by way of Muay Thai.
I'm a wrestler. I'm a sexfighter. I'm a tireuse.
And you, my showboating little friend, are fucked.
-
New gear.
New attitude.
New Rowan Chance.
Same bitch...
I sit through your new music and watch you make your entrance from a pretty good seat. Third row. Close enough to feel the action, yet hopefully not enough for you to notice I’m here…not that I would expect you to be thinking of anyone but yourself right now. Maybe you’d notice me if I wore a PURPLE wig…or a RED or YELLOW mask…
It’s been months since that night in Minneapolis. Months since you injured my left knee. Months since your cobra clutch left me unconscious in the ring…and months since YOU were the one carried from the ring on a stretcher. A lot has happened in that time. Your failed attempt to end my career early left me in line for a shot at the GLPW championship…and once my knee recovered I did not waste it. They no longer simply call me La Vipére back in Minnesota…the call me CHAMPION. The GLPW belt looks great above my mantel back home. Yes Rowan, a lot has changed…but you are still a bitch.
The kid makes his entrance and I must admit he looks impressive. While his home crowd cheers wildly, I simply stand there amongst the noise and watch. Watch how he works the fans. Watch how he moves. Dragon Slayer, huh? Hmm…I wonder how you would do trying to slay La Vipére? I lick my lips as my mind wanders a bit…until I return my eyes to you.
I see it before most anyone else…and definitely before the kid. The way you tense when he enters the ring…and the way he doesn’t seem to notice. I roll my eyes a split second before you charge across the ring, knowing you more than anyone else in the business will try to make someone pay for the slightest lack of focus. Poor kid…doesn't know what he is in for, but he is going to find out.
New gear
New attitude
Same bitch…
-
I don't like this.
Here I am in the arena in one of the side tunnels that would lead to the court during basketball but today leads to a side aisle by the floor seating near the ring. Ironically, I'm maskless because I don't want anyone recognizing me. It's safe to say that there's only one person here who would recognize me without my mask on and she's in the ring kinda busy. I've got the hood up on my STAR Labs sweatshirt. And I'm wearing my dad's reflective shades and my lucky jeans. I think about that a moment and put the hood down. Don't want anyone mistaking me for the Unabomber. So now my fire engine red hair is on display and I look like just another ginger fan. It's good to know the arena staff at most places you've wrestled. They'll often get you into sold out shows with no fuss. I actually got here early and helped set up that ring. What can I say, old habits can be hard to break.
But no, I don't like this.
I don't like being in a wrestling arena without my mask on. It's been...decades since that's happened.
I don't like feeling like some creepy stalker following someone who doesn't want me following her.
I don't like watching her trying to fight so soon. I'm not sure what surgery or black juju she used to be able to stand much less move after being wrecked so badly in Paris but she still shouldn't be in there. Especially after Minnesota.
I don't like worrying that one last impact will finish her for good.
I don't like...feeling helpless. She's made it clear that she doesn't want me contacting her. She hates me because she thinks I chose Megan. And honestly, I don't know if she's right or wrong. So much emotion went into that match.
I don't like the fact she's been going around the country and picking a fight with the biggest fish in each territory and trying to prove to everyone that she's still the best.
I don't like loving her so much that seeing her be so self-destructive tears me up inside. I'm supposed to be the cold, calculating monster. And here I am, no mask, hands stuffed in the front of my hoodie, looking on with concern as I watch Rowan line up a classic superkick. No, not one of those jumping thrust kicks that Shawn Michaels made so popular and the Bucks spam like Street Fighter players turbo mashing the kick button. No, a classic one. One that if it hits is basically like getting an uppercut to your jaw. I know the first time Chris Adams "showed" me his new move in Texas, I nearly bit my tongue in half.
I don't like that for a moment, seeing her move like silk and strike out with a beautiful viciousness makes me smile and get lost in the thought that she's just as spectacular as ever.
I don't like her fighting an opponent I've only heard about. This Jack Hex. Some friends down south told me about him after I saw Rowan's attack on him last month. The Dragon Knight. Having an intense feud with a woman and in the end earning her respect as well as the respect of the fans. Yeah I know a thing or two about that. For now, I'm keeping my eye on him. Just something about him sets my teeth on edge. That was even before I saw the tattoo on his back. I guess that's when it hit me about this guy and why I feel like I wanna test myself against him in the ring some day.
You see, out of all the things I didn't like about this whole situation, that tattoo of his put him on top of my list.
I really don't like storm dragons.
-
You ever been to a haunted house where they have a flash room? You know, a room that’s got strobe lights and they have people moving through the strobe, moving like a freaky girl in a Japanese ghost movie? That’s what it looked like seeing Rowan Chance moving across the room. One second she’s in the corner and the next she’s halfway across and the next her heel is under my chin.
Now I’ve got to be honest, I’ve felt stronger kicks. You spend any time in Japan and you learn exactly what “strong style” means. I’ve had my back kicked, my shin kicked, my belly kicked and my chin kicked. I’ve felt stronger. But damn, that kick was perfect. Right on target. Hard enough to jam my jaw right into the rest of my skull, sending bright lights all through it.
My head snaps back then sways to the left, then to the right. My body crumpling forward and falling off the top turnbuckle, I land on my back and not in a good way. All twisted and bent.
The music cuts and so do the lights. I hear a bell ring but I don’t know if that’s just the sounds in my head or the timekeeper. Can’t tell which way is up or down. I try to sit up and flop right back down.
Now I know why I thought I’d felt stronger kicks. That’s because she kicked me so hard, my body doesn’t know how to handle it. I can’t sit up. Can’t move.
One kick. Just one. And I’m flat on my back.
-
"OHMYGOD! I think the champion is out!"
That's what the announcer says. He shouts it so loud, I can hear him from the opposite corner of the ring. A moment later, the crowd starts to boo. No matter. This is a No Disqualification match. I can do anything I want. Like this...
I rip that leather jacket off your shoulders and hold it up for the crowd to see. Then, turn you over, putting my knees on your back. I wrap one of the sleeves around your throat and throw you up and over me.
My knees in your back.
Your sleeve wrapped around your throat. I pull. Making that leather tight. As tight as I can.
I shove my knees upward, making your body arch like a longbow over me. And just my knees. You're not resting on my shins. No, my knees stab upward into that spine of yours while my hands pull down on your throat and neck.
All the while, whispering in your ear. "Is this what you wanted, Jack? A match with me?" Then, my whisper turns into a scream.
"IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED?!?!?"
-
Pressure on my spine. Pressure on my throat. Blurring on the edges of my vision. My hands gripping on your hands, trying to pull them away, trying to slip under the leather jacket sleeve that's choking me.
I've been to Osaka. I've been to Mexico City. I've been to Detroit and Atlanta. I've been everywhere. But I feel like I just got thrown into the deep end without any warning. Worse. I jumped in myself after everyone told me not to. Within ten seconds, this woman has nearly knocked me out and choked me out.
Your knees in my back dig in hard and deep, making my back burn. My legs kicking against nothing.
That blur on the edge of my vision is now turning to darkness. Like a black fog rolling over my eyes.
I have to do something. I have to find the escape.
Her back is against the canvas. If I change the...
...yes!
I kick my legs. First time, that accomplishes nothing. But I kick again. I get a little more momentum. A third time...and maybe, just maybe...I can flip right over, reversing the pressure and slip right out of this hold!
I pull my knees up to my chest and try to turn myself over...but the strength I had just a moment ago is almost gone. That happens when someone tries choking you out with your own trademark leather jacket.
-
The only thing more satisfying than feeling a man getting hard is feeling him getting soft. I'm an expert at both.
Laying under you, feeling those tense muscles slowly lose their strength, the kicking in your legs weakening, your grasping hands becoming more desperate...I have to admit, there are few things in the world as satisfying as this right here. I have a special pin all picked out for you, Jack. You're going to love it. I'm going to mount you like a fallen stag. Put your belt around my waist and...
...what the--
Flipping up and over me. That means the hold I have on your neck...you'll be slipping out of it, won't you? No, I don't think so.
You try to get enough momentum and you fail. I laugh and whisper in your ear: "Go on. Try again."
I feel the tingle on your skin that my voice gives you. My sexfighter skills aren't limited to the bed, little champion.
You try a second time. You get a little further. I giggle. "That's two. You don't get three."
And I pull harder on that leather sleeve. And to make sure you don't get free, I'll be adjusting my knees and legs, wrapping them around your waist so you don't try that kick thing ag--
GODDAMMIT!
You're quicker than I thought, Jack. Kicking up and over my head, slipping your chin out from under the sleeve. What's worse, I can't see where you are.
No matter. You were almost unconscious. You'll be easy to get back under control.
I toss the jacket aside and do a turn that reminds people of that famous Rowan Chance speed. You aren't the only one who put points in that Attribute, my boy.
-
That last flip did it. To be honest, if it didn't, I'd be unconscious right now, helpless to do anything against you. I have to wonder what you'd do with me in that condition. Certainly not pin me and get the match over with. No, I bet you'd have something much nastier in mind for me.
Still, I'm out of the choke hold and with that flip, I manage to land on my feet and hands--a classic superhero pose, thinking of what to do next. My throat is still tight and it's difficult to breathe. My back aches like I slept on it wrong. I need a second, just a second, to come up with a strategy.
But you don't give me that second. You're already spinning around to face me. Damn. I've already been the victim of that speed once in this match--no, twice--and I'm not going to be the victim of it again.
Just as you're turning to face me, I do a little spin myself. Pivoting on my left leg, I send you a return receipt. A spin kick of my own aimed at your face. More of a sideswipe than a straight on kick.
I've heard that famous endurance of yours has a weakness: a glass jaw. Let's put that to the test.
-
It's funny how sometimes, things happen so fast you see them in slow motion.
