[Rowan Chance]

Los Angeles. I hate this place.

The smog is so thick, I can't breathe. I can't see because of the tears in my eyes. Flying in to LAX is always a terror. The place is packed. Takes an hour to get through security on a good day. And then there's the drive down the 405. Three hours to go 15 miles. If I was in a taxi, I'd be sitting still, just watching the meter roll up. Fortunately, I'm not in a taxi. Oh, no. Fuck that noise. I get myself a limo. If I'm gonna be sitting three hours in traffic, I'll be doing it in style. My bags in the trunk, I sit back and drink a 2015 Kathryn Hall Cabernet until we reach the hotel. Thousand Oaks, California. A little better than that pit, Los Angeles. Only a little. Just a hop, skip and a jump from the Buck's hometown. Someone I know would appreciate that. Probably even go all fangirl. Get giddy. Star-eyed.

Shake it off, Chance. Shake her off.

I have a suite on the top floor, of course. I open up my iPad and pull out my Contacts. Give a call. My boy shows up and I give him a tussle. Leave him KO'd while I shower. A nice warmup for tonight.

Tonight. FAW. Furious Angels Wrestling. Cute.

When my boy recovers, I kick him out. He shows me some kind of objection, asking if he can use the shower before he goes. I tell him, "Showers are for closers." And he's gone.

I sit down on the bed. On my lap is my iPad. Just next to me is a long, thin leather case with a zipper. I open my iPad again and go to the FAW website. (I'm a subscriber; just $9.99 a month!) And I tune in to last month's episode...

* * *

I see the local top babyface, Jack Hex. Such a pretty boy. Look at those long arms. The tattoos. Those lips. Boy is wasting his time devoting himself completely to wrestling. He would have given me more of a challenge than the boy I just kicked out. He's doing his interview time. Wearing that nice belt of his. He wears it around his waist. Old school. Not thrown over the shoulder. He shows the belt respect. I like that.

He's talking about needing new blood in the promotion. Needing a new challenge. I can't help but smile.

That's because a few moments later, yours truly shows up. I club him on the back of his head with both fists and he falls down like a man who just got hit in the back of the head is supposed to. Flat on the concrete floor. Look at him writhing in pain.

"Poor boy," I say, my wicked grin curled on my blood red lips. I look at the monkey in a suit holding the mic. "We should end that pain, shouldn't we? It's the sympathetic thing to do."

I grab the belt from behind him, ripping it off his waist. He slowly gets himself to his feet, staggering the whole way.

And when he gets up, I put the belt up into his face—metal side facing him—and I suddenly jump up, shoving my knees against the leather side of the belt, grabbing the back of his head, falling backward.

Chris Jericho's Codebreaker. With the belt between my knees and his face.

His body ricochets off the belt, slapping backward. There's blood on his face and on the belt. And he's out cold. Laying still and helpless on the concrete floor.

I pick the belt up and hold it above my head. I look down at the champion's still body.

"When you want this back...let me know." And I leave the building. Of course, I throw the belt over my shoulder.

The camera lingers on Hex for a long moment. His bloody face. His still body. Arms splayed out wide. The medical team arrives. They take him away holding an ice pack against his forehead. He's wearing a neck brace. They're carrying him off on a board.

I hit pause. That was a month ago.

Tonight is the match. For the championship. No DQ. Exactly what I wanted.

I unzip the long, thin leather case sitting next to me. There's the belt.

And it's still got his blood on it.

[Jack Hex]

It's called complacency. It's the worst enemy you ever face, but you never face it alone. It always has an ally.

Before Rowan Chance jumped me from behind, leaving me unconscious on the floor, my face a bloody mess, leaving with my belt over her shoulder, I had faced every opponent FAW could throw at me. I was in the promoter's office, telling him I needed more competition. Ticket sales were slowing down. I stood over his cheap Ikea desk full of empty snack bags and beer cans, telling him I needed someone who could get real heat.

"I've got an idea," he said through the cigar smoke and stubble. He dialed his phone with thick, greasy fingers on that smeared screen. He said one name. "Rowan Chance."

