Post by Amy Jo Smyth on Feb 18, 2017 23:52:04 GMT -5
Looking back I see I had the flame in me
I'm the wind that's carrying a change
I've had enough
Of chasing luck
I need, I need a change
I'm the wind that's carrying a change
I've had enough
Of chasing luck
I need, I need a change
___________________________
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
With everything going on in this world lately, it’s easy to want to throw your hands up, say fuck it, and give up. You want to find a hole to lie down in, die, and let the gravediggers throw dirt on top of you so that you never have to face the harsh light of reality ever again. Why not submit to the forces that wear you down? Give in to all the failures and fall downs. Stick to the simple stuff, the things you're good at. Steer clear of anything that might give you a hard time.
Fuck challenges, right?
I happen to disagree with that.
No risk, no reward.
When I was about three years old or so, maybe four depending on who you ask, I started doing gymnastics. Long story short, you fall down a fuck of a lot in gymnastics. They actually teach you how to fall down correctly, that's how bad it is. If you don't fall on your ass, you're doing something wrong. Every single part of your body smacks against the floor in a way that it's not supposed to. You do not land every move every time, even when you're expert level. You expect to fall, you expect to get hurt, you expect to not always win. There's a whole shit ton of failure in that sport.
It hurts. It's long hours. Your hands are covered in rips, tears, and bloody sores. Sure, you can do an amazing handstand press-up and back handspring for the rest of your life, but unless you're going into the olympics, it doesn't really translate into much of a future. Okay, and the core strength you develop is amazing. Point remains, the harsh reality is there and it's fucking painful. It didn't always go so well either.
I remember clearly that I couldn't land a particular move no matter how much I practiced. This wore me down, it made me want to quit the sport as a whole. One move had completely defeated me. I was ready to give up. It no longer seemed worth it. The failures and falls, the pain, the long nights and early mornings, the judgements and loses at matches, what was it for? All because I couldn't do land freakin’ move. I was awash in self-doubt and all of my once unwavering confidence had fluttered away.
In one final act of defiance toward this beast that refused my will, I went for it, fueled by anger and despondency, all the while saying, if I couldn't do it, I would stop gymnastics and focus on anything else. Then something amazing happened… I landed it. Just like that, I pulled it off, stuck the landing and hand pretty hands to boot, and I haven't looked back since.
Had I listened to all the garbage in my head and believed the self doubt, had I given up, who knows what would have happened or where I'd be. But I didn't and that’s what's most important right now. You have to keep trying to get what you want, to get where you wanna go. Gymnastics didn't just teach me how to pull off a front layout or corkscrew, it taught me to pick my sorry ass up and get back at it.
I kept doing it because I loved it and I didn't want to not do gymnastics. There was a passion, a fire in me that even when I thought it had gone out, there was a tiny ember always burning that just needed that small amount of fuel to rage again. It, above all else, taught me that failure is normal, natural, and something to be conquered through sheer force of will, that even at your lowest point, you can rise up again.
Sure as fuck, I have risen up again.
Which, not too long ago seemed nearly impossible to everyone, including myself. I'm only human, though, and humans are just giant masses of squishy matter at the mercy of chemicals, or as we call them, emotions.
As I'm certain we all know, just months ago, I became a victim of those chemicals and went on an epic and very public shame spiral. Please, I remember it better than anyone. There I was, hit with the double whammy of an injury and a string of big losses. I failed to obtain the one thing I want more than anything else right now.
What is it that everyone likes to say about me lately, humbled? It's the new, hip slang word all the kids are using these days. I was supposedly humbled.
Listen, I make no excuses for my actions, the things I said, and my thoughts. It happened. It was real. And yes, I was ready to pack up my circus and give up the ghost. With my ankle in a boot, I sat on my sofa, drinking myself stupid, thinking about the reasons why I should give up. My age, my injuries, my lack of wins, my place in this sport amongst all the youngsters...
What a sad, sorry state had befallen upon our hero.
Would she ever recover and return to form?
