[ThePurpleVixen]

After spitting out a healthy misting spray of coffee over the table like I was Tajiri trying to get a job as a barista, there was one of those awkward silences that seems to drag on.

This one seemed to drag on for at LEAST a month and a half.

Finally I took a deep steadying breath and neatly napkined some of the coffee off the table, drained the rest of my cup, took one last bite of sausage and neatly set my fork and knife down, and then calmly and reasonably lunged across the table to murder Red with my bare hands.

Reddy was caught a little off guard since he'd been sitting there staring blankly in mortal horror for 3 fortnights, but fortunately the pooka caught the way the wind was blowing (south by southwest with a strong chance of murder) and lunged up, snapping his teeth neatly on the back of my jeans and stopping me just shy of Reddy, leaving my hands clawing at the air just in front of his face. "YOU KNOW THE FUCKING RULE ABOUT THAT FUCKING NAME, REDDY! ONE RULE! I NEVER MAKE RULES AND I HAD THAT ONE FOR THIS TRIP!"

He looked at me that way he does that reminds me of a hound dog, a combination of world-weary and knowing and comforting, and said the only thing that would've possibly worked to calm me down.

"I'm sorry, darlin'."

Listen, I've been begged for mercy plenty of times. I've heard "Please, don't!" in seventeen languages (sometimes all in one match if I'm wrestling a polyglot like Generico), and "Somebody stop her!" in a half-dozen more. My favorite is the musical "Omnye ummise!" I heard it in Capetown when Amagqirha Sandile Aah! Noloyiso was trying to get me to let go of the heel hook I had her in. Even with the ragged pain making her voice kind of raspy, the phrase had a wonderful beauty to it.

But I didn't let go.

I don't stop horrible violence just because someone is asking me to.

Apologies from Reddy, however ...

... they stop me fuckin' cold.

I huffed and puffed and then gave up and sagged back down, irritably swatting the pooka away. Damn thing was lucky it had managed not to bite the horseshoe on my belt which would've caused it searing pain from the cold iron AND had managed not to bite my butt which would've caused it swift vicious death at my hands. But luck was what pookas were best at.

I flopped back in the chair, glowering at my pancakes like they'd wrong me, and then ate them in a few huge bites just in case they had. That'll show the fuckers. The fae who was our hostess looked awkwardly between us.

There was another one of those silences as the pooka drank a bowl of beer in slow laps, Reddy stolidly ate his sausages with pink cheeks, and I gnawed my pancakes to death. The redhead fairy at last cleared her throat.

"So she's not a tree, then?"

My eyes lit up like jack-o-lanterns.

"A tree? Naw. Look, darlin' - Reddy pines for her, but he's tryin' to turn over a new leaf."

"Megan. Please stop."

The pain in his voice was almost as intense as Amagqirha Sandile Aah! Noloyiso's, although less frantic.

The fae winced, the pooka shying away. The Fair Folk hate puns. I dunno why. They're fuckin' hilarious.

"But she's all bark and no bite. Besides, I kicked her ash, oak-ay."

"oh god stop" Reddy's voice was Stuart Little-sized.

I grinned.

And I didn't stop.

"I sapped the taste out of that beech's mouth, and yet Reddy still wants to commit adul-tree with her."

"... the pain."

It was a lovely breakfast.

...

Eventually the pain receded and we ate the food and took advantage of the hospitality of the faerie chick by not doing any dishes and also taking most of her beer in the car. The pooka gave us a fond farewell that rambled on for like half an hour (they're a grandiose breed), and also blessed the car with the Umar deiridh de leann lasracha by way of saying thank you. That was nice. It meant we wouldn't have to stop for gas. Of course, accepting a fae's mystic blessing on a tangible object also meant we were immediately excommunicated, but that had already happened to me way back when I wrestled a one-night only show in Vatican City. Sure, your Holiness, it was "for charity" and "all in fun" and there was "no call to break Sister Margaret's back" but you put me in the ring with some fuckin' hardbody nun who keeps goin' after my neck and cramming my head under her habit and settin' me up for piledrivers, yer damn right I'm gonna snap her in the Dollbreaker when I get her up there, no matter how many saints she cries to for help.

Anyway, we headed to Liverpool. Pretty easy trip out of Dublin. We passed the time with a game of "I Am Booking A Show" as we watched the blue sea roll away in churns of milk white foam behind us.

"Okay, I Am Booking a Show, and I'm booking Allison Danger, Becky Lynch, Charlie Haas ... ahhh ... Delirious, Edge, Fit Finlay, Gangrel ... fuuuuck who was it ..."

"Ha! Point for-"

"... HAKUSHI, I REMEMBERED FUCK YOU, Ian Rotten for some terrible reason, Jack Evans, Kane, LuFisto, Mercedes Martinez, and I get N ... N ... "

"Oh, there's so many. Come on."

"SHUT UP I'M THINKING OF A GOOD ONE, DILLFACE ... AH! HA!" I grinned so smugly that the gleam off my teeth probably confused distant boat captains. "The Nacho Man."

"Bullshit! HE is NOT a wrestler! That was a lame joke from a bad era!"

"Yep. BUT he had a match against the Huckster on the Free-For-All before WrestleMania XII. SUCK IT."

"Gawd, darlin', you got a twisted mind. Ugh. Fine. I Am Booking A Show and I'm booking Allison Danger, Becky Lynch - yum, Charlie Haas ..."

That passed the time and we eventually made our way to Liverpool. We'd pulled the car out and gotten onto Water Street, and then I basically burned rubber up Castle Street to Cook Street and down John Street to get us straight to the Cavern Club, because OBVIOUSLY we were gonna go to the Cavern Club. I might live my life to the beat of Black Flag and the Ramones and sing Tori Amos in the shower, but fuckin' everyone loves the Beatles. People who say they don't like the Beatles are lying fuckin' trashmouths trying to sound iconoclastic as if it makes you a better person to not understand people's fondness for the most comprehensively appealing band of the 20th century, and if you disagree feel free to talk to me about it so I can beat out "Eleanor Rigby" on your fuckin' forebrain with two crowbars.

So we went in after fondly touching the shoes of the John Lennon statue like penitents brushing the icon of Ganesh, and realized we'd walked into a real scene.

Let me explain real quick. REAL quick, because we have to do a musical montage of running away shortly here.

FTW had been the first real national exposure for most of us in it, and it had been a cult favorite. Like, a BIG-TIME cult favorite. We had ECW-level obsessives but instead of being a bunch of toothless yobs like the Rottens and mutants like Sabu and the Sandman, we were a bunch of super hot chicks who were bad-ass wrestlers. And Reddy. Who had a level of sex appeal I'd never quite understood but certainly couldn't deny. Something about the mask, I think.

Anyway, we had fans. Don't get me wrong, we all had big fanbases - that's one reason FTW worked so well, but these were SPECIAL fans bred after we went national. Obsessive, devoted, horny fans who wrote slashfics and match specs for us and followed us around like we were the Grateful Dead. Even years after FTW dissolved, they followed its former members around. I'd heard two girls had even waiting in the parking lot outside the Days Inn where Sadie was defending her Northeast Alabama Regional Apartment Wrestling championship thong, hoping to get her to sign a tattered garter belt they'd taken from a Motel 6 after a previous title defense.

They were a fanbase as diverse and perverted as Harry Potter's, but running a little older. They had lots of different names, but just called them the Swarm.

And the Cavern Club was hosting a meeting of them in preparation for the O2 Supershow, since at least 7 FTW alums were gonna be there.

Reddy had the mask on. I'd said in the car he should wear it in so we could try to get free drinks in case the bartender watched wrestling, or maybe we could put it on the bust of Ringo Starr.

So there was a purple haired tattooed chick and a tall man in a Red Enforcer mask walking into the Cavern Club.

Eighty eyes snapped onto us as if riveted there.

"Aw ... fucknuts."

They shuffled forward one step, all in unison, hands extending. Reddy and I backed up in sync.

"Reddy, I got a knee brace on, I can't sprint all the way to the fuckin' ferry."

"I don't think the Irish Sea is gonna be enough to keep them off anyway, Meg."

"Hell. Here they come."

They sniffed the air one last time, scenting it like rats smelling blood - and charged.

"CUE THE MUSIC!" I howled as we turned and sprinted out the heavy doors. We'd have to be CRAFTY to get away from this bunch. As crafty as a really fab band trying to get away from a legion of fanatics in British schoolgirl uniforms.

And for that, we'd need -

Help! I need somebody
Help! Not just anybody
Help! You know I need someone
Help!

We dashed down the street, pursued by a mob in Rowan Chance and Staten Island Stomper and Platinum Queen and surprisingly convincing Monstro cosplays, leaping an alley fence in such a way that we were dramatically framed against the sky for a moment.

(When) When I was younger (When I was young) so much younger than today
(I never need) I never needed anybody's help in any way

The mob of wrestling enthusiasts dashed past a pair of bobbies giving a lost Japanese tour group directions to Albert Dock just outside the Slug and Lettuce, their helmeted heads ducked down behind a gatefold map. As the mob rampaged past, the bobbies lifted their heads, revealing Red Enforcer and Punky under the tall silly helmets. British constable helmets are silly. They are. Google a picture of them, right now.

RIGHT?

(Now) But now these days are gone (These days are gone) and I'm not so self assured
(And now I find) Now I find I've changed my mind, I've opened up the doors

The rampaging Swarm ran past the Sweeting Street sign in a flurry of Lisa Starr Chi-town pennants and SAFE-Team 8x10s, looking wildly around for our heroes as a couple of window washers in white coveralls and deal caps idly scrubbed the glass of the Tune Hotel, up on their hanging platform. They both turn to peer down at the raucous mob of wrestling fanatics below - and then the hotel window opens and Red and Punky yank the window washers into the room, before mounting the platform and riding it to the roof as the fans roar down below.

Help me if you can, I'm feeling down
And I do appreciate you being 'round

Reddy and Punky emerge from the roof stairs into the hotel's top floor hallway, just as the Swarm emerges from the hotel stairs at the other end of the hall. After a beat, the fans charge as Reddy and Punky nod - and each open room doors facing each other and disappear into them!

Help me get my feet back on the ground
Won't you please, please help-

*record scratch*

*saxophone cues*

(Play for maximum effect: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZnHmskwqCCQ)

The mob splits into two, each piling into the doors Red and Punky went into, only for the two to emerge from the same door, three doors down. The mob comes chasing out after them as they run across the hall into another room. Doors swing open and closed as the chase continues.

At one point Punky is chasing Scooby Doo and Shaggy.

Red is pursued by a man in a gorilla suit.

The Swarm is chased by a pair of bobbies and then chase Red with pitchforks only to find Punky in the middle of the hallway, holding up a Stop sign and dressed as a traffic warden, waving them to the left.

The gorilla chases a bunch of girls in their underwear, who are chasing Red, and being chased in turn by Punky.

Callista Quinn opens a door at the end of the hall, peers out and rolls her eyes before closing the door definitively.

... and then I remembered horrible violence and took a fire axe and chased the whole buncha nerds into the stairwell with it, then barred the door with it while Red and I took the elevator down an' caught a cab back to our car, and got the hell outta there.

We had a lotta England to get through, after all.

[Becca Blast!]

Brushes the cobwebs off the motionless Hawk... I'm hoping that smell isn't what I think it is...

[RedEnforcer]

(Apologies to all faithful readers of this for the delay. Real life struck hard.)

*Freeze on image of Punky and I speeding off in our car after one of the most Oscar worthy chase scenes since The French Connection. To paraphrase the master of Shaq Fu, Google it.*

I know what you're thinking. I'm supposed to pick up the story right here. But there's just so much to unpack from my perspective you know?  Besides, shows love to flashback, flash forward, flash sideways, and generally mess with the concept of Time so badly that you can never define what the rules are. Anyways, the chance to take a moment and do an homage to the Bellasario TV shows I grew up on, specifically Magnum, PI (which is being rebooted...yay!) as well as shoehorn in many more strange and colorful pop culture references will not be missed by me. Apologies to the time it took me to write this, I'm still in a weird place since Infinity War. (NO SPOILERS, Just watch the damn thing already!)

So where was I?  Oh yeah, let's back this up to Megan nearly killing me. Yeah, that's kinda vague I know, but specifically the breakfast scene.

*rewind cut back to the moment where Punky is lunging for me hands clawing like a madwoman with only the pooka pulling on her jeans stopping her from homicide*

Damn, even crazed like that, Megan has such a fine ass.  And how her back shows just a bit of a dimple over...oh..yeah..back to the story...

Ahem.

My default is to apologize. Folks that know me know I can quick draw an apology faster than the Lone Ranger could draw his six shooter. Just because I am quick to apologize doesn't mean I don't mean it. And that's one of the best parts of my friendship with Megan. She knows me. She can read me like a kid's book. I don't know why I kept thinking of Rowan while having some seriously mind-expanding, senses blowing, intense, almost supernatural sex....Oh, yeah..nevermind. I do know. But I didn't think the Fae would just drop that outta nowhere. Even though it was accidental, I felt bad because I hurt Megan. And that always shows.

I think that's why I'm still here to tell this tale and not some ghost writer. Puns, I got 'em too.

But even though I did break the one rule of this trip, no one...not even your worst..ok well maybe your worst enemy if they knew the location to a weapon that would wipe out a city and needed to be interrogated...but most people do not deserve the pun-ishment that came out of Punky's mouth next.

You know you've gone too far when Piers fucking Anthony pops his head up from his latest Xanth manuscript and says "Ok, you've punned too far."  Megan when she's angry, silly, happy, drunk, hell pretty much breathing, will assault you with a metric shit ton of puns.  I've seen her in a mixed tag we did against Monstro and the Blue Fairy put Monstro down on his knees hands covering his ears begging her to stop with the puns. Trust me, do not push her to that point.

Anyways...lemme skip ahead here...oh..back to the car. The chase was excellent enough to stand on its own. We couldn't get Richard Lester to direct it, but I think the woman we got was pretty good.

"That was insane."

"You think our fans would be anything less than crazy?"

"Good Point. Hell I don't remember something this crazy since...The Crazy Horse."

"You enjoyed that as much as I did Reddy. Admit it."

"Just now or the Crazy Horse?"

"Both."

And to be perfectly honest, I did enjoy it.  Madcap shenaxxxxns are just part of the deal when you're friends with someone like Megan. You never know what insane thing is gonna happen next to you.  Best thing to do is just buckle up and ride the wave.  Despite all the craziness, there's no one else around here I'd rather have at my back or by my side than her.  Of course, she is the reason I get into the weirdness to begin with...sooooo...where were we?

Oh yeah, the Crazy Horse. Now that's a story. One long ass story. I'll try to tell it in this space here, but I make no promises about getting through it. Although I guess y'all do deserve a big reward for sticking with us this long in the story.