I turn on my heel and you're already halfway through the movement of that kick. I see your heel moving toward my face, aimed right at my cheek, and it's all I can do to get out of the way. I mean, I'm famous for my speed. Goddamn famous. You look up "fast" in the dictionary and there I am. The Flash sees me move and goes, "Dayaaaam...". Mercury wishes it was as quick as me. But I turn around and there's your foot. Ready to smack me right good and hard. I mean, it's right fucking there.
And part of me remembers a scene when Batman turns his back on someone and when he turns around again, that person's gone and he thinks, "So that's what it's like?"
I don't tell my body to move. It just moves.
My spine bends. My shoulders throw themselves back. My neck cranes to pull my head out of the way. And all of this is in the slowest of motions. Slower than an ant trying to pull a truckload of elephants up a hill. Watching that heel of yours get closer...and closer...and closer.... Bullet time. Neo bending over backwards so the bullets don't rip into his flesh and...
...I feel the air pressure between my face and your heel. That's how close it is. So close, that when I do manage to dodge the kick, I fall. Ugly. An unceremonious drop down on my fine ass. The most humiliating dodge I've ever made. Not elegant. Ugly.
And I sit there on my ass, hands flat on the mat, my eyes wide open.
I've never...never...seen anything...
And then it hits me. Not the kick. That missed, but...the thought hits me. Harder than the kick would have. So much harder. Like a blow to the belly, like a hard uppercut to the chin. Sitting there, on my ass, eyes wide open, mouth agape.
...holy shit, my mind reels. He moves like me.
-
You do something long enough and you tend to notice a few things. The longer you get working on a skill, you get closer to mastering it. But even if you don't have the talent yourself to do some things, you can train yourself to appreciate them and while not a master, become an expert. For example, art appraisals are often done by those who aren't master level artists, but who have spent their life in study learning to appreciate what fine art truly is.
Beneath all the bluster and bombastic boasts that are part and parcel of this profession, I don't see myself as anything other than an above average talent who has lasted this long for my ability to pay attention and notice details as much as any inherent talent or trained skill in the ring.
When you know a person for years, working alongside and often against them, you naturally pick up on a few things. A guy like me though, I like to think I see a bit more. It usually is to my benefit in the circles I roam around however to obfuscate stupidity at times. I don't always play all my cards. I keep kayfabe when I know people are trying to fool me. As long as their intention is not malicious, I'll let people keep their secrets just like I keep mine.
But with some people, you watch them and you know them and you know them. Pretty soon their body language is as easy to read as a Dick and Jane book. You can even play in your head the many options you think they would go through. Even under a mask or different name or some other veil, you know them.
I've never seen Rowan move this awkwardly without being hurt. At first I think her back has betrayed her, but her usual pain tells aren't there.
No, this Hex kid has surprised her. That's rarer than a snowstorm at the beach. And I see the thoughts flash on her face. Because I see it too. This kid is better than good.
I grit my teeth and feel like cussing.
Because I know what happens next. I know what happens when Rowan is surprised. She has to open that shiny present and see what it's hiding. She wants to see if this kid is lucky or the real deal.
I feel like cussing because in Jack Hex, Rowan is probably facing her toughest challenge since Minnesota, hell since maybe Paris because Viv wasn't 100%.
I feel like cussing because Rowan is gonna push Hex to beat the hell out of her if he can.
And she's gonna enjoy it.
-
How did you...?
My kick missed. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
No time for that. Keep moving. Keep moving.
All those thoughts run through my head in the breadth of a second. Maybe less. You're in front of me, sitting down, hands on the canvas, your eyes wide open. You're just as surprised as I am. I'm on my left foot, both hands in front of me, leg beside me after the spinning kick. Without thinking, I just allow my body to follow through with what seems to be the next logical step in this dance.
Because that's the secret of speed. Trust your body's motion. Just let it happen. That's what I learned in Mexico where things go ten thousand miles per hour. You just have to trust what happens next. If you don't, if you spend too much time thinking about it, you're already three moves behind. You spend too much time trying to figure out the next step, your opponent's already thrown you over in a hurricanrana, two Steamboat arm drags, a 360 corkscrew splash and locked in a la anibalina. I've been there. You don't want to be there. Hurt so much I decided to...
...not yet. Wait for it.
This isn't chess. This is a dance. And the first person to make a mistake loses the momentum.
I've got both hands down on the canvas.You're right there in front of me. There's only one thing to do.
I put my weight behind me, centered on my hands. Then, I bring both feet in front of me, sending a double foot kick straight at your chest.
-
I'm not exactly sure what happens next. To figure it out, I have to watch the tape afterward. But I remember the pain.
Two booted heels ramming into my breast bone. Knocking all the wind straight out of me. Blowing it from my lungs to my throat to my lips and into the arena. My body jerks back violently, my hair over my head, my arms out wide, my back arched forward. Then, my back hits the canvas with a hard SMACK!
...fuck...that hurt...sonofabitch kicks like Gemma punches...
My hands instinctively come up to guard my chest. I don't like my body reacting that way. Never show them that they hurt you. But goddamn...
I have to get it back together. Get away from this kid. With my arms tucked against my chest, I immediately roll for the ropes. An old heel tactic, I know, but effective. That's why you see it. If it wasn't effective, you'd never see it. Like any move in Al Snow's retinue.
Get out of the ring, Chance. Get your breath back. Then, take this kid apart.
-
This kid is fast…as fast as Rowan. Seems my initial assessment of him as a ‘poor kid’ not knowing what he is in for may have been premature. Seeing Rowan sitting on her ass, with surprise painted across her face, causes me to smirk. Seeing her sensual form FLATTENED to the mat elicits another, more personal response from me…and as the crowd around me cheers their local babyface I simply sit there in the third row and lick my lips.
She’s rolling toward the ropes now. Good! Nice to see Rowan forced to retreat so early in the match. My eyes move from her to the kid, waiting to see what he does now. Careful kid, she’s surprised and hurting now, but this is a marathon, not a spring. You’re fast…as fast as she is, but any woman will tell you the same thing…
…it’s not speed that counts…it’s stamina. Do you have what it takes to go the distance with Rowan? Time will tell, but for now I sit there and watch…licking my lips again.
-
She’s out of the ring. Rolled right out. Trying to catch a break.
Don’t let her. That’s what my brain tells me. Whenever she looks hurt, keep the attack up. Fly at her. Don’t let her get a second wind. Don’t let her know where the next attack comes from.
I pop up to my feet with a quick kip up and grab the top rope. My throat still hurts and my back is sore, but I’m not going to let a little thing like pain stop me.
Tightening my grip on the top rope, I bend my knees and get ready to pounce. Right over the top. Let my body fly. She’s already getting to her feet. Don’t even wait for her to fully recover. If the timing is right, as soon as she’s up, I’ll be landing. My knees over her shoulders, my arms high above my head, throwing my body backwards so I can toss her over.
It’s not a hurricanrana, it’s a frankensteiner. There’s a difference.
-
When I roll out, I manage to land on my hands and knees, my chest still hurting from that kick. I shake my head, my raven blue-black hair falling over my face and shoulders.
Got to get this kid under control. He’s too fa...
No. Stop that. He isn’t. He’s still a rookie. You looked at the tapes. You know his weaknesses. Use them. Dammit, Chance, where’s your head?
I push myself back up to my feet, looking at the ring for where you are. Probably prepping for some big dive thing. All right, Jack. I’m ready for y—
I feel the weight land on my shoulders and then the momentum pulling me forward. My body flips and lands hard on the mats outside the ring. Thin, cheap mats. Must be twenty years old, bough from a judo dojo going out of business. My spine hits the floor and sends a ricochet of electric pain through my body, making every nerve scream and claw at my skin.
I sit up quick, fingers extended, a scream locked behind my teeth.
I wasn’t ready for that. And I landed wrong. Just wrong.
My hands clench into fists. I let the pain rush through me. I don’t ignore it. I embrace it. And when I open my eyes, they just seem a little darker.
-
Shit. This kid is...something else. And he's in a world of trouble and doesn't realize it.
I shift about in the dark tunnel and find myself stepping out a bit, as if a foot or two of distance would get me closer.
Rowan's on the outside and she'll get it together unless he keeps on her. What kinda dragon is this kid, the old, wizened dragon who hordes his gold and takes his time or the brash, destructive kind who sees weakness and goes to crush it.
He answers my question with a fluid leap. Yeah he's studied in Mexico that's for damn sure. Holy shit. He spiked her.
Most folks get the idea that any headscissor flip takedown is a hurricanrana. And they'd be wrong. When you come from the side and latch onto someone and flip them over, that's a rana. But Scott Steiner did it differently. Even before he was Big Poppa Pump, Scotty wasn't the most limber person. What he would do is pretty much jump up and flip people right over with a complete up and down rotation. They didn't flip over so much as get aggressively pulled over and spiked down on their head, neck or back.
And this kid just smacked Rowan with a Frankensteiner.
And he's about to learn why the old dragons live long enough to horde all that gold. Take your cheers now, kid. The receipt you're about to get is heavy.
-
I hear that hard SMACK when you land on the thin pads and I see your body FLINCH when it happens. And that’s when I hesitate. Just for a moment.
Because despite your attacking me before the bell and choking me with my jacket, I admire you Rowan. Ever since I bought the bootleg DVD of your Paris match with Punky, I’ve scoured the internet for your matches. And I know what she did to your back that night and I know you’ve never fully recovered.
So part of me hesitates. I know what I should do. Send a low kick to the small of your back. That’s what I should do. If I want to win this match, that’s exactly what I should do. Your back is to me, arched hard from the impact. Sitting up, still a little stunned from the fall. I should send the hardest kick I can muster straight into your...
...yes. Right there. It’s almost invisible. A tiny scar in your lower back. Just where Punky’s knee hit. The shine of the sweat on your skin shows it off.