We all need to fall to realize how high we can lift ourselves. We all need to fail so that we can learn how to get back up. I have lifted myself up and I have learned.
As soon as I could, I got back in that gym, and found out how high I could climb and how much higher I needed to climb. Then, as things do, the fire came back stronger than ever with a few pokes of the embers. My confidence returned. I made it clear that I was ready and I'm not giving up.
Anything but.
The fire burns brighter than it ever. How could it not? As Dylan Thomas said so elegantly, fight, fight against the dying of the light. Except, in this case, the light is not gonna go out unless I let it out go. I’m not going to let this fire go out and I’m not going to let anything or anyone put it out. This isn’t a matter of being too confident or thinking I’m better than everyone else. People seem to confuse talent, experience, and confidence with ego, pride, and self-importance. It’s a matter of believing in myself, knowing that I can do it, and an unwillingness to give up when things look bleak, when times get tough.
It's just not who I am, even though past precedent may present otherwise.
Just not who I am, as past precedent proves otherwise.
I’m far from being in the throes of death, gasping for my last breath. I’m alive and well and being the biggest pain the ass I can be. For as much as some would it if I did, I will not lie down and die because it’d be easier for them.
I will keep fighting. I’ll keep fighting until I’m physically unable to. Let them talk. Let them say I am a sorry drunkard. Let them say that they will humble me. Let them say that I am too old. Let them say that I don’t have what it takes. Let them say that my time is long gone. Let them say that I should fade away into obscurity like all old timers do.
I will not go gently into that good night.
This is not my final act.
I've proven many wrong before and I'll do it again. I have risen up so high and made it clear what I want. I went out and got it. I recovered but I didn't return to form - I returned that much better. I’m exactly who I want to be.
And now Ms. Camacho will have to deal with that.
___________________________
In the Continuing Adventures of Our Hero...
◀◀ Be Kind, Rewind
Nobody recognized us or even thought anything of us. As long as nobody asks questions, nobody has to answer any questions. The teenaged clerk at the register literally gave no fucks about us or his job. I assume that the rest of the world that saw us thought we were just some kind of lower-class married couple, maybe on drugs. I’d rather be labeled a drug user than a terrorist, thank you very much. We did, however, cover our bases. Hazard purchased the phone a few people ahead of me, along with some food and various other sundries. I then purchased the minutes for said later on, along with some other girlie things. From there, not much of anything happened. Life just carries on, even when on high alert after a suspected terrorist attack.0
The burner phone he bought finally has enough of a charge to turn on and I can load in the minutes I purchased. The entire thing takes about a minute but it feels like a lifetime. Everything feels like twenty lifetimes when you’re trying to get in touch with the safety of home. Every ring is too long. C’mon, Birdie, pick up the fucking phone.
Someone picks up, there is a hollow thud, then lots of rattling. “AJ?” the rough, sleep-filled voice of Birdie answers.
“Good morning. Sleeping on the job again, I see,” I say.
“Oh my God,” he quickly says. “You’re alive. You are alive right? I’m not, like, talking to you from beyond the grave, right?”
I chuckle. “Booooo. Three spirits will visit you on this night… Or some garbage like that.”
“Even in the afterlife you keep that humor we all love,” he says. I can hear the smile on his face. The fun’s over, though. “Are you okay? Hurt?”
“Well, dunno if you’ve seen the news, but I did totally get blown up,” I answer. “It was the best. You should try it sometime. Cross that one off the bucketlist.”
“But you’re okay?” he asks again.
“Meh,” I answer. “I ain’t dead so that’s an achievement. I mean, I look like a teenager with bad skin and I’ve got a couple stitches in my head but there are worse things.” I glance at Hazard. He sits on the sofa, watching TV, stuffing his face full of chips, nay, sorry, they call them crisps here because, fuck America.
“Are you safe? Where are you?”
“Oh, I totally made a new friend. His name is Hazard. Arthur Hazard. He works for MI5 or MI6 or MI-whatever. He was the guy who picked up my case and dropped off the case that went boom.”
