I started this in a wedding dress.
Hell is boiling over
And heaven is full
We're chained to the world
And we all gotta pull
Then, just as Tom says "pull" a woman in a white dress steps through illuminated by the black light. Shining in the darkness. A white veil over her face, hiding it from the crowd. In her hands is a bouquet of blood red roses. And she steps with each beat of the dirge.
And now, I'm in the middle of the ring, my domme gear on, my face a bloody mess, my eyes shut.
The ghost bride walks up the steps, almost as if she floats over them, the dress hiding her steps. And when she reaches the ropes, she ducks low, under the middle rope. And she walks to the center of the ring, her veiled face turned toward Punky.
And she pauses.
Raises one hand, holding the red roses.
And she drops them, right in the center of the ring, scattering like a blood splatter.
My face is a blood splatter. My eyes closed. My arms limp. My body bent and twisted.
Watching the tape, I see Tantalus without his mask. His eyes wet and full of rage.
He looks like furious angel. Lit up by the fire in front of him.
From the other side of the laptop monitor, I hit the Pause button just as the camera focuses on his face. I reach out and touch it with my fingertips.
I'm sorry...
Then, I hit Play. And I watch the ending of the match.
My body limp in your arms. This is academic. I've got nothing left. You're barely standing.
The referee raises my arm and it falls to my side, slapping my hip.
She shouts, "ONE!"
A group of assholes is shouting "FIGHT FOREVER!!!" Yeah, *you* do what we just did and think about fighting for another ten minutes. Bastards.
She raises my arm a second time, and it flops down. No strength, no resistance. I can't even deny gravity.
"TWO!"
You don't even need to put the hold on tight, Megan. It's a formal matter now. You could have pinned me, but you wanted to end it like this. Pinning a woman is one thing. Making her tap out is another.
But beating her down to where she can't even keep her hand up? We talked about it on those long car rides. It became a game. "Pin, Tap or KO?"
"Terry Funk," I said.
You laughed, your naked tattooed feet up on the dashboard, the remnants of hot dogs and cold drinks around the floor.
You snicker. "HA! I HAVE been in the ring with Funker. In the big shmozz at the end of the Dreamer show, ya remember. All I did was get a big overhand left that knocked me over the ropes." You giggle. "I'd never be able to tap him out since he's a crazy motherfucker. I'd have to KO him. Somehow. Mebbe with like one'a those guns they use ta kill cows in slaughterhouses. THat might do it."
"A'right ... " I tilt back a wash of Syfo seltzer, my non-alcoholic roadtrip drink of choice. "Mmmm - Madusa, in 'bout 1994. Prime era."
I raise my eyebrow, looking at you sideways. "She falls down so pretty, doesn't she? All those 'shoot' boxing matches she had in Japan? I'd give her a roundhouse kick and watch her struggle to get to her feet. I'd get so..." I suck air through my teeth. "Mmmm. KO. Absolutely."
"My turn." I get that mischievous look on my face. "Raven."
"Oh FUCK OFF," you giggle-snort, shoving at my shoulder hard enough to almost veer us into certain death.
Your cheeks flaring up immediately. And I know why.
"Uh. Fuck. Okay. This actually came up on a wrestling forum once. I was googling myself at night. EVERYONE DOES IT, DON'T FUCKING JUDGE."
"I don't judge," I say, putting my hand on my heart.
"He'd be expecting me to go hard, and nasty, and ready for it." You shift your shoulders and tap my tattooed foot on the dash. "So I'd try to catch him with a pinning combination. Somethin' REALLY techy. Somethin' that'd make his eyes get a lil' big."
I laugh out loud.
"Shut up I hate you!" You stick my pierced tongue out and raspberry.
"I'd pin him with a fuckin' La Magistral and blow everyone's minds." You reach over and tug my earlobe softly. "Brat. Since you're already in Japan, how 'bout Stan Hansen? I know ya like bein' in the ring with biiiiiig Texans ..."
I frown-smile at you. "Okay, I deserved that."
Turning my attention back to the road. "Hansen won't tap. Not for Mutoh, not for Brody and certainly not for a little girl like me. And knocking him out isn't a finish for him, either. He ain't doing that."
"I'd have to do a sneaky pin. Something that he wasn't expecting and then I can run out of the ring with him chasing me with that bullrope and cowbell swinging."
You cackle, rocking back so hard the seat creaks.
"'GET YER LIL' ASS BACK HERE, MISSY, GAWD DAMN IT!'"
I was sipping my soda through a straw when you said that. Now, it's on the steering wheel. "Damn, that's a good Hansen."
You giggle-snort. "It's not as good as my Dreamer."
"So you tell me," you suddenly say in your nasalest Yonkers voice. "Whyn't you tell me who, Ro, huh?"
"I thought you were going to say, 'Thank you, ma'am, may I have another.'"
"HAAAAA! Not 'til we get to the hotel," you purr innocently.
Eyes twinkling as you glug your Syfo and grin at me around the bottle.
"Okay, my turn..." I'm using one hand to wipe down the steering wheel.
This goes on for about a half an hour, both of us throwing names back and forth.
And then, it's my turn. And we're laughing so goddamn hard, driving gets tricky. So I pull over at a rest stop. All dark and quiet.
"The wheel is sticky," I say, pouring some water on a napkin and wiping it down for real.
"I think that's what every driver Shawn Michaels has ever had said."
"WHOAH!" And I burst into laughter again. It's the silly time. When everything is funny. And things that are legit funny are even more funny.
And in the middle of the laughter, I say, "Okay... um..."
"... me."
You stop your mad rocking laughter slowly, fading to giggles and a few gasped breaths, and manage to tilt your head to look at me after you realize I'm not laughing along.
Your eyebrows go up as you slouch back in the seat, big hazel eyes on me.
"You tryin' to get sneaky inside tips before you turn heel on me, Chance?" you half-grin, nudging me with one hand in a little bump that turns into a slow drag of your fingers over your arm.
I shake my head, my skin prickly with goosebumps. "Retaliate first, right?" I reach out and touch your cheek. Letting my thumb touch your bottom lip.
"Follow the rules," I say. Nervously.
You smile. "Let me show you how I'd take you out..."
We spent the rest of the night at that stop.
Now, the referee raises my hand a third time. Holds it there dramatically.
For
a
really
long
time...
And then, drops it.
And it hits my hip, same as before.
She throws her arms up, calling for the bell.
The crowd erupts as soon as they hear it. I don't hear it. I don't hear anything right now.
But I can see it. I can watch it on my laptop. My helpless body in your arms.
...in your arms.
"I'd knock you out, Chance," you said. "You won't tap. And I can't hold you down. I'd have to knock you out."
And I nod, my eyes wet.
Yes, Megan. That's what you'd have to do.
LVK: Thank Christ. It's over.
RP: (sound of drinking)
LVK: Hand me some of that, Rick.
RP: Here you go, old friend.
LVK: Old friend?
RP: Yeah. When you see shit like that, you realize...aw fuck it. Drink up.
(Once again, co-writing the car scene goes to The Purple Vixen.)
