Post by Amy Jo Smyth on Aug 27, 2016 22:54:13 GMT -5
___________________________
Eye for an eye.
The law of retaliation. An idea and law formed thousands of years ago. We’ve all heard the expression before and we all know what it means. Basically, any harm done to a person must be repaid in an equal, completely legal under the law and even worse, supported by the courts. You take my eye, I take your eye. Arm for an arm. Life for a life.
It dates all the way back to some of the earliest recorded civilizations that had laws, codes of justice, and legal systems. Most of know it from its most clearly defined use, The Code of Hammurabi dating back from about 1750 BC - be sure to note that it says BC. We’re all up in the AD era now. From that warrior ruler’s code came the idea that there must reciprocity in crimes.
Then from there, the idea too off and can be found in the legal systems of all cultures, each culture changing it ever so mildly. The Romans, trying to be a bit more classy and more civilized turned to repayments in the form of money, not just physical harm. Rome was good at that, moving things to a more civilized and advanced state. The Saxons even had a law for that, putting a fixed monetary value on a human life that should it be taken, must be repaid to the victim or victim’s family .
It even appears in the Christian and Hebrew bibles. In Leviticus, it clearly says, ‘And a man who injures his countryman -- as he has done, so it shall be done to him, fracture for fracture, eye for eye, tooth for tooth. Just as he has injured a person, so it shall be done to him.’
Depending on who you listen to, this meant - because we all wanna make the people who write the bible look good and not so willing to kill and maim for their religion - this idea was meant to restrict higher forms of punishment and keep it equal. That meant you could not kill a man for breaking your arm.
But, of course, here comes Jesus to chime in. In direct contrast to Leviticus - the bible is fucking full of doublespeak, double negatives, hypocrisy, confusion, and outright negations to what another passage says, but anyway. Jesus came along and said, don’t do eye for an eye, turn the other cheek.
Listen, every religion has some form of Eye for an Eye because they were all ripping each other off and the first foundations of law and control. The bible was just trying to advance the ability to control people and I’m seriously getting off course. Now the point I’m making here is that for as advanced as we are, our legal system still contains large parts of Hammurabi's code.
It just happens to come in the form of money. That is why we have a civil system - I can sue the fuck outta you for hurting me and get a lot of money. You murder a family member and I can sue you for the wages they have lost, their value as a person, bills and costs, and an arbitrary monetary value for that person’s life. We are not as advanced as we think we are when you think about it that way, hm?
What can I say? Even with our so-called advanced legal systems, civilizations, and general all-around intelligence, we are not as advanced as we think we are. Our justice system can only do for us so much and from time to time, it very much fails. On top of that, there are plenty of people still alive - cold blooded murderers, child rapists, serial killers, and all around scum that serves no benefit to society that would be better off dead - that are being well-cared for in prisons because, hey, we’re better than that, we no longer follow that Code of Hammurabi or believe in the Hebrew law. We aren’t savages, right?
At the end of the day, we are humans and we want revenge for the wrongs done to us. Simply put, we want revenge for what was done to us and the legal system has adapted as best it can with civil courts and jail terms and punishments. Hell, the death penalty - the idea of a life for a life - is still very much real in this country.
Still doing the whole eye for an eye thing.
It’s funny we’re talking about eyes…
Because I want revenge. I want my repayment for what was done to my eye.
___________________________
In the Continuing Adventures of Our Hero...
◀◀ Be Kind, Rewind
March, 2016
[/right]My phone starts ringing. It’d be rude to answer it right now and ignore Roxi but that doesn’t stop me from glancing at the caller ID quickly. It’s a number I don’t recognize with a 212 area code. A caller from New York City, Manhattan to be closer. Then I read the rest: Lenox Hill. As in Lenox Hospital, to be exact.
I look at Roxi.
“What?” she asks. “What’s wrong?”
I guess it’s all over my face. Anyone who gets a phone call from a hospital - especially one they’ve never been to or have any relationship with - has a twinge of panic and fear run through them. The feeling is uncontrollable and cannot be carefully put away in a nice, neat box by the brain with some rational thought so quickly. I think, like everyone else, about everyone you know who could have been brought to the hospital. My entire family works and plays in this city at any time. From Hudson and Lucia at the main offices to Megan bouncing from theatre to theatre to Nigella basking in bounty of the New York City Public Library’s collection of French literature to my estranged wife in an editor’s meeting with a writer.
