An eye rake. A fucking eye rake.
Sticking your thumb as hard as you can into my eye and ripping down. That's what you've got, Dow? That's it? The legendary Megan Punky Dow--mistress of a million signature moves (Trademark that, bitch)--sticks her goddamn thumb in my eye. Got a name for that one? I bet you do.
The Glasgow kiss snaps my head back (bet you haven't trademarked that, have you, fucking Gene Simmons of pro wrestling) and I'm double blinded. Your thumb and your fucking forehead.
Then, I feel you pull my head back by the hair. And I hear your taunt about my heart. My eyes are shut. Head still reeling. You cock your palm back and send it straight to my chest.
And my left hand catches it. With my eyes closed. My fingers curling and squeezing around yours.
I twist my hair out of your grip and slowly open my eyes. And I let you see what's in them.
Nothing.
Before, you saw our past.
Sitting on the hood of the car when I gave you the belt.
Fucking like rabbits in bed while old wrestling video tapes played on the TV.
Tag teaming as the Daughters of Darkness.
Your leg. My back.
Vegas.
But now, you look and you see Nothing.
Before, you saw the love we once shared and was lost.
Before, you saw the hatred that kept me on my feet.
Before, you saw the jealousy that burned in my belly.
Before, you saw the envy that kept me from fully embracing you.
Yeah, jealousy and envy.
We're perfect counterparts, Megan. Me with the big picture and you with the details.
I never was good with details. Keeping track of the little things. But you...you don't just obsess over them, they piss you off when they aren't right. I remember you getting so angry at me for missing our flight in Houston. I fucked up the time zones and we were stuck in the airport for 16 hours. You screamed at me until airport security threatened to use a taser, then you spent the rest of the time drinking in that airport bar, spending way too much money on watered down drinks, and you refused to talk to me. Even after I apologized.
But what I had was the big picture. Overarching themes. Storytelling. And you loved that about me. Especially in bed. When I'd weave a tapestry of possibilities. Where are we tonight? In a dingy gym? In an abandoned alley? Or maybe on a star ship slowly descending into a black hole with only one escape pod left...and there's you...and there's me.
I'd lay the groundwork and you'd fill in the details. That's why we were so perfect, Megan. And that expertise for details made me envious of you. How you know every detail of every arena, armory, bingo hall or high school gym we ever wrestled in. And where we ate afterwards and what we ate. Those details always drove me crazy. Because they were always missing in my stories. But you...you were the one who could list them off the top of your head.
And jealousy?
I remember seeing the picture of you and Gemma in your wedding clothes on her website. (No, I'm giving out the URL, you can go find it yourselves, you fucking assholes.) I printed out that picture and carried it with me for years. Looking at it before every match. One night, Red caught me. I tried to stuff it away in my bag, but he saw it. He also saw the tears I was trying to hide. Red asked me if I was okay and I told him to fuck off. I destroyed the woman I was wrestling that night. Yeah, I don't remember her name and I don't remember where it was and I don't remember what I had to eat after the match and I don't remember the name of the guy I fucked afterward; fucked him so hard he passed out.
I can hear you now. "Boys," you say with that snerk of yours.
Jealousy and envy and rage. They've been keeping me up this whole time. But they aren't in my eyes now.
And as I catch your hand as you send Tantalus' Heart Breaker at me, and as I twist that arm--hard enough to bend, but I don't have the strength to break it--I let my gaze settle on yours. Let you look in. Let you see...
...the rage is gone.
...the jealousy is gone.
...the envy is gone.
All that's left, Megan...is Nothing.
Time can stretch, like you said before. And in the heartbeats me catching the palm strike and me twisting your arm and us sharing the gaze, you see all that I laid out. All of it. But the fact of the matter is, what I say next takes only four words and sums it up perfectly.
With blood on my tongue, I whisper this:
Your raven...is dead.
Because that was what was keeping me from finishing this, Megan.
Throwing you on the railing in front of your wife? That was your raven.
Beating your pussy into a pulp? That was your raven.
Your raven dropped you on your head and sat on your face.
And she could have done so much more to hurt you. But she preferred not to, just like the Scrivener. Because something was holding her back.