Do it. Right now. You know this is more than you expected. She’s more than you expected. Maybe more than you can handle. You should. Do it. Before she gets back up. Do it, Jack. DO IT!
I...
...put my weight on my left leg...
...rear my right leg back and...
...send my padded shin just above where your black and red trunks are. That tiny scar.
But I stop. Right at the last moment.
I can’t do it. That’s not the way to win. I shouldn’t. I won’t.
I missed my chance. Hah. Funny that. I missed it.
Standing on one leg, just behind you.
-
I see the kid looking down at Rowan, just three rows and the barricade between them and me. I know what he is looking at. I feel the conflict within him, just as Luke claimed he could feel it in his Sith Lord father. It’s not hard to do…it’s written all over his face.
Do it!
Do it kid!
He rears his leg back and my whole body tingles with anticipation…until his stops his kick short.
I shake my head in disbelief. Maybe I feel differently, having had Rowan wreck my knee and choke me out in Minneapolis, but when I had the chance to hurt her then I did not hesitate. He did. The question now is not whether it will cost him…but how much.
I just shake my head again and keep watching…
-
I expected a kick. That's what should have happened. I was ready for it. But it didn't arrive.
I felt the wind of the kick. The speed of your leg pressing air against my back. And I felt you stop. I also felt and heard the crowd's reaction. Half of them holding their breath, the other half cheering.
You committed three sins, Jack. Three.
First, you hesitated. That's a sin. But I forgive you.
Second, you underestimated me. I can't forgive that one. And you're going to pay for it. But that isn't your greatest sin, Jack. No, no, no, no.
Your greatest sin, Jack? The one I'm never going to forgive?
You pitied me.
And for that, Jack. For that...
I spin around, ignoring red hot spike someone is sticking in my back. Grab at that ankle of yours. My knowing and wicked smile wearing its best. I look you in the eye. Then, I look down at the leg. Then, back at you.
"Oops," I say, tilting my head just a little.
And I dragon screw that bitch into tomorrow.
-
It's the "Oops" that makes it all that much more terrible.
Knowing you've made a mistake is one thing. Someone who wants to hurt you knowing you've made a mistake is something entirely different.
The dragon screw pulls my body up and over yours, but as I go, I can feel all the pressure on my knee. This isn't a WWE dragon screw. This is Japan. Fast, deliberate and final. All the tendons and muscles in my knee suddenly threat to quit. Just give up. My body spills over, landing hard. Worse than that. My knee--the one you just threatened to rip in half--slams into the metal railing keeping the audience safe from someone like you. And like JR used to say, when metal meets flesh, something's going to give, and it isn't the metal.
I can feel the swelling already. Grasping at my knee, clenching my teeth. It's bent now and I don't know if I can straighten it out. I don't know if I should. Right now, my knee feels like it's full of razor blades.
Rowan, you knew exactly how to take away my best weapon: my speed. And you did it with one move.
-
I don't get to see the bump into the railing, but I get to feel all the damage that dragon screw did.
Dragon screw. Heh.
I get back to my feet with slow deliberation. My shoulders back, looking down at you like a conquering hero. Or villain, as the case may be.
"There," I growl through clenched teeth. "That should slow you down a bit."
Then, I look over at the announcer's booth. Sitting right next to them is the time keeper and the ring announcer. The time keeper is an old man. He's seen it all. He's seen worse than this. He's watching the match through coke bottle eye glasses with a blank, expressionless look on his face. But the ring announcer...that little blonde pop tart in the dress that's way too short, her breasts pushed up way too high, her hair just perfect, hired from some modeling agency...she's what I need.
I prowl over, giving her a death stare straight out of a Halloween movie. The poor girl jumps up, her little skirt flittering around her ass. I grab the steel chair she's sitting in, fold it up and prowl right back to you.
The referee tells me to put the chair down. What's he going to do? Disqualify me? Oh, that's right. You wanted this to be a no DQ match, didn't you, little dragon? I look at you, clutching at that knee of yours. I tighten my fists around the steel legs of the chair.
My voice is low and sharp. "You wanted this." And I swing the chair down on that knee, shouting it again.
"YOU WANTED THIS!!!"
-
The chair slaps down on my knee and I can't help but shout out. The impact makes all the pain I'm feeling go from 8 to 11, breaking the chart. I can feel it surge from my knee down to my toes. The words from a song rush through my brain:
I'll tell you my sins
And you can sharpen your knife
One mistake is all it took. Just one. And now, there's only wrath. Fans reaching through the metal railing, touching my shoulder for just a second, then pulling their hands back again.
I put my hands behind me and try to pull away. Try to get some space between us, and get my eyes on you so when you try to hit me with that chair again, I can at least make an attempt to dodge. Moving my body with my one good leg and my hands. Looking up at you. You're like a dark, angry goddess. I feel like the hero who stole her daughter and now has to face the consequences. Looking up at you, looking at that darkness in your eyes...
...I recognize it. I see it.
I've watched that match so many times, I think I see things most people don't. Not everyone--I know you have friends who even see more than I do--but there are subtle hints and cryptic signs of stories I don't quite know or understand. But I recognize that darkness. I've seen it before. Those old, bootleg FTW tapes. I saw those eyes behind a mask. And then later, in Paris. Right when you were about to use that illegal DDT. Your eyes looked like that.
I shake my head, wet hair in my face. "You aren't talking to me." My voice shakes just a little when I say it. "When you say YOU WANTED THIS. You're not talking to me."
I'll tell you my sins...
I pull back another few inches. Almost a foot. I shake my head again, finally realizing. "Even in Minneapolis. You weren't talking to Vivianne."
I pull back one more time. Now enough space to do something. But my leg won't let me. I don't even know if I can put weight on it.
"You aren't talking to me." I say one more time. "You're talking...to yourself."
-
I'm watching you kick and scramble your body away from me, the whole scene looking and feeling like a slasher flick. The wounded Last Girl finally face-to-face with the masked killer, desperately trying to think of a way to escape. But there is no escape for you, Jack. No escape. You wanted this. You wanted me. Came looking for me. Invoked my name.
Don't call forth what you can't put down, Jack. That's the first rule of magic. Mister Hex. Didn't you know that? Or did your esoteric studies of Dungeons & Dragons not instruct you on that little principle? Perhaps you should have gone to the source and not taken a cup from the watered down, filtered, dirty water version.
I'm dragging the chair beside me, it's round metal top dragging on the thin pads, popping when it reaches that dent where the pad folds. I've got a weapon. And you've got a bum leg you can't even stand on.
Look at me, Jack. Just look at me. My skin already wet with sweat. Strands of hair clinging to the sides of my face. The black paint around my eyes beginning to stain. And my lips, shining red. Tall boots stepping on those thin pads. And the chair in my strong fingers.
You wanted this, Jack. You wanted this.
I keep moving forward until your back hits the railing. And you look up at me and start to speak. Your trembling voice, so full of fear and desperation. Are you begging for mercy, Jack? That's something you won't get. No. That is something I'm not willing to give.
You invoke Minneapolis. I remember Vivianne. I remember what happened to me after that. The two queens, one in red and the other in yellow. Just cryptic and occult enough for someone like Me...like SHE would come up with. I remember that, Jack. Yes, I do.
And then you say the last part. You say: "You're talking...to yourself."
And I stop right there. Like someone shot me in the chest.
Talking to...?
What the fuck are you...
You asked for this.
My eyes...blink. My breath stops.
You asked for this.
I remember...remember...Punky's fists pounding down on me until I was almost unconscious. The heart punch. The moment when she...
You asked for this.
..broke my...
You asked for this.
...my...
You asked for this.
...my baYou asked for this.
* * *
Rowan. This is what you wanted. Right here. This boy under you. A victim. You want others to feel the way you felt at that moment. You barely remember it. Being held helpless while she taunted Tom with your life. With your life.
You wanted to know how it felt to do that. To hold someone else's life in your hands. And if you let your grip loose for even a moment, they'd slide through your fingers. Just like she held yours.
Just like she held yours.
This is what you wanted, Rowan. To feel the kind of power she held over you. Feel it yourself. And you've been hurting people ever since.
No. Don't listen to him.
He pitied you. You. Rowan Chance. The Queen of Sexfighting. The woman who beat Megan Punky Dow so hard they had to carry her away to a hospital. Twice. The woman strong enough to wear the Mask. It burned other women who tried. But not you. And Megan was afraid of you. They're all afraid of you. Just like this one. He's afraid. Look at him. Listen to his voice. See his eyes trembling? Fear. He fears you. Just as they all do. Finish him, Rowan. Break his leg. Make him pay for what he did. Make him understand the cost of pitying Rowan Chance.
* * *
My eyes are far away, looking over you. Through you. And you see them water up. A single tear down my cheek.
Then, they refocus. And...darken.
I shake my head, my smile coming back to my lips.
"You know what happened to the last man who tried to teach the world mercy, Jack?"
My fingers grip the chair. That tear rolls over my chin and vanishes. My lips trembling in half a smile and half...something else.
"We nailed the sonofabitch to a goddamn cross so we could watch him die."
That's when I lift the chair with both hands and swing.
-
The chair hits with a huge CLANG! That's because it hit the railing, not me. I rolled out of the way just in time, my leg burning as I do. I roll to the right, using that momentum to get back up to my feet...well...foot. I'm being careful with the other one.
Okay. She's angry now. Angry people don't make good decisions. I'm not sure if that was my strategy or not, but I guess it got me a positive result. Angry Rowan.
Wait. Maybe that's not a good thing. Maybe that's a dangerous thing.
Well damn.
I start hopping backwards, the sound of the referee counting in my ear. I've got to keep...
...wait. The referee is counting?
No DQ doesn't mean no count out. What's he up to? Eight? EIGHT?