I smiled when he said that. I'd been a fan of hers for a long time. I followed her career like a fanboy. The living legend Rowan Chance. Wrestler and sexfighter. I was in the crowd when she fought Punky to a standstill. I cried like a kid watching The Princess Bride for the first time, seeing two ex-lovers beat each other into bloody messes. I was holding my breath when she was about to deliver that devastating DDT and her back gave out. And then I had to turn away when Punky really became Punky and held up Rowan's life for ransom. I'd never seen anything like it and I don't think I'll ever see anything like it again. It was then and there I knew I wanted to do this for a living. Not something I did on the side, because you never get the kind of emotion I saw doing this kind of work as a hobby. You had to live it, breathe it, bleed it, and suffer for it. What Punky and Rowan did was Art. And when the promoter said her name, I knew my next match was going to be special.

Next thing I know, I'm in the hospital. She's got my belt and I'm in the hospital. I'm watching the show in my bed and she sends in videos for FAW to play between matches. She shows off my belt. The blood still on it.

What's that old cliche about being careful for what you wish for?

I wanted a match with Rowan Chance. The woman who made wrestling into poetry because it was all too personal. What I didn't count on was getting exactly what I wanted: a match with personal stakes.

It's been a month since she took me out. There are still stitches in my head. My neck feels like it's made of match sticks.

And standing backstage, my leather jacket and black leggings and wrestling boots on, I think to myself, This is what you wanted. A match with Rowan Chance.

I'm the champion but she's got the belt.

More importantly, I'm wounded and she's at her prime.

I hear her entrance music. Another minute or so, I'll be walking down the aisle.

Be careful what you wish for.

They'll put that on my tombstone.

[Rowan Chance]

I arrived in the arena early. Found my dressing room. Got changed into my new gear. After watching WWE's Evolution, I decided plain black wasn't good enough anymore. Sure, it's iconic, but I wanted something different. Something new. Something shiny. Something that involved a lot of body glue and tape. Well, maybe not something new. Maybe something old with a new style. Go back to the classic.

No, not Lady DDT. I've had enough of that mask for the rest of my life.

The lights go out and my new entrance music hits the speakers. Halestorm's Black Vultures.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gnrKrFS6L0Y

I've got the timing down perfect. I wait for Lizzy's screaming break the speakers, then I part the curtain, stepping through.

I've got new boots. The dominatrix pair I used to wear put away. These new boots are just as tall, going up to just above my knees, but are tied with red laces up the front. Blood red.

My trunks are not the super tight, super short boyshorts, but a little like boxers. Still tight, but they're open at the side with the same blood red laces, showing a whole lot of hip. And a black widow spider on my ass. And of course, they're just short enough to give you a sneak peek at the tattoo under my navel: "UNBREAKABLE."

Thin but not too thin elbow pads. Black wrist tape. No taped fists. You know why.

I used to wear a fake half-corset showing off my lovely abs, but not this time. A stylized sports bra that keeps my tits in place with a lot of subliminal help. (Damn, that glue is fucking sticky.) Something gives my abdomen full exposure. It's also damn pretty. All black with red lining and piping. Thin straps over my olive-skinned shoulders. My back wide open with just spaghetti straps across my back like a spider's web.

My hair is usually tied back in a battle braid. Not tonight. Tonight, my raven blue-black hair falls over my shoulders, down to my hips. I made sure to get it all twisted and tangled so it looks like you've been pulling at it all night. My eyes are jet black. My lips blood red.

And that's what I'm wearing for tonight. Oh, I forgot one important detail.

The belt. I'm dragging it behind me, limply held with my left hand. Letting it bump and bounce off the floor.

I get to the ring and do my classic full splits over the top rope. After dropping the belt by the corner, I do a slow turn in the center of the ring.

New gear.
New attitude.
New Rowan Chance.

I look back at the curtain.

"Come and get me, boy."

[Jack Hex]

Holy shit...

Watching Rowan Chance make an entrance when you're in the crowd is one thing. Watching her make an entrance when you are her opponent is something else entirely.

When her music's done, the crowd starts to get antsy. They know who's coming out next. They start pounding their feet and clapping their hands. Whoops and hollers. The real champion is about to make his entrance.