First off, the Crazy Horse we're talking about isn't there anymore. I think it's called Thee Dollhouse or some such now. But in its heyday, the Crazy Horse in Myrtle Beach was one of the best places to go for...adult entertainment.  Ric Flair approves. There are all kinds of stories about him going there when he was in the area.

So during one of her excursions back to the Carolinas, (Megan liked to do the old school territory hopping. Ostensibly to emulate wrestlers of the past who would go from territory to territory to keep themselves fresh as a special attraction, but I figure it was more of her hitting the road before she wore out her welcome. Some of the indy bookers during that time were sketchy, but even the best ones could get frayed nerves by her.)  We got to talking about what we did before we got into wrestling.

"I'm sure people loved getting their groceries bagged by the tall masked guy."

"They didn't complain or else I'd clothesline them. *chuckling*  Seriously though, that was just stuff in high school. "

"And computer stuff? What was it like working on an abacus back in the day?"

"Jeez, I'm not that old. Give me credit. It was punch cards." 

I wasn't surprised at the blank look that got because it's a very niche joke. But the 2 or 3 older programmers out there are chuckling.  Anyways, her reaction to that wasn't as strong as my reaction to what came up next.

"So how did you get the money to pay Scotty for training you? He's nice enough, but he always makes sure he gets his pay."

She took a long pull from her Coors Banquet. (She earned it. Won a triple threat even after both gals got together before the match and  decided to go into business for themselves.) "I danced." She took another long pull from the beer.

"Wow, a dancer?  I thought so. The way you move is fluid, but with precision. Grace and power. I was gonna ask if you were a gymnast or a dancer.  So what type? Freestyle street or ballet?"

"Pole"

Head turns, sprays Dr. Pepper out in such volume it'd put a HHH entrance to shame. Sits up. Blinks.

"Had to pay the bills somehow Reddy. Although I do think my ass would look glorious in a tutu. And come to think of it, having a loaded toe wouldn't be a bad idea. Hey, you still with me? You act like this is the closest you've ever been to,,"

"It is."

"Wait you've never been to a strip club?  You're.  Oh my god. You're blushing!  Your face is as red as your hair!"

After about 20 minutes of her trying to recover from laughing at me, she made the decision that she was going to pop my strip club cherry. We were working in Florence and Google Maps wasn't a thing yet, but I remembered some of the guys telling me about this club in the Myrtle Beach area that was amazing. So off towards the ocean we went and soon we were at the Crazy Horse.

Side note here. This was in May and in May there is the Memorial Day Holiday which is an insane time for tourists in that area. But there are also not one, but two biker rallies. I forgot what time of year it was but was soon reminded when I pulled into the parking lot and saw rows of Harley's.

I was about to protest, but Megan would not be denied. She wasn't about to lose the opportunity to see the big strong Enforcer look as awkward as an underclassman at Senior Prom. I'm sure she thought she was Iceman and I was Maverick going into the Danger Zone of the club, but to be honest, I really felt more like Goose at the moment. I rubbed my hands on the well strung, new pair of black sweatpants I was wearing wishing they were my lucky jeans so I'd at least feel comfortable. When I asked Megan why I had to wear these and not the jeans she just said, "Grinding on jeans is like - well, rub your lips back and forth against a pair of jeans and see how it feels after 15 minutes. "

Point for the Purple One. 

We entered the building an it was a weird juxtaposition of sensory assaults. It was very dark in the front but massively bright at the stage area. And it was loud. The kinda loud that made your teeth rattle and bones feel like they'd break. I imagine they had to crank it up for the bikers to enjoy. And man were there a lot of them there. I admit, I was a bit nervous. Wearing a WCW Nitro shirt and black sweat pants amongst guys who made the Sons of Anarchy look like the Vienna Boys Choir.

But Megan was not to be stopped.

She scanned the room quickly, checking out the dancers on stage and the women mingling in the crowds. I could see her in full on analytical mode, scoping out people like she assessed opponents in the ring.

I had no idea what to look for. I was lost. It was a kinda funny experience. When she first got to the area, I had to show her around the small towns. Not as much as I'd expected. But then again I've always believed that country folk are everywhere, not just in the South. I guess you would say rural people, but I prefer country. In the ring some as well, I could see she had some of the basics down and just needed some experience and guidance here and there, but not for long as she absorbed lessons faster than my Auntie's biscuits sopped up gravy on Sundays. But in this place, I was the fish out of water and she was the shark. She knew exactly what she was looking for too.

"So what exactly are we looking for?"

"So what you're looking for is gonna be a girl who's understanding.
You don't want someone TOO hot. She'll be in too high demand.
Same with anyone too exotic.
But not a pure girl-next-door either. They're just as popular as the ludicrously hot ones.
We'll want either a slightly older girl who's been in the game a while, or a younger and more enthusiastic one who's maybe shorter and curvier than the other girls.
Someone who can be soft."

"Soft?"

"Soft. We want you to enjoy your first time, Reddy. So...hmmm..I'm thinking an older girl. An older girl is more likely to be willing to agree to not try to upsell you or get you cadged for drinks as long as I give her a good bit of bread up front.
Plus she'd know how to control herself better to not get you uncomfortably excited. There's an art to that.  Of course a younger girl who's not in demand would agree to the same things as well. I guess....hmmm..there we go...Tell you what Reddy, sit down here, don't say a word to anyone. I'll be right back."

"But..."

"Not one word. Don't touch anything. You're Persephone here and I don't want Hades getting his claws sunk in on you. Understood? Nod like a good boy.  There you go."

I dutifully took my seat and she melted into the shadows of the club. The lighting was so weird. Everything around the stage was brilliant, almost too bright and everything else seemed too dark. I did my best impression of a chair when some people passed by asking if I wanted a drink or a dance or what not. They didn't go wanting as the bikers scooped up pretty much any woman that came there way.

Soon though, Megan came back with two women in tow.

On her left was a darker haired woman. Reddish-brown I'd later find out with kind brown eyes. She seemed a little older than most of the other dancers, but unlike many, when she smiled, her smile found her eyes. And yes, that's what I first noticed believe it or not. I did let my eyes trail down and check out her body. She had the club uniform on which was topless save for pasties (which I think still is the law in Myrtle) and some very short, very tight black shorts.  Very little of the leg of the shorts made it down to mid thigh. She didn't look enhanced like some of the others, but her Cs were perky and I could tell she had a nice bottom on her as well.

On her right was a ball of energy. This gal couldn't have been more than five feet tall tops. She was a brunette with hazel eyes and had a great smile as well. She also just...bounced. You ever meet people that seem to be so happy and optimistic it feels like they're in constant motion? That was this girl. She was swinging Megan's arm back and forth as she walked to me and she made extra sure that her hips would just nudge Megan's a little at just the right time. She definitely was younger than the other and was curvy in all the right places. Her shorts couldn't have been any tighter and she looked to have a bit more in the chest area and knew how to work it.


"So this is your friend? He's kinda cute." That was the younger one and she flashed me a big smile and made a show of looking me up and down.

"He is, but don't let the looks fool you. He's a beast."

"Meg..."

"I'm pretty sure I'd love to tame him." said the other one before I could say anything more. I looked at her and, I dunno, the way she looked at me convinced me that she really did want to play with me. I felt very warm all of a sudden.

"Now lookit that. He's as red as his hair now. C'mon Reddy, decision time. Do you want Candy here or Auburn?"

Candy was the younger and batted doe eyes at me. Auburn, the older one, just kept that look of real interest on her face and a slight smile. I couldn't speak so I just kinda nodded over at........

"Reddy?  Reddy? You still with me?"

SMACK

I blinked after feeling my cheek get slapped hard. Strong Style. And the memories of the club went away and Megan was sitting beside me and driving along after out big chase.

"Yer lucky I'm sideways of you or I'd've put more into that one. Where'd you go?"

"Oh I was just remembering."

"Well you were taking too long to get to a point so you'll just have to finish up that memory later. We've got more stories to tell and people are waiting on us and this is just way too long as it is now."

"So my part's to be continued?"

"Yes to be continued. That's a good Reddy."

[Callista]

As the bellhop exited the suite, I closed the door behind him, let the latch click shut, and then walked into the bedroom, stood at the foot of the large four poster bed, and then allowed myself to take a gentle back bump onto the plush mattress, my arms extending outwards as I revelled in the sensation. It might be a hotel bed, but it was a hotel bed in Kensington.

I was home.

Megan once observed that I never did the traveller thing of letting myself fall happily into bed, instead opting to unpack and set everything up first. She found it quite risible. I declined to tell her that I quite loved to do that, but when I was travelling with HER, doing that was a guarantee of an unpaid wrestling match of one sort or another because she took such as an invitation to jump on me, and I generally wasn't in the mood after a long drive.

This time, though, I luxuriated.

Understand, I've travelled the world. Wrestled on six continents, in forty-four countries, in front of what I conservatively estimate to be over a half of a million paying punters, but never in my life had I gone such a long stretch, nearly 3 years, since just after FTW disbanded, without being home.

One of my rules of the road is to never pay for a plane ticket. If I'm flying somewhere, then one way or another, it should be because a promoter is paying me an acceptable sum of money to come wrestle for them. It's a good rule, and I stuck to it, which was why it'd been such a long time since I'd been home.

Funny thing, that. I'd done a quick tour of Britain and Ireland after FTW's premature demise, and it had gone quite well, I thought. My time in the fledgeling promotion, especially as its sole champion, had raised my profile and status. Crowds seemed into me and my matches, payoffs were good, and the promoters seemed happy. I figured I could come back in six months or so and do the tour again, only when it came time to book dates, I couldn't seem to find a buyer. Calls to promoters went unanswered and unreturned. If I got a hold of someone, they said they had no room. I tried the bookers and got the same answer, except with one Dubliner lad who'd been given the book in Ireland. He sounded ecstatic, assured me he'd get it done, then ended up leaving a message saying "Sorry, not to be."

Suspicious, quite?

Well yes, but I'd been chasing down some other suspicions at this point, and I had some pretty strong indications that that particular fox hunt and this was going to turn up the same bitch.

That bitch's name was Gemma Rox.

I'm not entirely sure what methods she used. Simple payoffs? Carnal favours? Threats to unleash Megan on their locker rooms? In any event, every promoter on the British Isles decided not to book me.

So I didn't go home. I stayed on the road, building myself up. I started bringing the FTW championship with me, wrestling as FTW champion, even defending the belt, though only if the payoff was good enough. And all along, the British audience with its YouTube access and its hardcore fanbase, were positively rabid to see me. When the O2 show started coming together, I didn't have to sell myself. They called me.

Whatever pull Gemma had, she couldn't swing me off THIS card, so she did the next best thing: Made herself my opponent.

She always was a glutton for punishment.

Look I'll give Gemma every finger of her due: She's a fierce and tenacious fighter. She's schooled in multiple disciplines, cunning as an alley cat, (if half as hygenic,) and loath to ever quit, but we'd clashed on many many occasions, and the fact was that more often than not, I'd had her number. There's just some opponents you never do quite get a handle on. For Gemma...that's me.

And whether she meant to or not, her machinations had gotten me a PREMIUM deal on this card. My first match on home soil in years? At one of the largest wrestling venues in the country? And my first FTW title defence in England to boot? Oh yeah, the promoters paid for that plane ticket, and it was first class. Same as the suite I now lay in. The suite I was going to charge every single meal to over the course of my stay.

I was thinking about having one of those meals, when a commotion arose from outside. It sounded like a damned stampede. What was going on?

I pushed myself back to my feet, heading to the door and opening it before peering out into the hallway. The scene I saw outside beggared belief.

First, there was a hallway that was decidedly NOT the hallway I had walked through to get to this room in the first place. Second, I saw what appeared to be the Red Enforcer being chased by a coterie of young women in their underwear. Before I could fully process this, I observed that the women were being pursued by what looked to be a man in a gorilla suit. At this point, it was no longer surprising that whoever was in the gorilla costume was being chased by Punky Megan Dow.

She'd gotten herself in a musical montage of running away again, the kind that warps space and time and ultimately disproves the concept of a benevolent, loving God. Could that woman be ANY more of a cliche than she was?

I rolled my eyes, closing the door definitively, double-locking it to prevent any further interaction with the chase, and waiting for reality to reassert itself. I wanted some proper British seafood.

[ThePurpleVixen]

"DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE -"

For once, it wasn't fans of Broken Matt getting on my fucking nerves with that shit.

This was even worse. And I once worked an OMEGA show in a triple threat against Broken Queen Rebecca and Rosemary, and believe the fuck out of me, that's bad shit. I don't know what's in the water in Cameron, but it feeds the shit out of chanting idiots. A few thousand Carolinians all roaring about deletion over and over and over and over and over gets into your head like a fucking Black and Decker to the temple.

AND SOMEHOW THIS WAS WORSE.

"- DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE -"

"That's REALLY gettin' god-damn annoyin'," I snarled, hoisting and shouldering the extremely odd baseball bat I'd pulled off the rack inside the old bastard's phone booth. When I swung it there was a hum that sounded like it was coming up through my feet, and the curious sensation that I was swinging something HUGE, even though I was only really swinging a meter long length of gleaming silvery metal. When the bat struck the attacking robot's metal torso, it hit with a shockwave that visibly pulsed in the air, flapping my cheeks and blasting my purple hair back in a Conair stream, and sent the god-damn thing rocketing back over the shoppes. But more kept coming, marching in an endless clattering line across Saffron Road.

"- DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE -"

"Admittedly, they're not marvelous conversationalists. But it could be worse."

The lank man with the giant eyebrows that looked like they were trying to crawl off his forehead and escape to the seaside for a vacation was busily adjusting something inside his phone booth. His police box. Bigger on the inside, and whatnot. I'd actually run into the Doctor a couple of times before; once back in Germany when he was wearing a bowtie and had a forehead like a cliff in a Wile E. Coyote cartoon, and once in Nevada, when he had 3D glasses and looked like the villain in a Netflix serial. Reddy said he'd met him once in Poughkeepsie when he had a floppy hat and a long striped scarf. The guy had more faces than Mil Mascaras.

"HOW could it be worse?" Red growled. He had been roped into carrying a some sort of futuristic blast shield to cover the TARDIS door while Doctor fiddled with whatever the fuck he was fiddling with.

The old bastard leaned out the door of the booth, his big caterpillar eyebrows crawling up his wrinkly forehead. "Lots of ways, actually! There could be Daleks flitting about wiping everyone out with weapons even more dangerous than the Cybermen's blasters, or a black hole could be forming 3.2 meters above us, or a time collapse could be destroying the entire continuity back to the beginning of eternity ..."

He was Scottish this time, ya see. The Scots are fuckin' great at thinking of ways things could be worse.

