Watching Rowan go to town on the modest set, like the Crue through a hotel room in the 80's, I can't help but smile. "Well, well. Our high priced ringer certainly has one HELL of a temper! You wouldn't think a ring veteran like her would get so wound up over a little trash talk, especially from a woman she's never met! I'm thinking that a few of my slings and arrows hit too close to home!"
Still, it's an intimidating show. Even for someone who hasn't been intimidated since Sadie Hawkins circa 1997. It's not the anger, the bold words, or the prospect of severe injury. I may be competing in a glorified VFW, and not locking up in front of 15-20K in MSG, but I've seen and experienced more mayhem and carnage than any Diva, Knockout or Shimmer girl could ever dream of. This is going to be a messy, brutal affair, I knew that long before I walked through that curtain. This isn't another wannabe star, some soft bodied, slow witted stripper who thinks that "pro 'rasslin'" is an easier way to pay the bills (and fund her Coke habit) than working the poll. This is Rowan Chance, THE Rowan Chance. One of the VERY few women in the industry I actually respect. Rowan Chance, in the flesh and hopping mad, screaming for me to come to the ring. That's enough to stir up a few butterflies, even when you have abs like mine. "Bikini model? I'm almost blushing!"
"Well miss big shot, you were munificent enough to come all this way, I reckon we best not keep you waiting. Smiling to myself, the music for my entrance cranking up. "You learned my name rather fast tonight. By tomorrow, EVERYONE will!"
I peer out from my present location to see you fuming in your corner, eyes transfixed on the curtain at the back of the dimly lit arena. The walls stained from decades of tobacco smoke, the very air still holding a seemingly bluish tinge, despite the clean air act they passed a decade or so ago in this state. The tension in the crowd is palpable, and the opening riff of 2 minutes to midnight gets every man, woman and child (of, who are we kidding? It's 98% dudes) on their feet. I give myself a quick once over, black boots and pads, my black trunks accented with my name spelled out down each leg, from thigh to ankle in white, skeletal script. My favorite old half top, sleeveless, cut 3 inches under my bust. Faded to the point that the Mercyful Fate script is mostly a rumor. My blonde locks, slowly yielding to their true nature, braided tightly to my shoulder blades.i take a deep breath, and push forward. Out into the open.
And right behind Rowan's corner. With the speed she hauled her ass out to the arena, after hearing my little jabs, she would have certainly crossed paths with me had I simply walked backstage. It would seem that rage has clouded her judgement, and in her haste for a reckoning, she never thought to inspect the ringside area, where I've been crouched since the end of my promo, just against the apron on the far side of the ring.
"Here I am, Rowan! Let's test that motto of yours, hmmm?!" Grabbing both of her ankles as I announce myself. Pulling back fiercely, wanting the big shot star to start this bout with a rather inglorious face plant. "Let's make an early Christmas wish, what do you say?"