“Are you with him now?” There’s a tone of suspicion and worry in his voice.
“He’s in the living room. He’s such a pig. I thought that British men were supposed to be charming and polite. It was that one thing they had going for them, considering the teeth and ears.”
“Hey, my mom thought Prince Charles was handsome, even with those ears,” Birdie quickly interjects.
“I’m sure that’s very good for your mother, but this guy, wow.”
“Do you not feel safe with him? Can you leave?” he quickly asks.
I sneak another peek at Hazard. He continues to pile handfuls of crisps into his mouth without much regard for the ones that land on his shirt. “Nah, I think he’s fine, honestly. He didn’t know about the bomb and so far, other than his prevalence for sexual harassment, he’s taken pretty good care of me. He even bought me some sexy new duds.”
Birdie laughs. “Good, that’s good. Has he been in contact with his people?”
“Nope,” I answer. “I got to use the phone first.”
“Well, I have. They’re trying to locate him. We want to extract you both. Get everybody home.”
“Okay, that sounds super, but, well, shit, Birdie, I’m a wanted criminal.”
There’s a long silence. “I wouldn’t worry about that, actually. We have a few things in the works.”
My eyebrow creeps down. “A patsy?”
“I’m totally winking right now,” he says then laughs.
“Serious question, though, do you know who did this to us, me?”
“I don’t know and if the Brits know, they aren’t talking.”
“Am I the only one who thinks that this goes a lot deeper than it appears?” I ask, leaning back in my chair. “There are so many questions. Like who put the bomb in there? Who was it for? What was supposed to be in the case? What was in our case?”
“Speaking of our case, where is our case?”
“Dunno. Artie Fartie says it was damaged,” I explain.
“I see,” Birdie says. “None of those questions are of your concern though, so try not to worry about it. Let’s just get you home, okay? You have your passport and everything?”
“Si.”
“Good, that’ll make it so much easier.”
“Birdie, you’re not telling me something and I don’t like it,” I quickly say.
“I’ve told you everything that we know.”
“I thought we were better friends than that, that you’d never lie to me.”
Another long silence. “We just… It’s - it’s just… Well, AJ, look at it this way: you were a last minute replacement for our usual courier. Given the evidence we have, the explosion was most likely not meant for you.”
“Awesome. Who was trying to blow up the usual courier.”
Birdie coughs. “You aren’t gonna like this,” he starts.
“When I do like anything you ever say?” I ask. “Get on with it.”
“Someone inside The National Alliance. ”
“Okay, National Alliance of what?”
“No, no national alliance of anything. They’re just the National Alliance.”
“Wait, wait,” I say, putting my hand up. “Are you talking about The National Alliance? The White Nationalist bullshit thing outta West Virginia? The group founded by the guy who wrote The Turner Diaries?”
“Please understand that I didn’t know this at the time,” he says.
“Understand what? Spit it out.”
“In your case,” he starts slowly. “You were carrying a case from a National Alliance informant. A militarized faction of it, anyway… Full of information for the Brits into their investigation into what they believe to be a lone wolf. There’s some iffy information floating around, but it appears that a lone wolf in Britain is working alongside this militarized group to, well, we’re not sure what end.”
“Whoa, okay,” I say slowly. This whole thing is insane and confusing. Nothing here makes any sense and I’m stuck in the middle of some kind of international exchange between ignorant white boys with small dicks who are too stupid to know they’re being manipulated by fear and in some fashion, trying to alleviate their low esteem and mental illness. “Like, a boom at an intersection or a bang-bang-bang in a shopping mall?”
“Don’t - uh, don’t really know,” he answers.
“Do all y’all ever know anything, ever?”
“That’s what this was for. We were supposed to get information back on that group, about any kind of possible attack,” he says. “A simple information trade to work on ways to prevent any kind of attack.”
“You couldn’t just email each other?” I ask.
“Not all things in this life are so simple, AJ, as evidenced by Wikileaks,” he says. “But yeah, we’ve been doing this for generations without incident.”