This had all started simply enough. We'd made it to High Wycombe, just fuckin' 62 kilom- I MEAN 38 MILES GOD DAMN IT MEGAN YOU ARE A FUCKIN' AMERICAN - away from the O2 Arena! It had been a fast trip before we pulled up short in the middle of Wycombe Road with a line of toy robots pointing blasters at us and chanting for Matt Hardy. Fortunately, I'd managed to slalom us off the road before Jeremy's 300,000 pound car could be shot to expensive flinders, and I'd rocketed down an alley by a pub called The Sausage Tree (even fleeing for our lives from robotic menaces, I made a mental note to come get some of the Drunken Duck sausages) and the dingy bricky alley was where we'd run into the blue police box, and the old bastard with the eyebrows said he'd be happy for a bit of help.

Before that, Reddy had been in a strip club memory daze all the way from Liverpool, roaring in our hyper-expensive cocaine-white Lexus LFA down the M6 fast enough to leave bobby helmets comically spinning in our wake. We'd burned past Stokes-on-Fire, Wolverinehampton, Birbinghammer, the Royal Lemmings Spar, and Worcestershiresauce, I think. I was a bit hazy on the signage at this point since I'd done a handful of yellowjackets and red beauties from my bag to make sure I had enough energy to get to London on time - although now that I was thinking about it a little more clearly (nearly getting killed by Cybermen does wonders for sobriety, and I'm thinking of patenting the process for rehab clinics), those red beauties might have actually been incredibly powerful dilatory hallucinogens, which is why it felt like months had gone by in the car.

MONTHS.

And we already did a version of this joke once about how long this was taking, so you KNOW we're in the shit now! But I swear to whatever assorted gods listen to dangerous maniacs in narrative asides (I'm guessing it'd be a Norse god), we ARE gonna get to the end of this saga (see, Norse). And soon! We're practically in London!

Just gotta get past these Cybermen!

"And if you're QUITE done with the narrative reverie, Miss Vixen, I'd great appreciate it if you'd continue holding off the robotic hordes long enough for me to fix this wee convective verger!"

The Scottish Doctor's voice hit me like a burly slap, and I swung the hyperbat around with another pulsing thrum of gravity and the eerie brain-twisting feeling of holding something that was bigger than it seemed (really the Doctor's specialty, when you think about it), and I Negan'd the bucket heads of two more Cybermen, sending them spiraling back into the street, their constant chants briefly interrupted. Unforunately, more of their brethren were there to pick up the slack.

"- DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE -"

"What the FUCK are these guys doin', Doc? Is it another fuckin' turn-everyone-into-buckets scam?"

"It's an insidious infiltration of Earthen technology, culminating in an inorganic conversion process that-"

Reddy interrupted. "It's a turn-everyone-into-buckets scam," he grumbled, driving the shimmering forcefield shield into the oncoming horde, sending them scattering like clanking tenpins back across Saffron Road towards a car park. The Doctor snorted.

"If you want to make it sound all SIMPLE like that, fine."

He resumed whatever the fuck he was doing with his little sonic dealie just inside the door. I mean, presumably he was just inside the door. He might've been way the fuck down inside that inverted-space police box thing and just popping back up every few seconds for a pithy comment. I was a little wonky on how space and time were working at the moment, to be honest. I'm tellin' ya, red pills you buy from a guy with a radioactive pink mohawk in Shinjuku will make you feel REAL fuckin' wibbly-wobbly for a long timey-wimey.

"Reddy, we GOTTA fuckin' stop this. If everyone gets turned into Cybermen it's gonna - nNNrrgghh ..." I was cut off briefly as a Cyberman lunged at me with his eyes flashing, and I was forced to remonstrate with him in a vigorous debate that involved me smashing him into a wall with the hyperbat until he went through it in a cloud of brick dust and drifting sparks.

"End all civilization as we know it?" Red prompted helpfully.

"NO."

"It will, actually," the Doctor unhelpfully added, poking his head back out the door.

"FINE, BUT THAT AIN'T WHAT I FUCKIN' MEANT! FUCK OFF, CONKY 2000!" I bashed another one so hard its head whirled around so it was able to watch how hard I was kicking its ass.

"Spell a certain doom for humanity and lead us into an era of unending Cyber-horror?" Red asked with a certain flip delivery that made me think it'd be a bad idea to let him keeping hanging around the Doctor. He maneuvered like a Spartan at Thermopylae to force more marching Cybermen back with the big glowing Reinhardt riot shield, scattering them into a handful of broken toys.

"FUCK NO!" I snarled, overhand swinging onto a Cyberman hard enough to drill its legs three feet into the road, and then teeing off on its head and launching it over the Scrap My Car next door. "IT'LL KILL MY GOD-DAMN GIMMICK!"

There was a certain blank silence in the alley, only slightly marred by the constant mechanical grind of "- DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE -".

"I mean, how the fuck am I gonna get booked as an iconoclastic - like, fuckin' icon - of societal rebellion if everyone on fuckin' Earth is a Cyberman? We'll all just be identical hardbodies. It'll be fuckin' 2005 WWE all over again."

Red looked into the abyss, and saw the true terror there.

"Oh NO."

With our resolve thus fuckin's steeled (that's important when you're fighting metal guys), we fought in earnest, returning to the fray. Using muscles honed by years of headlocks and dropkicks and leapfrogs, we battered dozens of alien robot parasites into sparking heaps in the middle of High Wycombe. I'm pretty sure it's exactly what Lou Thesz would have done if he'd had the chance.

It was fruitless, though. There were just so many of them and they kept coming, and eventually Red's shield started to run out of juice and I lost my hyperbat when I was trying to do a sweet ass running zweihander sweep. We tried battering at them with our bare hands, but that didn't do too much. Pounding on Cybermen bare fisted is like headbutting Samoans. We even managed to hit one with a Total Elimination, but they weren't fucking selling ANYTHING. It was like fighting god damn Antonio Inoki in Tokyo.

And yeah, that's right. I broke kayfabe in a story about wrestling being real, but also there's been magic and celebrity cameos and a Benny Hill scene and Doctor Who is here, and his name's not Doctor Who. IT'S JUST THE DOCTOR. SO COME THE FUCK AT ME, CORNETTE.

Anyway, where was I.

Right, Cybermen no-selling. Fuckin' robot aliens going into business for themselves (isn't it weird how you go into business for yourself by NOT selling? Seems like a bad business plan).

So Reddy and I are getting slowly iron-fisted (uh, not like that) back down the alley, and all seems lost, and of course THAT'S when the TARDIS finally flares with a blaze of heavenly radiance and the music swells and there's a relatively economic lightning effect that jumps between all the Cybermen and they all peacefully shut down and slump over, coin operated toys who've run out of playtime. I shoulda figured. We'd crossed over into the Doctor's story, which meant we were on HIS narrative now, and that meant that everything could only be resolved at the last minute, after an hour of build-up less time for ads from Money Supermarket and Carling Black Label. It's just how his stories work.

The gruff Scot gave us doses of glowing yellow Saradomin Brew to get us back on our feet and restore us to a healthful glow. It also whitened our teeth and cleared up my bursitis, but regrettably didn't magically heal my knee since that was an important angle for another story I had going. We spent a little while with anti-gravity pushbrooms sweeping the deactivated Cybermen into a convenient portable hole before putting all the sciencey-wiency fictiony-wictiony stuff back in the TARDIS - except the hyperbat, which I hid behind a a heap of spare robot bits and then totally snuck into the boot of the Lexus when the old bastard wasn't looking. I was keepin' that shit. (I had visions of blasting Okada through the roof of the Tokyo Dome as I conquered New Japan, but when I eventually opened the trunk again, I'd find only a lovely bouquet of gardenias with a handwritten note that said only "Nice try". Old bastard.)

After we'd gotten the alley by the Sausage Tree (home of the award winning Chicken Peri-Peri sausage - see, it all comes full circle from the Nando's thing) back into a proper High Wycombe order, the Doctor stuffed his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat and peered at us intently from under the shelf of those shaggy brows with eyes like distant stars.

"Now - what am I t'do with you two? Your narrative threads are wandering all over the place, you've intertwined yourselves into multiple paradoxes, and it's half-uncertain whether you even exist."

"Is that bad?" Red asked with an earnest curiosity.

"Not so bad, no. Most things are unlikely to exist, when y'really get down to the mathematics of it."

He hummed, fiddling in his pockets like a man remembering he'd carried candy there a few lifetimes ago. I just leaned against some sort of quietly beeping console, and puffed contentedly on my Otto Carter engraved vape with its proprietary blend of Owl Farm cannabis oil, dreamfoil extract and taduki.

"Look. You two did me a great favor by blundering in here and committing acts of horrible violence."

I grinned broad as a lazing dragon. "Pretty much our fuckin' spécialité de la maison."

He nodded briskly and moved to a console with wheels and dials and other things that seemed like they were from another era with cheaper special effects, and began cranking and adjusting things. The big box began to rumble.

"I'm going t'do you two a favor. I'll cut through this tangle you're in and move the plot along. You're headed off to fight somewhere. Some sort of arena, was it? The Colosseum? Chicen Itza?"

"O2, in London" I offered helpfully, since I didn't want to end up in the fuckin' Yucatán. At least not until after the Supershow. Then maybe I'd hit up Mérida, get some chilaquiles.

"Right, right. Where the Terminal Incept begins in 2019."

"... what?"

"Nothing to worry about for now. So, then! Let's get you t'yer show! Is Big Daddy still champion?"

"Not ... not lately, no."

"Too bad. He's always been the tops. Well! Off to see the wrestling!"

He pulled a lever, and a flare of white light consumed the world like a cheap transition animation. When it faded, we were parked outside the Armitage, just a dozen blocks from the O2. A valet was taking our bags and I was on the phone with Gemma, telling her we were checking in. I shared a sidelong glance with Reddy, who also seemed to be trying to get accustomed to the sudden transition in dimensional normality.

"You all right, pickle? Your voice sounds a bit slurrier than usual."

"... I think we were just fuckin' dragged through space and time to get here, Gems. It's all an insane blur of nonsense and I can barely remember any of it except being at a constant risk to life and limb and maybe killing Sean Connery!"

"Good! One of your usual road trips, then. So long as you're not fucking late. Now go get changed and then get up here and fuck me senseless. I need to unwind before I wrestle that fucking cxnt Quinn."

"... yes dear."

[Becca Blast!]

"What do you MEAN, 'Oops, I guess I don't need you and the Legends after all' ?"

"Calm DOWN, Sara!  It's not like I..."

"Jumped me in 2018 New Jersey, where I was trying to find replacement parts for Beebo, and refused to let me up until I retrieved WHOMEVER 'Red' and 'Punky' are, and used the Waverider to get them to London?"

"To be fair, you went down pretty easily.  League of Shadows master assassin, and I wrapped you up like THAT?  Not to mention how you went down in other.."

"SHUT UP!  Fine, back to New Jersey it is... and if you tell ANYONE about this, I'll... "

"Well, I may have told Ray.  The one who looks like some dumb actor, but he shrinks?"

"RAY!   RAY? Why on EARTH would you tell...."

"He's CUTE!  And he got me away from that Brit who smokes like a chimney... Constantine, or whatever....I think THAT one would fuck anything that moves!"

"He would.  And he HAS.  But that's not the point!  You mean to say that everyone KNOWS what we do on this ship?"

"Sara, you're on the CW.  The only way you'd get LESS attention was if you were an actual female wrestler in the WWE."

"No need to be nasty about it, Becca.  OK, you go back home, since they're in London, and we forget this happened.  Well, most of it..."

"Actually, there is one favor I need, still.  We need to go by Minneapolis and pick up Rowan Chance.  That sick bay of yours will do wonders for her, and then I can break her when we get to London?"

"Chance?  Why would I go get THAT piece of work?  She should be in traction, not getting into a ring!"

"Because I can put her out of commission for good.  And, it will give Constantine someone to play with for a bit."

"You're on.  But you have to show me that move where you..."

"Honey, that's how I got a daughter.  You SURE you're ready for that?  A 3-year-old spouting whatever Mick Rory just said?"

"FINE.  But you're going to think of SOMETHING to make this trip worth my while."

"Never fear, Sara.  It's not like we're going to destroy the fabric of time and space.  You did that LAST season.  Now, get over here.   Becca want CUDDLE."

(Yep, we went all that way for that joke.  Deal with it.)

[RedEnforcer]

I don't know about you, but when I experience travel in both the time/space dimensions in an old Type 40 TARDIS that's been redecorated since the last time I spent time (not to mention the driver has changed faces who knows how many times), I get pretty disoriented. Grabbing stuff, hopping in a vehicle and speeding away from certain destruction tends to make things a little hazy. And after all the other things that have happened, I felt like I'd been deluged with all kinds of issues and nearly flooded out of my mind.  So after checking in to my room, all I wanted to do was just rest until time for the show.
I did try.
I promise.
Thing is Gemma made these reservations so I got the adjoining room to them.
Normally not a problem, but they must have missed each other or Megan had extra energy from being near the Eye of Harmony. Let's just say no amount of sound proofing could have prevented me from hearing them. 
Finally I gave up and headed to the shower. And stayed there for a while.

Soon time for the gathering at the show and the walk through for entrances and all that special stuff came and so I put on my jeans and shoes and my Godzilla World Tour tee shirt,  Then I grabbed my mask. It was time to go and even though I'm not as much a hardcore adherent to the traditions of masked wrestlers, I still only let a select few see me unmasked. In fact from what I saw of the card and online rumors from Uncle Dave,  Jules from WhatCulture, the Cultaholic guys and Oli and the Wrestletalk crew, there were going to be people there I'd known almost all my career who'd never seen my true face.

For these walkthroughs and testing out the ring, I have an old school Dick Beyer style mask I wear. It reminds me of my days as a noob, learning how to actually build the ring as well as the fundamentals for my wrestling career. I was given this mask by my first trainer, Kabuki because he thought I'd look more impressive under a mask as opposed to a ginger kid all covered in freckles. It took a bit of getting used to, Also, he wanted to hide the fact he was training a young teenager. Of course when I graduated high school and others went to college, I went south to Mexico to work on my skills. I learned a whole lot as the Lucha Libre style was waaaaay different than it is now. And I met these Japanese wrestlers on excursion going by the names Punish and Crush. They helped me learn some workable Japanese and I helped them with their English. Later on, my trips to Japan were arranged by them. I was never high on the cards in either country, but I didn't need to be. I was having fun travelling and holy shit do I love Akihabara.
But I digress...

I've been doing this kinda thing a long time. And I know my opportunities to experience super shows like this are going to come fewer and fewer. So I guess I'm just feeling a bit nostalgic.  Holding that old mask in my hand, thinking about my sensei and then the men and women I've encountered on this long strange journey to get me to here. I let out a sigh and slip on the old girl once more. And my mood shifts. I'm no longer...who I was...I'm the Red Enforcer now...and I go to the door and stride to the elevator.