Jack White's "High Ball Stepper" (right at the 1:14 spot) blasts through the speakers. ( https://youtu.be/sRbnAxrS3EM?t=74 ) Spotlights flashing around the audience. And they. Go. Wild.

I step out through the curtain wearing my leather jacket, my tight vinyl tights and wrestling boots. My tights are red with blue enamel dragons flying, wings outstretched. That comes from a long time ago. I was in a feud with a masked woman calling herself "Reina de Dragones" when I was in Mexico. I started calling myself "The Dragon Slayer." I won the final match of the feud and we shook hands, but then her old boyfriend rushed the ring, knocking the shit out of both of us. I became her "Dragon Knight." Caballero Dragón. The name stuck. I don't mind. In fact, whenever I'm in Mexico, that's exactly what they call me.

I come down to the ring, shaking hands as I go. But I never quite take my eyes off you, Rowan. I know exactly what kind of treason you're capable of pulling. When I get to the ring, when the music pauses for just a measure, I'm on the top rope on the turnbuckle. I pause with the music. I bend down, grabbing the collar of my jacket. All the lights turn off except for a blue light on me.

Then, when the music rushes back to full volume, I drop the jacket around my waist, revealing the dragon tattoo completely covering my back. It's blue, it's wings spread out. Instead of flame, it launches something more akin to Godzilla breath. (Yeah, I was a D&D nerd. It's a blue dragon. It breathes lightning instead of fire. Sue me.)

With Jack White's music still pounding, I look at you across the ring, Rowan.

You summoned a dragon. Now you have to face him.

[Rowan Chance]

All right. Enough of this shit.

With your music playing and the lights all flashing, I dash across the ring with all the speed I can muster. Your leather jacket still wrapped around your waist, your wrists still in the sleeves, I'm at the corner in a heartbeat. What's more, my long legs split, my right leg kicking way above my head, aiming a savate kick straight toward your chin.

Not a superkick. Lame ass Americans—especially rednecks—throw superkicks. And those dumb ass Inland Empire jerk offs. No, this is a savate kick. Straight out of France by way of Muay Thai.

I'm a wrestler. I'm a sexfighter. I'm a tireuse.

And you, my showboating little friend, are fucked.

[Vivianne]

New gear.
New attitude.
New Rowan Chance.

Same bitch...

I sit through your new music and watch you make your entrance from a pretty good seat. Third row. Close enough to feel the action, yet hopefully not enough for you to notice I’m here…not that I would expect you to be thinking of anyone but yourself right now. Maybe you’d notice me if I wore a PURPLE wig…or a RED or YELLOW mask…

It’s been months since that night in Minneapolis. Months since you injured my left knee. Months since your cobra clutch left me unconscious in the ring…and months since YOU were the one carried from the ring on a stretcher. A lot has happened in that time. Your failed attempt to end my career early left me in line for a shot at the GLPW championship…and once my knee recovered I did not waste it. They no longer simply call me La Vipére back in Minnesota…the call me CHAMPION. The GLPW belt looks great above my mantel back home. Yes Rowan, a lot has changed…but you are still a bitch.

The kid makes his entrance and I must admit he looks impressive. While his home crowd cheers wildly, I simply stand there amongst the noise and watch. Watch how he works the fans. Watch how he moves. Dragon Slayer, huh? Hmm…I wonder how you would do trying to slay La Vipére? I lick my lips as my mind wanders a bit…until I return my eyes to you.

I see it before most anyone else…and definitely before the kid. The way you tense when he enters the ring…and the way he doesn’t seem to notice. I roll my eyes a split second before you charge across the ring, knowing you more than anyone else in the business will try to make someone pay for the slightest lack of focus. Poor kid…doesn't know what he is in for, but he is going to find out.

New gear
New attitude

Same bitch…

[RedEnforcer]

I don't like this.

Here I am in the arena in one of the side tunnels that would lead to the court during basketball but today leads to a side aisle by the floor seating near the ring. Ironically, I'm maskless because I don't want anyone recognizing me. It's safe to say that there's only one person here who would recognize me without my mask on and she's in the ring kinda busy. I've got the hood up on my STAR Labs sweatshirt.  And I'm wearing my dad's reflective shades and my lucky jeans. I think about that a moment and put the hood down. Don't want anyone mistaking me for the Unabomber. So now my fire engine red hair is on display and I look like just another ginger fan.  It's good to know the arena staff at most places you've wrestled. They'll often get you into sold out shows with no fuss.  I actually got here early and helped set up that ring. What can I say, old habits can be hard to break.

