[ThePurpleVixen]

"NO, Megan. For the last fucking time."

Gemma has lots of shades to the ways she says no, and this one is a very distinctive tone that indicates she's wavering between giving in to get me to shut the fuck up and snapping and rushing at me headlong. In fact, the only reason she hasn't done that yet is the thing we're fucking debating.

"GEMS COME THE FUCK ON," I say in my most reasonable and measured tone, getting right into my darling wife's face. "This is THE BIGGEST FUCKING SHOW IN THE UK. EVER. EVERY SINGLE BRITISH WRESTLER ANYONE GIVES A FUCK ABOUT IS GONNA BE AT THIS SHOW. I fucking LIVE here now! I'M A FUCKING BRITISH WRESTLER BY MARRIAGE. I HAVE TO BE ON THIS GOD-DAMN CARD!"

Gemma's teeth grit so hard that I can hear them grating like china cups being slowly mashed together.

"My darling," she says, and now I know she's fucking angry. "Let us review the facts, shall we?"

"Facts are STUPID," I grumble, huffing over to drop into one of the incredibly plush armchairs in the living room where we've been debating this hot topic. I snatch up my iPad and scroll through the emails that sparked the argument again, glowering at the screen like it's personally offended me. Which it hasn't, yet, but the night is still young and there's more porn to look at.

"Yes, pickle, I know." Gemma's tone softens a little now that I've sat down, but she's still got her teeth gritted and her fists curled. "After that bloodbath with your fucking ex you made me watch, we had to get part of a cadaver grafted into your ACL."

I brighten up a little with a grin. "I mean, I AM the fuckin' Living Dead G-"

Gemma is suddenly THERE, snatching me by the lapels, her face right against mine.

"If you make that fucking joke again I am going to MURDER you so it will no longer apply!"

Huffing in irritation (and more than a little turned on, because Gems is super hot when she threatens to kill me), I bat her grip away from my shirt. "Hands off the fuckin' merchandise!" It's literally merchandise, one of my Human Trigger Warning shirts with a cartoon me spotlighted against a brick-wall, with a censory black bar over my mouth and null signs over my extended hands that are clearly flipping off the viewer. Gemma steps back, folding her arms under her generous tits that are always presented so nicely in the fancy blouses she wears (I think this one's a Giambattista Valli, and I never would have been able to even guess at that shit prior to marrying her), and glares at me.

"You have a cadaver's tendon, Megan. The scar is only barely what I would call healed, and the physical therapist only said you could stop using the cane because you said you were going to beat her with it. You do NOT NEED TO BE IN THE RING."

I sigh, melodramatically as possible but with a gust of real fucking despair in it, sinking into the chair. My wife softens finally, and sits on the arm of the chair, stroking my purple hair back with soft fingers as I slump against her chest.

"I do need to be in the ring, Gems. I'm goin' fuckin' CRAZY. I finally get freed of The Brokeback cxnt-" (that's our charming nickname for my ex), "-and I don't even get to enjoy it that fuckin' much since I'm not DOING anything." It's been a long couple of months. Taking the trip to the States to see Red wrestle Jenny Dare was fun, but it also reminded me of how much I wanted to fucking wrestle again. Physical therapy just wasn't doing it. I kept getting impatient and smashing my therapists through exercise equipment. The litigation costs were adding up. And Gemma couldn't even take it out on me like she usually did because of my knee - through most of our marriage, these types of arguments would end up with one of us naked in a single leg crab being fingerfucked senseless. Now that sort of marital bliss had to wait, and we were both fucking frustrated by it.

"I know, pickle." She says, softer than she almost ever says anything. For all our famously loud and brutal arguments and bloody marital brawls, Gemma is better at calming me than anyone alive. "But anyone we put you in the ring with is going to go after your knee like a bloody mad dog, and I can't watch you get tortured again."

"I can fuckin' stop any bitch fro-"

She presses a finger to my lips, softly, and strokes my cheek, shaking her head gently.

"Even an absolute shit wrestler could get lucky and kick your knee out from under you just once, and that's all it would take. And there won't be any shit wrestlers on this show, pickle."

I siiiiiiiiigh again, deeper and slower, tilting my head to kiss at her hand before I slump over and nestle my head against her tits, my arms sliding around her waist as she perches on the edge of the overstuffed chair. Normally nothing makes me feel better than being nestled against Gemma's tits, but even they can't save me from this level of despair.

"EVERYONE is gonna be there, Gems. It's the biggest show in fucking British history. EVERYONE is gonna be there! There's gonna be appearances by Johnny Saint, Marty Jones, Fit Finlay, William Regal, Mark Rocco-"

"I know who's on the fucking card, Megan. I am also on it."

"- Robbie Brookside, and Peter Thornley, and there's so many fuckin' matches! Almost the whole Knight family, Doug Williams, PAC, Marty Scurll, my boy Will Ospreay, Pete Dunne, Christopher Daniels, Trent Seven, Wolfgang, ZSJ, BT Gunn, Colt Cabana, Joe Hendry, fuckin' GRADO, Matt Cross, Lionheart, Kasey, Kay Lee Rae, Bren Rua, Blue Nikita, Emily Layne, Viper, Queen Maya-"

"Once again, Megan: I am on the fucking card."

"- AND YOU ARE WRESTLING CALLI AND IF I AM NOT ON THIS SHOW I AM GONNA DIE -"

My arms tighten around her waist and Gemma begins rasping for breath a little, pushing at my head to try to pry free.

"Megan ... calm unnhhhh down now, pickle ... hahhhh fuck you're hurting my ribs a little, love."

"-I GOTTA BE AT THE FUCKING O2 ARENA, GEMS. I GOTTA WRESTLE SOMEONE OR MY HEAD'S GONNA FUCKIN' RUPTURE AND SPLATTERS MY BRAINS ALL OVER THE PLACE."

Gemma begins pounding on my head in the loving way she has with both fists.

"LISTEN TO ME, MEGAN! THE ONLY WAY YOU ARE GETTING IN THAT FUCKING RING IS IF YOU FIND SOMEONE TO WRESTLE WHO IS NOT GOING TO HURT YOU IN ANY FUCKING WAY AND WE BOTH KNOW THAT DOES NOT INCLUDE ME NOW LET ME GO BEFORE I BREAK YOUR FUCKING HEAD YOU TART!"

And repaired ACL or not, I'm about to yank her to the floor and test my new Donjoy custom-fitted kneebrace against the side of her gorgeous head when suddenly -

- the doorbell of Rox Manor rings.

As per our nuptial contract, the doorbell plays Mick Foley's theme, "Wreck" by Jim Johnston in lovely chiming chords.

Both of us look at each other in mid-grapple and then out towards the entry hall, like ... well, like a couple of bitches who just heard the doorbell ring.

"... if that's Tantalus here for that dreadful fucking mask, shoot him."

"Why don't YOU shoot him?"

"I'm British, love. We don't use fucking guns."

She slides off the chair, and helps me out of it. I adjust my new kneebrace, still getting used to the feel of it, and don't bother getting the shotgun from the hidden panel in the front hall. We each just take a weapon from the umbrella stand which is jammed FULL of plunder as we make our way to the front hall. I get a home-made flail I crafted back in my CZW days, made of lengths of steel chain threaded through drilled billiard balls, knotted and nailed to an axehandle. Gemma gets a G-Force cricket bat. We have a ton of those fucking things all over the house since her merchandising deal with Gunn & Moore.

There's a looming figure outside the door.

"Arguably, we could have checked the security systems or had the staff answer if we were genuinely concerned," Gemma points out.

"I know. I just wanna beat somethin' to pulpy bits."

Gemma yanks the door open ...

[RedEnforcer]

The door opens and Gemma is standing there with a cricket bat that is almost as long as she is tall. Megan is there with a flail that just looks nasty.

Both of them are staring at me like I'm a zombie about to get smashed. Before I can utter a word, the door closes on me.

This gives me a moment to stop and reflect and wonder what in the fuck I'm actually doing here.

First off, understand this. I hate to fly.
Seriously. I HATE FLYING. 

I'm very much a drive around kinda guy. Can't eat at the truck stops if you fly. Funny story. The first time I flew was when I was in high school. This is the late 80s now. So no internet. And all I ever saw of planes was from movies and TV. So I have a window seat, great. But at the wing, boo. When we are coming down, I look out the window and to me it looked like the wing exploded. Metal hunks were pulled up from top and bottom of the wing. I freaked out. We're talkin' William Shatner level freak out with some hyperventilation. Then I realized those were all kinds of flaps designed to slow the plane down. I'd never seen such a thing.

Yeah, I almost Shatner'ed my pants. I'm not proud, but I can look back and have a sensible chuckle.

And to top it all off, after I got over that, I find out my luggage went to Cleveland. Thing is I was in Washington, DC.  And guess what, that's become a recurring theme for me. My luggage likes Cleveland. Except the one time I actually flew to Cleveland. Then it ended up in Toronto.

So given my bad luck and distaste for flying, why in the wide world of sports would I get on a Transatlantic flight?  Hours and hours of being cramped in a seat with a bad movie and worse food (which considering some of the dives I've eaten in on the road is saying something) and the smell. Lord the smell.

I had to check on Megan. Paris was just damn brutal. I don't know if I'll ever get over Paris. And when she and Gems went to see me fight Jenny, I didn't have too much time to spend with them just hanging out. And I wasn't sure when I would again. So when stuff happened and I had a open spot in my schedule I decided to drop in on the girls and see how they were doing.

I didn't expect to be met with bludgeoning and flailing equipment. I'm second guessing now my decision to surprise the two. Of course when it comes to these two, it doesn't take much interaction to make you question your life choices.

And I'm standing there in front of the door with my beat up Clemson Tigers hat, my dad's aviator shades, my favorite pair of worn used-to-be blue jeans and my Chuck Taylors.  Oh and my shirt. Which I thought would get a laugh.  It's an old black shirt with white script and a purple heart on it that says.

"I <3 My GothPrincess"

I'm not even sure what that means. I think it got mixed into some of my clothes over at the Mirc Landromat or something. Or maybe it's one of Jimmy Jacobs's test runs at merch. Anyways, it was the silliest thing I could think of and I got a few looks on the plane for sure.

So, I'm not sure how much longer I should wait and my finger moves over to the doorbell again and....

[ThePurpleVixen]

Gemma swings the door shut and we immediately draw close, huddling up. We do the same thing every time we're about to jump some bitch backstage or waylay a referee or break a barstool over Calli's back while one of us distracts her with an offer of free gin. We're natural huddlers. It's one reason we work so well together.