"Hang on!  You better fookin' hold that..."

"Punky"

And here was this ball of chaos and fury that swept into my life like a sudden thunderstorm. I honestly think she's part cat. She came around and pretty much put her paw on my face and let me know I was hers in the way that cats adopt their humans. She loves cuddles and she has her own mind. You only touch her when she wants and she walks around like she owns the place. And at times, she breaks things just because.  Yep, Megan's a cat. Except when she's Punky. The incarnation of everything that is punk and alternative and just plain bad ass. Just like me putting on this old mask put me in my Red Enforcer persona, Megan putting on her Doc Martens and that Joshi style skirt and whichever is her favorite band at the moment's shirt sends her mind into that mode.

*DING*

The elevator opens and I pause as I normally do and Megan takes off like a shot.

*WHUMP*

And she promptly ran into a woman of similar height and build and fell into a tangled heap.
I moved to go by Megan's side and a smartly dressed gentlemen moved to be beside the other woman. Meanwhile, our two companions were laying into each other with yelling and insults.

"Stupid..not looking where I'm going...gonna mess you up..."
"Ooooh Eddie, lemme rip this one apart"

I successfully disentangled Punky from her new friend and held her back with a full nelson that may or may not have been fully locked on. I was taking care to not mess with her legs or knee for fear of the wrath of Gemma. I looked on and my opposite had a firm grip on his friend, and I thought for a moment I saw a hint of silver covering his hand.  And I could've sworn I saw a bit of green flame coming from the woman's own hand.
I decided to take the initiative.
"You'll have to excuse my friend. We've been on a really oddball journey that seems to have taken months and we're almost at our destination. So she's a bit excited."
"That's quite alright. Molly here is a bit excitable herself. She's been dying to get here for this big wrestling show because her favorite wrestler is on the card. I take it from your mask, you might be involved as well?"
I had to hand it to him, this Brit was charming. Normally I'd not like people trying to be too nice, you know like clothing store salesmen or car dealers. But I kinda felt like I could trust this guy. The look in his eyes told me he'd been through all kinds of hell and his companion was pretty cute. And she was just the kind of curvy I liked..and oh..whoops, she caught me staring and I started blushing and I think that actually calmed her down. I turned back to the guy who had a smirk on his face that let me know he was used to other men checking out his friend and as long as I was polite, he'd let it go. Thank heaven for small miracles.
"Actually yes I am...err we are. We're headed to the arena in fact. Punky here is itching to get back in the ring."
Molly's eyes lit up. "Punky? Megan Punky Dow?  Really? Really? Wait..that means...you're..you're the Red Enforcer!" Her expression softened and I could feel Megan relax. The fan reflex. Megan has learned to leash her anger when it comes to the fans. I eased up a bit but kept my arms where they were just in case.
"So lemme guess, I'm yer favorite wrestler and all. You do kinda look like my type."
Molly laughed like she'd been told the funniest joke in the world. "Oh no, hahaha no..that's funny...no..not you. Gemma Rox. Gawd that woman is so hot she could melt steel. Now her, I'd love to..."
In a flash, Megan turned to Punky again and I scooped her up in the nelson and just started running for the door of the hotel.

Megan was still fuming when we got to the O2 (See we made it. Those of you in the pool that had us not ever getting to the arena, you all lost.)  And she decided to split off from me and we went our separate ways. I love seeing a ring being put together. It's like the opening credits of a movie to me. The promise of what's to come. I felt frisky and made my way down and decided to help the crew with tightening the turnbuckles. Not all rings are created equal. They can come in different sizes. Also the canvas on the ring can be stretched tightly or loosely. And the ropes, it's always good to know how the ropes feel. If they are slick, you can mess up a high spot. If they are looser than you're used to, bouncing off them could be a problem. If they're tighter than you're used to, you could get whiplash. And I always fo a couple of back bumps on the mat. Gives me an idea of how hard a surface I'm dealing with. Some rings are springy or bouncy. Some are pretty much concrete disguised as blue mat. 

Then I head to the back to see who's here yet. I see someone I haven't seen in ages hanging out in the back talking to one of the youger British wrestlers who looks like he's taking mental notes. Smart kid. Steve..no William now is a brilliant source of information.
"Kid, if you're smart, you'd take video of this conversation and play it back later. Willie here forgot more about wrestling than you'll ever know." The older Brit whipped around with a sneer at hearing himself called 'Willie' but when he saw it was me he got that cocksure grin.
"Seems they let anyone in this place. It's been some time, Redward."
I hated that name and the bastard knew it. The story behind that involves alcohol (not for me), bad directions, a dark night on Peachtree Street, and doughnuts. Maybe I'll tell it some day. 
He and I spoke some and he asked me to stop by Orlando when I was nearby and before I left I told him to tell Paul I said hi.

I made my way next around back to a secluded corner and saw the back of a familiar form. It was the red obviously that caught my eye and the down nearly to her bottom braid that came out of her red mask. Lycra shorts that hugged so tightly only the make up squad knew if they were actually painted on. Red boots, red kneepads and elbow pads. The look of a complete new person. But this was someone I met in Japan, a true legend among the masked community. And she was here. So I decided to go say hi.
"Kon'nichiwa" I said from behind her and she slowly turned and I saw the letters DDT in black on her mask.
"DDT" was the response. I had moved closer as if going in for a hug, but that reply stopped me. I nodded and backed up. See I met this lady in Japan and I think we crossed paths once there. Maybe twice. So, see, I'm not that friendly with her and all. So I shouldn't be acting all nice and such if she's here because you know, I don't know Lady DDT all that well.
I chuckled and put my arms to my sides and did a very deep formal bow. I looked back up and her dark eyes glistened under her mask.
"DDT" she said. I bowed my head once more.
"Anata no shiai de k?unwoinoru, DDT-sama."
"DDT"

There were others back there. People I hadn't seen for years and people I didn't even know. It was such a blur and a fun experience getting to see old friends and foes.  I'm glad Megan talked me into doing this. It really is cathartic to get out and think about old times and the ones you don't hear from anymore or the ones you keep in touch with regularly.
Pretty soon I found myself thinking back to the very beginning. The one decision that made me go on this path and not the other. Deciding to pursue wrestling and not basketball. Who knows how that would've turned out. As it is, we're here. The final preparations are being made. And soon, the bell is going to ring on this match and it'll be like nothing you've ever seen.

[Rowan Chance]

I arrive at the O2 arena with the mask already on. In fact, when the car with the dark windows showed up at the hotel, I already had the mask on. I ducked out the back, through the kitchens, out to the loading bay. That's where the car with the dark windows waits. I jump inside and the driver takes me to the arena, going down the delivery entrance. I'm there three hours before the show starts.

And no, the show didn't pay for any of this. I did. The driver, the hotel, everything. All paid with cash credit cards. Live the gimmick.

I sneak inside, stay in a box way above the crowd. Yeah, I paid for that, too. Just me, all alone. I drop the shades and sit. I take out my iPad and open a PDF of Gary Hart's My Life in Pro Wrestling. I'm on page 123.

I've been in the business only a year and it's been hard keeping secrets. Secrets like...oh...that I'm not starving. That I don't come from a family with money. Sure, they're nouveau rich, started with very little and earned every dime, but they've got money. And they made sure their daughter was going to be whatever she wanted to be. They never thought "professional wrestler" would be on my list. And I've had to keep it secret. I flew to Japan and stayed in shitty apartments, ate cheap, wore old clothes, chose a pseudonym so nobody could track my past down. "Rowan Chance." Sounded like a damn comic book superhero.

But it worked. I got in. And after serving as a young girl for a year, I got my first gimmick. "Lady DDT."



I still remember the promoter saying the same thing over and over again. "You only do DDT. That's it."

Thankfully, half my family is Japanese, so I speak the language. Not that it helped. "But if I only do DDTs," I said, "it completely diminishes the move."

"Only DDTs. That's it. Nothing more."

"Hai," I say, giving him a bow.

"And only say 'DDT,'" he tells me.

I'm confused. "I don't understand."

"Only say 'DDT.' Your promos are awful. Only say 'DDT.'"

Well, that hurt. I thought my promos were...

No. He's right. They suck.

So, I only did DDTs. Slingshot DDT, reverse DDT, flying DDT, hurricane DDT, jumping swinging flying DDT...

And after a while...I started to understand. Do one thing. Over and over and over again. One thing. And you'll do it better than anyone else.

And the whole time I was there, sitting in front of a camera, I only say one thing.



After a few hours in the box, it's time to head backstage. I put the iPad away and tuck it under a chair in the box. Then I head out, locking the door behind me.

Backstage. Lots of faces. Lots of people I've seen and have wanted to meet forever.  I'm trying not to smile under the mask.

That's when a voice says, "Kon'nichiwa."

I turn and see him. Lucky I'm wearing the mask because my cheeks blush. I feel my eyes blinking. Stop that. Stop it.

We met once before but it was only in passing. Lucky for me. I almost collapsed. It was a polite conversation. He said complimentary things to me and I said, "DDT." Because the promoter was there and that's all I was allowed to say. But I wanted to say so much more.

That promoter isn't here now. He's half a world away.

He's walking up to me. What do I say? What can I say?

Live the gimmick. Don't break it. Honor the gimmick.

I suddenly feel like Percival sitting before the Fisher King wanting to ask, "How fare you?" when I know I can't. But this is The Red Enforcer. I've watched his matches on my brothers' VCR. I've studied them. When I heard he had a wrestling school, I was pissed off that I didn't know before I went to Japan. I would have gone! And here he is! Right in front of me!

What do I say?

Do I tell him I had a crush on him the moment I saw him? That the first time I saw him smash a fool with his power bomb was one of the first times I ever felt a rush of sexual arousal? Watching him hold the jobber up over his head, the jobber's body floating back and forth, so helpless. So...goddamn...helpless... And the SLAM of that drop.

OH
MY
FUCKING
GOD

Vader had nothing on this guy. Nothing.

And here he is.

I studied all his promos. Studied his matches. Watched those muscles move with intense fascination.

And here he is.

I don't know what to say. I don't know how to say it.

He's walking toward me. And I feel like a school girl. Butterflies in my stomach. My knees almost buckling.

Keep it together... keep it together...

Say something. Tell him how awesome he is. How he inspired you. Just watching him made you a better wrestler.

"Only say 'DDT.' Your promos are awful. Only say 'DDT.'"

He's getting closer...

He's... right... here...

My lips open. And I stammer.

"DDT."

He looks confused. Shakes his head a little. He speaks more Japanese. I...can't even make sense of what he's saying. He's saying it perfectly but I'm...trying...

SAY SOMETHING, GODDAMMIT!!!

I nod. "DDT." And I bow.

He returns the bow. Then, he walks away.

NO! NO! COME BACK! LET ME TELL YOU...

Too late. He's gone.

Dammit. Dammitdammitdammit.

Good one, "Rowan Chance." Nice job.

[ThePurpleVixen]

Podcast Transcript: Marty & Sarah Love Wrestling, episode 123, "Punked Up In the UK"

Ooooh-ooooh-ooooh ~
Time to get in the ring
Our favorite thing!
Marty & Sarah love wrestling!

Marty DeRosa: Hey buddies.

Sarah Shockey: Hey buddies!

Marty sounds exceptionally tired even by his Wrestling with Depression standards, and Sarah is her usual chipper self.

M: 'tis I, Marty.

S: 'tis I, Sarah.

M: And we - are ACROSS THE POND right now.

S: Which is just NOT AT ALL the right name for what we just flew across. That flight took FOREVER.

M: Did it? I didn't really notice.

Marty has an audible smirk.

S: That's because you drank about 6 mini-vodkas and then took a Ric Flair nap. We're lucky your pants stayed on.

This prompts Marty to launch into his infamous lispy and nasal Ric Flair impersonation, Uncy Ric.

M (as Uncy Ric): Ha haaaaa! Sarah! BAYBEH! You didn't yike fyin' a JET PLANE wit' UNCY RIC? WOOO!

Sarah groans.

S: Noooooooo! How did you get to London, Uncy Ric? I thought you were barred from flying!

M (as Uncy Ric): BAR ME? I'M ALREADY BARRED! BAR ME!? I'M ALREADY BARRED! WOOOO! WOOOOO!

There are shuffling noises, followed immediately by a pained groan.

S: ... buddies, let me assure you that Uncy Ric is NOT going to get out of the chair and drop an elbow on his suit jacket, because I feel like NOTHING is going to get Uncy Ric out of his chair.

M (as Marty again): You might be right. I think that last mini-vodka had horse tranquilizers in it.

S: Awww, poor Marty. They just didn't want Uncy Ric taking his pants off.

M: Well, we'll see whose pants stay on tonight!

S: ... no one's, right? Because they're in wrestling gear? I don't think anyone here tonight wrestles in pants.

M: Actually, Callista Quinn has been rocking jeans lately!

S: You're RIGHT! I forgot all about Mom Jeans Quinn!

Sarah immediately drops into a faux-posh English accent that's every bit as good as her Becky Lynch voice. Take that as you will.

S (as Mom Jeans Quinn): Ooooh, I'm in LONDON once more! With my LOVELY HIGH JEANS.

Okay, she's kinda doing a Julia Child.

M: Mom Jeans Quinn! What are YOU doing on the show? I thought you said you would only appear on Talk is Jericho or Being the Elite!

S (as Mom Jeans Quinn): Oh-ho! My moods are mercurial as my jeans are high-waisted!

M: Mom Jeans Quinn, do you have some Ecto Cooler juice boxes in that fanny pack on your jeans?

S: I'm afraid not, Martimer! For you see -

M: ... Martimer?

S: - I drink only FANCY drinks! OOOO-ooooo-OOOOH!

M: ... and there she goes, off to get fancy drinks.

S (as Sarah again): I'll miss her. And her mom jeans.

M: We all will. But who can blame her? There is SO MUCH TO DO IN LONDON TODAY.

S: THIS IS *CRAZY*! It's like 'Mania weekend but it's all our UK buddies and some just NUTTY amounts of money being tossed around!

M: Okay, buddies, let us break this down for you, in case you haven't read the news. We are at the O2 Arena in London, for what's simply being called the London Supershow.

S: And they DIDN'T put a hyphen in it, or called it the Show-Down.

M: Show-DOWN! That was Vince's headphones code for when Paul would trip over something backstage.

S: Aww, be nice to Paul. He's so sweet!

M: Also he could crush my head like a grape in one hand.

S: He COULD! And that'd be SUPER sad because you two look so much alike now and I was hoping you could be like his Petey Williams.

M: Petey Wi- you want me to be the Lil' Show?

S: LIL' SHOW!