I hop toward the ring and get to the apron, using my arms to roll in. This is gonna leave me vulnerable to another chair shot. Doesn't matter. Got to risk it.
-
You manage to get yourself back into the ring, hopping on your wounded leg. The referee counts "NINE!" and I roll back in.
Idiot referee. This is a No DQ match. Why are you trying to count me out? I guess in this little backwater fed, "No DQ" doesn't include count outs.
But there you are, back in the ring. Still off your feet. No more flippy shit, Jack. No more kicks that feel like Gemma's punches. This is the problem with rookies. They don't know the old school tricks. They think playing 2k games makes you a pro wrestler. Well, it doesn't. In this ring, when you don't time hitting "A" at the right moment, you don't lose some health...things HURT.
"You tried using psychology on me, Jack." I step forward as you try to back away, the chair in both hands. "You really shouldn't do that."
I smack the chair at you with poor intention: I don't want to hit you. I just want to hear the sound of the metal hitting the boards. And you roll out of the way.
The crowd's boos fill the building. They want you to make your comeback so badly. But that's not going to happen. Not tonight. "The little blue dragon doesn't fly tonight!" I shout at them. "I've clipped his wings!"
Their jeers intensify. Excellent. That's my job.
You're near the center of the ring now. That's exactly where I want you. I make to hit you with the chair again, but that isn't my intention. It's a feint. As the chair comes down, I know you'll dodge. And the way I move it tells me which way. If I bring it down to the left, you'll dodge to the right. And that's when I've got you.
Because when you dodge, I'll drop the chair and grab that bad leg of yours. And I'll twist. Turn you over with the pain. And with you on your stomach, I'll spin your legs into an inverted figure four. You on your belly, me on my back.
-
This kid is lucky they are still doing count outs. If he has seen Rowan’s match with HER in Paris, and you can’t call yourself a wrestling fan if you haven’t, then he should be aware of the destruction Rowan is capable of calling down on her opponents while outside the ring. Yeah…he’s lucky they are no longer out there.
That is if you can call being in the ring with Rowan Chance and a wrecked knee lucky…and I know from experience it is anything but. I heard him mention my name from my third row seat, so I know he’s seen that match. I know he’s seen what she did to my knee. I wonder…does he realize how much trouble he is in right now? He’s gonna find out.
He’s also gonna find out what happens when you try to play mind games with Rowan Chance, bringing up past matches and trying to turn things around on her. Trips may be known as the Cerebral Assassin, but Rowan is simply Cerebral.
I take it back…this kid isn’t lucky. He’s hurt in a match with Rowan Chance, and he’s trying to play mind games. He’s not lucky…
He’s screwed…
-
I've been in the figure four leg lock before. Dozens of times. I'm not saying I've always been able to escape it, but I'm long and tall enough that I can usually reach the ropes before I feel something starting to break. And that's the real danger of a submission hold like this: you feel something start to break and you tap out to prevent that from happening. I've been forced to tap to this hold before. I want to make wrestling a profession and that means saving my legs from breaking.
Everyone thinks the figure four puts pressure on the ankles and knees. Yeah, that's true, it does, but what it really puts pressure on is your shin. Look at the hold. Look at where the pressure points are. That's where the pain comes from. And by pain, I mean...well, imagine breaking both your knees and your ankles at the same time. Then imagine someone trying to bend your shin in half. That's what a figure four feels like.
Now, this...this is worse because everything is wrong. My knees are still bending the wrong way, but from the opposite angle. And my ankles, too. But what's even worse is my shin. Rowan has put my shin in a pinion, bending it. Trying to break it.
And it's working.
Add all that pain to the pain that already exists and you have me screaming so loud, my voice breaks. My eyes are wide open while I scream, my face beet red. My arms pushing my torso up, trying to alleviate the pressure, but it doesn't work. The pain is so intense, all I can do is scream. I can't even think of telling the referee to stop the match. My eyes are wide, but all I see is red.
I fall face first back down to the mat, my hands over my head as I scream again, this time into the canvas. The referee asking me if I want to quit, but I can't hear. All I can hear is my own screaming and the sound of the pain in my legs.
Oh, you don't think pain makes sound? You're wrong. It POUNDS in your head. Makes your ears squeal. Like the moments after a concert where you realize you should have worn earplugs. My legs are screaming, too. They're screaming at me to make the pain stop. Do anything. Beg. Plead. Agree to any offer. Too bad I can't hear one right now.
Finally, my wet eyes look up and see the ropes. I know they provide solace from this. I know it.
But they're so far away. I'm in the middle of the ring.
And I can feel the bone in my leg starting to give...
-
My lips are wide with an evil grin as I see you struggle in pain. And as your legs get weaker, less able to resist the hold, I increase the pressure. Because I'm not here to beat you, Jack. I'm not here to pin you or make you tap out. That's not what I want.
After that little moment we shared where you dared to show me pity...I'm here to put you out of this fucking business and end your career before it started.
"You don't belong here!" I shout at you. "You weak little boy! You don't belong in this ring with me!"
I grab your ankle and give it a good twist.
"You wanted to find out what it meant to take on Rowan Chance? Well, you're finding out now, aren't you?"
I start bucking my hips. Raising your trapped legs and dropping them down on the canvas.
"Tap, bitch!" I scream. "Give up! Or you'll be walking with a fucking cane for the rest of your goddamn life!"
You're not the only one who can feel that shin of yours, Jack. I give it a good slap with the flat of my palm.
Seeing you scream and squirm, I grit my teeth, my eyes almost totally black. And then...
And then...
I start to laugh. That dark laughter that comes from the shadowed part of my soul.
"You think this is pain, Jack? This isn't pain. I haven't even started hurting you yet. You wanted to have a match like Paris? You want to know what real pain is?" I raise an elbow and drop the point of it down on your shin. "Real pain is having to hurt the one person in the world you love the most. Hurt them so bad that they can't get up. Hurt them so bad that they beg you to stop. And looking at the hate in her eyes because... because...
My voice breaks. I feel my eyes welling up. But I blink those weak tears away and scream at your back.
"BECAUSE SHE DOESN'T LOVE YOU ANYMORE!"
Another hard elbow.
"You understand, Jack? Do you? I don't think you do!"
Another hard elbow.
"Come on, Jack! This is what you fucking wanted! You wanted emotion! You wanted intensity! Is it too much for you to take? Is it?"
And. Another. Elbow.
"THEN BE A MAN AND FUCKING ADMIT IT!"
-
Your words are like rubbing Jalepeño peppers into an open wound. The injury hurts enough, but those words make the pain even worse.
I was wrong. I wasn't ready for this.
I was right. I'm in way over my head.
My hand reaching for the rope trembles, hesitating just an inch over the canvas. My eyes are wet. I can feel tears starting to roll down my cheeks. I scream again, just an inch from the ropes. Just an inch.
I can feel the ligaments in my knees ready to pop.
I can feel my ankles ready to break.
I can feel my shin...just...
Another moment of struggle and I could reach it. But if my hand hits the mat, the pain is all over. A choice. A moment of shame or more pain. It's my decision to make. This won't end if I reach the rope. It will just keep going. She'll hurt me even more. I can barely walk, let alone run or jump or kick.
A moment of shame or more pain.
Sweat dripping from my forehead like it's running from a faucet. I tuck my chin, forehead buried against the mat. A moment of...
And...
my...
hand...
...grasps the bottom rope. My fingers coiling around it like a sailor washed overboard holding onto a life preserver ring.
"Make her break it!" I scream at the referee, my eyes shut tight. "Make her stop!"
-
I’ve said I have a third row seat, but with a match like this that really means I have a place to stand in the third row. The crowd all around me has been on their feet since the intros, and right now they are reacting strongly to seeing their babyface being taken apart. Screaming. Booing. Shaking their fists…and waving middle fingers. Going crazy. I stand amidst it all, motionless with my arms crossed over my chest and my eyes locked on Rowan. I wonder…does she see me? The human eye is drawn to movement, but will my lack of motion within an angry crowd stand out? Does she know I am here? Would she even care if she did? I'll likely never know.
“BECAUSE SHE DOESN’T LOVE YOU ANYMORE!”
Rowan’s voice rings out, and I slowly shake my head side to side. It all makes sense now. Everything I know about her since Paris. Vegas…The Viceroy in LA…Minneapolis…Jersey…everything.
This poor kid didn’t know what he was getting himself into, and now he is paying the price as Rowan seeks to fill that black hole within herself with pain. HIS pain.
I see him grab the ropes and yell for the ref to make Rowan let go. To make her stop. Silly boy…this is a no DQ match. The ref won’t make her break.
And NOBODY can make her stop…
-
You reach the ropes, grabbing on for dear life.
How adorable. How absolutely adorable.
I look up at the referee. She's looking at me with those big, brown sheep eyes. She doesn't know what to say.
I do.
I look right at you, Jack. Right into your eyes. I grab hold of your ankle. Tighten my grip. Give you a big, warm, loving grin.
"Go on, ref," I say. "Disqualify me."
And then I wrench your heel.
-
My feet take me forward, out of the tunnel and into the light of the arena. All the way to the railing, standing next to a security guard I've known for years. He just nods, but I just stand there watching. Transfixed.
Rowan's not here. This...person in her clothes using her moves isn't Rowan. Not Rowan Chance. This is a frightened, angry young woman who's lost her way. Her world has been turned upside down and it seems like the emotional injuries of Paris are more permanent than her physical ones.
It hurts me to see her like this. Engulfed by the flames of her fury, her humanity being burned clean away from her soul.
She feels betrayed by those closest to her. Even me. She thinks I betrayed her because of Paris. I can see why she thinks that and I wish I could explain, but she's shut me out. We don't talk like we used to. She finds new windmills to charge and I chase after her in her wake like a pathetic Sancho Panza. Moreso because at least Sancho was acknowledged. I don't know what she wants from me, what more could I say or do to make it up to her.