If that is not enough, for me, it is ten times worse thanks to my obsessive compulsive disorder and anxiety. My mind goes through a thousand horrible things in a matter of seconds. Sudden sickness. Heart attack. Dismemberment. Decapitation. Death.
Death stays a long time, lingering with its bone chilling visions. Hudson grasping her chest, falling out of his chair. Lucia standing and suddenly fainting, her heart finally succumbing to the defect that formed at birth but was not discovered until recently. Megan walking under an unsteady stage set in construction only to have it fall and crush her without warning. Nigella, her attention trapped inside a book, bumping into the an unstable bookshelf and the hundreds and hundreds of pounds of books falling on her. Allison, distracted by a phone call, falling down an elevator shaft.
“Answer it,” Roxi urges me, breaking me from my visions.
And so I do, with my standard greeting, “Smyth?”
“Am I speaking to Dr. Smyth?” a gentle voice on the other end says.
“Yes.”
“Dr. Smyth, this is Carla at Lenox Hill hospital. You are listed as an emergency contact for Allison Crane.”
“Yeah…” I drawl, staring at Roxi, fear setting in. I know this call too well, from the other end, though. There was no part of my job as a supervisor harder than notifying a person or persons of the death of a loved one. Except I was trained to do it and always did it in person, so I take this as a good sign. Or, they couldn’t find me to do it in person.
After a pause from both of us, I ask, “What happened?”
“She’s with us. We are going to need you to down here as soon as you can.”
“What happened?”
“Allison has been involved in an accident,” she explains, her voice steady and unemotional. “As soon as you can get down here...”
“What kind of accident?” I persist.
“We can discuss it more when you arrive,” she says.
I know this will get me nowhere - she has strict orders to keep her mouth shut to avoid any instances that might get the hospital or herself in trouble. “Thank you.”
She hangs up on me and I lower my phone to my side in what feels like slow motion. Rox watches me carefully, closely, with concern. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”
It isn’t her fault, at all, anything could have set me off, but her look sends my panic into motion. “I - I have to go… Hospital.” My only thought, my only concern is for my wife. I have to see her, alive or dead. If I get there quick enough, I can maybe see her before she dies.
The love of my life, on her deathbed, hanging on to see me, for me to see her one last time.
My mind gets heavy and weighed down by it and nothing at the same time. My intrusive thoughts have finally come true. Every horrible thought I’ve ever had has come to fruition and passed from fantasy into reality. It makes all my rituals, big and small, old and new, worthless. The things I have done, the preventative measures and self-soothing measure of comfort, have been for naught.
It doesn’t stop me from doing it, though.
I start walking, staring at the ground, looking at my sensible but stylish sneakers that I wore to stay comfortable as Roxi and I walked around Manhattan, enjoying the rarity of a shared free afternoon, doing things that friends do together. It was supposed to be fun, relaxing, a good distraction from my problems and to work out those problems I’ve been having. One of which being the trial separation of me and my wife.
Allison moved out months ago now, living with a friend in Brooklyn, seeing me on our set Friday night date. She sees other people, too. We came to that decision, to have this sort of open marriage, after I fell down on my duties as a faithful wife and provider - after I cheated on her. I don’t deny it, I don’t lie about it. It happened, I did it, it was a huge mistake, and now I’m trying to make amends for it. That’s why I agreed to her moving out, seeing other people, doing whatever it is she wants. I didn’t want it but I wanted to do whatever she wants.
I’m not seeing other people or sleeping with other woman. I don’t want other woman. I only want Allison and I’m waiting for her. Now she could be gone from my life forever. No more Friday nights to look forward to. No more hope of permanent reconciliation. None of this would have happened had I just kept my proverbial dick in my pants.
A car horn blares. I feel my body being pulled back. “ AJ! What the heck are you doing? You almost got hit! “ Roxi says.
“What?” I ask, waking up from my daze. I realize only now that I almost just walked into traffic myself. Without Rox and her quick thinking and even quicker action, I would be roadkill, another victim felled by New York City taxis. I’d be on my way to the hospital in a whole different capacity.
I’m still in a daze, though. Gotta get to her before it’s too late.
“Um, yeah, thanks,” I mutter, stumbling forward, this time waiting for the light to change. “I need to get to Lenox Hill Hospital.”