M (adopting a squeaky voice): WELLLLL, IT'S THE LIL' SHO- resuming his normal tone - okay, wait. Wait. This is inevitably going to lead to a bit about some part of my ... anatomy getting a public nickname.

S: LIL' SHOW! PLEEEEASE?

M: MOVING ON.

S: You're no fun.

M: So we're at the London Supershow, and it is being funded by a HUGE conglomerate of media interests AND wrestling personalities, with personal bankrolling by people as diverse as William Regal, Joey Styles, and Gemma Rox! We have people from ALL over the UK, from EVERY promotion out here, buddies from PROGRESS and Eve and Revolution, from ICW and Tetsujin and World Association Wrestling. We have legends and up-and-comers and big names from ALL OVER, and it is just CRAZY. This is a 2-day show!

S: TWO DAYS! And get this - so apparently a deal was worked out with the help of Sky Media to get sponsors to bring over, for the first time ever, EVERY wrestling podcast at once to work the same show! And the sponsor who jumped on the deal was ... JD ...

M: Say it right, Sarah. Please. C'mon. They're so rich.

S: I will! Shut up! ... Wetherspoon! JD Wetherspoon, with the deal that we do a podcast at the O2 AND a podcast after the Supershow at one of their pubs!

M: So basically we got paid to come to London and do a podcast here, in the most awesome city in Europe - uh, sorry Paris and everyone, but c'mon -

S: C'MON.

M: - COME ON. We get to do the show, SEE the best wrestling in the world, and we get to go to a pub and do ANOTHER show with the buddies! And our pub is - which one is ours?

S: rustling paper Weeeee arrre at ... The Half Moon on Sunday at 9 PM! Oh, that's a pretty name.

M: SO pretty.

S: SOOOO PRETTY.

The alien voice modulator is activated.

S (as Brad the parasitic alien): Ohhhh, I loooooooove the pretty moooooooon.

M: Oh boy. Hi Brad.

S (as Brad): Are yooouuuuuu goooing to get Saaaaraaaaah some beeeeeeeers on the mooooooon?

M: I guess I will! I know Sarah likes beers, sometimes. Even if she has to go use the loo - that's what it's called here, the loo -

S (as Brad): Oooooooooooooooh.

M: - even if she has to use the loo lots of times, I will still buy her beers, because she is pretty amazing.

S (as Brad): Awwww. Youuuuuu loooooove herrrrr.

M: Even with an alien inside her, I sure do, buddy.

S (normally): Aww. Marty!

M: Oh, stop.

S: YOU stop.

There is a sudden clatter, as of a metal folding chair being rapidly clacked open and slammed hard to the presumably concrete hallway of the O2 Arena's backstage, and a shriek from Sarah, followed by the rustle of headphones being hauled onto someone's head. Someone who sounds throaty, purry, somewhat crazy, and with a bad habit of dropping the ends of words like they're on fire.

Meg "Punky" Dow: BOTH of ya stop. Neither one of you is even TALKIN' about me! An' how AMAZIN' I am!

M: BUDDIES, SHE'S HERE!

S: Our AMAZING GUEST is here! She's our first ever guest!

M: Well, I mean, we've had DOZENS of famous guests, from Uncy Ric and Nathan to Emmalina and Kyle the Choir Boy, but we've never had anyone -

P: - who doesn't *BEEP*in' sound like you guys?

M: I have no idea what you're talking about.

S: I have a guess. But either way -

M&S (in unison): IIIIIIT'S PUNKY!

P: HAAA! Do that again! DO THAT AGAIN!

M&S (in unison, once more with feeling): IIIIIIIIIIIT'S PUNKY!

P: the distinctive snorting in-drawn giggle described as a snerk *BEEP*in' awesome.

M: And yes, sharp-eared buddies, those sounds you're hearing are the ORIGINAL censory beeps used by the hardest working audio editor in sports entertainment, Mitch Gillum, formerly of FTW and currently over at Skywalker Sound, workin' the boards for us as a special favor -

S: And thanks to a SPECIAL grant from JD Wetherspoon and Sky Media because WE sure as heck couldn't afford him!

M:- and most importantly because we could not think of anyone else experienced enough, fast enough or seemingly psychic enough to help keep our special guest family-friendly!

P: HA! I KNEW I RECOGNIZED THAT MOTHER*BEEP*ER EVEN WITH HIS *BEEP*IN' TWEEDY NEWSBOY HAT COVERIN' HIS *BEEP*IN' BALD SPOT! HIIII, MITCH!

There's a rattle of headphone rumbling and static as someone wearing headphones vaults away from the table everyone is presumably sat at, followed by a sudden blare of noise as a sound engineer is aggressively tackle-hugged.

M: Megan "Punky" Dow, buddies. She's our first real guest.

S: I'm gonna tweet at Colt and tell him to EAT A BUNCH OF SOUR GRAPES.

M: Sarah, I'm 100% sure Punky's been on Colt's show before. At least twice. Remember the Countdown episode that turned into a drinking game?

S: I could never possibly forget it. But we got her on Supershow weekend and HE DIDN'T!

M: ... yeah, that's true. Get at him.

Headphones are resumed and Punky returns with an audible grin.

P: And make sure to tell him I'm gonna tell the story of when I beat him in Des Moines even AFTER he cheated at Marco Polo.

S: He CHEATED? Wait. Was this at the hotel pool, or -

M: No, they were in the ring. It was during the match. They started playing Marco Polo.

P: And Colt *BEEP*IN' CHEATED.

M: He did cheat.

P: Hidin' outside the ring.

S: OH, HE WAS A FISH OUT OF WATER?

P: And I STILL found him. And Perfectplexed him!

M: And that's pretty much the story you were gonna tell, so that was easy.

P: Yeah, basically. OH, WAIT. I ALSO GRABBED HIS DICK.

S: I mean, so has Marty.

M: I ... that's true. Wait, is dick okay? Mitch is giving a thumbs up. I guess dick is okay in Britain.

S: I mean, any other word just sounds MORE offensive. You grabbed Colt by the penis.

M: Oh god, don't say that.

S: By the penis!

P: I remember that! I was at Pancakes and Piledrivers when that happened. Sick match, by the way. But I actually flipped Colt by the dick. I call it the Reverse Joey Ryan.

S: Friend of the show Colt Cabana, allegedly flipped by the dick by our guest, Punky!

M: ALLEGEDLY.

P: I totally Reverse Joey Ryaned his ass.

S: That sounds like it means something COMPLETELY -

Snorting laughter and cackling.

P: *BEEP*! THAT'S NOT WHAT I-

S: - COMPLETELY different!

M: So SPEAKING of dick flips and Joey Ryaning someone's ass -

P: As we so frequently are.

S: CONSTANTLY.

M: - tonight! You are making your return to the ring against your friend and mine, the Red Enforcer.

P: Yeaaaaaah. Reddy's so *BEEP*in' cool. I'm still gonna tap his ass out, OBVIOUSLY, but he's so *BEEP*in' BAD-ASS.

S: Red's amazing. We got to hang out with him at AAW and he did commentary with me at Resistance Pro! He's such a sweetheart!

P: HE IS. He's like a big sugar bear, fulla sweetness an' light an' all that *BEEP*. Who I'm gonna pin down so completely that *BEEP*in' lepidopterists are gonna be callin' me for tips.

M: That's heartwarming.

P: I know, right?

S: So you've known the Red Enforcer -

P: Reddy.

S: - you've known Reddy ... he's not gonna mind if someone who's not you calls him that?

P: He won't mind. You'd be *BEEP*in' amazed at what he puts up with from me.

M: I kinda get what people put up with from hyperactive weirdos.

S: And now I'm hurt.

M: Who are also beautiful geniuses.

P: Oh, I like him.

S: I'd say dibs, but I don't think-

M: - yeah, there's no risk.

P: Not that you're not a sexy lil' minx in yer own way, Marty-chan.

M: Aww.

S: He's blushing. I can't make him blush! How did YOU make him blush?!

P: I have that effect. You should see what I can do to Reddy. It's why he has to wear the mask all the time.

S: OH! But you can still see it around his eyes!

P: YOU TOTALLY CAN. And he does that thing where he folds his arms across his chest-

S&P: AND LOOKS DOWN!

Slightly mad cackling laughter, trailing off into hitching giggles, followed by the unique monotone deadpan of Marty DeRosa.

M: ... so you're taking on the Red Enforcer.

P: That I am.

M: Are you concerned about your knee going in? Not to tell tales out of school, but you're kinda rocking the Steve Austin look there.

S: He means your knee brace, and not that you've grown a goatee or anything.

P: Not that I couldn't pull off a goatee. Did you SEE Keala Settle in The Greatest Showman?

S: OH MY GOD, THAT WAS SO GOOD.

P: RIGHT?!

M: ... so you're not too concerned.

P: with a snort Naaah. Reddy's my best friend. We've fought a few times, but pretty much always in the ring. He's not gonna throw the match or anything - if he can get away with pinning me or getting me to tap, he's gonna. But he won't hurt me on purpose, and he won't go after my knee. Not least of all 'cuz a huge guy kickin' some chick in her bad knee ain't gonna be good TV for anyone who's not wearin' a *BEEP*in' MRA fedora.

S: Those hats are so *BEEP*ing dreadful. Oh, *BEEP*, now I said it.

M: She has that effect on people. She got TYLER BATES to start cursing when she brought him and Wolfgang drinking in Chicago.

S: NO NOT TYLER, HE'S SUCH A HANDSOME BOY.

P: Mouth like a SAILOR under that *BEEP*in' mustache once he gets goin'.

M: So that makes sense, though; if I was gonna work hurt, I'd want it to be with Colt or someone else I really trusted.

S: And I know this is like - okay, I'm a little nervous to even ask this -

P: Stop. I won't hurt ya. Yer too cute.

S: Wow, that really is a naughty grin. WOW. Stop! Okay. So ... you have a kind of reputation for only taking bookings for matches that you think will really, like, blow up the crowd.

M: And that's not like saying you only demand to be in main events or whatever, but -

P: Yeah, I like to be in matches that are gonna entertain. I'll take on anyone I'm booked against, but I'm always gonna make sure the audience gets their *BEEP*in' pennyworth. And I know I can work a good match with Reddy. We've been wrestling each other for like ... gods, a long *BEEP*in' time. Longer than I wanna think.

M: So you've got a Flair/Sting thing going. He drops into the Uncy Ric voice STINGAH! Sting baybeh, ya think ya reddeh to take on the LIMOUSINE RIDIN', JET FLYIN'[/i]-

P: Whoa, hold up, hold up - did you guys get a limo?

M: Oh, *BEEP* no. No. The pub guys flew us over but we're just on foot here.

P: *BEEP*. I wanna go out in a limo later and lean out the sunroof and go WOOOOOOOOOOO.

S: Doesn't Gemma get in limos? And jets? And wheel and deal and all that stuff? Oh my god, is Gemma Ric Flair?

P: GEMMA IS TOTALLY RIC FLAIR! She even takes her clothes off more than him! And she probably nails even more ring rats. Hell, I was her biggest ring rat and she *BEEP*in' MARRIED me.

S: SO romantic.

M (as Uncy Ric): NO ONE GETS NAKEDER THAN ME, BAYBEH! WOO! WOOOO! Woo- resuming his normal tone -okay, you get it. But yeah, you've got a thing going with Red. I'm actually interested to see how you two work around what you've got going on with your knee.

S: Yeah! I know you're a big kicker, but that's clearly not gonna be the case.

P: Ya think I'd pay for a *BEEP*in' custom-fit Donjon knee brace that DIDN'T let me throw a god-damn superkick? C'mon. I'll superkick someone right now!

M: Oh please don't. It's just us and Sarah shouldn't take bumps. She's too cute.

P: Pfft. I like workin' heel but even I'm not *BEEP*in' crazy enough to superkick the world's cutest podcast team.

S: Awww! Does that make me Candice?

P: Do you wanna be Candice?

S: Actually, can I be Joey? He's so confident.

P: Tell Marty to grab your pussy.

M: ... aaaaaand we're out of time. Buddies, thank you for checking this special show out, and any of our London buddies, be SURE to come by the Half Moon Pub tomorrow night - and hopefully everyone catches this, because we are uploading this one TONIGHT! Be sure to catch the London Supershow, buddies!

P: And watch Punky and the Red Enforcer steal the *BEEP*in' show! And my wife'll kick Calli right in the taco!

S: RIGHT IN THE TACO.

M: You are literally the worst influence in the world.

P: You *BEEP*in' love it.

Ooooh-ooooh-ooooh ~
Time to get in the ring
Our favorite thing!
Marty & Sarah love wrestling!

[Callista]

I slipped past the VIP fan access areas where for some reason a few kids shouted "MOM JEANS" at me. Probably some Twitter thing, that. Can't be arsed.

In any event, I was by them and backstage. Quite a collection. Thankfully it seemed like there was a bit of laxity on the whole "introduce yourself to everyone" rule for this event. It'd take hours, at this show. Anyway everyone on this card had paid their dues and could be reasonably trusted to show proper respect for the business. I had one last task to take care of, and then I'd be free to devote all my attention to final preparations for the match. Gemma was going to crawl back into that sheep-smelling Welsh dungheap she and Megan infested feeling every one of those nine hundred and seventy-nine days I'd had since my last match on British soil.

But in the meantime...I found my target finishing a conversation with Darren. Well damn. I couldn't well pass up a chance to talk to HIM. It was always good to catch up with Darren. Unfortunately he was always so damned perceptive it was almost a waste of time trying to hide anything from him. My career was...what it was. And one of my biggest moments was cutting a promo that pretty well tore apart his employer. That I was right and even they acknowledged that now was irrelevant, and we both knew that. So for that and other reasons, all those lofty dreams and goals had just had to go away, replaced by a simple goal of putting away enough money to see me through the years that would be left to me once I stopped wrestling. It was a grind, rather than a passion, now, and he saw that.

You could see he wanted to sympathize but I didn't want that. Nearly eight billion people in the world, and probably seven billion of them weren't passionate about a job. I wasn't going to complain. Still beat waiting tables or selling stockings to Ladies Who Lunch for a living. He reiterated his offer, I said I'd think about it, (true enough, though I'd probably not take it,) and I moved on. Anywhere there was Red going into a locker room. I stepped quickly, moving into a "don't fucking get in my way" power walk as I did, before giving the door a shove and walking in.

Inside, Red, who was now talking to El Ligero (did the masked wrestlers have their own changing room or something?) dropped his own bag, flinching visibly as I entered. Ligero also looked up at me with a bit of surprise. That "shove" of the door might possibly have been more of a front kick, I suppose...

"Jesus, Calli," Red said, shaking his head.