“Well, you know me, always bucking trends and shit,” I remark.
He laughs softly, awkwardly. “Yeah. Uh, but, um, we now have no idea what’s going on.”
“So, par the usual course of things for the American CIA.”
“Okay, sure, and that’s why we caught Osama.”
“That’s about you guys got going for you,” I quickly rebuke.
“And we have prevented numerous terrorist attacks,” he explains. “You just don’t know about them because, well, why would you know? That’s the whole point.”
“MK Ultra...”
There’s a strange hissing sound coming from the phone; I’ve clearly pissed him off. I live to piss people off, though, so it means I said something right. That, or he’s just straight up annoyed with me, which, is all the same to me.
“I hate you so much sometimes,” he says softly.
“I take great pride in this, thank you.”
↼ ⟡ ⇁
The Vauxhall Cross building, home of MI6, is insane. Absolutely insane. It’s like some kind of keen 80s Mayan Temple out of an Escher painting. The inside, however, lacks the same Mexican acid trip appeal as the outside. It's just another office building, no more, no less than what little of I've seen of Langley in D.C. I'm sure they won't be letting me see much of this place either.
They did, however, announce my arrival in the grandest of fashions. There are flashing yellow lights, all the computer screens went blank, and everyone got very quiet. I had the center of attention for that short walk into a closed-off office. I felt so famous and important.
Thankfully they couldn't see my granny panties.
“Ma’am, would you like me to send in the doctor for your face?” a kindly proper middle-aged asks me as he points his open hand toward a chair for me.
I quickly touch my face all over, surprised. “Why?” I ask slowly. “Is there something wrong with my face?” Then with panic, I look around to the other people in the room - no one I know save for Artie - and carry on with the great hysterics over the fact that I don't know about the injuries to my face.
The Brit looks around the room, to the people he knows, trying to get help from others, greatly distressed and unsure; he doesn't for a minute detect my sarcasm or humor.
“What's wrong with my face?” I cry loudly, grabbing the proper British gent’s jacket lapels, pulling at them, continuing on. “What has happened to my beautiful face?”
He looks absolutely horrified, mortified, embarrassed. “I apologize, ma’am,” he defends sullenly, his eyes wide and shocked. “I didn't…”
“No!” I slowly slide down the length of his body, right to the floor, and sink my forehead into his lower stomach and precariously close to his special place. With a great shriek, I cry into his finely pressed shirt.
Mr. Brit stands there stiff as wood, barely breathing. He clears his throat. “Ma’am, I'm very sorry. Please forgive me, I wasn't aware.”
Just like a shot of lightning I stand up straight and look the man in the eyes, stone faced. He looks very confused and terrified. That's when I smirk. “Bro, I'm fucking with you.”
His face remains blank and unsure.
“Lighten up. It's fine.” I gently press down the lapels of his jacket. “You guys need to learn to not be so serious all the damn time.”
He slowly, unsteadily forces a smile then awkwardly laughs. “Yes, ma’am, very funny. You Americans…” More nodding.
Over in the corner, Artie Fartie snickers and shakes his head. “She is something else, huh?”
I plop down in the chair. It’s a damn rolling chair. It’s like Christmas. A tiny present for being blown up. Within seconds of sitting down, I’m slowly pushing myself back and forth, waiting for the perfect moment to go on full ride around the room. I should at least get to know these people a little better before I go on a joy ride in their office.
A big screen in front of me keeps repeating the security cam footage. A few others have maps and live CCTV footage playing. The rest have the BBC and other twenty-four cable news channels going. The footage of me getting blown clean across the terminal still makes me shiver but at this point, there’s not much to be done about it; I’m alive, all in one piece, and off the hook.
The door opens. A tall brunette wearing a black skirted suit glides into the room, a mass of red folders kept tightly in her arms. She stops, looks me over.
Fuck, I feel so judged.