“Where is it?” Roxi asks, standing next to me.
“I… I don’t know,” I answer, looking at her. I catch the light changing out of the corner of my eye and start my march again.
Roxi keeps pace with me. “Let me take you. Wherever it is. We will find out and we will get there.”
“I have to go - get there soon.”
Onwards.
My friend, and constant rescuer it would seem, grabs me by the shoulder. “You don’t even know if you’re going in the right direction.”
I stop.
“Let’s get a taxi,” Rox says, taking a hold of my wrist, holding me in place.
“Okay.”
I wonder if she’d have the same reaction if it were Keira in this situation. It doesn’t take long for a tall and very pretty redhead to get a taxi. We’re off in seconds, heading toward Lenox Hill hospital and my wife.
↼ ⟡ ⇁
In a frenetic search for my wife, I got sent in six different directions, to a few different floors, and finally, to the ICU. I was only able to find out that she’s alive and that’s enough for me to keep going, keep hope alive. A skinny brunette in pink scrubs stands at the nursing station, flipping through some papers on a clipboard. The rest of the ward is quiet, with good reason. It’s nighttime and most of the patients here are doing much in the way of making noise.
I rush up to the desk, scaring the nurse. She seems alarmed to see a walking, living person.
“Can I help you?” she asks as soon as I get to the desk.
“My wife is here,” I say, frantic. “I need to see her.”
“Who are you looking for?”
“Crane. Allison Crane.”
“Okay,” she says, clearly annoyed. “Well, it past visiting hours.”
“I don't give a shit.”
The woman's eyes go wide. “No need for that language.”
I stare a hole through her as she types into a computer behind the desk.
“Are you family or next of kin?” the snotty bitch asks. She’s clearly not a people person or capable of handling distraught humans. “We only allow family past visiting hours and we cannot discuss medical information with anyone but family or next of kin.”
“I’m her wife,” I quickly answer.
“Oh,” she sighs, nodding and smiling flatly. I have that horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. You always know that feeling, especially when you’ve been experiencing that feeling for decades. It comes with the territory of being gay in a world that doesn’t take kindly to gays. It’s a sixth sense for homosexuals, if you will. We know it’s coming even before the homophobe does.
Here I thought the world was more accepting. Even if forced to by federal law. My marriage is recognized by federal law and therefore as valid as a straight marriage, we are entitled to all the same federal laws as them, including the right to visit our sick partner in the hospital.
“Wife.” I hold my left hand up, show her my ring. “Wife,” I pronounce slowly. “She wasn’t wearing a ring…”
“I’m allowed to see her and I’m allowed to know what’s going on.”
“The doctor isn’t here,” she says, all but ignoring me, more concerned with whatever she is looking at on her computer.
“Well, can you at least tell me what happened to her, why she’s here?” I ask, growing annoyed. She’s clearly on the night shift for a reason. Her bedside manner must be amazing.
“Can I see your ID?” she asks, arms folded in front of her chest, smug look on her face.
“What? Do people come in here all the time, in a panic, screaming about their wives but aren’t actually their wives?”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s policy, ma’am.”
I glance back at Allison, she gives me a shrug that tells me to do it. I take out my ID, both my driver’s license and my police ID, slam it on the desk, and kill her with my own smug look. If only I had my badge.
She checks both closely, holding my state issued ID to the light, twisting it to check the reflective laminating. Are you serious? I ain’t a sixteen year old kid trying to buy a six pack at the bodega. Once she seems satisfied - and god forbid she isn’t because she’s the be all end all to hospital visitors - she pushes them both back to me.
It seems like such a chore for her to roll over a few inches in her chair, grab a file from the organizer, open it, and read it, but she does. Not, of course, without making a few exacerbated sounds and heavily as often as possible.
“Allison was hit by a taxi.”
Oh, God. My stomach flips. Worst fear realized.
“She’s currently unconscious,” she explains.
“A coma?” I ask.
“No. She did hit her head, but there are no signs of any brain trauma but we’re monitoring her condition closely. She has some minor cuts and bruises, a fracture in her wrist. ”
Roxi steps up behind me, puts her hand on my lower back for comfort and reassurance.
“I feel sick. I think I’m going to vomit,” I whisper to Rox.
Her hand moves up and down slowly in response.