"Pick one," I quipped, before setting my battered old duffel bag down, (it had wheels but I preferred to carry it. Free exercise is underrated,) and tossing a smaller tote to Red. "Here you go."

"What's this?" he asked warily.

"Your gear for tonight," I answered.

The parts of his face I could see through that Destroyer-style mask went white. "Calli..."

"Don't worry. I know you'll want to look professional in front of such a large crowd. I included matching pads and boots. No charge!" I said, grinning at the poor man.

"Calli..."

"Can't talk now, gotta go prep. Good luck tonight, Reddy! Break a leg, preferably Megan's. She's got a bad knee, you know? You can totally use that. Bye now!" I said cheerfully and rapidly to get it all out in a rush before ducking back out and heading for my assigned changing room.

There, that was done. Now, to plan a murder...

[RedEnforcer]

Ligero excused himself and left me alone to stew in my thoughts.

She didn't.  She wouldn't have. I can't believe,,.

I open the bag and see the flash of teal (the greener shade, not the Carolina Panthers blue version) and I'm shocked at first of course. But I do end up grinning. I pull the teal mask out with bronze flame effects around the eyes and mouth outlined in a nice black piping. Sure it was a gag, but never say that Callista Quinn never did things with style.

You see, there was this bet. I can't remember how long ago it was, but basically Calli would get to pick out my outfit for the next public match I had with her on the card.  Then things kinda went sideways and we both went our separate ways. So come to think of it, this is the first time those conditions exist. And she remembered. Of course she remembered. But you know what, it kinda really works with what I had planned for my entrance. So thank you Calli. Hope I make you proud.

I had plenty of time on our road trip in between trips to all the different dimensions we wandered about in to figure out my entrance. This was my first huge show in years. More eyes on me than since the FTW days. And a lot has happened since then. I first thought about going old school and using the Godzilla theme I later updated to the Pharoah Monche song that uses that riff. I also thought about doing an Irish themed entrance to celebrate my Grandmother's heritage and since I have her shillelagh, that eould be a nice tribute along with my favorite Imagine Dragons song sung in Gaelic. But then I started thinking about the larger picture.

Often wrestling fans get made fun of, especially Southern wrestling fans for their love of the sport. You know the "It's still real to me dammit" kinda conversations. Cultured, superior people like to look down their nose and say "You know that isn't real" with all the condescension of a private school headmaster giving a speech to public school kids. I usually love to say "You know Meredith Grey isn't a real doctor.  Jon Snow isn't a real knight. Leroy Gibbs isn't a real retired Marine/NCIS agent. Tony Stark isn't a real superhero. Jesse Pinkman isn't a real drug dealer, bitch."  But after thinking about it, I found that wasn't the best response. That was just scorn meeting scorn. And that's not the real way to make change. What we have to understand is that all of us, every one of us, have this thing that makes us a nerd or a dork or an otaku or a weeb. For me, it's professional wrestling. For some it's golf. For some it's their favorite tv show. For some it's that new video game that's got them riding around the old west every chance they get. We all have something we're passionate about. Some things sexual, some not. But still we all have our own things that make us different. Even fans of the same thing have their differences (Kirk is better than Picard. That's not my Luke Skywalker. Michael Keaton was the best movie Batman.  Tom Baker is my Doctor although I'm really loving Jodie Whitaker.) And a large part of this journey Megan and I have taken in this crazy trip to get to this match has been celebrating all the fun things that she and I enjoy. Sharing them with you, the person reading this. (Yes, I'm getting meta right now, hang with me please.) There are all kinds of easter eggs and shout outs and references to things we love in the previous pages of this story and if you caught one and smiled, then we succeeded in what we've been trying to do. And I say all that to get to this point.

Like a wise woman once told me "We are all freaks here, stop backbiting each other."  We're all freaks, dorks, nerds, weebs, whatever you want to label it. And you know what, that's just fine. As long as we understand each other, respect each other, and treat each other with common decency and humanity, we can enjoy the things we like and love each other and make this world happier for everyone. Just because I like Pepsi and you like Coke doesn't mean we should fight. Sometimes it's a simple or as hard as that. Understanding one another.

And right now, I wanna see if I can make that point using an analogy. It's the O2 Arena in London. The previous match is done and it was a hardcore battle for the ages with names like Jimmy Havoc, Onita, Sami Callahan, Abyss, New Jack, Tommy Dreamer, even fucking Raven himself tearing it up one last time for the fans who love the type of wrestling that makes old school guys like Jim Cornette have a coronary. Because you know, even wrestling fans like different things. They put me and Megan here in this spot as a breather and a reset because they knew the hardcore match would get people riled up and they needed something to let them recover and then get worked back up again.

The lights go dim. A single spotlight on the stage to the side where the wrestlers shines on a lovely woman who looks a bit nervous. You would be to if you went out after that. But once the music starts, she finds herself.

I am not a stranger to the dark
Hide away, they say
'Cause we don't want your broken parts

I shift about in Gorilla. Wearing my Callista Quinn provided outfit. I love her to death. She's another that gets looked at the wrong way. Brilliant woman, passionate about wrestling. Often that passion is seen as haughtiness. But I see past that. I see the woman behind the shield. She is so demanding and precise because she cares so much.  Because she does, she tries to keep people at a distance which makes people think she's aloof. But they don't see what I see in her. What I love in her. It's that demand that the details be right that has me in this gear tonight. It could have been something silly looking, but it actually looked amazing.

I've learned to be ashamed of all my scars
Run away, they say
No one'll love you as you are

The song starts getting to me. Reminding me of growing up different. Red haired when it was an oddity. Freckles all over that caused all kinds of taunts. Not belonging.

But I won't let them break me down to dust
I know that there's a place for us
For we are glorious

My fists clench and my teeth set. Damn right we belong. All of us. With our fandoms and kinks and differences.
And the drums start and I can feel my heart starting to match pace.

When the sharpest words wanna cut me down
I'm gonna send a flood, gonna drown them out
I am brave, I am bruised
I am who I'm meant to be, this is me
Look out 'cause here I come
And I'm marching on to the beat I drum
I'm not scared to be seen
I make no apologies, this is me

The lights rise on the motley crew of people of all ages, races, shapes, sizes and what not on stage behind her. They join their voices to hers and it's mind blowing and powerful.

Oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh, oh

I come out from the back in the middle of the ooohs. The Red Enforcer an image of Teal and Bronze.  I'm wearing the stylized bronze flame mask, teal boots, teal knee pads and elbow pads, and a teal singlet with a huge bronze beer stein in the very middle of my chest with a big CQ emblazoned on it in black. An outfit meant as a joke, a gag. something funny for two friends to laugh over when they made the bet. But now, I'm wearing it proudly in front of everyone. A symbol of everything I believe right now. We're different. Embrace it. Don't fear it. As long as what you do and enjoy doesn't harm yourself or anyone else in any lasting, terrible way, go for it.

Another round of bullets hits my skin
Well, fire away 'cause today, I won't let the shame sink in
We are bursting through the barricades and
Reaching for the sun (we are warriors)
Yeah, that's what we've become (yeah, that's what we've become)

I stand there, I can't hear the crowd. I'm lost in a reverie of all the people I've come across in my nearly 20 years of wrestling. All those names and faces that helped shape me and make me the man I am today. This is for them. I don't know if they're still out there, still watching, but I do kinda hope some of them see and remember our time together and see that I'm still a pretty goofy guy and see a bit of themselves in who I am today.

The rest is just a blur, but I do find myself in the ring...finally...in my corner...waiting for Megan. And I'm reminded of something Ric Flair told me once, "Just like the Crusher once told me. Follow that, brother! WOOOOOOOOO!"


(For the entrance I made, check out the below video. You'll love it.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c6GrbAJq7tM&t=0m36s

[ThePurpleVixen]

This is a big fuckin' show.

Like, real big.

You might've thought that the time you went to a Ring of Honor Road to the G1 show down at the Austin Highway Event Center was big, but that's just peanuts to the London Supershow.

There's serious money. Way more money being chucked around than any show I've been on in the past few years. Actually, no. I'm talking myself up This is pretty much the biggest and fanciest show I've ever been on. I've done a couple of big Tokyo shows, and I was at AAA Triplemania twice, and there was FTW, but nothing of this fuckin' SCALE. This is god-damn GRANDEUR. I've been to the O2 a few times - I saw Iron Maiden here last year, and Michael Bublé, and I've seen Depeche Mode every time they've played it (Modies 4 life, bitches), and while those shows were fuckin' sweet, I couldn't help but imagining how boss a wrestling show would be there.

Of course, I do that for every venue. I'm always laying out rings and guardrails, surveying a place with my eyes shamelessly, imagining how hot it'd look with a curtained entryway over by the bathrooms. Gemma can always tell when I'm eyeing up the support beams in a pizzeria that I'm imagining getting a lighting rig up there, and I'm just RAVISHING that joint with a cheap flyered indy show in my mind.

But this? This blows all my naughty imagined wrestling shows out of the fucking water.

EVERYONE is here. Regal even pulled enough favors to get some of New York to send a few famous faces. Triple H is here shaking as many hands in front of as many cameras as he can find. The Big Show is doing media out front. Becky Lynch is drawing so much of a crowd that the event staff eventually had to corral her back into the fuckin' social media lounge so she could just blow up the internet instead.

Every fuckin' league in the UK sent people. We've got big names from Japan, from Mexico, from Germany. The Great Khali is here! That's actually kinda exciting! I dunno why, he's still a massive lug, but he's got a charm all his own now that he's not on TV every week. And that's to say nothing of Sky Media and the jerks with all the pubs (Gemma HATES those guys) bringing over every wrestling name with a podcast to do a show. Jericho, Austin, good ol' JR himself, Jim Cornette despite his vow never to be on the same continent as me again if he could help it, Colt Cabana, Taz, Edge and Christian, Excalibur, fuckin' Vito Lograsso, Pete Rosenberg and Stat Guy Greg, Masked Man, my boy RD Reynolds and Blade - and of course the world's cutest podcast team, who you've already met. There's podcasts running all OVER the fucking place. It's like we're at E3 but I actually care about the people doing the shows (Okay, I love the guys from Day One Patch, but the rest of 'em can go jump off a microwave).

Anyway, this show is REALLY expensive. And they spared no filthy lucre on making it LOOK expensive. Especially for the grandeur of everyone's entrances. Lighting, pyro, live perfomers, costumes, anything and everything. We had to submit it all to the producers a couple of months ago and get it rehearsed, and some stuff had to be filmed in advance.

(If you're wondering how Reddy and I had time to do all that after driving all over the UK to go to Nando's and kill Sean Connery and then get to London the night before the show, I'll just remind you that the fucking Doctor AND John Taylor were here earlier, so just do like the boys from the Satellite of Love used to say when you wondered how they'd eat and breathe: sit back and relax.)

So Reddy makes his entrance and of COURSE it's fucking amazing and sweet because he's so god-damned cool even when he IS dressed like Calli Quinn's stuffed animal and his heart is as big as the fucking ocean and he gets me all teary-eyed and I have to cold-spray my face to stop my ring cosmetics from getting fucked up before I'm out of gorilla position. Fortunately, I'm gonna have a few minutes. Because I filmed a whole THING that plays before my entrance. Some people say that little movies associated with wrestling events have a history of being terrible. To those people, I say: CHEATUM RULES FUCK YOU.

The lights dim again after the roaring cheers for Red and the lovely singer who rang out his anthem fade down. They dim - and keep dimming, go all the way down to the legal minimums of exit and fire lights and the glitterswarm of cellphones and LEDs out in the crowd. The darkness that fills the O2 is substantial - until:

The big screens all around light up with something a bit like but legally distinct from the 21st Century Fox logo - spotlights illuminating huge silver words overlooking a cityscape that's suspiciously Londonesque. The camera is zoomed in on the top row of letters:

GEMMA ROX PRESENTS

Then the view pulls back to reveal another row underneath:

A PUNKY PRODUCTION

And one more row:

THAT COST TOO FUCKING MUCH

And another line of giant silver text and another and another, the words getting smaller as the view pulls back to reveal this is really like a rambling paragraph stacked up overlooking the CGI city:

SHUT UP YOU'RE RICH

STOP COMPLAINING

BITCH IT'S MY MONEY I'LL COMPLAIN ALL I LIKE

WAIT YOU AREN'T PUTTING ALL THIS IN ARE YOU

OH FUCK WE OBVIOUSLY ONLY MEANT

THE FIRST TWO BITS YOU MINDLESS TWAT

That fades mercifully to black, and we now get a nice high-definition shot of the lobby of the Armitage Hotel, just a few blocks from the O2. The camera focuses in on a staircase, and as a glossy brown Doc Marten hits the bottom step there's a riff that similar to but legally distinct from Jim Johnston's "Wreck", the immortal theme used by Mick Foley's Mankind during his most iconic WWE run. We pan sexily up from the sneaker to reveal tattooed legs decidedly better than Mick's in high white socks, black ragged cut-offs and a glossy black and gold Donjon kneebrace around my right knee, and then a rumpled short-sleeved white button up with a nice striped red tie.

Mick usually wore a black one, but one does want a TOUCH of color, even in a tribute cosplay. I've got one of my own merch buttons above my left breast - I decided to start doing buttons lately, kind of a retro thing and they look cool on jackets and backpacks - this one being a red circle that says PUNKY in big bold irregular font type with "Hellbound the Hardway" underneath. Sort of a Gemma tribute, y'know. I'm so fuckin' sentimental. My iconic purple hair is raked back into a single braid, just for a change of pace, and I'm wearing my usual ring cosmetics 'cuz I'm still me - Chiba City glossy black lip enamel and dark cat's eyes drawn in waterproof Tattoo Liner. In one tattooed hand I'm dangling a mask of brown leather straps.

"Look, Gems. I love the idea. I do. And you actually fuckin' went out and got the real fuckin' deal, and ..."

"This fucking thing cost me THREE THOUSAND FUCKING YANK DOLLARS, you ungrateful tart. You told me you NEEDED the mask. You said it was REQUIRED."

Gemma's snarling each word through her teeth, clutching one of her G-Force cricket bats, the ones made in partnership with a sponsor's deal from Gunn & Moore. I step forward, my free hand caressing my beloved's smooth cheek and basking in the softness of her beautiful, furious face, making sure the HD camera lingers romantically on the gleam of my wedding band. I lean forward, kissing her softly as violins swell, lingering warmly in the kiss until she gives a little purr and her hands find my hips and she presses into me and the violins start to fade to sexy saxophones that break off with a blat as I break the kiss and slip past her, dropping the mask in her open grasping hand and smoothly plucking the cricket bat away from her with the same deftness I used to shoplift my way through a tour of the Texas territories.

"There's already one ridiculous mask in the ring, dollface. An' I ain't coverin' this beautiful fuckin' mug with anythin' except blood. See ya there."