"That was really fuckin' weird timing, right?" I say, my voice hushed as I glance at the door with Red on the other side of the oak, faintly visible through the cloudy polymer glazing. There used to be fancy stained glass there but we got tired of paying for it to be replaced everytime someone got tackled or suplexed through the front door. Now it's steel-reinforced oak with bulletproof pearly-white Lexan diamond cutouts. Getting suplexed into that shit is like hitting a semi-truck, as I've both found out and demonstrated.

"REALLY bloody weird," Gemma nods. "Who is that American tourist and why is he here?"

"... Gems, that's Reddy."

Gemma stared blankly at me. "But Red wears a mask."

"You've SEEN Red without a mask, Gemma."

"Didn't he used to wear suits?"

"Calli made him wear suits when he was with the Countdown. You know this. How much have you had to drink today?"

She grins at me, vulpine and teasing with a faint cloud of Scotch on her breath. "Depends on what time it is by now."

I backhand her fondly in the tits, drawing a grunt. "Bitch. No, this is how he normally dresses, like for real. I drove all over the fuckin' south with him and he was probably wearin' that exact same pair of jeans."

She glances back over her shoulder at the door, hefting her G-force bat consideringly.

"Do you think that bitch sent him?"

I shake my head, firmly. "No. She'd never let him show up without his mask on."

Surprisingly, Gemma agrees with me for once, and nods. "And what's that bloody ridiculous T-shirt?"

My eyes narrow and my teeth clench a little for no reason I am ever going to explain, to Gemma or anyone else who might hypothetically read an account of these events now or anytime in the mysterious future. "I have no idea," I say firmly. "BUT - this is perfect! Reddy won't hurt me!"

Gemma looks non-plussed. She so rarely looks plussed, but she's way short on plusses this time.

"Haven't you poison misted, Mindfucked, and superkicked him repeatedly?"

I flap my hand dismissively. "FONDLY. ALL fondly. Besides ... if we ASK, he won't hurt me." I grin, the idea starting to burn irresistibly. A match at the O2 Arena, the biggest show in UK history, the supercard to end all supercards in the Western world, and I'll get to fucking be on it with the man who's basically my oldest friend in the business. "Trust me. TRUST me on this, Gems. In any fight in the world, the two people I'd want beside me are you and Reddy. Besides, you can be at ringside and beat him senseless with a bat if he tries anything. I'll take the DQ." I kiss her, warmly, and she hesitates a moment before wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me close, firmly sealing the agreement. For a moment we get lost in the swirl of our tongues and the familiar velvet softness of each other's lips and the press of our bodies and the flaring heat starts to smolder between us again because we're basically fucking sodium and water and we ignite instantly in proximity, but then the doorbell rings again.

Mick Foley's theme chimes out once more, and I break the kiss with my cheeks flushed. "Can I tell him?"

Gemma nods grandly, and gives my ass a fond squeeze. "Let him in, pickle. I'll go get things started with the contracts. Should be an easy enough sale - Punky's return AND the bloody Red Enforcer? I'll attach your contracts as riders to mine and get us all a bigger payday than even those Bullet Club fuckers." She smiles her wicked business-lady smile that makes my thighs shiver a little and pads away, her ass swaying alluringly, drawing my eyes after it until she turns a corner, and then my head snaps back forward.

I grin, my eyes flashing, and yank the door open, lunging out to fondly snatch Red by the front of that fucking silly T-shirt with the hand not currently holding a billiard ball-and-chain flail, and YANK him inside the house, planting my feet to haul his bigger frame in like someone WAY too eager to buy Avon products. "GOOD NEWS, Reddy! YOU AN' ME ARE GONNA WRASSLE! The O2 Arena! The London Supershow! An' since it'll be my first time in the ring in a buncha weeks they're gonna have to bump it WAY up the card!" My mouth is running at full motor now, and I gesture enthusiastically with the flail, not quite noticing as Reddy has to duck the swirling clack of the deadly weapon. I continue to drag him, down through the elegant tiled front hall and the smell of old Welsh wood that makes up the bones of the house, towards the breakfast hall and the bar lounge-slash-trophy room beyond. As I drag him along I keep talking. I always keep talking. Paul Neary would've written "Motormouth" about me if I wasn't only like 8 at the time it was written.

"And we're gonna do a FUN show and it's gonna be CLEAN an' I'm not gonna HIT you with any weapons-" my flail jingles again, almost crashing the swinging billiard balls through a 4500-Euro Limoges vase on the sideboard. "- an' I'm not even gonna nutshot ya, I PROMISE, an' the only thing, THE ONLY THING, REDDY -" I stop suddenly, drawing up close to him, my left hand firmly clutched around the purple heart on his shirt, going to the tiptoes of my left foot to press my nose against his, "Is ya ain't allowed to try any fucking leglocks or anything an' don't make me run too fast an' don't let me try to do any fuckin' suicidas, an' if ya hurt me then Gems gets to beat you into a coma with her bat. Okay? You'll do it, right?"

We arrive in the lounge as I finish going over the basics of the contractual grappling agreement in perfectly reasonable legal terms. The lounge is the centerpiece of Rox Manor, with its bay window, authentic pub seats, brass railed bar, and huge array of trophies mounted all over the two-story walls. The Red Queen and one of Gemma's original (pre Gunn & Moore) cricket bats with G-Force spray painted down the side and dark blood staining the tip are mounted like swords behind the bar, above the elegant and dazzling array of liquor. One of the new features is the charred but recognizable black leather of Tantalus' mask, sealed in a block of clear epoxy resin, mounted above the bar where once would have hung a huge tusked elephant head. Affixed to the clear block is the simple brass plaque reading "Paris".

But none of that gets a GLANCE from me, because my eyes are on my friend Reddy, alight and gleaming, and a grin is painted on my face because I know that no matter what - no matter how off-guard I take him, no matter how much casual violence is threatened, no matter what Rowan may have said or done to him in the past - there's no one who can have this match with me except Reddy. No one else I'd trust to keep me safe, no one else to put on the show I wanna put on.

Wrestling is fucking fun, and while it can be easy to forget that when your ex is mangling your pussy in front of your blood-spattered wife, I'm gonna make sure EVERYONE in the O2 Arena remembers how much fun we're supposed to be having.

Gemma approaches, with her sexy lil' business-glasses on, carrying a pair of digital tablets and a clipboard with a hand-scanner attached to it. But my eyes are on Reddy. I grin again, broad and bright, and rock back up to my toes to kiss the tip of his nose.

"Say yes."

[RedEnforcer]

I am seriously beginning to think this has been one major mistake.

I am dog tired. I think I got conned into overpaying for a cab to get here. And this bag is heavy. I set my carry on bag down and I start my nervous swaying back and forth.

Then the door bursts open.

All I can see is a hand snatching at my shirt.

I get jerked inside and the flurry of motion, sound and sight begins.

Megan is excited about something. The speed at which she is speaking would put John Moschitta to shame. But I doubt Megan is rambling about Micro Machines.

I hear wrassle, O2 and London Supershow.
I probably would have heard more if I was not otherwise occupied avoiding being impacted by billiard balls on a flail.
And of course only Megan would have a billiard ball flail with five balls whose numbers match her hometown zip code.

Yeah I think about that as I see the numbers whizzing by my face as I try to keep from being concussed.

You know how they say Italians talk with their hands, imagine that type of frenetic speech while those hands are holding a deadly weapon.

At this point, I know this is a mistake.

Oh Megan is still talking. Something about fun and clean and no weapons punctuated by a very expensive looking vase (with the ahhhh sound) being nearly pulverized.

And then she wheels around on me.

Gets right in my face.

And right there I remember why I love this mad, insane woman. Passion. A lot of people will say that passion burns hot and fades. Not with Megan. She loves completely, without reservation. She is loyal and loving and caring. I look at her now, her nose booping mine and I see that same woman who understands the joy of scattered, smothered and covered while driving those long Carolina backroads.

I honestly thought Paris would have crushed that out of her. I underestimated her. She is still that excitable Megan. And what can you do? Wait she wants me to wrestle her?

I am trying to process all this when Gemma arrives. All business. If I had her as a manager for my career, I would be able to afford a place like this. And she has tablets and a clipboard. I thought I would surprise them but man did I fall into a trap.  Of course Gemma would go along with this. Superman has kryptonite. Gemma has Megan.

There are so many reasons to say no to this. Her knee got severely fucked up. The brace she wears now looks like construction equipment. She could step wrong or slip or one of a thousand different things could go wrong.

And just as I am about to list all the reasons why I am saying no, she gives me that smile again.

Kisses my nose.

And I.....

Yes

[ThePurpleVixen]

"FUCK YEAH!"

I pounce on Reddy, snaring him in a hug so god-damn tight that it'd qualify as assault in most countries. I know Bayley thinks she's a hugger, but I'd crush that happy bitch into a bag of powdered ribs and squashed tits with the relentless force of my joy. I'm such a hugger that bears are scared. I hug so intensely that I'm sponsored by Apeiro Meditech, and I'll save you the Google search to explain that joke - they make Judet screw-plates that are used to surgically repair fractured ribs. I once hugged a bag of charcoal and ended up with bunch of diamonds. But I don't kill Reddy with my love. I need him alive so we can wrestle at the O2 Arena. Also he's like one of my best friends. So I hug him JUST hard enough to cause a little thoracic splintering and make it clear just how much I love him.

I peel myself off when Gemma clears her throat, bouncing on my toes. Considering we were lounging around the house, we're both looking fairly respectable; Gemma's in her business attire since she was dressed up for an early morning Skype meeting, with a blouse showing just enough cleavage to draw the eye and slacks that cling to her ass just distractingly enough to draw my grabby hands after her whenever she walks by, opening and closing like hungry Missus Pac-Mans. I'm wearing my Human Trigger Warning shirt (a fresh one - it hasn't been cut up for the ring or bled on by anyone yet), shiny workout shorts, my shiny black Donjoy kneebrace with thigh and calf mounts and a custom skull engraving, and a megawatt grin. We're both dressed better than Red, but that's because Red dresses like he's on his way to a flea market dressed in clothes he bought at a slightly worse flea market. Especially that fucking t-shirt.

Still, though. So fucking happy.

Gemma politely snatches Red by the shirt, figuring that's the correct way to drag him around since that's how I hauled him into the house. She drags him over to the bar, and leans up on the brass rail. My wife looks so damn natural at the bar. Sometimes I think she should own a pub, but then we probably wouldn't have met. Have I told you guys about the first time we met, Gemma and I? I mean, I did during the account of my match with Rowan in Paris, but I dunno if all of you had enough vacation time to take off work and finish that story yet. Anyway, Gems was already an established and SUPER-hot wrestler when I was coming up through my training in Portland, Puerto Rico and Japan, and one of my first big appearances was jumping her from the crowd and laying her out with a cradle piledriver in the aisle. It was such a fucking meet-cute. No wonder she loves me so much.