Instead she's let those negative emotions fester and corrupt her. She's not fighting this kid Jack. She's fighting herself. She's fighting the fear that she's been abandoned, left alone, unloved. I still care. I guess that's why I hang around making an appearance here and there, even when she doesn't care to react to me.
Right now, I can't help but think that Jack is paying the price for my sins.
If I could tell him, I'd let him know that he's not fighting Rowan or Aika or any number of her different gimmicks. What he's fighting is the sum of all her fears turned and twisted into hate. Self loathing. All because she doesn't see herself as worthy of our love.
She's wrong, but she won't let me tell her that. And this kid is gonna get his leg snapped because of it.
"Shame about the kid. He had a good run." says the guard beside me.
"He's too damn star struck and intimidated to do what needs to be done. He needs to stop seeing Rowan as his idol and start seeing her as his opponent. Quit trying to play nice and fucking fight her."
"He doesn't have a chance now though. She's got him all tied up."
"No. He's got a shot. It's just is he prepared to do what needs to be done to get free. Right now Ro isn't trying to break his leg, she's trying to chase away her hurt. Ro's fighting demons and Jack's fighing a ghost. He needs to stop pussyfooting around and get shit done."
Or a promising career gets snuffed out before it has a chance to begin....
-
My fingers clutch around the taped cable and for a moment, I tiny light of hope shines in my heart. Then, I see the look in the referee's eyes and I hear your voice.
"Disqualify me."
That's when I realize just how far in the dark I really am. How naive I was. No, not naive. That's too smart a word. How fucking stupid I was.
I'm out of my league. I should have never accepted this match. I wanted to have that moment in my career where I said that I faced Rowan Chance in a No DQ match. And now I've got it and now I know I'm under water and I don't know how to swim. That hand holding on to the rope starts to shake. It goes flat, hanging right above the rope.
I should quit. The pain in my legs is too much. I've never felt anything like this, like every inch of my legs are breaking, shattering, splintering. Like old wooden planks that have been out in the water for too long.
I have to quit. I can't fight like this. I just can't. I may never fight again if I don't. My hand slaps down at the canvas as hard and fast as I can.
...and then I see one man standing at the barricade. I've never seen him before. I don't recognize him. But his eyes sat he recognizes me. I don't know if he's a fan. He doesn't look like he is. He doesn't have that look in his eyes. It's something different.
My hand hesitating just an inch above the canvas, shaking like a leaf in the wind. And for a long moment, there is no pain in my legs. It's like locking eyes has made all that pain stop. We're locked together in an impossible moment. And he's talking to me. The crowd fades away. The roar diminishes into a soft sound, like ringing in my ears. And I hear exactly what he's saying.
He needs to stop seeing Rowan as his idol and start seeing her as his opponent. Quit trying to play nice and fucking fight her.
Then it all rushes back. The sound of the audience, the pain, the sweat, the smell of my own body, the rush of blood pulsing through my skull. It's all back.
I nod at him. I understand. Thank you.
Both arms reach out and grab the ropes. And with all the strength my upper body can muster, I use the bottom rope as leverage and twist my hips, trying to flip both of us over. Because what happens when you reverse a figure four, even one like this? Honestly, I don't know. I might have thrown myself out of the frying pan and into the fire, but I'm about to find out.
-
Funny how the brain works. First thing I think as I feel that twist is, "Boy's got some powerful hips. I'd just like to wrap my legs around them and...OHHOLYFUCKINGSHIT!"
That's because I've been intensifying the grip of this hold for about thirty seconds now, and with my tits hard on the canvas, my face right there with them, I'm now feeling exactly how tight that hold is. All that pressure you've been taking just got thrown over onto me. And I only need one moment of that pain to know I don't want any more of it. After a scream louder than the ones from my warmup in my hotel room earlier (the one that got complaints three floors up and down), I kick at the hold, splitting our legs apart as fast as I can.
And just for the record, it was him who was screaming, not me. Just for the record.
I scramble away, pushing myself across the canvas, grasping at my left knee which seems now to be revolting against any further activity for the next couple moments. I bend it out slowly, testing the pain, wincing through my teeth. Dammit. Godfuckingdammit. When I'm ready, I give it a couple of kicks. Soft at first, then harder. Okay. There's a twinge I'll have to deal with later, but nothing serious. Nothing as serious as what's going on with you right now.
I get back on my feet, delicately putting weight on my left knee. Yeah, it's good. I won't need a brace.
And that's when I smile. But it isn't a smile for you, Jack. It's for someone else.
Now...where were we? Oh, yes. The pretty young thing on the ropes.
"Come here, Jack," I tease. "I've got such sights to show you..."
And I start prowling across the ring.
-
You break the hold just a moment after I turned us both over, then scooted away just as quickly. Good. I need the moment to think.
She's incredible. I've never faced anyone like this. Stop it. Get her out of your head. She's just like any other woman. She has weaknesses. She has...
...no. I won't. I won't.
You have to. She's not going to show you any mercy. She's going to wreck you, inch by inch. Just to prove a point to someone who isn't even here.
Look at her. She's taking her time. She thinks you're finished. You're not finished. You've got to fight, Jack. You've got to fight. Maybe for the first time in your life, you've got to really fight.
You're testing your leg when you finally look at me. And by that time, I've pulled myself up to my feet. Ropes are good for that. Yeah, I'm keeping all the weight off my right leg, almost bouncing off my left. My hands on the top rope for balance.
"Come on, Chance," I say from the bottom of my throat. "Is that all you've got? I've got cheap whiskey that hits harder than you."
All right. Bait is set.
Why do I feel like Brody on the back of the Orca, throwing chum into the water?
-
Fucking.
Little.
Shit.
Leaning on the ropes like he's got anything left. Your tank is empty, Jack. You've got nothing. And even if there's some gas, you've got a flat tire. You ain't going nowhere.
So, how to finish this off? I've destroyed your speed. Nearly broke that leg of yours. What's left to do?
Oh, yes. I know.
I duck in fast for a quick feint, then back away, watching you try to respond. I laugh. Laughing at you, Jack. Laughing. AT. You.
And as I do, I make the real move. A sudden leap for that leg of yours. Clipping is what they call it in pro football. It's illegal there. Not here.
And if I hit, you'll go flying over me, landing hard in the center of the ring. Probably clutching at that leg of yours. And that's when I'll finish this.
-
You come charging in. Right at me. I can't believe I'm doing this: taunting Rowan Chance so she'll want to hurt me.
And when you come right at me, like a sleek, sexy atomic bomb of hurt and suffering, I do something I really shouldn't. Got to get the timing right on this or everything goes to Hell.
First...grab you by the hair. That long, gorgeous raven hair.
Second...snap your torso over the second rope. That gorgeous tattooed torso that leads into those magnificent hips of yours.
Third... grab the top rope while you're hung up on the second.
And last...kick myself up, swing myself up, and bring both knees down on the small of your back while you're hung over that middle rope.
This had better work. Or the crowd is right. I'm right royally fucked.
-
The Red Enforcer once said trying to catch me is like trying to catch your shadow. Punky said trying to keep hold of me was like trying to keep hold of sand. And just a few minutes ago, I made a reference to Batman turning his back on someone...
Damn, kid. Even with a leg you shouldn't be walking on, you're fucking quick. And that's bad news for...
I hit the cables. They run tight across my chest, my arms thrown over them. That knocks the wind out of me. Most people don't understand how hard the ropes are. Watch those "divas" wrestle. See how they treat the ropes like they're made of the fire of a dying sun? That's because hitting the ropes hurts. It's like having a long, hard tube smashed across your chest. Or, in this case, my upper torso, which means my breasts. And yeah, those aren't just padding fellas. There's a reason women wear bras.
My eyes puff out and so does my breath. My hair flowing forward over my face. Arms flailing over the ropes. Knees on the canvas. Fuck, where did that kid go?
Of course, that's nothing compared to what happens next. Because what happens next should be on every single promo video you ever send to a promoter, Jack. It's absolutely gorgeous.
Your body swinging up, then swinging down. All that momentum and weight angled into two points landing exactly where you wanted them to land. And, oh, does my body react.
My voice screams like a banshee dying in the morning light. It's a pitiful, painful sound. A wail. My face crunching into a mask of pain and despair. My back arches in from the impact, spreading my breasts wide against my top, my legs bending so wide, you'd think I was warming up for gymnastics. The pain that rushes through me is like shards of glass running through my spinal column. And I fall.
Just...fall...
A long, slow slide down the ropes. My eyes glazing over and rolling up under my lids. Mouth open. Arms slapping each rope as I fall. Crumpling down across the ropes like all the strength had suddenly been taken out of me. Landing on my side, my hair falling over my face, one arm tucked under me and the other thrown over my head, bent at the elbow. My legs bent at the knee.
And that's it.
That's all.
-
I know from personal experience how quick Rowan is, and seeing the kid actually grab her and fling her onto the ropes causes me to blink…hard. Did I just see what I thought I saw? Well, Rowan ended up lying across the ropes instead of destroying what is left of the kid’s knee, so I guess I did. Wow…
The next thing I see makes me wince…and then smile.
Wincing, because with his knee in that condition I am sure slamming it down onto Rowan’s back must have hurt…but not as much as being clipped by Rowan would have.
Smiling, because the moment that always seems to happen in a Rowan Chance match, since Paris, just happened. The moment her back gets nailed. The moment she screams out in pain, reminding everyone she is actually human. The moment she crumbles to the mat in a delicious heap. The moment she is ripe for the picking…if her opponent is vicious enough to make her pay.
I lick my lips, remembering how I wrecked her back in Minneapolis. Did it heal all the way Rowan? Are you still feeling the effects now that the kid has hurt your fragile little back? Are you reminded of what I did to you…or of what SHE did to you?