My free hand slaps back to give her curvy ass a squeeze as I bound down the steps and away from her enraged shout. She attempts to follow me only to be blockaded by convenient bellboys with a luggage cart, and I make my way cinematically out of the hotel and into the streets, the cricket bat jauntily over my shoulder.

Some people in the O2 got this bit right away. More of them get it now.

Armitage Road is crowded with wrestling personalities who were willing to cameo in my fucking entrance movie (Hi, Jack!) and uncredited extras who are mostly production staffers and people who didn't realize they were being filmed. A gangly fan in a slightly moth-eaten FTW AFTERSHOCK shirt (I didn't even know we MADE shirts for our recap program hosted by Aarón "El Estrello" Rodriguez and Debra Arun) bumps into me, stopping to gape at me as I shouldercheck him and shoot him a brief death glare.

"FUCKIN' WATCH IT, NUMBNUTS!"

I level a portentous pointed finger of doom at the yobbo as I keep walking.

"Next time I see ya ... yer DEAD."

The audience rumbles in the O2. Yet more people get it now.

The camera cuts as I keep swaggering through London in my sweet-ass Foley cosplay. There's a LOT of wrestling fans around. That makes sense, it's the biggest wrestling show in recent memory. Even still, the street is just FULL of them, shufflin' around. But it's like a mile and a half to the O2, and I'm fuckin' hungry. I explain this narratively for the movie by growling.

"Fuckin' HUNGRY."

Just like Orson Welles would have done it. I deliver a crisp superkick to a mini-mart door, shattering the glass, and give a knowing smirk to the camera, just so everyone knows I can STILL FUCKIN' SUPERKICK. I step through the panes, shouldering the crackled glass aside, and pad casually to the ice cream cooler, where I dig around and come up with a Cornetto Whippy.

The noise picks up in the darkness of the O2 to a faint rumble of conversation and laughter. WAY more people get it now, and are explaining it to those who don't.

My cunning direction makes this conversation even easier with my next seamless scene transition, as I'm joined in the shop by three figures. There's FTW legends Monstro and the Blue Fairy - Monstro's now-white hair is raked up into messy spikes, and he covers his enormous tattooed bulk with a vintage Dudley Boyz "BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WOOD" shirt. The Blue Fairy, petite little aerialist that she is, has her long electric blue hair covered with a snug black beanie, wearing a long sleeved white shirt with black stripes spray painted down it. And her gauzy rainbow wings. She wouldn't fucking budge on the wings, even for this bit. Also there's Will Ospreay, who's booked tomorrow in the King of the Air gauntlet, doing me a favor that he now very much regrets letting me call in. He's in a straight up Harry Potter costume, including the robe, and his dour expression suits his character perfectly. We all four trade a long look and then I dip back into the cooler, and come up with three more Cornettos - strawberry, original blue, and mint chocolate, ha HA, get it? - which I extend out. The three of them all simultaneously snatch one.

There are now very few people in the O2 who don't see where we're going with this one, as I indulge in a Tarantino-esque scene of everyone eating ice cream while standing quietly around an empty market in ridiculous outfits.

Back in the intro film of an increasingly-unlikely runtime, Monstro clears his throat with a rumble like rolling boulders.

"Gotta bit longer 'fore da show. Wanna gedda drink?"

Despite Monstro's gigantically thick Hoboken accent that probably hits British ears like a fucking chainsaw, I tilt my head thoughtfully, purple braid swaying, cricket bat on my shoulder, and glance into the camera just to make it PERFECTLY FUCKING CLEAR as I give a thumbs up with my free hand and a gremlin grin.

"... pub?"

THERE's the cheap pop I was looking for.

We step out of broken door, Ospreay mumbling something about he could have been doing a podcast interview with Angelina Love as he lifts the hem of his black robe to get through the shattered glass of the broken market door. Outside, the wrestling fans have gathered. Dozens of them. More. All in vintage FTW merch, or Gemma Rox gear, Rowan Chance gloves, Platinum Queen sparkly headbands, Lisa Starr Chi-Town armbands, Iron Michelle Blount metal maple leaf buttons. A SWARM of them.

A fucking HORDE.

The four of us spread out. Monstro's holding a giant vintage 80s cellphone in one huge hand, the kind Paul E. Dangerously used to rely on. Fairy has her unfinished strawberry Cornetto in one hand and a golf club in the other. Ospreay has a magic wand (11 inches, holly, with a phoenix feather core. Or possibly just from the World of Harry Potter shop over at King's Cross) and a strong desire to be elsewhere. One of the shambling fans comes at us, clutching an autograph book and an 8x10 of Callista Quinn getting pinned by La Santa.

"SIIIIIIIIGN."

With a snarl, I snatch him by the front of his FTW AFTERSHOCK tee and yank him forward, headbutting him between his beady glassy eyes so hard that his glasses break and his head flies off and bounces down the high street. His body falls to the pavement, autograph book flapping. Monstro points at my shoulder, where drops of blood patter down since I cut my forehead a bit on the gangly shambler's spectacles.

"'ey. Ya got red on ya.

There's ANOTHER cheap pop. This is easy. And it only cost a couple million!

I take my red tie off with a jerk, setting my cricket bat against my hip a moment, and wrap the tie around my bloodied forehead to a massive roar from the crowd, cinching it tight in a Rambo headband. The four of us look at the Horde between us and the northern road. Will clears his throat.

"Are all your shows like this, Punky?"

"Yeah, basic'ly. Anyway, let's get to the fuckin' arena. I get the feeling there's a lotta these fuckers ... so we're gonna have to take a shortcut.

And the movie fades, and as the lights start to come up in red and blue, it's revealed at the long aisle has quietly filled with the Horde, shambling wrestling fanatics in vintage FTW merch and zombie makeup. And our four heroes appear on the stage, still in costume. That's right, bitches, it's my PPV cosplay! And as we step out from the entryway and strike bad-ass poses, the extremely-expensive-to-license-right-now (fucking movie) strains of Freddy Mercury's sweetly plaintive but somehow still bombastic voice hit over the speakers.

Toniiiiiiight ...

The crowd roars just from that one word, and I grin on the stage, eyes flashing under my necktie bandana. About ten thousand voices in the crowd croon along like it's a pub sing.

I'm gonna have myself
A real GOOD time!
I feel aliiiii-iiii-iiiiive!
And the WORRRRLD!

Lights flare over the arena as the Horde swarms the stage, crowds of them on either side of the ramp. I give a casual nod to the Blue Fairy, who tosses her golf club aside and takes two steps back on the stage, snatching her beanie off and letting her pixie-cut blue hair flutter, rolling her shoulders to make her wings flap before she runs forward and DIVES off the stage into a fucking beautiful Shooting Star, wiping out about ten zombie-fans. Admittedly, with that many catching her, they have to allow themselves to fall over since she barely weighs over a hundo, but whatever, it looks sweet.

I'll turn it inside out, yeah!
And floating around
In ecstasy!
So DON't stop me now!
DON'T stop me now!

I tilt my head to the side and grin at Will, who has his little round glasses and lightning bolt head scar and black robes flapping. I give him a wink, and he gets a big bright Ospreay smile as he gestures grandly with his plastic wand.

"EXPELLIARMUS, YOU BASTARDS!"

I love that kid.

He runs forward and, not to be outdone, dives off the stage into a seamless 540 corkscrew senton bomb, and the dozen zombie-fans HE lands on don't need any further help in falling the fuck over.

'cuz I'm having a good time
HAVING A GOOD TIME!

Monstro and I are actually old friends. I met him on my first time in Jersey, when I stopped at the Monster Factory. He was already married to the Fairy, even way back then, and we all got along great. Everyone loves Blue, but Monstro and I had a special connection, forged mostly from cheesesteaks and late nights playing Smash Brothers.

So he qualifies to be the Frost to my Pegg. Reddy would play the part, but he's in the ring 'cuz I'm gonna kick his ass. Hi, Reddy. Get your ass ready.

I'm a shooting star, leaping through the sky
Like a tiger! Defying the laws of gravityyyy
I'm a racing car, passing byyyy like LADY GODIVA!
I'm gonna go - go - GO - GO
There's no stopping MEEEEE!

Monstro and I go through our secret handshake (It's a classic: shake, clasp, finger hook, finger lace, thumb tap, slide back, sideways five, backwards sideways five, finger waggle. That one's pretty simple by my standards. My secret handshakes with Reddy and Lindsay can take up to three minutes). Then he sets his head and CHARGES down the ramp, arms out, sweeping down two rows of zombie-fans before his behemoth charge.

I follow along in his wake, and every Hordeling who stands before me gets a cricket bat to the bonce, thwomping them down like Italians playing Native Americans in a Leone Western, swinging overhand and pulling my shots not to hurt these friendly extras, many of whom are journeyman wrestlers but making sure that I'm keeping the beat.

I'm burnin' through the sky, yeah
Two hundred degrees
That's why they call me Mister Fahrenheit
I'm traveling at the speed of light

Just outside the ring, I lay out three zombie-fans who are all, through astonishing coincidence, dressed in tall black boots, and corsets, and long black wigs. Sometimes those fans travel in packs. I put a little extra pop on those swings. Gotta make it sound good - like ash wood thwacking bone. Rich and pure.

Don't stop me now, I'm having such a good time
I'm having a ball
Don't stop me now
If you wanna have a good time, just give me a call!
Don't stop me now (yes, I'm havin' a good time)
I don't want to stop at all

I take a big step up onto the apron, in my slightly clinging short-sleeved white shirt, the tails flapping at my hips in my little cut-offs that give me plenty of flexibility. My knee brace glitters and toes curl with excitement in my Foree Electric sales advisor brown Doc Martens. I grin at Reddy, my eyes sparkling, and shift my hips in time to the music before I snatch the headband off and fling it into the crowd. Thanks to movie magic, I'm not bleeding any more. The cricket bat I toss behind me with a casual flip where it's caught by a nimble tech before some fan can grab it and belabor someone's skull, and I grip the top rope and lithely twist over it with a smooth sideways roll, landing on my boots, bouncing up and down a bit, feeling the tension in my knee brace, feeling the race of blood in my veins.

My grin could light a dark room as I resist the urge to hug Reddy so damn tight since it'll slow down our intro, but he can see the light shining in my eyes, and I shoot through a flurry of shadowboxing strikes, punches and jabs, knee lifts and forearms at nothing, and finish with a showy high roundhouse kick to pop the marks - a roundhouse kick planted on my right foot, taking my weight smoothly as I spin gracefully around and raise my hands up, throwing a double rock hand into the air as forcefully as I've ever thrown any punch and soaking in the roar of the crowd like a fucking drug.

Yeah, I'm a rocket ship on my way to Mars
On a collision course
I am a satellite, I'm out of control!
I am a sex machine, ready to reload!
Like an atom bomb about to -
Oh, oh, oh, OH, OH EXPLODE!

It's like the song says.

I'm fucking ALIVE.

[Rowan Chance]

There's me, mask off, dressed in my civies, eating a hot dog and drinking a Coke, watching the entrance from my private box. The hot dog and the Coke are tradition.

But my eyes are wide open and my mouth is agape. Watching all the fireworks and ballyhoo. Eyes and mouth wide open, hand barely holding the hot dog while the Coke sits beside me, slowly perspiring.

And all I could say, if I could say anything at all, is, "Wow." But I can't even manage that.

And in the back of my head, and the front of my head, and the center part of my head, and other parts of my anatomy are screaming a different message:

Goddamn...I'm in love.

[RedEnforcer]

I love Queen. I admit it. And I love Shaun of the Dead.  (Yes, I'm going to be the person to flat out reveal the punchline for the joke for those still not getting it.) I usually don't do zombie movies, but what got me into watching Shaun of the Dead was Queen. I saw a clip of the scene where Shaun and his crew were staving off a zombie attack and striking them with the beat of Queen's Don't Stop Me Now and it intrigued me.

So I watched. And you should too.

I love me some good dissonance. Dissonance like the Simon and Garfunkel song "I Am A Rock" has. Listen to the catchy, bouncy, almost advertising jingle like tune of that song. Then actually just read the words. It's a happy sounding song with some of the loneliest lyrics around. It perfectly encapsulates the idea that people are hurting and hide themselves under a veneer of normalcy.  That's one extreme example played for drama. Edgar Wright, the mad lad, crafted that scene in Shaun of the Dead for comedy. The actors are fighting for their lives while Queen's most hopeful and triumphant song plays. I believe in some polls Don't Stop Me Now is listed as the most upbeat song ever. In that sense, it spoke to me that these people still had hope if they could just keep going.

And I look over at Megan, that wild smile on her face.
The joy.
And I see it.
The woman who's made a career of being the toughest one around, the Living Dead girl, the Human Trigger Warning, "Oh Christ, it's her, run,"  that woman is standing in front of me with the biggest...my dad would call it the biggest shit eating grin ever. 

She's Happy.

This is her passion. This is what made the long and winding road here worth travelling. This is where she belongs. In the middle of the ring, ready to do some work.

I catch her eye and I can tell she's wanting to rush me and tacklehug me, but that wouldn't do.

I just have to tease her. I know she already thinks I look ridiculous, so fuck it. As the last refrains of the anthem that propelled her to the ring play, I break into my best Paul Rudd impersonation (check it out http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4LvMeYEwWGQ&t=4m28s) and go all silly. 

Yeah this is special for both of us. I know how much Paris took out of her. Took her to a dark place. And love her or hate her, Megan is emotional.  She can rub people the wrong way with her...Meganness. She's intense, burning hot. But she's also got another side that the pendulum swings to. Much like the nameless singer of "I Am A Rock" (see kids, that was Chekov's Reference) Megan will mask her emotions by standing up as strong as a rock. But right now, right here in this moment, I've never seen her more....Alive.

That makes this wild, wacky trip all worth it.

So let's get on with it, shall we?

A grumbling Scottish brogue kicks in over the scene of rampant craziness, a voice familiar to fans of Insane Championship Wrestling.
"Somewhere, Joe Hendry is crying wishin' he had a budget fer an entrance like that. Hello and welcome to the next match here in the O2 where we're following up the bloodiest hardcore match ever with...something.  Billy Kirkwood here with legend and wrestling matriarch Sweet Saraya Knight and British wrestling legend and trainer extraordinaire Robbie Brookside. But first, let's have a look at the many other commentating teams from around the world that have joined us for this show, starting off with our Spanish Announce team Willie Urbina and Hector Guerrero."

I watched the footage back later and had to laugh when Willie said in Spanish that my outfit had to be the most garish one he'd seen since LazerTron. Hector wasn't expecting it and tried hard to stifle a reaction which only served to make him look like he'd swallowed a lemon and got all bug eyed.

