Megan is in such a horrifying state, her condition is so bad it's painful to look at her. It's sickening, unsettling to see her like this. I can't get over how wrecked she looks, how utterly destroyed she appears. And I especially can't ignore how much I fuckin' hate Rowan right now. This is personal, this is between them, they're settling the score - but still, fuck you, Rowan Chance. Fuck you.
I stare into the ring, and in this breathless moment, something is making me think back about that one time she came over to visit me.
Hey sugar, I'm not coming.
WTF WHY
I'm with a friend right now.
Who???
You know who.
OMG really Tiff?? That punk chick??? Everyone's here, like EVERYONE. but u would rather be with her??
I look away from my phone and stare over at the gal curled up beside me on my expensive white sofa. The smile on my face deepens as she's in the middle of telling me 'bout a match she had, this one having taken place just a little over a month ago in Philadelphia. It was brutal, it was intense, the halls of that arena echoed with rage and violence. Her words formed the most explicit pictures, her alluring voice drawing all these images of carnage and destruction. The way she spoke about the match, using such vivid detail and infectious passion, it was like I was right there in that sweaty, rowdy, raucous arena, front row centre, watching her go to war in that ring. And when she got to the part where she was thrown - no, fucking DRIVEN - through a double-stacked table, which was engulfed in flames, her lithe, taut body crashing through burning wood and sharp metal until it collided with the cold concrete of the arena floor, I thought for sure this story was over. But it wasn't the end. Far from it. The ending to this match wouldn't culminate to its explosive finish until much later, until she's broken a few kendo sticks wrapped in barbwire over her opponent's skull, until she's been driven through a bunch of steel folding chairs, until she dove off a fucking balcony to the deafening roar of a bloodthirsty crowd. She's a fuckin' Terminator.
And I sat there and listened and marvelled at her resilience, her toughness, her grit. I listened and smiled and wanted to be nowhere else but here, with her, curled up by my side, trading stories of our most vicious matches over drinks of hard liquor and wine. It's been a lil' over a year and a half since we first met, since I started a tour in the Midwest and she jumped me after a match that I had in a promotion out of Chicago, and she tied me up into a straitjacket and proclaimed she was going to make my life a living hell just because I was the champ of that promotion. Already it's been a lil' over a year and a half ago, in that time we've been trading wins and losses, beating each other silly, upping the ante every single match we got involved in, and always, always coming back for more. We couldn't get enough of each other, she hit me, I had to hit her back even harder, and then she'd come after me to hit me back even more harder. And gawd, when this gal hit ya, when she threw ya across the ring, when she's really torn into ya, it hurt. It hurt real fuckin' good. On top of that, she'd find newer, more explicit and more lecherous ways to humiliate me. It'd make me chase her from promotion to promotion, just wanting to drill her gorgeous face into the canvas and beat her senseless for pulling that stunt she did back in Missouri that one time.
And then, something changed. Spiteful hatred morphed into reckless obsession, evolved into begrudging respect, and changed into something.. into something. Affection, fondness.. lust, probably? We still beat each other stupid, I would still try and figure ways to make my Flatliner hurt her even worse than the last time I'd hit her with it, and she would still tie me up even tighter and parade me around ringside like a conquered trophy whenever she got the chance. But, after a bit of time, I realized I didn't hate her like I thought I did. I should have, I mean gawd, the amount of shit she used to pull on me, I was within every right to. But.. that just wasn't the case. I didn't despise her, I never truly hated her. I respected her, I admired her skill, her dedication to her craft, to this sport that we both loved so much. I grew to like her. A lot. She was all I ever thought about, all I ever enjoyed thinking about. She really, truly ignited something inside me that's laid dormant for a long, long time. She gave me some kind of purpose, a reason to continue wrestling, to further my career and keep going. And somewhere in the midst of our feuding, we both started to just.. talk.
After shows, we'd pass each other in the halls, and she'd smile that mischievous smile of hers at me and I'd nod to her with a warm look on my face. It was a start - if we'd so much as smell the other's perfume we'd end up in a brawl. But we were finally starting to act civil with one another. Soon, I'd find her hunkered down in a hallway post-match, and I'd limp over and bring her a fresh icepack to sooth her shoulder or neck, or she'd find me in the parking lot and we'd sit there on the hood of my car and have a few beers that she stole from the concessions. If we didn't bang each other up too badly that night, I'd see her at a club for the afterparty, or a bar up the street from the venue the show was held at, or I'd find myself knocking on the door of her motel room, or sliding the keycard that she casually slipped into my cleavage earlier into the lock of her hotel suite, or finding her waiting at my Airbnb, mischievous smile and Punky-Tails and all. A year and a half ago we were at each other's throats, now, the 2nd Guest Room in my home in Reno is practically her room whenever she visits Vegas.
Now, I'm here, teasing her "Punky-Tails" while she talks about how she caved in some unlucky bastard's sternum with a flying elbow drop from the ring apron. I turn my eyes back to my phone for a moment, frowning at the text messages that flood the screen. I'm supposed to be at the Marquee at The Cosmopolitan for a big party that's populated with the kind of crowd I run with: the elites, the rich gals, the fancy famous people, the two-faces, the fakes, the toxic, shallow, sycophantic douchebags of the entertainment and pro-wrestling worlds. I was supposed to be there about an hour or two ago. But she showed up a few hours earlier, while I was getting ready, unannounced, uninvited, but definitely always welcomed. And I don't wanna be anywhere else but here.
My thumb glides across my phone's screen, typing in a response that requires no thinking on my part, sending the reply as quickly as I can so I can get back to paying this purple-haired vixen my full attention.
You bet your ass.
We demolished my liquor cabinet that night as we traded stories about fighting in Japan, in Mexico, up in Toronto, down in Philly, over in Chicago, or the NYC underground. And I remember wrapping an arm around her shoulders, giggling about how I knew she's really a T-1000, whispering drunkenly into her ear "sugah, they'd kill ya in the hardest, in the worst possible way - and you'd just walk it off." Then, I started talking about Shibari and she got that grin on her face again..
Maybe it's that blistering, vile mist that's covered your face.
Maybe it's having to watch your skull and neck get compacted into the canvas courtesy of that jumping Widow's Bite.
Maybe it's the fact that you've been ripped apart and dragged through hell and back by this merciless witch for almost an hour now.
Maybe it's cause ya look like a fuckin' corpse.
Maybe it's all of that. Regardless, it's all making me think of that time you visited my home in Reno.
We're back in the present. You're down on the mat, covered in blood, in sweat, in whatever the fuck that purple mist is made up of. Your knee is mangled, your perfect body is battered, you're buried under Rowan's enticing ass. The count is in, the ref's hand slapping hard into the mat. Your wife is screaming so loudly it pierces my ears, but I don't care. I agree with her, I want to scream with her but I can't find my voice - too choked up on my emotions, on my fears and concerns for ya. So my hopes ride on her bellowing, raging shouts, on her rallying war cry. And ya kick out.
You kicked out.
Rowan planted ya with that Widow's Bite. And you kicked out. Rowan leapt into the air with you upside down, slamming ya head first into the canvas, the boards compacting your neck. And you kicked out. Rowan nearly put ya out for good, and you gawd-damn magnificent, beautiful, crazy bitch, you kicked out.
Rowan killed ya, and you're just gonna walk it off.
But ya have to get up first.
"C'MON MEGAN! GET UP! ON YOUR FEET! IT'S TIME YA GOT SOME KILLIN' DONE!"