“Can I see her, please?” I ask, swallowing back my illness.
“That’s just not possible,” the nurse says, shaking her head. “Sorry.”
Just the way she says sorry - with that arrogance and lack of concern and the attitude of an ignorant fuck - that sets me off. It’s like a little switch that someone flicks. Shit has officially hit the fan.
“Let me in,” I scream, slamming my palms on the counter, making sure my wedding ring adds to the sound. “She’s my wife!”
“Ma’am, please calm down,” the nurse says in a hushed but demanding tone. “You are making a scene.” Her eyes glance to the side. Now I look. Two orderlies and a security guard come slowly walking toward me. The security guard has his hand on his mace.
That still doesn’t stop me.
“Don’t tell me to calm down,” I shout. “You be try being calm in this situation. I dare you. I fucking dare you.”
Roxi comes up behind me, gets in over my shoulder. “AJ, c’mon.” Her hand presses against my hip. “We’ll figure it out in the morning.”
“No, no, we will figure this out now. I ain’t leaving until I see my wife.” My hands curl into fists. The nurse takes a few steps back. I’m very aware that my behavior is incredibly threatening but I don’t care. I want to see my wife. She could die overnight and I want to see her before that happens.
I move away from the desk, start down the hallway, looking in the small windows in the doors of the rooms nearest to me. “Is she in here?” I shout.
“Okay, okay,” Roxi says, stepping up to me. “Don’t do this.”
Nope.
Next door. “What about in here? Huh?” I turn toward the nurse. “I bet this guy’s straight wife gets to see her anytime she wants. Because that’s how it works, right?”
“Amy Jo!” Roxi shouts at me. The security guard is unlatching his mace now. I think about the headlines in tomorrow’s paper. The Post will have a field day with it. “Stop it. Please. You’re gonna get hurt.”
“Well, I’m in a hospital, so that wouldn’t be a problem. Or would it? Do you actually treat known gay people here?” I turn toward the guard and orderlies. “Come and get me! Can’t be any worse.”
I lunge toward the desk.
“Whoa, okay.” Roxi grabs me by the waist, catching me in midair before I can get very far. “Let’s go. Let’s go home.”
I’m still flailing around, trying to get out. Rox is a lot stronger than I remember. She’s clearly the right choice for security.
Roxi looks at the men just waiting to bring me down and have a little fun in long, boring shifts. “We’re leaving. We’re going. No trouble.”
I’m dragged out of the ward, into the elevator, with the guard and orderlies watching closely. The doors close. “You gonna behave?” Roxi asks. I nod and she finally puts me down, gives me a look. “What was all that about?”
I’ve got nothing to say. I curl up in on myself, folding my arms in front of my chest. There is no explaining my outburst, no excuses, not even a way to turn it into a good story.
↼ ⟡ ⇁
We take the train back to New Jersey. It’s only an hour ride, give or take, but it feels like forever. I don’t know why we went back to my house, all the way back in New Jersey. We will just have to do this all over again first thing in morning. I won’t sleep. There will be nothing to eat, not that I feel like eating. Everyone else will be asleep, completely unaware of what’s happening right now, that Allison is laid up in a hospital bed with a head injury and a broken wrist.
Roxi and I don’t speak the entire trip on the train and in the car and on our way to house. The house my wife and I once shared and that we may never share again.
Climbing the stairs to my front door feels like some kind of month-long trek up a mountain but there will be no planting of my flag, only me falling on the sofa and staying there until the sun comes up. We get inside. I stand in the center of the living room for a long time, looking at Roxi close the door behind her, wondering what to do.
“I’d offer you something,” I start. “But all I’ve got is beer and you don’t drink.” I let out a heavy sigh. “I think I’ll have a beer, though.”
While getting a beer, I notice Allison’s coffee cup sitting in the dish strainer. The same place it’s been since she packed her stuff and left. The thought of her never drinking from it again is terrifying so I turn away, walk back into the living room. Roxi stands there, as if waiting for something, her eyes full of concern and something akin to pain. My redheaded friend and I just look at each other.
“You wanna watch TV or something?” I ask, reaching over, picking up the remote. Whatever channel I had on last is now playing some kind of show featuring a nondescript woman cooking something. Neither of us look at it very long and go right back to each other.
“Maybe, maybe, you should change, put on something comfortable,” Roxi says awkwardly.