It was good seeing the different wrestling legends they'd gotten to help commentate this match, a real who's who of independent wrestling. How they got Das Wunderkind, Alex Wright to do the German broadcast, I'll never know, but I did love seeing him do his dance in a suit.

And then it got really funny....

"And for the people who for some reason cannot understand a perfectly enunciated Scottish accent, we have our American Announce Team of Larry Van Keel and Rick 'Precious' Perle...*mumbling* well we saved on the budget there.."

LVK: Rick it's great to be back calling action again.
RP: And getting paid, even if it is in pounds. I thought they used the Euro over here.
LVK: Most of Europe does except the United Kingdom which...

:And that's enough of that baws. Who wants a history lesson in wrestling. No wonder those guys have disappeared. Wait, we have one more group? Seriously. I'm being told that for those who can't understand me nor the regular 'Yankee' American announcers we have out Southern Announce Team, Johnny Caudle and Bob Weaver....*mumbling* they're still alive..how old are they now? 124?"

BW: Thanks for that great introduction Willie. Fans, we're gearing up for a dream bout that should be nothing short of amazing, the always dangerous Megan 'Punky' Dow vs the wily veteran, the Red Enforcer. Johnny, you're familiar with these two, what can you tell us.
JC: *eyes wide, jaw slightly dropped, staring into the ring* "What in the flying fuck is he wearing?"

"Thas what I'm sayin' eerrr. Thank you gentlemen. Now onto the introductions."

The ring announce grabs the microphone and stands in the spotlight in the center of the ring gearing up for his booming announcement.  He's dressed in black, deep black with a maroon tie that pops off his chest. He's a pro and he waits patiently for the crowd to settle before he begins.

"THE FOLLOWING CONTEST IS SCHEDULED FOR ONE FALL..." ONE FALL!!!!
"WHEN THE BELL RINGS THE MAN IN CHARGE OF THE ACTION, REFEREE JIM MOLINEAUX!1!"  ECW! ECW!
"INTRODUCING FIRST, STANDING IN THE CORNER TO MY RIGHT, FROM PARTS UNKNOWN..."
I step up and cover the mic with my hand and whisper into his ear.
"EXCUSE ME, FROM CHARLOTTE, NORTH CAROLINA"  WOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
"THE CRIMSON MENACE, THE SCARLET.."
I come up again and cover the mic with my hand and whisper into his ear.
"THE EMERALD ASSASSIN, THE VERDANT DESTROYER, THIS IS THE TEEEEEEEAAAAALLLLL EEEENNNNNNFFFFOOOOORRRRCEERRRRRR!!!!!"

I stride out from my corner and stand in the center. All kinds of thoughts running through my head. We're finally here after what seems like months of buildup. I'm in the ring, in a major spotlight, which at my age is coming fewer and fewer. And I'm here with my best friend about to put on a show for the thousands in attendance and the millions watching at home.

Could anything be better than this?

I close my eyes and soak in the cheers. My right arm raises in a fist in my traditional salute. And the roar is nearly deafening. We've got this crowd already, just from our entrances. Now we just gotta work 'em a little more and make 'em go nuclear. Other matches will come after us, but we're gonna make sure none of them can follow us. I'm ready.
I look over at Megan and give her a matching grin.

Let's do this

"World class ring announcing by Simon Cassidy here tonight. I cannot wait for the next one."

[ThePurpleVixen]

God damn it, Reddy, if you keep tryin' to make me laugh they're gonna have to send for the Man.

(Someone cue the synthesizer cover of "Beat It".)

Reddy's dancin' and singing along to Queen, and of course I'm already grinning so damn wide my head's gonna split and the top half is gonna fall off, so I get my giggles out as the music volume drops a bit while Billy Kirkwood runs through the formalities at ringside. I warm myself up some more, swinging my inked arms across my chest to loosen them up. I went through my whole yoga routine in the back before the PA ever knocked on the door, virabhadrasana to parivrtta parsvakonasana to ardha chandrasana and all that fun shit, getting myself centered and focused and get my fuckin' chakras aligned. But now I'm focusing on shadowboxing, bouncing on my toes, on bouncing my back and hips against the ropes to get me used to moving in this ring attire. It's not a huge stretch from my usual punked-up half-tee and joshi skirt to cut-offs and a button down, but I haven't worked in front of an audience in a long friggin' time. And this audience is god-damn HUGE.

And they are HUNGRY. They've paid big fucking bucks to be here in the O2 tonight, and the best of the best of the creme of the crop that rises to the god-damn top are here to put on shows. Reddy and I are one of only a handful of singles matches on the card - a lot of the show is team matches, gauntlets, over-the-tops, things that get a lot of bodies in the ring. Gemma had to pull some strings to get Red and I this spot. I mean, don't get me wrong, me coming back for my first public show after Paris is a big draw -

(which wasn't THAT long ago, if you're wondering. Time is funny here what with the Doctor swooping around over the shattered remnants of the fourth wall, remember? That's why Lady DDT is in the crowd)

- and Reddy's a legend in his own right, so we'd be a marketable match. But we also could have ended up booked into a royale or as part of a 6-person tag. Gemma made sure to get us this spot; a singles match following the Hardcore Legend brawl. I even got to steal an initially unwilling but ultimately warm hug from a very bloody Scotty in the back before I came out, which only added to the verisimilitude of my Shaun costume (I had even MORE red on me). This is as about as good as it gets. I waggle my fingers to Rick and Larry up on the announcers' tier and turn my attention to Reddy as he gets announced.

And of COURSE that hammy fucker has to play it up.

So I have a choice here, about how to play this. See, how you react to comedy in the ring helps set the tone for the whole match. It clues the audience in on how this is going to play out; are they gonna be let in on the joke like when they're watching Colt Cabana, or are they part of the punchline, like when they're bamboozled by the Miz?

So I'm gonna need to do this juuuuuuust right.

But first lemme tell you about one of my all-time favorite wrestling memories. One of the few that doesn't involve me getting drunk or hitting someone with something heavy.

I was a young'un, watching WCW on the big plaid couch in my old living room on the family farm out near Deschutes, snarfing Dunkaroos and drinking Crystal Pepsi (I've always had terrible habits). This was during that wonderful time when the Great Muta was wrestling in both WCW and New Japan, and he was at the absolute peak of his fucking game. I LOVED him. He had a match with that gorgeous surfer Sting and Muta was playing for the ringside crowd before the match, and he stopped in front of a mom and her kid to do some fuckin' legendary Muta mean-mugging - and the little kid with the big spooked eyes and the cute pudgy cheeks just hauls off and leans forward on mom's lap over the railing and SLAPS THE SHIT OUT OF MUTA.

Now, okay. Keiji Mutoh could've done a buncha things here. He could've no-sold. He could've really scared the mother and kid shitless with some roaring in Japanese and sent them running. He could've even rightfully had security escort the Dixie broad and her rugrat out. But he didn't, obviously, because he's not a dick and because this was a fuckin' cool moment I still remember (oh god so many) years later.

Muta sold the HELL outta that slap.

He did a full spin and flat-backed on the old WCW blue ringside mats, then clutched his face and did a full rubber-legs stagger to his feet, then pointed at the kid all wide-eyed, clutching his jaw, and demanded that the referee protect him from this powerful brute. The ref plays along and herds Muta into the ring, warning the kid back playfully (kid had a fucking BILLION DOLLAR grin at this point) and through the whole match with Sting, Muta keeps looking out at the kid and rubbing his jaw, and at one point when Sting backs him up with those old Sting bicep flexes (I dunno exactly why those always scared Flair and the gang so much. I guess they were assuming he was on a classic Venice Beach coke rampage) and Muta realizes he's backing towards where the kid is sitting and does a hilarious spin and collapse with a full crawl backwards away from that dangerous toddler and his fists of stone.

He turned what could have been an uncomfortable or at least unremarkable moment of unconventional fan response into a bit of comedy that lasted through the whole match and made it stick into my fucking mind like a dart buried in the gray matter. When I'm on my deathbed I'm sure I'll forget Gemma's middle name and where I went to high school and the names of all 172 of my signature moves and how to make Out of This World Moon Waffles, but I know for a fucking fact I'll remember at least two things - that fucking Muta match and the Super Golden Crisp theme song.

(It's got the crunch with PUNCH!)

So that's all basically just to say that I sell the SHIT out of Red correcting Simon Cassidy.

"WHAAAT?!" I roar, aghast, staggering backwards and snatching at the ropes to hold me up, pointing out at Billy Kirkwood and screaming -

"I WAS TOLD HE WAS FROM FUCKING PARTS UNKNOWN! I'M NOT PREPARED TO FIGHT SOMEONE FROM GOD-DAMN NORTH CAROLINA! THEY HAVE *BLUE DEVILS* THERE!"

Billy shrugs helplessly.

"I'm sorry, lass! He's gone bloody rogue!"

I pound the turnbuckle with my fist in a rage. There's a balance to strike here. I want to make it look GOOD, because the more realistic my playful outrage seems, the sillier it is by contrast to how goofy Reddy is being. And it's working.

I turn back towards the ring and Red is whispering into Simon's ear again.

"THE EMERALD ASSASSIN, THE VERDANT DESTROYER, THIS IS THE TEEEEEEEAAAAALLLLL EEEENNNNNNFFFFOOOOORRRRCEERRRRRR!!!!!"

"WHAAAAAAAT THE FUUUUUCK?!"

I don't just stagger back, I fucking REEL backwards, dropping down as I hit the ropes to catch the middle rope with my extended arms draping over it, my ass bouncing on the bottom rope with my legs sprawled in front of me, staring aghast at the newly enshrined Teal Enforcer.

I make a big show of getting it together, shaking my head, my long purple braid dancing on my back as I get my legs under me and scrabble forward on my knees, the brace making an odd metallic rasp that makes my toes curl in my shiny new brown Docs. I clutch at Jim Molineaux's hips - I still can't fucking believe we got the Extreme Referee, SO FUCKING AWESOME. I'm gonna fucking rock Gemma's world tonight - and pull him close so I can stare up at him pleadingly.

It takes him a second to get the bit, but he plays along.

"Teal? TEAL?! I WAS TOLD I'D BE FIGHTING THE *RED* ENFORCER! I NEED *TIME* TO PREPARE FOR THE TEAL!"

Jim represses a grin as he sternly presses a hand to my forehead to push me back, and shakes a scolding finger.

"NOT MY PROBLEM, PUNKY! YOU KNEW THE RISKS! TO YOUR CORNER!"

I curse dramatically, thrashing my fists in the air, and get to my feet with barely a hitch, stomping to my corner, letting my playful display of over-the-top shock melt away for a moment as Simon Cassidy turns to me and smiles.

"AAAAAND IN THE CORNER TO MY LEFT - "

Bless those mad fuckers in the crowd, they're already roaring. These mad bastards are EXCITED. They're responsive to EVERYTHING and ready to get rowdy. And boy fucking howdy are we gonna give it to 'em.

I make a show of steadying myself, doing a little tai chi centering exercise, and then I bounce out to mid-ring with my grin lit back up, unable to keep it back.

"HAILING FROM THE CITY OF ROSES -"

God, they even cheer for Portland. This crowd is ready to RUMBLE.

"STANDING TALLER THAN JESUS -"

Factual. Dude was a 1st century Semite. He was probably shorter than Gems.

"- AND WEIGHING MORE THAN ENOUGH TO KICK YOUR ARSE -"

I've made multiple scientific experiments proving this hypothesis. Anyway, here comes the good bit. Fortunately for Simon, he's had practice doing this bit during my little tour in ICW a couple of years back. That's good. I've been known to choke out announcers who get this bit wrong.

"THIS! IS! PUNKY!"

And a big fuckin' chunk of the O2 Arena chants along with that old song, and tears glitter in my eyes before I squeeze them back by biting my pierced tongue hard enough to make the bead click against my teeth. I twist and jump up to the second rope in one bound, despite promising myself I wouldn't do exactly this, and don't even feel a twinge in my rebuilt knee as I throw both my inked arms up high and thrust out double rock hands, basking in the fucking cheers that hit me like a speedball hitting my veins.

God damn, I fucking love wrestling.

I turn and bounce off the buckles, and level a finger at Reddy, getting some solid glowering in.

"YOU AIN'T GONNA FOOL ME, TEAL ENFORCER! I KNOW YOUR FUCKIN' TEAL TRICKERIES! YOU GET VERDANT AND I'LL GET VIOLENT!"

I'm 90% sure Red is biting his lip to stop from laughing.

The bell rings and the crowd roars with it as we move towards each other. Red moves with a fluidity you wouldn't expect from his size and his age, a natural grace and confidence born from just fucking AGES in the ring. I move like I always do, limber and almost lazy at first. My speed is EXPLOSIVE. I'm like fuckin' Al Pacino - when I move, I slice like a hammer. And I'm also a fuckin' method actor.

I shake my hands out with loose snaps of my wrists, my heart beating a steady thrum and my blood singing in my veins, and since Reddy is waiting for me to make the first move he tenses up as soon as he sees me shake my hands out. I lunge in and he catches me, and the crowd pops for a fucking collar-and-elbow tie-up. Oh, this is gonna be GOOD. This is a crowd that would happily buy tickets on the coal barge bound for Newcastle or invest in the Nunavik Ice Company.

My hands slap smoothly into place, and so do Red's, and I meet his eyes up close, giving him a little pressure. Reddy's a good deal bigger than me, but not that much taller, so the tie-up actually looks good. We give it a little circle, boots shuffling on the mat, and then Reddy muscles up and works me back, pushing me back into the corner until my ass is pressed against the buckles. Jim Molineux is right there to separate us, but Red puts his hands up indicating a clean break - and then pats my head before he backs off, drawing an "OOOOOOOOH!" from the crowd as I give him a fucking death glare.

I nod and loosen up, bouncing on my toes and extending my hands to the sides, curling my fingers to my palm with quick little flicks, beckoning a little nose from the crowd to feed me as I move back out - and I come in faster this time. Reddy has to move quick to catch me at the shoulder and bicep, and I drill right into the movement, my long lithe legs flexing as I twist my hips and spin THROUGH the lock-up. Reddy had set for another lock, so I pull him off balance, and do-si-do us around the ring for a quick round before I push forward and drive him back into the corner, rattling the ropes a little as I plant him in the buckles pretty hard with my tricky rush, giving him his receipt.

Jim is there again - but I put my hands up and grin as I show off a clean break - and then pat Reddy's cheek sweetly before I back away, drawing another delighted shocked "OOOOOOOOOH!" from the crowd.

Two collar-elbows and two clean breaks and these marks are ready to buy everything we've got to sell.

Oh, this'll be good.

I lean forward, hands on my thighs, my braid hanging over my shoulder, not unaware of how this posture frames my ass nicely in these cut-offs as I wait for Reddy to come get some more with a big wicked grin and eyes that won't stop fucking sparkling.