Gemma goes over the details; the O2 Arena show is being put on by a consortium of interested parties, including Jim Smallman, Mark Dallas, Saraya Knight and Marty Jones, represented as a temporary trust and you know what who the fuck cares about THAT bullshit but the IMPORTANT bits are the ones where she shows Reddy where to sign because Gemma is generally as clever as fuck (regardless of what Callista Quinn argues to the contrary) and her contract to appear at the supershow includes riders giving her partial creative control and contractual preference for booking.

Basically my wifey gets to tell those fuckers who else gets to appear on the card, and fuck those chumps if they wanna get the fucking Bucks or something. I mean, I'm actually pretty sure the Bucks are gonna be there and they'd be stupid NOT to put them on the card but WHATEVER, I'M FORMALLY AND OFFICIALLY SAYING THAT MY MATCH AGAINST RED IS GONNA BE BETTER THAN ANYTHING THOSE SUPERKICK PARTYING TOO-SWEETING GLIB FUCKERS COULD PUT ON. DON'T LIKE IT, BUCKS? COME AT ME, BROS.

Wait, telling the Young Bucks to come at me sounds kinda like the start of a porno. Although they'd be more likely to come at Gemma, since she's into that kinda thing.

... I'll tell Gems to get the legal rights to that particular IP.

ANYWAY.

Gemma walks Red through the basics and gets him to put his thumb down here and there and sign here and there and then they get everything finished as I'm bouncing on my toes, pacing eagerly back and forth, shadowboxing and already imagining the kind fo match me and Reddy can put on. Sure, there's some limitations - I can't go SUPER fast right now with the scar on the back of my knee so fresh, and until the grafted ACL gets more integrated I can't risk stretching it too far, which means no leglocks and no superkicks and no springboarding (which I'm kinda getting away from at this point in my career anyway. I had my time flying around like a fucking lunatic. Now I prefer to go at people full speed at ground level). But we can still do a LOT to entertain these fuckers. We can make them have just as much fun as we will.

And you and me, Reddy? We're gonna have some fucking fun.

Shit! I need to get dressed! We're gonna have to do a ROAD TRIP. No time to hang out here at Rox Manor! I've been hanging out at home for fucking months.

Reddy's just wrapping up, getting everything signed, sealed and digitally transmitted. He looks like he's just realizing he left his stuff on the front step when I invited him in. Fortunately, just then Killingsworth, our darling butler shows up, carrying Red's bag! He's such a dear old man, with his high domed forehead seamed with deep wrinkles and crinkly dark ancient eyes and sunken cheeks and oddly sharp teeth, and he has a delightful way of moving so silently you never even know he's there.

He sidles right up behind Red like a proper gentleman's gentleman, ready to give Reddy his bag.

[RedEnforcer]

Even as the words come out of my mouth, I'm starting to have second thoughts.

Arms like steel cables wrap around me and I can feel my vertebrae realigning and popping and crackling in place.  Megan is happy. Happiest I've seen her in some time. No way in hell I'm taking that away from her. We'll figure it out. I'll keep her safe.

And Gemma clears her throat, almost like she's reading my mind and saying "Damn right you will pickle, or I will cave in your skull." 

My eyes wander. I admit it. How could they not? Gemma's dressed in her best negotiating wear. She's got an amazing body and she knows how to use it to her advantage. And how she has those slacks hug her cheeks just so while still looking professional, it's just fashion magic I tell you.  She's kinda looking at me sideways and I realize this is the first time she's seen me in my comfort gear.

Callista, love her to death, was a fun boss in Countdown. Except the fact she made me wear suits. I understood the idea. I just kinda felt as out of place as Arn probably felt dressing up with the Horsemen.  And if I'm on a plane, damn right I'm gonna feel comfortable physically even if I'm not comfie emotionally. I've had these particular set of loose fitting, Wrangler knock offs for close to 30 years now. Mom always did like going to flea markets for what she called "dungarees." 

That kinda sums me up too. When I find something comfortable, something that just feels right, I go with it. My friendship with Megan is a lot like that. Sure she's loud, brash, drinks a little more than I'd like and all that, but she's a steady hand and always fun to just hang with. The thing with Megan is there is no guesswork involved. You always know exactly where you stand with her.  That foundation of trust means a lot, especially in this crazy universe in which we inhabit where people will trash you or stab you in the back or treat you badly at the drop of a hat.

Now don't get me wrong, she loves shenaxxxxns too. Like that one time in Augusta when she made a new friend and brought her to the room we were sharing.  I learned a few things that night. Cheap hotel bathtubs aren't comfortable to sleep in. Megan is loud at pretty much everything.  And don't ever fall asleep while she's still drunk and awake or you'll get nicely decorated finger and toe nails.

And as this little tasmanian devilish ball of fun and fury disengages herself from me, Gemma snags my shirt and leads me to the bar. What do these two have against this shirt? I figured Gemma at least would be into GothPrincesses.  I dunno. Next time I'll just wear my Scurll Villain Club shirt.

Then we have the Gemma Rox version of the Genie contract scene from Aladdin. Have you ever heard Gemma's voice? Holy crap on a cracker. She could recite the tax code of any country and make it sound erotic. When she's in business mode it's not a flirtatious as when she's plastered, but damn it still holds your attention. Gems and I don't get to hang out near as much as I'd like. She's got her fingers in so many pies (figurative business pies people, not what the Rock calls pie..sheesh) it's amazing she has any time for herself. But still as she's giving me the legal run down for how this whole thing can go and is working I just feel that stupid grin come on my face. The one I get before I say something really stupidly obvious and all.

"Gawd Gemma you're just so fucking beautiful this morning."

And yeah, that stopped things for two seconds as she just kinda smirked and went on. I know she has all the business stuff worked out so I really am not paying too much attention because I trust her. I just love hearing her voice, that accent and inflection. And remembering times when the words being said were quite a bit different.  Of course when she mentioned the pay and the zeroes for that, my reaction was erudite and eloquent.

"Whaaaaaaaat?"

Let's just say it was a number that would let me not wrestle for half the year and still be ok.

"Well that's not just the appearance fee but also the merch sales, the meet and greet beforehand and..."

And holy shit.

Holy Shit.

HOLY SHIT.

I'm actually doing this.

I'm in a bit of a daze when I do the thumbprint thing. My handwriting for my signature is mostly a hazy, almost scratchy kinda calligraphy.  I'm kinda out of it and I think I might need some gum. Shit, left that in my carry on bag. My bag is still at the front door.

Your baaag, sirrrrr

I don't like being snuck up from behind.  I hate it.  I blame my dad for that. He was a Marine and did time as an MP and a tour of Vietnam and after retirement did security.  He never never liked sitting with his back exposed. He always found the spot in the restaurant where he could put his back to the wall and look outward.  He instilled that in me as well.  So when a voice cold as winter and biting as that northern wind that brings lake effect snow down upon you echoes in my ears from behind, my head whips around like it was on a swivel. And when I turn and see Angus Scrimm staring at me with a piercing gaze, holding my heavy bag with just his thumb and forefinger, I do what comes naturally.

"HOLY FUCKING SHIT"  I scream out about 2 octaves too high and while in midair leap.

Gemma catches me and cradles me in her arms as I tremble when I ask

"Why is your butler the fucking Tall Man?"

"Red"

"Megan, who the fuck is this?"

She is snickering and about to lose it. Thanks a fucking lot.

"RED!"

"Holy shit holy shit holy shit"

"RED! I CANNOT FUCKING...."

WHOMP

"Stupid bastard, you deserved that"

Gemma held me for as long as she could, but with me quaking in fear and not listening to her, I guess I deserved to be dropped to the floor a a dumbass sack of potatoes. The Tall Man (I don't care what his actual name is ..Killingsworth? Seriously? How is he not a serial killer?)  looks down on me and lets my bag down gently beside me. His nose is turned up and he takes a sanitary wipe out of nowhere and cleans off the thumb and forefinger he was using to hold my bag. I scramble up to my feet, watching to see if he was going to unleash any of his silvery balls of death towards me. He ignored me and looked at Gemma. "If that is all miss."

I swear, that motherfucker is a ghost he moved so silently.

She dismisses him and rubs her arms a bit before grabbing a drink for herself. Megan is just holding her ribs and cackling like bad Halloween toy. 

"That was...*snerk*...oh..that was...*snerk* like Velma and Shaggy...OH MY GOD I AM DYING"

I wanna just hide now when another thought occurs to me.

"Hey when are we going to head over to London? Now or tonight?"

I look at Megan and she's still in her tee shirt and cotton shorts with her hair down. She looks like she's finally recovering from laughing.

I look at Gemma for a moment and she just points back at Megan.

I look back and Megan's at the lounge doorway, clothes changed, wearing sunglasses and her gear bag in her hand.

"She's been dying to do this since before you showed up." 

I look back at Gemma, then Megan, then Gemma, then Megan.

"Reddy, will you stop practicing for Wimbledon and come on! I got plans!"

And it's at this point I turn and look at you, dear reader,

Yes, this is gonna be a wild ride. So, buckle up.

*wink*

[ThePurpleVixen]

I start walking, and Reddy moves to catch up because he knows that once I get going nothing tends to stop me. I'm a real juggernaut of a bitch. I talk as we walk through Rox Manor's lovely breakfast room back towards the front hall.

"So here's the deal, Reddy." I'm dressed to travel, in my Wayfarers with the neon green frames and my lucky Nevermind the Bollocks shirt and my big bomber jacket with the zillion buttons and pins, my black Wranglers with the leather knee patches, and my Wolverines. My boots are the best there is at what they do, and that's be warm and comfortable for road trips while still being able to kick someone's head in if I need to.

Some people might wonder how I got dressed so fast. Those people haven't tried being stuck at home for weeks with nothing to entertain you but a physical therapist who seems to intensely hate you and a wife you want very badly to beat up but can't because of your stupid knee. I am READY to get the fuck out of the house.

"We've got like ... two weeks before the Supershow. Setup starts two days before. I wanna get to London and take some time to fuckin' PRACTICE. I gotta get in the RING again, and not my home ring, because I fuckin' know that one too well. I need a NEW ring. MAMA'S HUNGRY FOR SOME STRANGE, BABY."