“Everyone sit down,” she says with a high class English accent. She half sounds like Judi Dench and half Queen Elizabeth. It’s a bit intense. This woman is intense. All business, all the time. Her vagina must be watertight, on round the clock lockdown. I wonder what it’d be like to get in there and how much it would actually take to slide my hand behind the cotton fabric of her bright red panties, feel the hot warmth of her want, slip a single finger between the folds, find that perfect point that elicits a breathy moan from deep inside her. It has been so long since she has been touched there. Never has she been touched there in such way. Another finger now releases the tension in her body and breaks open the dam.
“Ms. Smyth?”
“Huh? What?” I say, perking up, smiling, pretending I know everything happening around me. “Right, yes.”
For a solid hour, the square table of British super spies led by the brunette known only to me as Zed interviews me, taking notes on everything I say, and explaining to me, in very little detail, what would happen from this moment on. In a few hours, I’ll be put on a plane and sent home while they dream up some kind of explanation, a cover story, something I want no part of. They won’t, however, tell me what they intend to do about the man or men who fucked up my face.
I’d love nothing more than to fuck up his face.
There’s a sudden hush from Lady Zed as she looks at me. Judgey McJudgerson is back. She gives a look to Hazard then one to another agent at the table. They stand and exit the room, leaving me and the young man I played my joke upon. He smiles at me flatly but carries on writing in his little pad. I’m apparently not cool enough to know what the popular kids talk about outside the room.
Whatever, I’ll make my own fun.
The moment has finally arrived. I plant both feet on the floor and push off. I begin the roller chair ride around the room. Of all the things that bring me joy and excitement, it’s an office chair on wheels. Table corners become launching pads that give me speed and distance. Sudden impacts with the walls give me that extra bounce to find more momentum. There’s no real goal here, just to roll and spin freely around the room. It’s like when you discover that you can get high as fuck by spinning in circles.
Our first legal high.
The door opens but at this point, fuck them, what’re they gonna do, kick me outta the country? I gots blowed up for them, the least they can do is let me spin and roll.
“Ms. Smyth,” Zed starts.
I turn my head, look at her over the back of the chair as I keep going. “What up, mamacita?”
There’s a pause as the three look at each other. “You're going to stay on with us.”
I roll up to her, put my foot down like a break, and stop just inches from her. “That’s gonna be a whole lotta nope,” I say, pointing my finger at her. “Thanks so much though.” And I’m off rolling again.
“You're going to accompany Hazard to a rock show this evening.”
“I am?” I ask. “News to me.”
“Ms. Smyth,” she insists.
“It’s doctor,” I correct. “I didn’t spend all that time in school for people not to use it. Especially people I don’t like very much.”
Extended silence.
“Don't be stupid, Smyth. Look at you.” Her flat hand points at me. “White as snow. Blonde. Pretty. American. Southern. We hit the jackpot with you. You're a Neo Nazi’s wet dream come to life.”
“Whoa, what?” I shout, coming to an abrupt stop, a painfully abrupt stop. The chair tilts, comes off two of its four wheels, and even though I struggle to stay up, and given my incredible core strength it should be easy but it's not, I still go over. I hit the floor with a thud and just stay there, splayed out in the wreckage of my momentary amusement.
Zed, Artie, and the two other spy fellas step up next to me, circle around me, look down on me.
“Are you alright?” Artie asks.
“No,” I weakly say. “She called me Nazi porn.”
...To Be Continued…
Yes, I was felled by Ms. Millar in my first attempt to obtain a L.A.W. Title shot. She would go on to lose in her match against the L.A.W Champion, Ms. Camacho. Now we’re here. Now it's my turn. I went through a number of opponents in the past three months, defeating each one, including L.A.W.’s longest reigning champion, Ms. Mackenzie Roberts. Each time, I made a clear statement, before, during, and after the match, all to make sure that people stood up and took notice. Amy Jo Smyth has risen from the dead, again.