I have no reason to protest. It won’t do any harm.
“Maybe take a shower?” she suggests.
“Oh, now I just think you’re trying to see me naked,” I smirk. She smiles.
Within seconds, we both feel weird about it and stop. Without a word, I stumble into my bedroom. Once inside my room and in front of my closet, the numbness takes over. I don’t even feel angry anymore, just empty. I’m not sure what to do. Oh. Change.
Ugh. All of my clothes suck. Can I just walk around naked? Rox won’t care, will see?
Sweatpants and a t-shirt will do. As strip down, I spot the shirt that Allison wore the night the last time she slept in our marital bed. I just stare at while I change. Something about that dirty shirt calls out to me so I pick it up. I smell it. It still smells like her. I miss her smell.
God, I miss her.
Roxi knocks on the door frame, pushes the door open wider, and peeks her head in some. “You decent?”
My face is buried in the shirt, crying. I look up from that little physical memory of in my hands. “I miss her. I miss her so much.”
I fall down to the floor on my ass and just sit there. Roxi dashes up to me, kneels down next to me to comfort me.
“What if she's gone?” I softly say. “What if she’s dead?”
“Stop that.” Rox speaks in that motherly tone, a tone that annoys me to a certain extent.
I'm annoyed because I'm vulnerable and weak right now. She's only trying to help, I know, but it doesn't work here. I'm too logical, too mind centered, and smart to be comforted and coddled. Yes, I know these thoughts are probably wrong and very stupid but I can't stop them. It's my wife and she is the world to me. My emotions about her cannot be restrained. I am a woman who tends to keep a mellow, even mood and her emotions to herself and subdued, but when it comes to her, I feel everything ten times as much and cannot hold it in. The love I have for her overflows. I don't understand it. It defies sound logic and reason.
“She's not going to die,” she adds.
“I can't live without her. I don't know how I'm doing it now. But if she's gone forever, off this planet, I won't know what to do,” I babble.
Roxi wraps me up in her arms, squeezes me tight and holds me close to her. Won't lie, it feels nice. My wife would hold me like this and it's nice to feel it again. Still, though, it isn't fun to have a breakdown in front of other people, friend or not so friendly. I'm stronger than this but I can't find any strength to stop this flood of devastating fear, sadness, and grief. Nor can I stop myself from thinking how unfair it all is.
↼ ⟡ ⇁
The hospital finally let me in. The night nurse had gone and the day nurse was a much better human being. On top of that, they moved Allison out of ICU to a standard room. According to the doctor, who is a very nice man but young, so young, Allison should wake up but they don't know when and they don't know how she will be when she wakes up. My wife very much has a concussion and she could have memory, speech, or visual problems when she awakes.
So now I sit here, in her room, keeping bedside vigil, waiting for the exact second she wakes up. I will be the first thing she sees when she opens her eyes.
Her brother came by earlier, my brother-in-law, and stayed a long time. We didn't speak; there wasn't much to talk about once we had exchanged the typical pleasantries. I think he likes me, but who knows? Whatever. He went out to get something to eat - the living have to keep on living. I'm not hungry.
Allison, along with the rest of my family, kept a rotating bedside vigil waiting for me to wake up from ten day coma. Surprisingly enough, Allison and I had only been together for a few months, yet she came every day, stayed for as long as she could, and was the first person to arrive when I woke up. That shall be repaid.
An orderly comes in with a tray of food in his hand for Allison and a small clear bag. He smiles at me, I smile at him. The man, a big man of about twenty-two and black and in light blue scrubs, puts down the plastic wrapped mauve tray and holds up the clear bag. It reads, ‘personal effects.’
“This is hers,” he says, holding it out to me. “Dunno if you want it but they said to bring it in here.”
“Thank you.” I take the bag.
“Sure thing,” he says, nodding, smiling, and then makes an exit, leaving me holding the bag.
Oh, that's punny.
Megan steps into the room, paper cups of coffee in each hand. One for me, one for her. As she places a cup near me, she peers at the plastic bag in my hand. Megan came by just to check on me and make sure I was generally okay, which I am, for the most part. We don't say anything as she sits down in a chair and sips her coffee.