But no, I don't like this.

I don't like being in a wrestling arena without my mask on. It's been...decades since that's happened.

I don't like feeling like some creepy stalker following someone who doesn't want me following her.

I don't like watching her trying to fight so soon. I'm not sure what surgery or black juju she used to be able to stand much less move after being wrecked so badly in Paris but she still shouldn't be in there. Especially after Minnesota.

I don't like worrying that one last impact will finish her for good.

I don't like...feeling helpless. She's made it clear that she doesn't want me contacting her. She hates me because she thinks I chose Megan. And honestly, I don't know if she's right or wrong. So much emotion went into that match.
I don't like the fact she's been going around the country and picking a fight with the biggest fish in each territory and trying to prove to everyone that she's still the best.

I don't like loving her so much that seeing her be so self-destructive tears me up inside. I'm supposed to be the cold, calculating monster. And here I am, no mask, hands stuffed in the front of my hoodie, looking on with concern as I watch Rowan line up a classic superkick. No, not one of those jumping thrust kicks that Shawn Michaels made so popular and the Bucks spam like Street Fighter players turbo mashing the kick button. No, a classic one. One that if it hits is basically like getting an uppercut to your jaw. I know the first time Chris Adams "showed" me his new move in Texas, I nearly bit my tongue in half.

I don't like that for a moment, seeing her move like silk and strike out with a beautiful viciousness makes me smile and get lost in the thought that she's just as spectacular as ever.

I don't like her fighting an opponent I've only heard about. This Jack Hex. Some friends down south told me about him after I saw Rowan's attack on him last month. The Dragon Knight. Having an intense feud with a woman and in the end earning her respect as well as the respect of the fans. Yeah I know a thing or two about that. For now, I'm keeping my eye on him.  Just something about him sets my teeth on edge. That was even before I saw the tattoo on his back. I guess that's when it hit me about this guy and why I feel like I wanna test myself against him in the ring some day.

You see, out of all the things I didn't like about this whole situation, that tattoo of his put him on top of my list.

I really don't like storm dragons.

[Jack Hex]

You ever been to a haunted house where they have a flash room? You know, a room that’s got strobe lights and they have people moving through the strobe, moving like a freaky girl in a Japanese ghost movie? That’s what it looked like seeing Rowan Chance moving across the room. One second she’s in the corner and the next she’s halfway across and the next her heel is under my chin.

Now I’ve got to be honest, I’ve felt stronger kicks. You spend any time in Japan and you learn exactly what “strong style” means. I’ve had my back kicked, my shin kicked, my belly kicked and my chin kicked. I’ve felt stronger. But damn, that kick was perfect. Right on target. Hard enough to jam my jaw right into the rest of my skull, sending bright lights all through it.

My head snaps back then sways to the left, then to the right. My body crumpling forward and falling off the top turnbuckle, I land on my back and not in a good way. All twisted and bent.

The music cuts and so do the lights. I hear a bell ring but I don’t know if that’s just the sounds in my head or the timekeeper. Can’t tell which way is up or down. I try to sit up and flop right back down.

Now I know why I thought I’d felt stronger kicks. That’s because she kicked me so hard, my body doesn’t know how to handle it. I can’t sit up. Can’t move.

One kick. Just one. And I’m flat on my back.

[Rowan Chance]

"OHMYGOD! I think the champion is out!"

That's what the announcer says. He shouts it so loud, I can hear him from the opposite corner of the ring. A moment later, the crowd starts to boo. No matter. This is a No Disqualification match. I can do anything I want. Like this...

I rip that leather jacket off your shoulders and hold it up for the crowd to see. Then, turn you over, putting my knees on your back. I wrap one of the sleeves around your throat and throw you up and over me.

My knees in your back.

Your sleeve wrapped around your throat. I pull. Making that leather tight. As tight as I can.