"WHAT?!" I hear Gemma's voice down the hall in a tone of dulcet rage. In addition to having excellent hearing, my wife has a voice like cannonfire. Since I also have an artillery yell, we end up communicating this way quite a bit, echoing through the vaulted halls across the old manor.

"I MEAN STRANGE WRESTLING RINGS NOT STRANGE cxntS."

"OH THAT'S FINE, THEN. IF YOU DO FUCK A STRANGE cxnt JUST MAKE SURE TO SEND ME A PICTURE."

"I KNOW THE RULE, BABY. LOVE YA!"

"LOVE YOU, PICKLE! RED, IF YOU HURT HER EVEN SLIGHTLY, I WILL HAVE YOU KILLED SLOWLY AND BURIED IN A FUCKING POTTER'S FIELD!"

I grin at Reddy, who's cradling his ears and blinking like someone who was just standing too close to a bomb test. He seems slightly worried about the ominous death threat.

"Don't worry, Reddy, she wouldn't really kill you."

"Oh goo-"

I nod happily. "She'd just have Killingsworth do it."

Red's face pales beautifully.

"You know he's NEVER been caught?"

Red's lips are moving like a fish out of water that's terrified of a movie monster.

I grin broadly as a Cheshire cat. Reddy'll probably figure out I'm kidding. Unless I'm not. Honestly, neither Gemma nor I know WHAT Killingsworth gets up to on his days off, although he does seem to have an interest in contact juggling.

"C'mon. We're gonna take a road trip! JUST LIKE OLD TIMES!"

I kick the door open and because Gemma had several minutes to plan this and is extremely well-connected and because we're in a comedy story and not a super serious one, Jeremy Clarkson pulls up in a white-as-fucking-cocaine Lexus LFA, grumbling as he unfolds his huge Frankenstein's monster frame from the elegant 2-seat racer with an actual boot you can use.

"This car costs over 350,000 pounds, and I am giving it to YOU, Dow? The one time we tried to have you on Top Gear, you piledrove the Stig into the hood of a bloody Ariel Atom. Tell Gemma she owes me more than a damn favor for th-" he begins in his grumbly presenter's growl. I flap a dismissive hand back at the house as I hoist my bag into the extremely elegant trunk.

"She's inside, done with appointments for the day, bored as fuck, and we haven't gotten to fuckin' wrestle in months. If your giant old ass can fuckin' manage to get her in a Boston crab ..."

And he's gone, leaving just a tall jingoistic dust cloud.

"Quicker'n he looks."

"Well, he's not Captain Slow."

I laugh, and Red hands me his bag - and then bolts for the car!

"I CALL DRIVER!" he bellows, lunging into the seat ... on the LEFT side.

I patiently pad around to the right side, and slide in, where Clarkson has left the keys in the ignition.

"Wrong side, yank." I grin at Reddy as he blinks at me and then glares.

"You've gone native, Megan. That's disgusting. I'm gonna have to reclaim your John Denver records."

"HA! DREAM ON, MASKED MAN. What do you think this iPod is full of?"

I plug it into the incredibly elaborate sound system, crank the Morel Supremo speakers up to ear-bleeding, and cue up "Thank God I'm A Country Boy".

"SING IT WITH ME, REDDY. WE'RE HEADED TO FUCKIN' LONDON."

And I floor it. This'll be a good warm-up for my knee. The Lexus LFA roars like a werewolf that's stepped in a gin trap, and LEAPS up the drive of Rox Manor - leaving behind the sound of my wife throwing famed presenter Jeremy Clarkson headfirst through a window - and onto the Welsh roads, heading towards London.

Or, like, somewhere. I didn't exactly look up directions first.

[RedEnforcer]

In a car hitting the road with Megan. The car is a bit nicer than it used to be, but hearing John Denver blaring does tend to take me back.

In my career of taking on trainees and road buddies, I've only ever picked up people at the airport twice. I don't like going to airports to begin with, and I really don't like meeting people there. Airports don't react well to people wearing masks. Well except in Mexico. I've done some tours in Mexico where I've never had to take my mask off in public at all. Of course wrestling is part of the culture there not like it is here. I admit, I did learn respect for the mask from Hector Guerrero during one of his JCP runs. Even if the gimmick was dorky, you respected the mask. That's served me well.

And if it weren't Scotty asking me to help this woman out, I wouldn't be here at the airport fully dressed, but feeling completely naked without my mask on.  I'm sure I looked to some like a guy jonesing for a cigarette. In fact, come to think of it, I was wearing very nearly this same outfit.  Same Clemson hat but in better shape, same bluer then jeans, same Chucks and same aviator shades. The shirt I picked out was to help the person feel comfortable with me. Since she was from Portland and into wrestling, I figured there was only one shirt to wear. I had on a classic white t-shirt with red collar and bands at the arms emblazoned with the words "HOT ROD!"  When I was a kid and saw Rowdy Roddy on my screen I knew I wanted to be him.  Brash, cocky, yelling at the announcers and fully confident in his abilities, I was none of those things.

But wrestling, wrestling gave me something to latch onto. Here were heroes and villains in the flesh and not just in the comic books and fantasy tales I loved so much. Good guys upheld the cause, bad guys cheated. It was high drama with a physical form.

And now here I was in an airport doing a favor for a guy who helped me out when I was getting started. Passing on knowledge to a younger generation. Scotty told me this woman was different. When Raven, the master of puppets punk lord of ECW tells you someone is different, your imagination runs wild.  What he didn't tell me, the bastard, was how beautiful she was.

I could see a faint hint of purple bopping up from the baggage claim area, so I grabbed the sign that had "Megan Dow" written on it and held it up. I saw here long before she saw me and I could see what Scotty meant and then some.

She moved like a fighter. Her head was on a swivel and she looked back and forth like a predator dropped down in an unfamiliar territory. I'd worked security with my dad and his MP training so I recognized the look of someone checking out a place for exits and for possible trouble. I've done it myself on occasion.  She definitely dressed differently. Some band I can't remember on a black shirt, those black combat looking boots. Short black shorts that were high enough you could see how strong her legs were and how they contrasted pale to the black clothes she wore.  I noticed right away, even as tough as she looked, she was pretty.

But then she turned her head towards me, purple hair swirling in slow motion (I swear) and those intense eyes of hers saw my sign.  She went from on guard to recognition in a heartbeat and her eyes moved to meet mine and she smiled.

This wasn't one of those fake plastic smiles or a smile of relief or anything like that. Knowing her now I realize it was a "finally I'm hitting the next stage on my wrestling journey and I'm so happy my heart is gonna burst outta my chest like an Alien" kinda smile. 

It was stunning. That was the first time I saw that passion of hers. It was so intense and beautiful I went into awkward nerd mode. I stiffened up and man was I glad I was wearing those aviators. I'm pretty sure I was blushing the color of my hair. Then she got close enough to speak.

"HiI'mMeganandyoumustbeRedScottytoldmeyoucouldteachmealotandI'mreadytolearnIhavemygearsoI'mreadytohittheringorIcanhelpsetuparingordoconcessionsalthoughIreallylikebeersomaybeIshouldn'tbesellingbeerbutIcansellotherstuffortaketicketsorwhateverIjustcan'tbelieveI'mintheSouthwhereRoddyhadsomebigrunsbeforehewenttotheWWEand---"

And I pushed the sign with her name on it right on her face. She kept going for a few seconds so I waited for a ten count before removing it. I was trying to keep a straight face but she had that look on her face with her big doe eyes like she was about to burst waiting and wanting to talk even more. After a while you got used to it and it never ever stopped being completely adorable.  So I couldn't help but feel a big goofy grin spread on my face before I began to speak.

You can call me Red. I'm not your trainer or your mentor or your sensei. I'm your road buddy. Scotty wanted me to teach you what it meant to travel some of the toughest roads you've ever been down.  The folks around here are old school carny so you can't trust anyone.  Always count your money. Don't be afraid to stick up for yourself. But always always be respectful to the vets.  If you don't know how to act in a situation, follow my lead.
 These are some choppy waters, but you'll learn to swim in no time. And the fans? They may be a little behind in the times, but make no mistake, you show your skill in the ring and they'll respect you. Any questions?

To her credit, I knew she was bursting with more, but she kept quiet and just nodded her head. Respect the vets. She was a quick learner. That earned her a hand on her head and a quick ruffle. I don't know why I did it, it just felt right. And now, even years later I find myself reaching over and putting my hand on her head and ruffling her hair.  She gets a funny smile and all she says for now is..

"I know Reddy. I missed this too."

I lean back and look and see some of the road signs.  "Megs, you sure we're goin the right way?"

[ThePurpleVixen]

I drive the same way I talk, drink, get into fights, and get chicks into bed.

Fast, hard, and reckless without really paying a lot of attention to rules, traditions, or the presence of police chasing me.

And I especially don't read signs. Signs are mostly liars.

"Of COURSE we're goin' the right way," I assured Reddy. I had no idea where which we direction we were going presently. I swung around a roundabout twice and shot off down an arbitrarily picked sidestreet past a bleating Fiesta. "I've been livin' here for years." That was true. "I know EVERY fuckin' highway and byway." I either had Gemma's driver take me places while I was drinking and reading Palhaniuk in the backseat or I took the train. "I made this trip just like two days ago." I had not been to London in months. "We just stay on here, take a left, then a right, get on the M5," I had heard that name on TV and it was in a Douglas Adams book but I had no idea where left or right might take us, "and Bob's your uncle." My uncle's name was Kyrylo, and he lived in Zaporizhzhia and sold Soviet surplus grenades. I had no fucking idea who Bob was.

I grinned at Reddy, big and bright, arching my eyebrows above my Wayfarers. I'd had this same pair for like 12 years, come to think of it. Shoplifted on Wilshire Boulevard during ANOTHER road trip. I didn't have them back when I rode with Reddy for the first time, though. Getting my hair ruffled took me right back there. It was - like 2005? I had finished training in Portland, done a few months learning how to bleed with the IWA, and done my time scrubbing floors and toting water with Michinoku Pro. This was my first real RUN. This was me, out on my fucking own, pushed out of the nest (by a Raven, hah!) and on the fucking road with a genuine veteran. A veteran with hair like a glorious flock of cardinals - yes, I had that thought like 12 years ago, so Sadie totally ripped me off - and jeans that looked almost ragged enough that I'D wear them. I liked Reddy right off. It was something in his eyes, something I could see even behind the license-and-registration glasses. A lot of wrestlers I'd met in a few short years had eyes that were disquieting in one way or another; rheumy and bitter, or constantly angry, or narrowed in suspicion while they protected their spot, or glassy with drugs. But Reddy's eyes just sparkled. They were intelligent, and kind, and warm.  It was the first time in a long time I felt like an older wrestler was happy to see me. Also he had the nicest eyes I'd noticed on a boy in quite some time.