Time and time again, I keep coming back. I get knocked down, hit the mat face first, and yet, I get back up. Even with a sprained ankle I got into the ring. Even with a broken nose, I kept on with the match. If I’m able to get up, I’m gonna keep fighting. I won’t stop for much of anything. That’s who I am, this is a thing I’m known for. It makes one wonder, though, if the same can be said about Ms. Camacho. Does she have that kind of heart and passion? Yes, yes, we know, she's been through street fights and all that garbage and she keeps retaining, save for when Keira defeated her. But, there's just something there that lacks.
Either way, I'm gonna be something Ms. Camacho might not be prepared for. I got fire, heart, determination, and enough experience to build a country. Age may be a factor for some, but I think that I've shown that, age before beauty and experience gets you something in the end.
I hope that Ms. Camacho knows this. She’s up against a real challenge this time around. She might believe differently, but that ain’t really my problem. I don't believe she's stupid enough to believe that but she's got herself a rather fat ego from being so successful in title defenses as of late. If anyone needs a little humbling, it's probably that one. I suspect she thinks she has this defence in the bag as well.
Can't wait to drop that truth bomb.
Since she's all about truth bombs and telling everyone she knows what everyone is all about… She knows everything about everyone and nobody knows anything about her. Here's the thing, we'd love to know more about you, Ms. Camacho, but first you gotta come outta hiding and show us that you're more than just a champion that shows up when booked.
Y’all, I’m not stupid, either. I know what I’m going up against and I know what this is for. I’m all too well aware of my past and the years that have gone by since I’ve won a world title. For fuck’s sake, I’m the one who’s had to live through it, kept track of the ticks on the wall, and brought it up for the world to know. I say again, I know who I am, I know what I’ve done, and I’m the only one in this universe for has to live it. I accept responsibility for the things I've done and who I am. Alas, I'm but a human.
Camacho might not be, though. She wasn't us to believe that she's untouchable, perfect, infallible. The best champion in L.A.W. ever. Evah!
Ms. Camacho, what makes you a good champion? Wearing the belt? Showing up when booked? Putting in just enough effort to retain? Like many before me, many now, and many after, I happen to believe that being a champion requires a lot more than showing up and winning. It’s devotion, determination, passion, and pure, unadulterated love. Let me stand before you and say this, something I’ve said a million times in the past - I could be anything else in this world, from a police officer to working in a cushy job in a lab somewhere making upwards of a hundred thousand dollars a year.
But nope, here I am, being a fucking pain the ass, puffing out my flat chest, claiming to be the best thing that ever walked the green grass of this Earth, and whining about how no one ever paid attention to me.
Waahhh!
These are things I didn’t even know about myself, such wonders. People are going to see me how they want to see me and sometimes, y'all can't change that. Here’s what I really am: I’m a devoted, highly trained professional wrestler who loves this sport with such intensity that she is willing to keep fighting until the bitter end, through things that would leave others broken. I didn't make a name for myself by winning a couple matches here and there. I did it by being a badass, take no prisoners, adept wrestler who puts herself out there and comes back from everything that has put her down. I have made my life about wrestling much like I once made my life about gymnastics. I'm out there as often as possible, sometimes night after night, putting on a show. Hell, I won a tournament and brought that home to L.A.W. I helped put out there that L.A.W. has some crazy talent on its roster. Right now, I'm involved in another tournament, under L.A.W.’s banner, flying it proudly, showing people what the women here can do. In a sense, I'm putting myself on the line to represent L.A.W. all over the place. Could you imagine if I had the L.AW. Championship while doing it?
What, exactly, are you doing, Ms. Camacho?
This is my declaration: wearing a title and training doesn't make you a good champion. It just makes you a champion.
Right now, L.A.W. is begging, pleading, crying out for something more, for something better. The problems won't be fixed overnight - and frankly, the only problem I see here is you and your arrogance. I'm sorry that you see so problems but a lot of complaints I hear are because of an unwillingness by people to step up, to stand out, to turn the spotlight on them. Just like I told Ms. Roberts, nobody is going to give a fucking fuck about you unless you give them a reason to and a title is not enough of a reason.
Everyone wants something unforgettable. They want a new champion who sets them apart from all the rest and helps L.A.W. rise.