There's no particular reason behind it, really, but I start looking through the bag. It's mostly the clothing she came in wearing that they didn't cut off her, her shoes, and jewelry. The jewelry I'm most interested in. That evil bitch monster of a night nurse says Allison came in without her ring. Let's find out how true that is.
Off my little search I go. First, the bracelet her mother gave her at Christmas. Her inexpensive but pretty earrings. Then a necklace, a necklace I've never seen before. It's a simple chain with two pieces hanging off of it. A pink jewel encrusted peach charming hanging next to a round medallion. The round medallion is most eye catching and alluring. On the front are the modular chains for the body chemicals involved in the process of love. The back, however, is more striking. Engraved in the gold is our wedding date and my initials.
“That's pretty,” Megan says, seeing it from her spot next to me. “Did you give that to her?”
“I've never seen this before in my life,” I answer. “I don't know what this is. I mean, I do but I don't.”
“Huh,” she hums. “She must have bought it.”
I go searching through the bag again, determined to find her wedding ring. She has two. One has to be here. Yet it isn't. She wasn't wearing any of them. I understand none of this. No rings but she's wearing these charms.
Megan takes the necklace from me. “Oh, it's a little peach. Your favorite thing. Wait, don't you call her Peaches?”
“Yeah.”
“You do understand why she wears this, right?”
I don't answer.
“Because you called her Peaches. It reminds her, it's a physical symbol of how important you are to her and what it means to her to have you call her Peaches. She's your peach.”
I look at Megan.
“The rest of this… I don't understand, but it's you. It's totally a marker of you. She loves you. She wears a mark, two marks of you on her body. Rings or no rings, you mean that much to her. It all represents you and her feelings to you.”
It does. It really does. I watch Allison now as she sleeps. We didn't have rungs when we got married. We didn't have them for months. Honestly, we didn't need them. Our love was more than enough. The whole marriage thing was done to make sure Allison was protected under the law should something happen to me. Without the legal protections marriage provides, she couldn't get my pension or benefits or be my next of kin. It was all done to protect her, not me.
It, of course, protected me, but not as much as I had hoped.
Sad part is, aside from my ring, and yeah, it's got her fingerprint on it, I don't wear anything else to represent my love for her. I have, though, tattooed her name on my flesh, along with her poem. That's going above and beyond, really. Even still, I feel like I could do so much more.
Allison's eyes suddenly flutter. I leap from my chair to her bedside and take hold of her hand. Her eyes open slowly, painfully slow, but once they do, her glistening eyes are looking back at me.
“Who - who are you?” she asks with a soft and raspy voice.
The hit to her head has done damage to her brain, as the doctors said it might. She does not remember me. How can she not remember me? My eyes fill up with tears.
She smiles and squeezes my hand. “I'm fucking with you.”
I smile. “Goddamnit. You're a dick.”
“Yeah,” she answers, trying to laugh, but it all makes her cough.
“Are you okay?” I ask, pressing closer to her.
The coughing fit clears. “I'm better now.”
If such things were possible, my heart would actually smile. In fact, it just might be smiling.
↼ ⟡ ⇁
“Which movie did you wanna see?” Allison asks, scrolling through her phone, her finger moving only slightly to make the page move. She sits at our dining room table, drinking sugary coffee from her mug, preparing not for our usual Friday date, but for a random Tuesday night. My wife has moved back in and she intends to stay.
“Whatever you want,” I say.
I can't stop staring at her. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. There is not a single imperfection on her face or body. Even her voice is perfection. That is what love does, it makes you see all the beauty in a person, inside and out, and it makes them perfect.
“Why are you staring at me? Is there something wrong?” she asks, glaring at me.
“There is not a single thing wrong with you,” I quickly answer.
“You're being weird. Stop.”
I laugh. “Okay.”
I don't stop staring, though. How can you look away from something so beautiful and so close?
...To Be Continued…
I simply cannot and will not get over it. My opponent at Queen of the Ring tried to blind me. Let’s not forget that fact. I may have played it off well, really. I tried to not let it bother me. At least in public view. I went and got ice cream when I was released from the hospital. I spent the day in the park, eyepatch and all, with my wife. I waited, swallowing my fear every chance it rose, for the doctor to call me and tell me the results - to see if the treatment had worked or if I'd be blind in my one right for the rest of my life. My career in the ring would be over, like that.