I shove my knees upward, making your body arch like a longbow over me. And just my knees. You're not resting on my shins. No, my knees stab upward into that spine of yours while my hands pull down on your throat and neck.

All the while, whispering in your ear. "Is this what you wanted, Jack? A match with me?" Then, my whisper turns into a scream.

"IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED?!?!?"

[Jack Hex]

Pressure on my spine. Pressure on my throat. Blurring on the edges of my vision. My hands gripping on your hands, trying to pull them away, trying to slip under the leather jacket sleeve that's choking me.

I've been to Osaka. I've been to Mexico City. I've been to Detroit and Atlanta. I've been everywhere. But I feel like I just got thrown into the deep end without any warning. Worse. I jumped in myself after everyone told me not to. Within ten seconds, this woman has nearly knocked me out and choked me out.

Your knees in my back dig in hard and deep, making my back burn. My legs kicking against nothing.

That blur on the edge of my vision is now turning to darkness. Like a black fog rolling over my eyes.

I have to do something. I have to find the escape.

Her back is against the canvas. If I change the...

...yes!

I kick my legs. First time, that accomplishes nothing. But I kick again. I get a little more momentum. A third time...and maybe, just maybe...I can flip right over, reversing the pressure and slip right out of this hold!

I pull my knees up to my chest and try to turn myself over...but the strength I had just a moment ago is almost gone. That happens when someone tries choking you out with your own trademark leather jacket.

[Rowan Chance]

The only thing more satisfying than feeling a man getting hard is feeling him getting soft. I'm an expert at both.

Laying under you, feeling those tense muscles slowly lose their strength, the kicking in your legs weakening, your grasping hands becoming more desperate...I have to admit, there are few things in the world as satisfying as this right here. I have a special pin all picked out for you, Jack. You're going to love it. I'm going to mount you like a fallen stag. Put your belt around my waist and...

...what the--

Flipping up and over me. That means the hold I have on your neck...you'll be slipping out of it, won't you? No, I don't think so.

You try to get enough momentum and you fail. I laugh and whisper in your ear: "Go on. Try again."

I feel the tingle on your skin that my voice gives you. My sexfighter skills aren't limited to the bed, little champion.

You try a second time. You get a little further. I giggle. "That's two. You don't get three."

And I pull harder on that leather sleeve. And to make sure you don't get free, I'll be adjusting my knees and legs, wrapping them around your waist so you don't try that kick thing ag--

GODDAMMIT!

You're quicker than I thought, Jack. Kicking up and over my head, slipping your chin out from under the sleeve. What's worse, I can't see where you are.

No matter. You were almost unconscious. You'll be easy to get back under control.

I toss the jacket aside and do a turn that reminds people of that famous Rowan Chance speed. You aren't the only one who put points in that Attribute, my boy.

[Jack Hex]

That last flip did it. To be honest, if it didn't, I'd be unconscious right now, helpless to do anything against you. I have to wonder what you'd do with me in that condition. Certainly not pin me and get the match over with. No, I bet you'd have something much nastier in mind for me.

Still, I'm out of the choke hold and with that flip, I manage to land on my feet and hands--a classic superhero pose, thinking of what to do next. My throat is still tight and it's difficult to breathe. My back aches like I slept on it wrong. I need a second, just a second, to come up with a strategy.

But you don't give me that second. You're already spinning around to face me. Damn. I've already been the victim of that speed once in this match--no, twice--and I'm not going to be the victim of it again.

Just as you're turning to face me, I do a little spin myself. Pivoting on my left leg, I send you a return receipt. A spin kick of my own aimed at your face. More of a sideswipe than a straight on kick.

I've heard that famous endurance of yours has a weakness: a glass jaw. Let's put that to the test.

[Rowan Chance]

It's funny how sometimes, things happen so fast you see them in slow motion.

I turn on my heel and you're already halfway through the movement of that kick. I see your heel moving toward my face, aimed right at my cheek, and it's all I can do to get out of the way. I mean, I'm famous for my speed. Goddamn famous. You look up "fast" in the dictionary and there I am. The Flash sees me move and goes, "Dayaaaam...". Mercury wishes it was as quick as me. But I turn around and there's your foot. Ready to smack me right good and hard. I mean, it's right fucking there.