And that something was you.
Her love for you.
Her jealousy of you.
Her envy of you.
Her hatred of you.
All of that held her back.
But all of that is gone.
Your raven...is dead.
And with your twisted arm in my grip, I remember sitting in a Japanese hotel room watching Jake Roberts. The Lady DDT gear was at the foot of the bed, sweaty from the match I had that night. I was looking for DDT variants. Because the promoter would only allow me to use that one move--and it's thousands of variations--I needed to keep my repertoire fresh.
And then, it hit me. A variant I could use that...
...no. I couldn't use that. Not even in this shitty Japanese promotion with the exploding ring posts and glass and barbed wire and...no. I couldn't use that. I didn't want to hurt anyone. I mean, I did want to hurt people, but I didn't want to take them out of the business. That's evil fucking heel bullshit. So, I tucked it away. Just forgot about it.
...until right this very moment.
Oh, Megan. Your cruel little heart is going to love this. And you're going to know exactly why I put it away.
Step-by-step.
Your arm curled as far as I can twist it, I pull on your hand and turn your arm, pulling you toward me. A face-to-face hammer lock.
You know about hammer locks, don't you, Megan? You know exactly how easy it is to pull a shoulder right out of the socket. To snap an arm. So easy. So goddamn easy. Everyone's forgotten about hammer locks. So busy with their super dragon spin dive slams, they've forgotten the simple, elegant and brutal beauty of a hammer lock. One extra ounce of pressure and I can put you in a cast for a year, Megan. You know that, don't you?
And as I pull the hammer lock on, that presses us together. Face-to-face. Breasts-to-breasts. Hips-to-hips.
You can see right into my eyes, Megan. Look right into that blackness. That pitch, empty space. That Nothing.
As you writhe in pain from the hammer lock, my right hand hooks around the back of your neck. My forearm under your chin. A blatant choke, but one the referee can't see. And that right hand reaches under your chin and grabs my left forearm.
See, I met Jake once. Met him at a Comic Con. I told him I was proud of what he accomplished both inside and outside the ring. We talked about addiction and recovery and healing. I've got some expertise in that field--I wasn't always a pro wrestler after all, and you can see the proof hanging on my office wall, the proof that calls me "Doctor Chance"--and I told him I was an independent wrestler and was using the DDT as a finisher. Nothing fancy. Just the DDT. I felt it was a fucking crime the WWE turned the most brutal and effective finishing move ever into a goddamn transition hold. He liked me. Flirted a little. And when I asked him the secret of the move, this is what he told me.
"Everyone thinks the headlock is important." He chortled. Yeah, he chortled. "It isn't. It's the speed of your own body pulling their head down to the mat. And the impact on the head isn't what makes the move powerful. It's the impact on the spine. That's what stuns them and knocks them out."
I thought about that as I sat in that shitty Japanese hotel watching videos. And I'm thinking about that now. Because I know you're thinking about it now, Megan.
See, this isn't a standard drop DDT. This is a spike DDT. Like the one Edge used. Where I lift your body up and drop it straight down on your head.
Starting to see it, aren't you, Megan?
But I'm not going to lift you by your trunks. I'm not going to grab your trunks and pull.
I've already got your arm and neck.
Starting to see it, aren't you Megan?
My hands are locked under you. Pulling the trunks is just pulling your own weight up by your hips.
I've got your head. And I've got your arm in a hammer lock. My hands locked under you. I'm going to lift you up using both of them: your neck and your arm.
Lifting you by the arm means I'm not only going to pull your shoulder out of its socket, there's also a good chance I'll break your elbow.
And your neck? I'll be lifting you up by your skull in a quick, sudden motion. That means separation at the top of the spinal column. The lock of my arms guarantees you'll at least be spending the next month in traction. And maybe, if I'm lucky, the rest of your goddamn life.
You see it now, don't you Megan?
You're locked in.
There's no escape.
And as my feet plant on the canvas...
...as I grin at Gemma...
...as I bend down, just a couple inches...
...I start to pull.
Me. Not your raven. Me.
That weak ass bitch--your raven--is dead.