Mrs. Steele doesn't even realize or acknowledge what her childish behavior did and could have done. It's all fun and games until someone loses a fucking eye. If that indignation was not enough, Mrs. Steele then tried to poison me.
She knew, as well as everyone else here knows, that she could not handle a one-on-one confrontation with me - not to toot my own horn but come the fuck on - and so she resorted to every shitty trick in the book. She can pretend to be changed now that she has a child. A child raising a child, what a concept? Don't let it fool you, she hasn't changed.
Even if she has changed, there are still things that must handled and a past she can't run away from so quickly. What's done is done. Punishments for crimes. Repayments to be made.
An eye for an eye.
Don't forget who called out who here. Don't you dare forget , decided to challenge whom here. Even before I stepped foot in LAW as an active wrestler, you were poking a bear, this bear, in some kind of stupid attempt to look good or be cool or something - I don't know why people like you do these things! You had been running her mouth about being the best submissionist in the world while knowing two whole moves and without ever being tested.
Newsflash! You can't say that shit without actually proving it or having shit to back it up. You just look like a fucking fool. You've never proved it and honest to fuck, you won't be proving it any time soon.
This is a match you won't win. Not merely because I'm gonna beat your ass into next week for what you did to my eye. Not merely because you're a coward. You're going to lose because you won't be able to keep up, because you can't compete with me, because you don't know the first fucking thing about submissions and your all-around wrestling skills are questionable.
You don't even know half of what I know. You can only dream of doing what I do in that ring. You're very much outmatched here, Mrs. Steele.
You came for the wrong person, didn't you?
This could have all easily been avoided had you just kept your mouth shut or at least picked on someone your own size. Yeah, I know what I did but Mrs. Steele, you seem to have forgotten what you did and who started this. Don't worry, I'll finish it and you'll receive your very first lesson in what it means to be a submissionist.
Yeah. You fucking started this. Don't ever forget that. Not just because you called me out, but because you tried to take something tragic and not even a little bit about you, and make it about you. Guess what? Not everything is about you. You should sometimes just shut your fucking mouth, for your good.
Didn't like that? Still washing glitter outta your hair? I got an idea… Don’t come for me if you’re not prepared for the repercussions. If you think that was bad, if you think getting laid out in a kitchen, covered in cake was bad, just you wait. That backfired on you, didn't it? That backfired big time. Don't fuck with me, don't fuck with someone who's smarter than you. Oh, and don't fucking reveal your plan in front of the person you're trying to poison. God, that was dumb. Really, though, what can I expect from someone like you and Teddy.
Not just was it was stupid, it was cowardly.
I probably would have respected you more had you fought your own battles like a real competitor. But nope. Like a coward, you paid someone to do your dirty work. If that wasn’t enough, you tried to end my ability to get in that ring and keep fighting. Do you not understand that? My career, over.
Now, I'm curious, are you that worried about me? You knew that this match was coming - you’re the one who wanted it. What? Did you realize that you were in way over your head? Picked on the wrong person? Yes. Yes, you did.
So yeah, out of your own fear, you tried to remove me from competition. Be serious here. You’re transparent and paper thin. I can see it in your eyes that you’re worried about me, scared even. That’s okay. I’d totally be the same but then again, I’m not stupid enough to pick on a fucking legend of wrestling and a submissionist special who has been using some form of submissions for the last - I dunno, what’s the math? Twenty years or so?
For you, Mrs. Steele, it was what? You saw a UFC match and thought it was cool? Decided you'd bust out some generic armbar or choke and call yourself a title reserved for people who've taken the time to learn more than three holds?
You haven’t got a clue, Mrs. Steele. To be a great submissionist, it takes years and years of training and practice. It requires understanding the human anatomy, from nerve endings to muscle groups to blood flow to how joints work. It’s much more complicated than you think. You can’t watch a few movies or matches or YouTube videos and call yourself a specialist, or pretend that you even know the first thing about it.
Suffice to say, you live in a land of disillusionment if you think you’re even near my level. You're fooling yourself if you think I'm going to respect you just because you say so or want it.
Ha.
It doesn't work that way. Never has and it never will.
You want respect? You go out there and you earn it. You don’t get it just by talk. I’ve earned the respect I have by doing and accomplishing great things and being a true wrestler. I have spent years and years working matches, winning and yes, losing, taking shit and giving shit, being a champion and being a nobody. Competitors respect me because I've put in the work. I’ve put in the work and I’ll be demanded if some little pissant who dyes her hair by going to the local 7-11 and sticking her head under the Slurpee machine or pretends to be some kind of musician.