Look at her kid! This is it…the moment you’ve been waiting for! Make her pay…
…if you can.
-
When my knees hit your back, Rowan, I feel a powerful eruption of pain through my left leg. So powerful, it blinds me. Sends me right down to the canvas in a crash with me clutching my knee. I don't even see that pretty sight of you falling to the canvas, rolling off the ropes. Wish I had. That would have been something to see. But I do hear the scream. Who the hell couldn't hear that scream. I bet a certain castle in England heard that scream.
So there's me rolling on the canvas, clutching my leg. When I finally open my tear-stained eyes, I see you there, still unmoving, almost curled into a ball. That must have hurt. I bet it didn't hurt as much as what you did to my leg. But maybe it's enough.
I reach out to you, still off my feet, to pull you over so your shoulders are on the mat. I see your body just flop over. Your arm hitting with a thud. And I throw one hand over your chest, my fingers touching those perfect breasts for the first time. And despite the pain in my leg...well, let's just say my leg isn't the only thing aching.
I look up at the referee. "FUCKING COUNT!" I shout.
And the ref drops down. Hand hitting the mat. "ONE!"
-
I flinch visibly from the impact of Jack's move. I know Rowan's back. I know how badly it's injured and I know it's still not perfectly healed. Not that any of those facts are stopping Rowan now.
No, what's stopping her now is all of Jack's weight impacting on the base of her spine in two bony patellas crashing down on her.
It's nasty.
It's brutal.
It's not enough.
"Looks like the kid finally snapped out of it. He might just take this one."
I shake my head at Security Guard James. He doesn't know Rowan like I know Rowan.
"It's not enough. Rowan knows pain. Sometimes I wonder if she knows anything but pain. He hasn't taken her out completely yet. This was a good first step, but he really needs to do more. He needs to devastate her to the point it gets uncomfortable for him. Then he needs to do it a few more times."
I look in the ring and I can't help but feel a tug at my heart for the hurting form all curled up before my eyes. Not pity. More a regret. A memory of what once was while seeing what is now.
When I first met her, Rowan was very much the opposite of...you know. I like to allude to Green Acres with Ro being Ava Gabor. She seemed a bit out of place in the Carolinas, especially in the back roads. I knew she had money. She tried to hide it, but I've been around folks who are poor, folks who just came into money, and folks who have had money all their lives. It's a difference in perspective and bearing.
But I didn't hold that against her. In fact, it was kinda endearing that she tried to not shove it in my face. I knew we were getting close, but I didn't know how close till this one night after an impromptu mixed tag necessitated by weird booking and bad weather causing some no shows and a reshuffling of the card, she came to me in the changing room which was pretty much a boys locker room at a high school.
I had all the nozzles going. When you have a community shower and you're the main event and the other guy has a better hotel room to get to, you have it all to yourself. So I turned everything up. Steaming hot water. I took some bad bumps that night and wanted really hot water to help ease those muscles. The finish was messed up. Rowan had the blonde in a submission hold, one she was trying out before she settled on the Widow's Kiss. The blonde's partner rushes in like he's going to break it up. I dunno, the rules of that fight were men fight men and women fight women. But this idiot comes flying in like he's gonna bash Rowan and there was no way she could stop him in time. But I was quicker in those days and I owed that guy a receipt for some potatoes he gave me during this match so I stopped him with a kick to his gut and decided what the hell and pulled his head between my legs, wrapped my arms around his waist and hauled his green ass up in the air and just drove his back into the mat so hard it left a dent I'm sure. I was pissed. I looked back to check on Ro and all I could see was her staring at me all wide eyed.
After, I was alone in the shower, steam everywhere. And I heard the door open. Thinking it was the janitor, I said I'd be out in 5 more minutes. I was facing a showerhead, leaned a bit forward so the water crashed into my upper back.
I felt a pair of soft hands on my aching spine.
"Wha..." I turned and saw her there, naked. A big smile on her face. Her hair all the way down. Before I could say anything else, she moved in close as I straightened up, reached up and put a finger to my lips And took my right hand in hers.
"I'm glad you leave your mask on when you shower."
I remember that girl sometimes. The one who understood love and fun and saw wrestling as a passion.
Somewhere along the way, her desire to be the best, her need to master the art of wrestling, all of that just changed.
The passion became obsession. She had to have everyone know who Rowan fucking Chance was.
She demanded attention and respect. "Fun" for her now was making sure every new challenger that came her way ended up on the other side of the encounter knowing she's the best thing they've ever run into.
She lost sight of the simple things. She closed herself off. She confused love and sex and power.
How much of that was Tantalus twisting her mind or Rowan's own insecurities overwhelming her or a combination of both, I don't know.
All I know is...I miss that girl I first met....I see flashes of her here and there.
But in the ring, all I see is the dark hearted woman who will stop at nothing to make sure her story is written the way she demands. No matter what anyone says.
Jack going for the cover now is a big mistake. She's not done. Just hurt. If you don't put down a hurt animal, it'll come back and destroy you.
I'm afraid Jack's gonna learn that the hard way.
-
A lot can happen in a second.
Your whole career can run through your head. Learning to wrestle in Canada, flying out to Japan, getting under a hood and a gimmick you hate, losing your job, joining the North America indies, meeting a beautiful mad woman with purple hair...
The moment the referee drops her hand, slapping the mat for "TWO!" my body twists under your arm, kicking up my legs, twisting my hips. Rolling over your body, your wrist in my grip. My legs straddle your arm, pulling it tight against my body as I twist over. Yes, my back objects to this movement. Objects with ice cold razor sharp knives raking up and down. Poison pain drips down my legs and into my arms.
Pain. No. Not pain. This isn't pain. I've felt pain before. This isn't pain. This is annoyance.
Flipping up and over your body, your wrist in my grip, bringing that lovely long arm tight between my legs, over my chest. Pulling your wrist up to my chin.
Now's when the real lesson begins, Jack. It doesn't end here, either.
This is just where it begins.
-
Piece by piece. That's what she's doing. She's taking me apart piece by piece.
First the leg, now the arm. I can feel the tendons and ligaments in my elbow stretching as she slowly hyperextends it out. My legs kicking, trying to find a way to turn into the hold. Because that's what you do: you turn into the hold. But your powerful legs are across my chest, preventing that from happening.
I feel the pressure on my elbow. It wants to snap. Just crack. My fingers look like they're about to turn blue. That doesn't make any sense but nothing makes sense when someone is trying to break your arm. I scream out loud, so hard, the veins in my neck nearly burst.
I try again. Got to get...
...and your legs just STOP ME COLD.
I can't reach for the ropes.
I can't turn into you.
I'm trapped. There's no escape. The longer I hold out, the quicker you'll break my elbow.
I have to tap.
I have to.
I have to.
There's no choice.
I have to...
I squeeze my eyes shut as they start to water up. Grit my teeth...
Goddammit, no. Don't. You know the escape. YOU FUCKING KNOW THE ESCAPE! DO IT! DO IT!
I clench my fists. Tuck my shoulder. The one away from you. I've got to get under your legs and roll under them. I've got to do this. Roll into your space. Relieve the pressure on my arm. Get on top of you. Press your shoulders down to the mat. Turn this into a pinning predicament.
I've got to. Or my arm is finished. And so am I.
-
"Well look at that. The kid survived and now he's got her pinned."
Bless his heart. I think somewhere deep inside my buddy the security guard still thinks this is real. In a weird way he's right. This is real. But I mean he thinks the wrestling is real. Cut him some slack, the guy was born in the thirties, served in 'Nam and could probably still kick my ass nearing 80. But he's thinking the wrong thing. So is Jack. They're both thinking the rules of wrestion apply here. That even though this is a no DQ match and all the rest, that the common conventions for a wrestling match apply.
See, Jack did something to make this personal. And by doing so, he made Rowan forget all the common courtesies. She's not gonna break the hold. Sure, she's gonna raise a shoulder or force him back down, but this isn't the way out of this hold.
"Sorry old man. You're wrong. And so is the kid. Both of you think this is still a wrestling match."
"It's not?"
"No. This is a fight. The kid is still playing soft. A pinfall attempt isn't how you get out of this hold unless you want a fractured arm."
"So how does he get out?"
"Kid's gotta figure that one out on his own. Until he's willing to punish Rowan instead of trying to outwreestle her, he's trapped in her web."
Shame too. Kid has potential. I'd hate for him to get broken so early. I chew my lip and check my side again to see if the well dressed man is still staring. He's not. Good. I can focus back on Rowan.
Now if the kid would just nut up and do what needs to be done....before she snaps him...
-
So, the little punk knows how to turn into an armbar. Goodie for him.
And when he rolls hard enough, that puts my shoulders down on the mat. How clever.
The referee drops down to the mat. That's one extra second I can torque this arm.
Counts, "ONE!" That's two seconds.
Counts, "TWO!" That's three seconds.
I watch that arm go up. And I watch it come down. A hair before it hits the canvas, I jolt my shoulder, throwing one hand up. I make sure it's the hand the referee can see. That's four seconds.
The count stops. Ref tells me to break the hold. That's five seconds.
Tells me again. That's six seconds.
Tells me a third time. That's seven seconds.
Starts counting. "ONE!" Eight seconds.
"TWO!" Nine seconds.
"THREE!" Ten seconds.
"FOUR!" Eleven seconds and I break the hold.
That's eleven seconds of me applying the kind of pain that only I can apply. I spent years studying pain under the tutelage of a master. Then, I went to Japan and furthered my understanding. All my life, I've been a disciple of pain, Jack. Ask Gemma about that. Her arm was in a cast and sling for months. Ask Red. He still needs a special mattress to sleep at night. And as for the little purple-haired psychopath...she needs a brace just to walk.