Do not forget who suggested the idea that people forget about the L.A.W. Champion, that we even have a main champion. You own that, no one else. You are responsible for that, nobody else. Yes, Ms. Camacho, they do forget about you. You make it too easy. If the things I’ve said about you weren’t true, why would they strike a nerve? Why would nearly everyone on this L.A.W. roster and its fans all agree with me?
It ain’t jealously, sweetcheeks.
Let me remind you, you are the face of L.A.W., the name that represents its place in the wrestling world. The top dog, the one people should want to come in and face, the one who attracts talent because these women want to be challenged by you, prove themselves to the best - sad truth is, people don't even really know who you are; remember, you're forgettable. That’s how this works, or at least how it should work. You have a responsibility to step out, put your ass out there, on the line, and get people excited about this organization, to bring it attention. It’s on you if things aren’t going well and forgive me, I happen to think things can be a lot better with a different champion at the helm - one who actually makes her presence known and is known beyond the confines of the gym.
Seriously, do you live there? Is there a cot in the corner for you?
Yes, a private life is a private life and I'm more open than you. That's fine. I respect you for that. But your in ring life isn't so hot, either. What you do for L.A.W. isn't so hot.
This is probably bold of me to say, but fuck it, I’m the bold daughter of a bitch, and you are going to hate on me for making this statement but it’s true… Kenzi Grey is a better representative of L.A.W. than you, Ms. Camacho. At least she puts herself out there and brings some acclaim to this place and as they say, any attention is good attention. It could easily be said and proven that thanks to Kenzi and the people she’s done pissed off, we have some fire back in the tag title division.
Good on her. Kudos for that.
Kenzi may not be perfect and she can be… herself, let's leave it at that. But I still consider her a friend, much to get chagrin of many. She's a mess but she at least knows who is. We're not perfect. We're never going to be perfect creatures. Like me, she loves L.A.W. even though she says otherwise and she keeps on keeping on, doing her thing. For that, I respect her.
I also respect you, Ms. Camacho. Believe it or not. I do, I really do. You're doing some pretty decent stuff. Maybe not great, maybe not to the level I'd expect from myself but everyone has their own standards… Yours are low.
God damn, I just can't help myself.
But, yeah, I do respect you. I respect the majority of my peers and competitors. I have no real reason not to. And, hey, we have things in common that garners my respect.
Fact remains, I have to win.
Win I will.
Yes, I've said this before but it has never been more real and it has never had so much weight. Too many times for too many years I've found myself on the cusp of the highest of heights and I failed to get there. I'm fucking tired of being on this Sisyphean quest, tired of having my rock roll back down and crush me. I'm over getting this close and never taking hold of it. I'm fucking done going through entire rosters, defeating everyone, including their best, and not having that little extra to be the one on top, falling just inches away. For fucks sake, I'm considered one of the top wrestlers out there, regarded and highly respected, sought after, recruited left and right - which says a lot right there - but I can't seem to get my hands on a world title no matter what I do.
That's gotta change.
That's gonna change.
It changes here. It changes now.
I have absolutely no interest in cracking under the pressure and falling short. I have every interest in wearing a title that I've shown I'm worthy of and capable of holding. I have everything to gain and everything to lose here. This is serious fucking business now. You had fucking believe that I'm coming at you with I got, Ms. Camacho. You will have to knock me out cold to get me to stop. I did not what I did these last few months for the fuck all of it.
Say whatever the fuck you want about me, Ms. Camacho, tear me down, try to bring up the past, which just means you're laboring on old information and you should update your programming, say I need to be humbled or that I don't have any confidence - which, in and of itself is a contradictory statement so you're gonna have to pick one, babycakes - or rant and rave about how I'm an awful person or a great person or not a good wrestler or God knows what the hell I'll have dreamed up about me.
I know myself and I know what I can do.
All that matters is that I know I can do this and I know that I can give L.A.W. a great champion at its helm. They will have something unforgettable. So will you, Ms. Camacho.
Yes, bish, I'm comin’ for you.
Like a fucking Mack truck.