I liked pretty much everything about arriving at that airport, except when we left the nice air conditioning and that smell of brushed metal, antiseptic, burnt coffee and Cinnabons that clung to every single airport in the fucking world - and suddenly it was the fucking South outside.

"So I just wanna say-" I was still crazy excited, but I'd manage to find my spacebar again, "- that I will absolutely fuckin' work harder than anyone you've ever m-OH HOLY FUCKING CHRIST ON A DRILL RIG!" I'd gasped as the humid sun-drenched heat and torpid harbor air slapped me in the face like a steamed towel. "Dear gods, it's even hotter than San fucking Juan!"

Puerto Rico was in the god-damn tropics, but it was also leeward of the Gulf Stream, and ocean breezes washed over the whole island. This place was not getting ocean breezes until after they'd slowly rolled over all of Charleston Harbor and a blackwater swamp and gotten REAL warm. This place tasted like lowland rivers and plug mud.

Red just smiled.

"Damn yankees," he said, in a kindly sorta way. "Close your eyes, count to 30, and breathe slow while you do. Then take a BIG breath."

I didn't want to breathe slow. I felt like I had my face pushed into low tide and everything was wet - but he was the vet. So I closed my eyes and let myself count to 30. I forced myself to be still, not to drum my fingers or bounce on my heels or do anything but breathe. Just breathe. It was one thing I could do, one way I could always center myself. Breathe.

And breath by breath, it was easier.

And at 30, I took a BIG breath.

But the air smelled - so DIFFERENT.

I'd been around a bit by now. Gotten out to Philly a few times, been to New York once or twice, made it as far Chicago ... but I'd never really been down South. In later years, I'd come to love a lot of the cities down there. I'd do runs in Texas, in Memphis, on the Florida circuit. I'd practically live in New Orleans for a while. But nothing ever hit me like Charleston did.

Brine and sun-warmed brick, tangy and earthy. The low dark sulfur funk of the swamps. The roil of the rivers and hints of fish. The burnt corn fertilizer smell that I'd later learn was a paper mill. And more; the whore's perfume of jasmine and the church lady scent of gardenias, the sweet tease of roses. The crispy flaring sizzle of fried chicken and the nose-twitching sweet burn of barbecue.

"Oh FUCK I'm so hungry!"

My eyes popped open, wide and alert. I bounded towards Red and resisted grabbing him by the shoulders just barely, hands twitching with the effort NOT to seize him and communicate my sudden urgency as I bounced on the toes of my surplus combat boots. "I HAD NOTHING TO EAT BUT PEANUTS."

Red laughed, but gently, and started walking. I padded along after him. "Didn't you get a burger or something in Portland?"

I shook my head. "When I got back from Japan I barely had any money 'cuz young-girls are mostly paid in like really stiff slaps, I guess? So Raven bought me the ticket here but that's like all I had. So it was peanuts for me. Y'know eventually they cut ya off?" I patted my bag, which crinkled, stuffed full of foil packets. "But I'm HUNGRY."

"Then it's time you learned, kid."

My eyebrows went up and I grinned. "If you're gonna show me parking lot suplexes, lemme get my hair up."

Red chuckled again.

"No. Time you learned the way ... the way of the Waffle House."

"... the what the fuck now?"

I'd learned, though. OH, how I learned. In fact, as we ripped the Lexus at a roaring dragon's pace through Pontyclun, apparently on our way to Llantrisant (whenever I went driving in Wales I felt like I was hauling ass through a sword-and-sorcery novel), I had one great regret I had to share with my Reddy as John Denver thanked the good Lord for cakes on the griddle. "Ain't no Waffle Houses in this joint, Reddy." I grinned at him, tilting my head down to look at him over my Wayfarers like fuckin' Ferris Bueller. In doing so, I looked really cool and also ran a Mini off the road, driver honking furiously as he plowed into a cowfence.

"But you're gonna fuckin' LOVE Nando's."

"Yeah? Let's go! I haven't had anything eat but peanuts!"

I laughed so hard I almost ran into the guardhouse outside the Royal Mint. Which is in Llantrisant. A lot of people don't know that.

[RedEnforcer]

She did haveta mention Waffle House. Now of course my tastebuds buzzed of sweet maple syrup mixed with the butter that wasn't really butter but fuck it, it was creamy and smooth.  Then a dash of potatoes only slightly burnt, some of that melted pasteurized American cheese and the tang of some quality ketchup.  FUCK I'm so hungry now. I bet this is how she felt that day at the airport.

I had to give her credit, she was adjusting to the humid heat fire of weather we had down here in the Lowcountry just fine. People joke about "dry heat" and whatnot. I don't care what folks in Arizona say, humidity is what kills you when it gets hot.  If you've never experienced it, lemme describe it for you. First, it's hot. Then due to physics the water vapor level in the air is able to contain more water when it gets hotter. I think I'm explaining it correctly.  Anyways, when the humidity gets high, your ability to cool your body via sweat is reduced. Because the air is saturated with water vapor already, your sweat can't evaporate. So you get all sweaty and still hot as hell. Plus when you breathe in high humidity hot air, it feels like you're inhaling lava mist and burns your lungs.  Suffice to say, heat in Charleston is nooooo picnic.

So we made it through the parking lot to my vehicle. I wasn't sure how she'd react. It'd been a while since I did that stint in the Pacific Northwest, but a lot of the outlying areas felt like some of the small towns in the Carolinas.  There are values such as decency and politeness that know no geographical restrictions.  And I've found that wrestling fans for the most part tend to be some of the nicest people you'll ever meet regardless of location.  Anyways we got to my truck. 

Like most things I had at this time, my truck was a hand me down from my dad. a 1980s issue fire engine red Ford truck with a white cab.  It had one of those sliding windows in the back of the cab mostly so my dad or I could talk to whomever was riding in the truck bed back when that wasn't illegal.  It also had one of those rather large and thick CB antennas complete with tennis ball shoved down the shaft.  The now sun bleached grey tennis ball was set so that it would hit the top of the tailgate so that the antenna wouldn't whip crack against it and snap in half.  We were Macguyvering things in the South before there was a Macguyver.

It was probably 20 years past her prime, but she kept running and was cheap to maintain.  I looked over at Megan to see how she'd react.

"Fuckin' A!  Can I ride in the back!?!"   she asked after tossing her bag into the truckbed.

"Later, once we're out of the city. There's too much stop and go here, you'll burn up."

She scooted her merry self over to the passenger side and hopped in like a pro. Yeah I was gonna like this one. I can see why Scotty sent her to me.

I opened my door and on my seat was my mask. I had planned once we got back out to the parking lot to take a moment and put it back on. Preserve my identity you know. Keep the tradition going. But then I looked over at my passenger seat and there's this girl in black with purple hair bouncing up and down on the seat while the springs creaked, checking out my glove compartment, ("What the fuck!?! Are these actual 8 Tracks? ") and just being a ball full of chaos. At that point in my life, my wrestling career wasn't going very far. I pretty much went from indy to indy. I wasn't big enough for WWE then but I did have a bunch of fans who liked seeing me when I traveled. It wasn't very amazing or profitable, but it was what it was. Seeing this girl all giddy in my truck reminded me of what made me fall in love with wrestling to begin with. Wrestling is Fun. Belief is Suspended, heroes fight villains, the day is saved. All that corny stuff. It's like traveling theater where the stunts are done by the actors themselves and the dialogue is much more physical.

I don't know why exactly I decided to do what I did next, but it just felt right. I don't think she even realized the importance of what I was doing. I grabbed my mask and reached over and put it in the glove compartment. "Pick us out an 8 track."  I took my shades off and hung them on the front of my shirt.  It was around dusk now and I couldn't drive with the shades on. I looked over at Megan for the first time with my naked brown eyes and smiled as I saw her carefully consider which of my selections to choose.

"Not this one. Elvis? Maybe later. Glen Campbell? Kenny Rogers? Oh wait! Here we go!"

She grinned and handed me over the track and I popped it in, fired up the truck and off we went to the Waffle House. 

Almost heaven, West Virginia
Blue ridge mountains, Shenandoah river
Life is old there, older than the trees
Younger than the mountains, blowing like a breeze
Country roads, take me home
To the place I belong
West Virginia
Mountain mamma, take me home
Country roads

A short time later, we pulled into the Waffle House and her eyes lit up again.   It's a rather spartan style diner, but this one did have a jukebox which she ran over to check out.

"Hey Red, back again? Want your usual?"

Yeah I've had plenty of meals in that Waffle House over time. Once a month back in those days. I always tip nicely too so they remember me. Of course none of them knew what I did for a living. And come to think of it, this was the first time I brought anyone with me.  I finally tore Megan away from the jukebox.
"Fuck I can't believe there's twenty songs about fucking Waffles."
"Rule number one for being in public, try and curb the cussing. Especially the f-bomb."
"Oh shit. Sorry Red.

And the look on her face was just adorable, like I'd popped he hand for trying to steal a cookie.

"I went ahead and ordered for you. Hope you don't mind."

And like Magic, Tracy was there with both meals. The All-Star Burger with a hashbrown covered and a waffle.  She was hungry, that's for damn sure. She attacked the food like she was scared if she didn't finish it fast enough I was gonna take it from her. I remembered those early, starving days. I was glad I was in a position now to help someone else try and live their dream. When she finally got done and went to down her tea, I just had to laugh again."

"We like our tea on the sweet side around here."
"Sweet? Hell this'll give you diabetes!"
"So what do you think of Waffle House?"
"Oh gods, this is fu--..this is like heaven."

I grinned. Yeah I was gonna enjoy spending time with this girl. I can tell she's good people. I just wondered how much I could mess with her though.
"Just wait till I show you Vietnam."

[ThePurpleVixen]

We burned through Llantrisant, leaving a scatter of furiously shouting Royal Mint guards and a couple of terrified pedestrians in our wake with the Lexus LFA roaring like a wolf unchained, and shot along the road we were currently on since it seemed like as good a one as any. We powered our way on through more of what I assumed was probably still Wales. It's kind of hard to tell Wales from the rest of the United Kingdom, if you ask me, but Gemma always assures me it's TOTALLY different. I dunno. It's green, at least. Almost everywhere, really, at least until you get pretty far north or into one of the cities. So that's good. We get lots of scenery to whiz by the windows in a pleasant blur of green and Keep Left signs and roundabouts and startled pedestrians and comically whistle-blowing bobbies as Reddy and I blabber our way through the United Kingdom. After an hour I'm reasonably sure we're no longer headed precisely towards London since signs directing you towards London start to crop up like signs for fucking Wall Drug in the Dakotas or Stuckey's anywhere from Iowa to Alabama. London defines the United Kingdom like a heavy steel ball defines the shape of a stretched rubber sheet, drawing everything towards it. So we weren't headed TOWARDS it at this point.