What kind of work have you put into this? You don't get to walk out of the gate and expect the world to respect you and give you praise. Fuck no. Girl, you've got a long way to go. Hell, at the very least, you'll get respect for respecting legends and at the risk calling myself old, respecting your elders and appreciating the work they've put in to get where they are today. You haven't done half of that.
Yeah, you won some titles. Yeah, you've won some big matches. Yeah, you do shit. But you're missing a key part of this shit… You need some humbling. When you've gone through what I've gone through, done what I've done, achieved what I've achieved then and only then can you talk like you're talking. Humble up, Rainbow Bright. Grow up a little, too. Or a lot. I'd be happy with just a little bit.
That's the funny thing… I've done all these things. I'm a double champion right now. I won Pool of Blood. I'm number one contender to a title. I am fucking accomplished and loaded with merit. Yet, I still remain humble and mature. That is the difference between you and me. That is why I'm better.
My awards, titles - past and present - and wins all speak for themselves. I don't need to be running around, saying how great I am every chance I get, posting on Twitter how I'm some kind of submissions expert. Seriously, how weak is your self esteem that you need constant reassurance? That's not a way to get respect.
Hey, wanna know something else from this sage elder? You get respect by giving respect. I respect people so they respect me. I don't skip around thinking I'm some kind of hot shit, talking shit, and demanding everyone like me and respect me just ‘cuz. No, bitch, no. You give it and you get it.
I treat people with respect. Yes, like Kenzi. God forbid I treat her like a human. Don't be jealous that I'm giving her attention and you're not getting anyone, from anyone. God, your jealously is astounding. I say this again, grow up and give me a reason to respect you and pay attention to you. For the moment, I have to pay attention to you, Mrs. Steele, as I have for the last few months but this match, like so many others for you, will not go so well for you.
I'm sure for you, though, it will be different.
I fucking laugh at that idea.
What's gonna be so different about this time, different from any other match you've had? Play wannabe musician again before hand. Dye your hair a whole new color. Hey, Teddy gonna come out, try to distract me with his megaphone? I'll shove that microphone right up his ass and drag him out to the parking lot, where he can spend the rest of the night crying about it. Maybe he'll pay someone to do his and your dirty work because you're a delicate flower who can't fight her own battles.
That's certainly not a way to gain anyone's respect or to build yourself up as some kind of great fighter. I'm prepared for your shit and honestly, it would a shock to me if you actually came out there, on your own, and fought, did something on your own without the help of your crew, if you actually stood up for yourself.
Come to that ring on Sunday and fight like a woman, a grown ass woman who spends more time training than dying her hair and crying on Twitter. You can't fucking run this time and you sure as fuck can't hide behind hired guns. There is only one way to win this match. To make your opponent submit. No pins. No count out. Submissions only.
You, my multicolored friend, just don't have the arsenal of moves like I do. You will use the same move over and over again until I get annoyed and just knock you on your ass. You don't have the power to execute a hold, you don't have the strength to hold on, nor the stamina and endurance to stay locked on for the time it will take for you to truly cause me pain or cut off blood flow to my brain.
You poor, poor thing. Drowning in a sea of your own ego. I cannot wait to hold your head underwater and watch you fade out, watch as your arm falls for the third time, and that's really what I want, to put you to sleep but I'll take either, a knockout or a tap.
Tap or choke out. It's your choice. Oh, and don't try to be some kind of fucking hero and refuse to tap. I can, have, and will break your arm or dislocate a joint. I'm not afraid of doing that to you. You, though, seem like the type to be afraid to really put on a hold and follow it through. Hell, I don't even think you can follow it through. The knowledge just isn't there.
You're kind of a joke when it comes to submissions and if you're the best submissionist around than standards are lacking. You're actually doing a great disservice to what I love and respect and take pride in. I can't wait to show you how it's really done.
You might actually learn a thing or two. Oops, my bad, I forgot who I was actually dealing with here. Don't let your ego blind you to the wonders a great can teach you. If you take away nothing else from this match, at least take away a little lesson - don't fuck with legends and don't fuck around with things you don't know.
See ya Sunday, Grover.