And part of me remembers a scene when Batman turns his back on someone and when he turns around again, that person's gone and he thinks, "So that's what it's like?"

I don't tell my body to move. It just moves.

My spine bends. My shoulders throw themselves back. My neck cranes to pull my head out of the way. And all of this is in the slowest of motions. Slower than an ant trying to pull a truckload of elephants up a hill. Watching that heel of yours get closer...and closer...and closer.... Bullet time. Neo bending over backwards so the bullets don't rip into his flesh and...

...I feel the air pressure between my face and your heel. That's how close it is. So close, that when I do manage to dodge the kick, I fall. Ugly. An unceremonious drop down on my fine ass. The most humiliating dodge I've ever made. Not elegant. Ugly.

And I sit there on my ass, hands flat on the mat, my eyes wide open.

I've never...never...seen anything...

And then it hits me. Not the kick. That missed, but...the thought hits me. Harder than the kick would have. So much harder. Like a blow to the belly, like a hard uppercut to the chin. Sitting there, on my ass, eyes wide open, mouth agape.

...holy shit, my mind reels. He moves like me.

[RedEnforcer]

You do something long enough and you tend to notice a few things. The longer you get working on a skill, you get closer to mastering it. But even if you don't have the talent yourself to do some things, you can train yourself to appreciate them and while not a master, become an expert. For example, art appraisals are often done by those who aren't master level artists, but who have spent their life in study learning to appreciate what fine art truly is.

Beneath all the bluster and bombastic boasts that are part and parcel of this profession, I don't see myself as anything other than an above average talent who has lasted this long for my ability to pay attention and notice details as much as any inherent talent or trained skill in the ring.

When you know a person for years, working alongside and often against them, you naturally pick up on a few things. A guy like me though, I like to think I see a bit more. It usually is to my benefit in the circles I roam around however to obfuscate stupidity at times. I don't always play all my cards. I keep kayfabe when I know people are trying to fool me. As long as their intention is not malicious, I'll let people keep their secrets just like I keep mine.

But with some people, you watch them and you know them and you know them. Pretty soon their body language is as easy to read as a Dick and Jane book. You can even play in your head the many options you think they would go through. Even under a mask or different name or some other veil, you know them.

I've never seen Rowan move this awkwardly without being hurt. At first I think her back has betrayed her, but her usual pain tells aren't there.

No, this Hex kid has surprised her. That's rarer than a snowstorm at the beach. And I see the thoughts flash on her face. Because I see it too. This kid is better than good.

I grit my teeth and feel like cussing.

Because I know what happens next. I know what happens when Rowan is surprised. She has to open that shiny present and see what it's hiding. She wants to see if this kid is lucky or the real deal.

I feel like cussing because in Jack Hex, Rowan is probably facing her toughest challenge since Minnesota, hell since maybe Paris because Viv wasn't 100%.

I feel like cussing because Rowan is gonna push Hex to beat the hell out of her if he can.

And she's gonna enjoy it.

[Jack Hex]

How did you...?

My kick missed. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

No time for that. Keep moving. Keep moving.

All those thoughts run through my head in the breadth of a second. Maybe less. You're in front of me, sitting down, hands on the canvas, your eyes wide open. You're just as surprised as I am. I'm on my left foot, both hands in front of me, leg beside me after the spinning kick. Without thinking, I just allow my body to follow through with what seems to be the next logical step in this dance.

Because that's the secret of speed. Trust your body's motion. Just let it happen. That's what I learned in Mexico where things go ten thousand miles per hour. You just have to trust what happens next. If you don't, if you spend too much time thinking about it, you're already three moves behind. You spend too much time trying to figure out the next step, your opponent's already thrown you over in a hurricanrana, two Steamboat arm drags, a 360 corkscrew splash and locked in a la anibalina. I've been there. You don't want to be there. Hurt so much I decided to...

...not yet. Wait for it.

This isn't chess. This is a dance. And the first person to make a mistake loses the momentum.

I've got both hands down on the canvas.You're right there in front of me. There's only one thing to do.

I put my weight behind me, centered on my hands. Then, I bring both feet in front of me, sending a double foot kick straight at your chest.