But y'know what? That was fuckin' fine. I liked riding with Reddy. When we were on the road in the old days, we were always going somewhere, but Reddy was a master at leaving early enough that we had time to roam around a little. We'd be headed for the VFW Hall in Macon, but he'd make sure we got a chance to see the World's Largest Peanut in Ashburn first and take a picture of me pretending to hump it. The ol' red truck would be plowin' for the fuckin' Dorton Arena in Raleigh but Reddy would make sure we had enough time on the schedule to swing by the Shangri-La Stone Village in Prospect Hill and pretend we were giant monsters stomping over the tiny stone buildings. It was a good god-damn time. One of the best times, ever.

And day by day Reddy and I found out that despite the incredible unlikeliness of the thing, it had happened: an older Deep South grappler famous for a mask and a rough attitude with a noble streak as wide as Route 1 that had stopped him from making the big time, and a purple-haired and tattooed and pierced riot grrl from Stumptown with a self-destructive urge that was only held at bay by her constant need to fight had ended up stickin' together, like good waffles do. I'd have friends I treasured forever, some of whom were also my enemies; I'd have lovers, who'd occasionally betray me; I'd eventually fall in love for real and find out I could be fucking happy. But Reddy? Reddy's my god-damn best friend.

AND I WANNA GET MY BEST FRIEND SOME FUCKIN' NANDO'S.

So fuck London! For now! I mean eventually we'll have to get there because that's where the O2 Arena is, but we've got a week to get there and the whole fucking United Kingdom is about the size of Alabama, and we crisscrossed that state twice in one day in that damn truck once, going to the Mobile Civic Center, then back to Mike Goggans Junk Creatures featuring Junkasaurus Wrecks in Fort Payne where I'd left my fuckin' duct-tape wallet (I spent part of my payday from a show in Tuscaloosa getting a sweet-ass Junkasaurus Wrecks shirt), then back to Mobile.

I screeched to a halt midway through a relatively empty roundabout (someone cue Yes, please) to accost a pedestrian by leaning out the window to shout at them in a friendly way. Most of my shouts are friendly. People don't realize that.

"HEY, DO YOU KNOW WHICH WAY IS FUCKIN' NANDO'S?"

"Megan, we can just use your phone."

"IT'S IN MY BAG AN' I AIN'T EVEN ABOUT UNPACKIN' IT."

"Why isn't it somewhere you can r-"

"I PACKED THAT BAG IN TWO SECONDS, REDDY, GIMME A FUCKIN' BREAK. ANYWAY," I turned my attention back to the helpful Welshman peering attentively at the expensive white Lexus with the purple haired woman in big sunglasses leaning out the window. "NANDO'S?"

"Rwy'n siarad Cymraeg am effaith gomig," he replied.

"RIGHT."

"Nid oes unrhyw un o'r deialog hon yn ddefnyddiol."

"GO ON."

"Os bydd unrhyw un yn poeni cyfieithu hyn, byddant yn siomedig."

"GOT IT. THANKS, MATE."

I sped off and shot to the right, roaring down a road towards Trebanog, apparently.

"So where are we going?" Reddy asked, scrolling the wheel of my modded iPod Classic through my friggin' terabyte of road music.

I snerked.

"Pfft. Fuck if I know. Ya think I speak fuckin' Welsh?"

[RedEnforcer]

I can't remember what city we were in in Wales, just that it had a lot of consonants that I'm not used to seeing put together and very few vowels. Considering Megan's Ukranian heritage, I could see how she felt comfortable here. First time we hit a roundabout I started thinking to myself "Look kids, Big Ben...Parliament..." for a chuckle.

But you know what, as lost as I knew we were. I didn't care.  Honestly I figure this was her way of getting me back for all the short stories and side trips I took her on whenever we got together to tour the South.  I knew she was gonna enjoy it when I took her to Prospect Hill and she lost it when I did my Godzilla impersonation (complete with aping the badly dubbed bystanders) in the Stone Village there. 

Probably the best moment though started when I took her to Vietnam. No, not actual Vietnam and no not a community in a big city thing.  One little tidbit that people don't realize about South Carolina is that it has a wide variety of climates just in one state. You start in the upper left with the mountains, there's foothills, the piedmont, rivers, swamps and coasts just to name some of them.  Hollywood in the past has taken to filming parts of movies in SC using the different climates to represent other places.  So I got the truck going towards Beaufort County (pronounced Bu-fort) near Charleston and took Megan to Vietnam. Well, the area they used to film the scenes from Vietnam from the movie Forrest Gump. It really is a neat area and being a Cinephile like me, Megan loved the story behind it.

But I didn't stop there. I showed her one big landmark from the movie. I drove her to Plum Hill plantation (which unfortunately is private property now) and showed her Jenny's tree. It was near sundown and we just sat on the hood of my tuck and soaked it in. It's funny, with how technology is nowadays most folks don't stop to just appreciate moments. Too much hustle and bustle, gotta get it here and now. One thing I do love about the Carolinas is how easy the pace is. Megan, for all her amazing energy and chaotic Happy Fun Ball personality also liked to take a moment and just be. 

I figured this was the best place, best time to mention the elephant in the room that had been dancing about in my head for the past couple of weeks as I'd gotten to know this crazy, intense, amazing woman.  She was sprawled out on the hood of my truck which may not have completely cooled, but she'd never let you know.  Her legs dangled over the edge of the hood and those heavy boots of hers beat out a syncopated staccato rhythm that echoed in the field. I reached into the cab of my truck and grabbed a cold beer for her and a Dr. Pepper for me from my cooler.

She looked over at my choice of drink and giggled in that not so serious way of hers.
"Hittin' the hard stuff today Reddy? It's lovely out here."

I popped the top of my Pepper and took a long drag. And then a deep breath
"So, you're into girls?"

Travelling up and down the road does a few things. You end up spending so much time with your travel buddy that you pretty much have no secrets. Or expectation of privacy.  You really get to know a person when you spend time riding with them, working out with them and training. Our practices got to be really intense once when she challenged my knowledge of grappling, calling me just a stupid brawler. I showed her some moves I aped from Johnny Saint and that impressed her. So like any normal guy hanging out for a long period of time with a beautiful, wonderful woman, I found myself crushing on her.  Of course, being the suave, ultra cool stud I am, I choked it all down and got scared to mention a word. Yeah I was that guy in high school. 

But then I did notice how she acted around some of the women wrestlers and how she talked to the guys. It was the South and the Aughts (is that what we're calling it? I'm never sure.) and you didn't see openly what I was seeing. But I wasn't stupid. I can be delusional at times, but not stupid. And as backwoods and behind and ignorant as people make us Southerners out to be, I've found it's more a really loud section that gets the publicity but the ones of us who don't judge like that don't get noticed.

"So...we're having this conversation."

"Yeah, I figured I'd take you to a romantic spot, get you drunk and hand you a note that said Notice me Senpai."

I wasn't looking at her, but I did hear the beer spray out when I said the last part and I have to admit, I cracked a grin myself.

"Dammit Reddy, you know I hate wasting beer. *giggling..then..pausing...taking a deep breath* You know I love ya Reddy. But not like that."

"I know darlin. I know. But that doesn't change how I feel about you. You're probably the best friend I have out here in this crazy universe of wrestling. I know, low bar. But still. I see why Scotty put us together. "

I hopped up on my hood and sat beside her and looked over at the sunset with her and leaned over, putting my cheek on top of her head.

"Just one thing. Can I be Bing Crosby every once in a while? Don't get me wrong, being your wingman is really eye opening for me, but just once I'd like to be leading man and not plucky comic relief."

"Tell ya what Reddy. First time I meet a girl I think lives up to the high standards of being worthy of you, I'll send her to you gift wrapped.  After I do some quality control of course.  *punches my arm*  And there is no way I'm being Bob Hope.  If I have to sit through those stupid Road To movies you love so much, I'm gonna be Bing. Besides, I sing a helluva lot better than you."

And that was it.  No earth shattering, Scott Summers level angsty extended melodrama about the whole thing.  Real life so often is not like the movies. And I honestly think that after we aired out that bit we became better friends for it.

And that's the thing about this whole match that hits me right in the Irony bone. See Megan trusts me to have this match so she can show off in front of the biggest crowd of independent wrestling fans ever just how amazing she is. But she needs someone who can keep her safe.  But for me, Megan's always been a safe space. When the pressures of the ring or travel or just, hell, life in general got to be much, she'd notice and do the crazy thing or get really quiet and just listen while I'd rant. A lot of times all I'd need is just for someone to listen. Not try and solve the problem, but just let me talk it out and figure it out in my own head. And as loud and verbose as Megan can be, she's even better at just sitting and listening.  And in the fake world that we worked in with people double talking you and going behind your back and putting up fake fronts, I always know where I stand with Megan. I know she cares deeply about me and will walk through hellfire and brimstone by my side if I asked her to.  I think I knew it all the way back when we first met, when I decided I didn't need to have my mask on around her. I finally found someone I could just be me with. No expectations, no pretensions.  So yeah Megan may be a Human Trigger Warning (tm) but she's also my Human Coat of Warmth.

So after our conversation with the Welshman who was either trying to be helpful or taking the piss out of us being lost, I reflexively grabbed for my phone.  But then I looked over and saw the mad grin on Megan's face. Paris took a lot out of her emotionally as well as physically. But right now, she had that same grin on her face that I saw when I first picked her up at the airport. She was enjoying this, hell enjoying life again.

I put my hand back and left my phone where it was. We had plenty of time to get to London. I lately don't have the chance to spend as much time with Megan as I'd want.  So I'm just gonna enjoy this for as long as it lasts. Besides....

"Y'know Road To The Nando's would make a great title of a movie."

Snerk "I'm still Bing."

[ThePurpleVixen]

So we're on the road to Nando's.