Eleven seconds of me and your arm, Jack.
Tell me...just how does it feel?
-
I'll tell you how it feels. Like someone trying to rip my arm off and succeeding. Pain really is your body telling you something is wrong, and there is something seriously wrong with my arm. With my leg.
Piece by fucking piece. I remember the line from The Dark Knight with Batman talking about "this is an operating table." Now I know exactly what that feels like.
I'll tell you how it feels. Like my arm being torn into tiny pieces, chewed up, and spit back out at me.
I'll tell you how it feels. Like I'm a little worm on a great big hook. And I feel that way because I finally realize why you're doing this.
Sweat beading down from my forehead, dripping into my eyes, I blink the stinging salty sensation away and glare down at you while you twist my wrist and I try to keep you from bending my arm in half.
"You think she's watching?"
I shake my head. "You're trying to pull her out aren't you? She beat you and you can't live with that."
I flex my fingers into a fist. My arm tensing up.
"You want her again. After all this time. You want her to come back out, don't you? And you think if you hurt enough people, she'll finally pay attention to you."
My biceps bulge. I grab my wrist.
"This isn't about me or my championship at all. We're fucking beneath you, aren't we Rowan?"
You on your back and me above you, kneeling over you. My hand on my wrist tightens. Both arms tense up, bulging with whatever strength I've got left. Hoping this little diatribe will do its job: distract you from my real goal.
"Well, I'm not beneath you, Rowan Chance," I say, spit flying from my lips. "You're beneath me."
And that's when I flex my back, my arms, my legs. Every muscle I've got.
I'm picking you up. You've got my arm, well fuck you, I've got YOU.
I remember watching that match with you and the Red Enforcer. And I remember the look on your face when he lifted you up and held you there. Your face was...orgasmic.
Lifting you. Trying. Hoping. I can lift you right up into the air. Over my head. You grabbing hold of my arm and me grabbing hold of you.
And if I can get you up, I'm gonna hold you there for just a second. Hold you up so you realize just how weak and helpless you really are. Let you dangle there. Just long enough to realize what happens next.
Because that's when I'm going to slam you right through the goddamn mat with a power bomb.
-
"About damn time....."
-
Hmm...the kid finally decided to do something. Interesting.
Almost as interesting as his words. Oh yes, a third row seat allows you to catch things those in the back don't...if you are paying attention and not screaming like the fans standing around me.
I mentioned HER name once in a promo and Rowan attacked me with a chair. Put me in the hospital and I missed a month in the ring. The kid had better hope this powerbomb hits...and that it hits hard. Because while his attempt to get into Rowan's head may work...it may also wake up the monster Rowan keeps locked up in that mind of hers.
And when that monster is let loose, nobody is safe. Not man, nor woman...nor dragon.
-
Things happen fast in a wrestling ring. You'd be surprised how quick that three count is. You hear the first time the ref's hand hits the mat and you've got exactly two seconds to find a way out. That's if you're conscious. But there are times when everything slows down. Trapped in the corner and a punch comes toward your jaw, time just melts. You watch that fist coming at you and you know there's nothing you can do about it. Or coming off the ropes and some blonde bitch in an Evel Knievel bikini throws a fucking clothesline right out of Stan Hansen's playbook at your jaw that you know you don't have time to duck, but you try anyway, and it doesn't matter because here comes the lights out.
This is one of those moments.
The kid starts lifting and I know exactly what's about to happen. I drop my center of gravity, hoping that will stop him. It doesn't.
You lift my back off the canvas. The sweat makes my skin stick. I feel the strength in your arms and I wonder, just for a moment, has this kid been pulling his punches?
Then, I realize...yes. He has. Because deep down, he's terrified of hurting me. Of really hurting me. Even though he's lifting me up, prepping me for a move that's going to re-adjust my precariously balanced spine in ways no chiropractor would ever advise.
You haul me up above your head, pulling me so far back, my legs wrap over your shoulders. Holding me up like a sacrifice to some dark and hungry god. I feel your free arm on my thigh. It feels nice there. Strong hands. I like strong hands. Your skin feels good against my skin, Jack.
But I'm mounted above you. My back arched a little forward, my head over your head. And my eyes suddenly realize what's about to happen. They go wide. My cheeks flush. You can feel my grip around your wrist tighten. Fingernails digging into your skin. My legs on your shoulders flex. You can see my abdomen muscles tighten.
And my voice whispers, so softly...
"Jack...?"
As I PLUMMET toward the canvas, my body hitting so hard, the ropes bounce. My hands let go of your wrists and FLOP to my sides. Normally, I'd bounce off the canvas, but you did it the right way, Jack. You followed my descent with me, using your body to HAMMER mine. I don't bounce. I just hit the canvas HARD. My head SNAPS forward and then back, my wet hair slapping your back before falling over my face. My legs still locked over your shoulders. My arms flat at my sides. Head turned. My chest rising and falling...by inches.
My eyes fluttering under my wet hair. My hands still, knuckles against the mat. One leg slowly slides off your shoulder, falling to the canvas. The other still pinned above your shoulder. I don't move. Not at all.
And the referee drops down, hitting her hand on the canvas as she does, shouting the count.
"ONE!"
-
"ONE!"
Your wet hair all over your face and your knee up on my shoulder and your other leg fallen to my side and your arms out wide like that and your breasts just barely rising...
"Yes..." I mutter through clenched teeth.
All that taunting and baiting me. And here you are. Under me. The referee almost ready to make the two count. Your legs spread wide open, your shoulders down.
I lean forward, roughly and quickly, my arm wrapping around that leg on my shoulder, pushing forward, putting that knee against the canvas next to your head. My hips pressing down between your legs, wide open. I'm leaning down so hard and so far that your ass lifts up off the canvas and presses your hips up against mine. Hard, Rowan. So goddamn hard.
And I press forward until my face is above yours. Your face turned away. Like you're unable to look at me. But you can feel my hot breath on your cheek.
My hands grab your wrists and pin them up above your head. My hard hands on your wrists, pinning them down.
And in that position: your legs spread open, one of them trapped over my shoulder, the other flat on the canvas, your hands pinned above your head, my sex pressed hard against your sex, your hips bent up so far your ass is off the canvas...
That's when the referee hits her hand against the canvas and shouts, "TWO!"
-
"TWO!"
I hear the word. I feel the impact of the referee's hand hitting the canvas. And I feel...
...ohfuck i feel...
The sensation of being put down. Of another body on top of mine, holding me to the mat. My legs stretched wide open. Thighs between mine, pressing down. Hot breath on my cheek with my face turned away. My breasts pressed between us. My wrists held tightly. I almost forget about the raging inferno in my lower back. Almost.
My lips, gently parted and wet. I lift my chin and gasp, just a little as I feel your body pressed hard against mine. And for a moment, I forget what kind of fight this is.
I forget what kind of fight this is...and I want the other one.
Just for a moment. But a moment is too long for this kind of fight. Too long.
The referee's hand is almost half way down to the canvas.
Two thirds.
Right...there...
"THR--"
And I lift my right shoulder just as her hand is about to hit the mat.
Some are going to go over this match on Youtube with a fine tooth comb and swear that I didn't get my shoulder up in time. And to be honest, I'm not sure if I did. When the referee stands up holding two fingers up, you can feel a breath of relief in my chest, pressing you up.
I thought that was it. I really did.
I...don't know what to do next.
-
I'm watching the referee as her hand comes down, and I hear her say the word.
And your shoulder pops up.
So does the ref, holding up two fingers.
I sit there stunned for a moment. Stunned because I almost pinned Rowan Chance. And stunned because I didn't pin Rowan Chance.
I look at the referee, my eyes wide. I can't believe...
The crowd starts chanting, "THAT WAS THREE!!! THAT WAS THREE!!!" and I can't disagree. All the adrenaline pumping through my blood now turns the razor sharp pain in my arm and in my leg into dull throbbing aches. This is it. This is the moment I need. I can't wait. Can't waste any time. I've got about thirty seconds before the adrenaline starts to fade. I've got to act NOW.
I grab your hair and pull you up. Let you stagger in place for a moment. A quick flurry of strikes with feet and hands to the shins, the hips, the belly...I make that glass chin of yours my last target with a spinning crescent kick right on your cheek.
Hopefully that knocks you off your feet. Because it's time to finish this.
-
As you grab my hair and begin lifting me off the mat, I remember one of my earliest trainers telling me, "Never pick your opponent up. The whole point of this game is keeping them down. Why would you ever pick someone up?"
But your hand in my hair, the pain and humiliation of being lifting up off the mat as my body staggers...I have to say, it's effective.
The kicks and strikes do their job, knocking me left and right. That final shot on my jaw lands where you want it, sending my head spinning, my torso twisting. I fall to one knee, my head turned away, wet hair across my face in black strands like inky webs. Then, my body just falls. Like a heap of flesh. No will to hold it up.
I'm seeing lights. Not the lights up above the ring. The lights in my head. Flashing in my eyes. There's a deep ringing in my ears. I hear the doctor's voice.
Ms. Chance.
Your back isn't the only problem.
You suffered at least three concussions during that match.
I cannot advise you to enter the ring,
nor can I clear you for any subsequent activity.
As my eyes flutter, his voice fades away. But the ringing in my ears doesn't. I can't stop it.
-
I watch you fall, like an unstable Jenga tower, and part of me winces.
I know hurt when I see it. And there's a difference between hurt and hurt. That kick to the chin did its work. I saw your eyes roll back, saw you fall to one knee, trying to stay up, and then that collapse. I've seen wrestlers fall like that before. Mick Foley's voice comes to mind: "the lights were on but nobody was home."
And part of me wants to stop the match. Tell the referee to throw up the Dreaded X.
No. Fuck no. Don't you fall for it. She's hurt. That means it's time for the dragon to fly.