Okay, even though I'm CLEARLY Bing, I'm still not gonna make up any "Road to The Nando's" lyrics because it's gonna come off way too Seth MacFarlane-ish (he's ruined road movie references like he's ruined so many other pop cultural things just by recognizing they exist), and frankly that dude is a super creeper. But if I WAS the type to do that, there'd be a pretty sweet song break right now with refrains and rounds and lots of belting, because this is a pretty god-damn good day to drive. It's not January, because driving in January in Wales would be terrible, and this is our story so it's idealized and the fourth wall is already in fucking rubble. It's spring. No - let's say summer. Summer's a good time for supershows anyway. And since this is, as mentioned, our story so we can set it when we want. It can be fuckin' Christmas in July. But it's fuckin' beautiful, that's the point.

The best way to see Wales is at high speed, rocketing past the windows of an overpriced luxury sports car that you don't own.

I mean, that's the best way to see a LOTTA places, but Wales in particular. Douglas Adams had it right; the best thing to do here is count the stones. At least if you're not married to a hot wrestling queen who spends most of her time naked and challenging you to pin her down. In that one case there's more exciting things to do in Wales than count stones. Also the Eisteddfods are pretty fun. Last year we got tanked on Blorenge Golden and catcalled the Loughiel Folk Dancers until we got tossed out, and then we snuck back in to get bara brith on a stick. But aside from the hot naked wrestling and the super fun festivals and the pretty excellent pub scene and the heartbreakingly beautiful scenery, Wales is all rocks.

I grinned over at Reddy, still getting used to someone sitting on my left when I'm driving. It's a really fucking weird sensation, and I cracked up two Renaults and a Rover SD1 trying to get used to it when I first moved here. But I'm so damn good at it now I can drive in my usual way, with one elbow dangling out the window, fingertips on the wheel at 4 o'clock, and my other hand at around 10:50, since I like to leave a little time free before lunch. Reddy had clicked over to Glenn Campbell's "Galveston" (I still hear your seawaves crashin', while I watch the cannon flashin'!) and I was bopping my fingers to the tune on the Lexus' fancy wheel grip, which is so damn soft and luxurious and British that I think it must be crafted from the tender skin of Irish children. Like most fancy British leather goods. It's tradition.

"AWRIGHT. A few ground rules. A coupla proclamations. Simple things to make sure the road stays steady an' I don't gotta kick your ass with my one good leg before we get to London."

"Seems like risky business to threaten the guy you're demanding keep you safe in the ring," Red chuckled, his big ol' brown eyes twinkling. "But go on."

"No, risky business is me in a button-down an' panties slidin' across the floor in my socks," I grinned back, looking over my neon green Wayfarers at him. I figured that mental image would shut him up properly, and I was satisfied to see his jaw gently unhinge. "Awright, so -"

I brought my knees up to the bottom of the wheel, hissing a little through my teeth as the big ol' Donjoy kneebrace under my black Wrangler jeans with the leather knee patches clunked against the wheel and made my right knee bark at me a bit. But I needed to drive with my knees so I could gesture with both hands, so I sucked it up. Besides, I'm pretty sure this made the road trip count as physical therapy. So I raised my left fist and started counting off points with my right hand, veering with my knees to avoid a bread truck we were about to run into.

"Firstly - if we're gonna talk about chicks, it's limited to either how hot they are or how they wrestle. I don't wanna hear no lonely hearts columns."

I grinned at him, and extended a second finger, tapping the tip of it.

"Unless we're talkin' about Jenny Dare, secondly. I've got plenty of advice about her. Ya goofy lug."

I tapped a third finger, and my face grew a lil' chillier.

"Thirdly. Neither of us knows anyone from Arizona, an' we ain't got anythin' to talk about on the subject of mouthy cxnts with broken backs."

A fourth finger popped and I tapped that one as well, nudging the wheel with my raised and bent legs to keep up with a gentle curve in the road as we shot north, headed through Merthyr Tydfil - famous as the town that sounds like the name of someone who gets killed in three sentences into  one of the "A Song of Ice and Fire" books - and into the shockingly pretty emerald sprawl of the Brecon Beacons National Park, a vast swath of rolling green hills and low worn old mountains riddled with shepherd's tracks and cropped by shaggy mountain ponies right out of Tolkien.

"God damn that's fuckin' gorgeous," I murmured poetically. I was nominated for Poet Laureate to the Crown this year. Fingers crossed. I shook my head, clearing it of the majestic verse, and continued.

"Fourthishly, we ain't stoppin' 'til we get to Nando's, so if yer super hungry yer just gonna have to chew the fat with me. An' that includes runnin' outta gas, so time to pray we find it soon. At least Clarkson filled the tank."

Campbell's "Galveston" gave way to Depeche Mode's "World In My Eyes", which led me to believe Reddy had stopped steering the music and let the Shuffle feature take over, since I don't think he'd be able to pick Depeche Mode album out of a jukebox lineup even if he was offered Some Great Reward (god, I'm fucking clever).

I tapped my thumb, all five fingers splayed now.

"An' fifthly, I think we should talk out everything that's wrong with Star Trek Discovery before we get to Wre- Reddy?"

I leaned over and waved a hand in front of his eyes, the car swooshing dangerously across the mountain road.

"... are ya still imaginin' me in my panties doin' a Tom Cruise dance or are ya shell-shocked about me bringing up Jenny?"

A glassy stare.

"Yer imaginin' both of us doing the Tom Cruise dance now, aren't ya."

A faint nod.

"Awright, keep at it 'til the song ends."

Lord knows I'd said THAT often enough, paying my way through Raven's wrestling school with work as a stripper.

[RedEnforcer]

You know I actually had hoped during this trip that we could make a side stop in Cardiff. I have two big time fandoms in my life. Pro wrestling of course, the other is Doctor Who.  Growing up in South Carolina in the 70s, our public television played Doctor Who all the time. And it has always been better to me than Star Trek. So I have no idea where in Wales we were or how far from Cardiff, but I figured if we didn't get there before the match, I'd make it a point to go after. I don't get on a plane every day so no matter what, I'm going to check it out.

And that's what was going on in my head when Megan decided to show once more that Mindfuck wasn't just the name of one of her finishers (or was it signature. She's got so gawddamn many of them.)

She starts in this spiel about rules which kinda reminds me of the Genie from Aladdin with his addendums, provisos etc.  So I decide to get snarky and bust out a Dusty line. Risky Bidness.

Which she then throws back into my face with an image of her doing the Tom Cruise thing from that movie. And my mind just went BSOD.

Lemme tell you something about Megan. She shows affection by fucking with you. I can completely relate. My family was the same way. So after we have our little talk to clear the air on my attraction for her and how things were going to be, she decided to go into complete fuck with me mode. We had always been careful to not change in front of each other. I mean it wasn't too weird for a guy and a girl to travel together and most just thought we were a couple, but I've always been one to respect my road buddies. Besides I have an older sister and I always thought of her and how I'd want people to treat her if she were the one travelling with them.

After our talk, that all changed. Megan made it a point to just walk around in t-shirts and panties all the fucking time in the hotel rooms. I was fortunate in one respect, Megan never wore thongs. She once told me that underwear should be comfortable, not instruments of torture. That being said, the cotton, form fitting panties she wore weren't much better. She's brash and tatooed and purple haired and all, but man she has an amazing body. Nice firm bottom that looked damn good in those panties and abs under her shirt. And nice curvy breasts with barebelled nipples that you could see through any shirt she wore. So in the mornings, she'd wake up and stretch and scratch, usually scratching her belly then up her chest so I'd get a flash of boob and then turn around and walk away, giving me an eyeful of black or bright colored panties ("I like superhero colors, make me feel strong Reddy." she'd say between bites of breakfast one time.)  She knew I knew she was doing it on purpose. I think her days making money in the PNW gave her a real sadistic streak when it came to making men squirm. But I'd never tell her that. She always knew just how far to go teasing me before crossing that line. And she'd love to pat me on my head when I'd get flustered and say "You're a good boy, Reddy. One of the best."

I remember once when we got shafted out of a gig in Monroe, NC and needed a place to crash before our next actual paying gig in Rock Hill, I decided to do something I had never done before. I took my road buddy to my hometown to my dad's place. Crusty retired Marine. (Retired, not ex. Call him an ex-Marine and you'd be ex-Alive.) Tough as nails badass who served 21 years in the Corps. He was the one who got me into wrestling. We'd watch every Saturday and this man was hooked. I remember him wanting to go find and beat the hell out of Abdullah the Butcher for carving up Wahoo McDaniel. He wanted to wring Piper's scrawney little neck. He cheered loudest for Ricky Steamboat and Jay Youngblood to beat those Brisco Brothers (Jack and Gerry, the original ones, not the guys from ROH.)  But most of all, up to his dying day, my dad was a horndog. Hell if he wasn't, I wouldn't be here today. So I kinda knew the risk I was taking bringing Megan around him.

I didn't warn Megan at all about my dad. Didn't have to. He had mementos of his days as a Marine about the different rooms. When he met her, the old man smiled big and said "Welcome pretty lady. As long as you're here you're family. Even if you do hang out with low class people."  Yeah, that's a thing we did.  Anytime my sister or I would bring in newcomers, whoever brought them in became the whipping post for jokes. It was our way of making sure the newcomers felt comfortable and to feel them out. When Megan replied, "If you don't hold it against me for hangin' with him, I won't hold it against you for birthin' him." I thought dad was gonna cough up a lung.  She was in.

The next morning, I'm not sure if Megan forgot my dad was around or just didn't care, but she came padding out of the guest bedroom (which was my sister's room before) and did her scratch/stretch thing. My dad nudged me and said "Damn son, you finally brought home a hot one." And I replied "Yeah, but she's like my sister." Dad chuckled and said "Yeah, that's just your luck ain't it? The really fun ones have other interests. Still though, I don't mind enjoying the scenery."   I spit out my orange juice and just shook my head. Horndog.

But really the only difference between me and the old man is that I didn't vocalize my thoughts often. And here I am in the damn car with Megan picturing her sliding across a floor in socks, a button down being tented out by one of the 5 most perfect sets of breasts I have ever seen in my life that are jiggling freely underneath that shirt and a bright red pair of panties clinging to one of the most luscious bottoms ever whose cheeks are jiggling as well as she stops but they keep going.   So to say I was a little distracted was an understatement.

I barely hear her talking about hot chicks and wrestling until she mentions Jenny. The BSOD just turned into a memory dump complete with corrupted registry entries.  I guess Megan remembered seeing Jenny with me in Paris. And then me wrestling her after. But I hadn't seen nor heard from her since. And that along with Sadie going her own way. Yeah complicated.  I don't know if Megan knew just how much.

Galveston is wrapping up and I need something that won't remind me of any of that. I zoom past the artist list, but don't have to go far. Depeche Mode. Holy shit.  I wonder if...there we go. Violator. I get it cued up next.

I do have enough sense to hear that certain people will not be spoken of. Which I understand. But it hurts.

You remember how I mentioned earlier how Megan said if she found a girl she thought worthy of me, she send her giftwrapped? Well she was true to her word. Several times after shows, Megan would pick out a ring rat to help her work after the rush she got from wrestling. I know what you're thinking, In the South?  Yes, we do have women here that have the alternative lifestyle, it's just at that time they didn't really advertise. Those nights, I'd go to the hotel room and find her occupied or about to be and I'd just grab my laptop and head to the lobby and spin up City of Heroes for the night.

 A few times she would find a gal for herself and one who was into masks so I could, you know, have my own fun. I know Megan thought I would you know, but more often than not, I'd just talk with the girl in her room and chill and fall asleep.  Yeah I was a grown adult, but I was raised in the South as an Irish Catholic in a time when you just didn't do such things. I never complained. I'm glad Megan had her fun. Seeing her happy made me happy. And I got to level up my Tanker pretty high. 

So to have this one thing still eating at Megan even if it's healing and fading made me a little sad.  I almost cracked a joke about my Uncle Tom in Phoenix, but thought better of it. By this time Depeche Mode started and instead of reminding me of my senior year it just reminded me of what I was trying to distract myself from and my brain locked on Jenny.

My life was complicated now. Sadie...I'm not sure how to define my relationship with Sadie. She's a bright comet, full of chaos and fun. In many ways a lot like Megan. She came into my life when I was about ready to hang up the boots and her spark and fire kept me going. Then somewhere along the way, I guess I fell in love with her. But life conspired against us. She found herself moving away from the whole wrestling thing and moving on. We still send notes at times and I love her as much today as I ever have. We just don't see each other very much anymore.

And then there's Jenny. We've fought each other and side by side. But she's been in and out of my life like a will o' the wisp. I don't know about her or how I feel, just that thinking about her makes me all...goofy.

Megan sees me lost and she mentions the Tom Cruise bit again, so of course there goes my mind and she mentions Jenny as well and now that scene is a double act.

Fuck.

Megan sure knows how to get to me. That has to be the longest four and a half minutes...

But the song ends and somehow I find my voice and manage to croak out.

"So, about Jenny."

[ThePurpleVixen]

Here's the thing about me:

Okay, no. That'll take too long. There's too many things. We'll be here all night.

So here's *A* thing about me:

I'm a flaunter. I flaunt. I've got it and baby, I fuckin' flaunt it like Cady Huffman sang (look, Uma was fine in the movie, but Cady fuckin' DEFINED that role. I take my musical theater fuckin' seriously. It's the pro wrestling of the stage). Everyone who's in wrestling is an attention whore by any definition - if we didn't want to be the center of attention and chew the fucking scenery we'd be bouncers or judo instructors or just really angry retail employees who occasionally dropkick the fucking breakroom wall. We'd be violent and risk-taking and angry, but we'd be regular people. It's that extra thing that makes us wrestlers; the need to have eyes on us. To not just beat someone, but to have EVERYONE SEE US BEAT THEM.

But even by the standards of professional wrestlers, the most attention-needy spotlight-hogs in the fucking world who aren't in politics, I'm a fuckin' attention whore. A whore among whores. Should I put that on a T-shirt? I'll put it on the list (it's a long fucking list).

I didn't just strip because it was an easy way to make money to pay Raven for my training; I could've fuckin' done the overnight shift at Roxie's serving strawberry pancakes to drag queens to do that, and I'd have gotten better tips and free food, and I fucking love strawberry pancakes. But no - I like having eyes on me. And once Reddy and I had set the rules, I liked having his eyes on me. It was FUN. Still is. I've never met a boy more fun to torment, and I know a thing or two about tormenting men (just ask Archibald Peck, who I beat up so badly during our match in Chikara that he ended up retiring and joining WWE's creative team. Although that was a different kind of torment, I guess. Less psychosexual and more, like, twisting his head around until he could see behind him) Although I HAVE beaten up Reddy, too. Wait, where was I? Oh right -), but Reddy is a special case. He's so damn sweet. He's sweet, and funny, and kind, and loyal, and smart and he's every damn thing I want in a friend. That might be why I love tormenting him so much - because he loves it, and I love him. Even if I do occasionally have to superkick him.

People who saw me and That Brokeback cxnt in Paris might assume that it's the loss of love that leads to violence, but I'm plenty violent with people I love. I think I've given Gemma more concussions since we've been married than I had in our whole wrestling rivalry previously. I only try to fucking maim people who I hate, and those are thankfully rare.

So, anyway - we're in the car. And we've been barreling through Wales this whole time at what the speedometer tells me is 241 km/h. I'm still a bit shaky on my British measurements, but I think that means we're probably doing about 45 or something. Suitable for driving in a hospital zone, surely. Wales seems to be going by pretty fast, but y'know, that's just road hypnosis or relativity or something. The Lexus is roaring pretty loud but whatever, it's a loud car. Some brilliant person said it sounded like a werewolf in a gin trap. Interesting fact - Callista Quinn won't finish this sentence after she finds her name with a word search because she'll see the word "gin" in the same paragraph and wander off to find a bottle.

Anyway, we're making great time, so I'm gonna give Reddy a lil' bit of a talkin'-to on the road to Nando's.

"So, about Jenny," he says, now that he's finally come back online. That man has a richer visual fantasy life than Walter Mitty.

I hold up a hand and talk over him. I'm good at talking over people. I'm like a conversational main battle tank.

"Here's the deal, sugar cookie," I gun it to get around a hay truck and leave a tornado of alfalfa swirling in our wake, "Jenny is a wrestler, and there's no such thing as a wrestler who's not fucked up. It's just how we are. If we were normal we wouldn't be fuckin' wrestlers. You know that. Everyone knows that. But she's about as damn close to normal as you can get and still be in this fuckin' business. She's like Sting or Tully Blanchard or somethin' except she doesn't seem to be a fuckin' evangelical. If she is she hides it well. And no Christian girl should have an ass like that, right? God wouldn't allow that shit. Way too many sinful thoughts in church. Either way, she's as close to straight as anyone is gonna fuckin' get in this bent business. And I don't mean sexually. I mean, I mean everythin' KINDA sexually, but I mean like MENTALLY straight. All of us have heads fulla bad wiring but she's like an arrow. An' that can be good for you."

"Okay," Red begins, "But I-"

I snatch him by the ear and gently yank to politely inform him I'm not done talking yet.

"She's gorgeous, and she fuckin' knows it, but she don't know what to DO with it just yet. You're in good with a lotta hot chicks, Reddy, present company certainly fuckin' included, but all of us know that we're fuckin' hot and all of us USE it. Jenny doesn't USE it an' that's WEIRD in wrestling. I mean, she's smart as a fuckin' whip, so I'm sure she knows that it ain't JUST her fuckin' bad-ass lariat that's gettin' her a few extra hundo at the pay winda when she gets booked - but I mean she doesn't use it like the way R- the way Sadie does, by way of a ferinstance. So ya gotta deal with that. Bein' with a beautiful girl who's still learnin' how beautiful she really is can be some fuckin' John Hughes shit."

"Sure, an-"

A gentle snatch of his thicket of red hair and a shake of his head brought him back to thoughtful reflection as we burned rubber through Caersws, the town that lost some of its vowels in the Great War. I continued with my philosophy.

"She can kick yer ass, too. On the regular. That's important. You're a big guy who's gotten used to manhandling most every girl you've ever been or outta the ring with, an' even when you get beaten it's usually because you get tapped out or choked out or somethin' clever like that. But Jenny can hoist your ass up outta your chair if you don't do the dishes and drop you on yer damn head, and that's GOOD. You need someone who can keep you from gettin' cocky an' keep ya from getting COMPLACENT. That's what kills, Reddy. Complacency, not speed."

I cut through a field to save a few seconds, ravaging a few hectares of barley and farmhands dove out of the way, cursing violently. Not a one of them was killed, proving my point.

"I don't th-"

THWAP! A solid backhand right to the solar plexus blasted the breath out of the big guy, puffing his cheeks like Aeolus and letting me continue with my peaceable conversation as we ramped a small hill and caught air on our way past and partially over Llanymynech.

"An' she's sweet, an' that's IMPORTANT. Because YOU'RE sweet. Yer the sweetest dork I know an' I know fuckin' Lindsay Campbell. An' Jenny is genuinely really fer-real sweet, an' I think she'll take care of ya if you let her. But you've gotta trust her an' you've gotta give her time and space an' let her LEARN because I feel like this would be somethin' NEW for her. Somethin' DIFFERENT than fuckin' the usual sluts you fuck around with, my wife included. I think Jenny could take care of you as well as you could take care of her, an' THAT'S why I think it's important you two give it a fuckin' chance, weird as it sounds. An' it'll be weird because I don't think she quite knows what to do with kissin' you yet. She looked like a deer that kicked the grill off a Mack truck an' stopped it fuckin' cold - like she tried somethin' because she didn't have any other fuckin' ideas and it shocked her tits off that it worked."

"Meg-," he began.

"An' I know what yer gonna say, that it'd never work, an' that some cxnts would get all salty about it, an' that you're too world-worn for someone as innocent an' fulla daisies as she is -"

"Megan," he got out, a little more firmly this time, and I flapped a hand at him, driving one handed as I have a wont to do. Especially when I'm driving with Gemma and need to get her off before we go to the cinema so she'll behave herself through "Thor: Ragnarok".

"- but ya gotta BELIEVE, Reddy. Someone as sweet and as different and as fuckin' CLEAN as Jenny Dare CAN fall in love with a masked fuckin' monster because you're NOT a monster. Maybe a fuckin' cookie monster. I know what some fucking cxnts try to make you BELIEVE you are, and I know some of them use you and some of them lie to you an' FUCK, it's all such a stupid fucking game, but Jenny can be GOOD, Reddy -"

"MEGAN."

He emphasized his point by grabbing the back of my neck and slamming his battered old Converse down on the brake, kickin' my Wolverine off the pedal to do so. The car screeched to a pterodactyl halt, leaving thick peels of expensive black rubber on the road. The car stopped in a cloud of smoke and I whirled on Reddy, figuring I might've been so fucking persuasive that now we would have to fight. I dunno, I figure everyone is always ready to fight over discourse. That's how wrestling works.

He kept a grip on the back of my neck, and turned my head forcibly around to make me look out the window. Sometimes I forget how fucking strong Reddy is. He pointed with his free hand at the sign glowing just outside the car.

Nando's. Home of the Peri-Peri Chicken.

"We're here."