My leg may be thick with a stiff, aching pain, but I know if I hesitate at all, it's all those aches are going to turn back into something red hot and sharp. I pivot on my heel and race toward the nearest ropes. When I'm in range, I leap up, catching the top rope with the soles of my boots and my hands—just in case. The announcers are probably talking about how I usually don't use my hands, but I don't want to fuck this up.
On the top rope, I use the give to springboard up. Like a high arcing Angle moonsault.
The Flight of Dragons is what it's called. Me soaring through the air, higher than I should. I kicked off stronger than usual. Arcing through the air, bending my back, stretching my neck and chin to get the most angle I can. My arms and legs stretched out like Jeff Hardy in his Swanton Bomb or Kenny Omega flying over top rope. I continue the arc until my back is parallel to the mat...and you. The dragon tattoo landing squarely on your chest and abdomen.
At least, that's the plan. My big finish. The move that, so far, nobody's kicked out of.
I'm hoping you're too hurt to put your knees up.
Hoping.
-
All that heat, light and noise in my head makes anticipating anything impossible. And when you can't anticipate a move, you can't prep for it. You can't loosen or tense up your muscles. You can't try to turn into it or away from it, trying to minimize its impact. In short, you have to take the whole thing, no questions asked.
So when your Flight of Dragons lands on me, my body is completely unprepared. Your shoulders and upper back land exactly where they need to: my chest and belly. Not only knocking all the wind out of me, but super compressing my ribcage with a sudden, violent impact. I feel those bones press down against my lungs...feel my breast bone shudder...and I feel something inside me...
My arms and legs fly up off the canvas and my head snaps up. There's a spurt of saliva and blood from my open mouth as everything falls back to the canvas, my body curling up like one of those Mexican fireworks. My throat makes a wet, hard sound of deep pain. My eyes are shut tight. My arms clutch around my chest and I pull my knees up. A bit of blood dripping from my lips to the canvas.
I can't move. I don't want to move. The fire in my lower back. The razors in my chest. The white noise siren in my head. I'm hurt.
ohfuck...i'm hurt.
-
Everything is perfect. Everything. The launch, the arc, the landing. Everything.
And a moment after I land, I scramble over, putting my body perpendicular with yours, reaching over and grabbing your far leg. I see the blood on your lips...and I blink. The pain on your face. I hesitate. A moment.
No. It's almost over. Finish it. Right here and now.
Throwing my weight on top of you. The referee drops down and her hand hits the canvas, checking your shoulders. "ONE!"
This has got to be it. It's got to be. It's GOT to be...
-
I don't even hear the "ONE!"
And when the "TWO!" hits, I don't hear that either.
I don't hear anything. I don't see anything. And all I feel is pain. Not just the pain of today. The pain of yesterday. And the pain of the day before. Stretching all the way back.
I'm not healed. I wasn't ready.
I wasn't...
Will I ever be...
Finished.
-
And that is when we hit the ring. I'm on the left...
...and I'm on the right.
And we both SMASH DOWN on poor Jack, don't we my darling?
With twin double sledge hammers. Mine to the small of the back...
And mine to the back of the neck. And when poor Jack rolls away...
We both pick little Rowan Chance up off the mat. Peel her up off the mat after what Jack did to her.
Holding her between us...
...let's give her a kiss.
So soft...so sweet...
And then we twist her broken little body until her head is facing the canvas...
Remember this, Rowan?
Back when you were in the Daughters of Darkness?
You in the tombstone piledriver position between us...
We kiss each other between your legs...
...and then DROP YOUR FUCKING HEAD TO THE FLOOR!
And when your body collapses...
...we just slide away....
-
(A few moments previously)
"This is hard for you, isn't it?"
"It is. Shouldn't be, but it is
"You love her don't you?"
I don't answer the security guard. I'm too busy looking at her. She wasn't ready for this. It finally caught up with her.
Seeing her cough up blood has me chewing my bottom lip. Fingers tight on the railing. Knuckles going white.
I play back all the time from this point all the way back to Paris. There had to be something I could have said or done to get her off this path.
Anything
There's a buzz in my hoodie pocket and the sounds of a church organ playing the intro to one of Prince's most famous tracks emanate from within.
I pick up my phone without looking from my pocket.
"Yeah. I'm watching this."
Yeah. I'm in the arena.
I know I seem like a stalker.
No, I'm not fooling myself.
No, I didn't get to speak with her.
I know I know. But I wouldn't be me if I just gave up now would I?
I love you too.
No, I have to see this through. Thanks for trying to get me to walk out. It hurts seeing her like this.
Yeah, I know. Big dumb idiot.
I don't know if she'll see me after this. I can't tell you what kinda shape she's gonna be in. But I have to try, you know.
Bye darlin."
"She's right you know. Gal on the phone. That girl in the ring doesn't want anything to do with you right now. Maybe not ever. She's too obsessed with whatever is driving her to all these fights."
He's right. But I'm gonna be here. Watching. Waiting for a moment that may never come.
I owe her that much.
Right now though, I'm just hoping she survives this match with this kid. He's green and got potential. And he's gotten in her head.
That's a two count and she hasn't stirred.
Maybe this will end it. More likely this is just another chapter on this tragic tour of hers.
Whatever it is. I'm gonna be here.
Waiting for her.
It's what I do.
-
The smash on my spine and the back of my neck send me right off Rowan and rolling to the corner, my hands grabbing behind my head.
I see the two masked women raising Rowan up.
She looks so helpless. The look in her eyes. I don't think she even knows where she is. Or what's about to...
...oh yes she does. She sees it now.
I try getting to my feet, but my knee just gives and I fall back to the canvas, clutching at it. The adrenaline rush is over.
All I can do...is watch.
And when Rowan's body hits the canvas in that awful move, I see her torso almost crumble. Her head hits and everything else collapses. She just...falls.
The two masked women slide away like serpents. They're gone. It's just me and Rowan in the ring.
And... and... I don't know what to do.
I look at the referee. She's shrugging at me. "No disqualification," she says.
I look back at Rowan. Back at the referee.
I scream at her. "She's hurt! Rowan's hurt! Get the medic out here!"
The referee points at Rowan's body, laying like a car crash victim. "I can't do anything until one of you wins!"
I curse. Spitting from my lips. I try to stand...can't. I crawl across the ring to where Rowan Chance lays. She's...goddammit. She deserved...
I put one hand on her belly and look up at the referee. "Fucking count!" I shout.
She drops down to the canvas. "ONE!"
-
"TWO!...THREE!"
Her hands hit the canvas with certainty and finality. And I don't move. I'm barely breathing.
The referee raises up and calls for the bell. The timekeeper hits it three times, signifying the end of the match. But I'm not there to see it. I'm nowhere right now. Not here, not anywhere.
Blood on my lips. Sweat on my skin.
It's over. All over. You're still the champion, Jack.
You beat me. Held me down for the count of three.
-
As the medics come rushing out of the back, I'm screaming at them, telling them to get you on a board. They want to look at my leg, but I don't give a shit about that. I want them looking at you.
I'm looking at you.
My eyes blink and I wipe them. Shaking my head.
"You didn't deserve this," I whisper.
I look out at the audience and I see the guy in the hoodie, his hands clenching the rail. His eyes so intense. So focused. I...almost...maybe...I recognize him from somewhere...but I can't...
He knows you. He's watching you. He's afraid. No. Not afraid. Something deeper than that.
I watch the medics take you away. And I know...whatever light the guy in the hoodie has...it's the same light that's in my eyes. Only his is a lot brighter.
-
Much later, after I've regained consciousness, my hand holds my iPhone as I lay on the makeshift table they've put up.
The medic says, "We want to get you to the hospital. Spend the night for observation."
I ignore him. I'm staring at my phone.
"Miss Chance...you have a concussion. You really need to go to the hospital."
"Fine," I say, my voice as cold as...as cold as...English wind at midnight. The kind that cuts through your skin right to the bone. I look at the phone...the name on the Contacts list. My lips and fingers shaking.
"I'll get the ambulance ready," he says. I just ignore him. I'm looking at my phone. The name and number there. It's a foreign number. Wales, I think. I don't know. I've never been there.
I'm staring at the number. And I hit the green button on the bottom of the screen.
I listen. The number is going overseas. That weird beeping instead of ringing.
The phone picks up.
A recording. Two women laughing.
Telling me to leave a message.
When the beep comes around, my jaw is shaking.
Eyes wet and red.
"YOU GODDAMN BITCH!
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?
WHY CAN'T YOU LEAVE IT ALONE?
YOU WON!
YOU FUCKING WON!
THAT ISN'T ENOUGH?
YOU HAVE TO HURT ME MORE?
IS THAT IT?
IS THAT FUCKING IT?"
[/b][/i]
I pause. My throat swelling up.
"Just...j-just..."
My voice choking in my throat.
"Just...please...it...it's over. You said it was over. Please...just...l-leave me alone. You..."
And the message machine BEEPS.
I look at the phone. And then I throw it as hard as I can against the wall.
-----======THE END=====------
...or is it?
-
In case it is the end, I'll just post something now, not much, just a lil bit to share my thoughts about this story, match and everything. Ready? Here comes...
WOW!
Awesome stuff
-
Thanks! Jack is a wonderful opponent. :)
-
I stand there in the third row, watching these two women and flashing back to Minneapolis, back to when they inserted themselves to my match with Rowan. They take Rowan out and then make their exit. As they do, the one in yellow looks directly at me, as if she knew I was there.
"Did you enjoy the match, Pickle?"
She winks at me and walks out with her red partner. As I watch them go I simply shake my head, then look up and see carnage they left in the ring.
Yes...yes I did.
(Great match, Rowan and Jack!)
-
Thanks to everyone who commented and contributed! And thanks to Rowan who is an AMAZING woman to work/play with!