Post by Deleted on Aug 14, 2017 2:09:34 GMT -5
~~Sunday, August 6th, 2017~~
Spirit of 77 was lively this Sunday night, with the sports bar playing host to a variety of sports and beer fans. Several small televisions were scattered throughout the place in various corners, each showing a different athletical flavor, but the giant screen comprised of the 16 monitors above the bar showed one thing:
Stacy Jones.
Sarah Selena Lacklan bit the bottom of her lip as the sports channel went over the results and possible fallout of the Ladies All Star wrestling event held within the city that night, just a few blocks from where she sat. The albino wrestler was in somewhat incognito mode, with her platinum hair partially covered by her Hello Kitty beanie and large sunglasses covering her pale face and red eyes. The bar was not bright by any means, which was well due to her difficulty seeing in bright lights, but she was simply not in the mood to deal with fans, reporters, or drunken men.
She takes her eyes off the television, off the reminder that the night had not gone the way she had planned, in ANY form, and looked down the long table at which she sat. She was not alone, of course, as her fiance Kenzi Grey sat next to her, here caramel lover also wearing shades. But even then, the sheer star power of Kenzi was a sight to behold: A head full of long braids that fell down past her breasts and an intangible yet still unmistakable sheen of SOMETHING that emanated from her, a glow of stardom and fierceness.
Sarah was not precisely sure when she realized that she was gay, especially considering that she had had a male lover less than a month before she and Kenzi started dating, but she fully knows she is now. Her tearful admission to her father that she “might” be gay had turned into a full-blown acceptance of that fact at some point a few months ago, even to the point of asking a woman to marry her. And she WAS going to marry that woman, regardless of what her future mother-in-law had to say on the matter.
She looks at the rest of the table and cannot help but smirk. No one had seen it coming, but over the last couple of weeks, she had been instrumental in bringing together a sort of fight club, and they were all at the table in the sports bar tonight. Roxy Cotton, the bombastic peroxide queen who made people run and hide when she went on a cyberbulling tear, also wearing sunglasses indoors, was busy giving the waiter the rough side of her tongue for bringing her the wrong order Sarah had been surprised by her being a vegan, as such lifestyles were difficult to uphold in their business, but the true vehemence of her string of heated swears at the waiter for forgetting her tofu was refreshing and fun.
Ashley Williams and Angelica Vaughn, both wearing sunglasses as well, were falling over themselves watching cat videos on their phones. Both blondes were trying to out-cute one another, finding video after video of kittens mewing, cats jumping, and even the occasional rabbit hopping. Angie was the current Cuteness Champion with her collection of cat-bread gifs, which boggled Sarah’s mind. How could there be so much media about such an obscure idea as a cat wearing a piece of bread like an article of clothing?
Milisandre Crowthorne, the only other brunette at the table aside from Kenzi, could not hide her annoyance behind her own set of sunglasses. The Oregon native was awkward in most social situations, which Sarah loved to tease her about, particularly since the brunette had gravitated towards her as naturally as Sarah had towards her. There was...something...to Milisandre that drew her. Something in her eyes, or in the way she bit her lip when she was amused. Or perhaps because they fought in similar ways, both delighting in the idea of making their opponents beg and plead for mercy.
She and her five friends represented...something...in Ladies All Star. She didn’t know what yet, but something. Kenzi had had a revolution as a wrestler in the calendar year, a fact that Sarah had claimed as her own influence. Ashley had fought for the company before in her own wide-ranging career, and had now brought her protege Angie to the fold. Roxy’s general bombastaty was a treat to watch and participate in, and she couldn’t WAIT until Smyth got a load of her brand of “respect.” And there was a quite hunger in Mil that was exciting to watch. Six bodies who were, at least for the moment, aligned in thought. They jokingly referred to themselves as “The Cool Kids” and had already chased off a few interested drunkards by telling them “You can’t sit with us.”
Her eyes turn back towards the television set where the talking heads had moved onto the main event of the evening, the farce of a match between Smyth and Reilly. A match that was filled with more people who only showed up in LAW for the occasional paycheck whenever they felt like it. Not like herself, how had been a prominent fixture and never missed a match or promotional deadline in her career, for ANY company. LAW was the same this week as it was last month, the same people showing up whenever they wanted to and never getting punished when they decided to not show up at all.
“It is time for a change.”
Her normally high voice is low as she speaks to herself.
“This is what the revolution is about. This is what the flames are for.”
She turns back to the table.
“Beloved?”
Kenzi turns from laughing with Roxy and gives her an exaggerated bow of her head.
“My Queen?”
Sarah would normally return such silliness with her own massive eyeroll but was not in the mood.
“I wish to spend time at the mansion. To train. To focus. Will that be okay with your Hexx schedule?”
Kenzi shrugs and Sarah notices Milisandre’s eyes perk up at the word “mansion.”
“I’m the boss! Gonna be FUN going back to Lacklanland!”
Sarah nods as she looks back up at the large television screen now showing the promotional graphic of Smyth vs. Roberts for the LAW Championship.
“Hoist the banner. Raise the colors.”
I get it, Kate. I really do. You will do ANYTHING to salvage your reputation. You will do ANYTHING to not allow the presentation I have created of you to be the lasting fact in the minds of those within LAW. You will do ANYTHING to climb out of the sea of your own mediocrity.
Attacking me from behind will not do it.
Chair shots will not do it.
Being the first person dumped out of the battle royal will not do it.
Losing in the first round of the Queen of the Ring WILL NOT DO IT.
There is NO escaping your sea of mediocrity, Kate. You and your career are like a listless lifeboat in in the ocean. No sail to catch the wind. No rudder to alter your path. And your oars? Bitten and chewed by sharks like me. And unfortunately for you, with sharks like me in that ocean, a bigger boat is not going to help you. In the story of Lacklan vs. Steele, you only get to be Quint. And even then? The shark wins. Hooper and Brody don’t survive.
And that is what this tournament is all about. Sharks feasting on those who would get lost in the sea of mediocrity. Sharks dining on those who choose to stay as boring and bland as they have ever been, as pedantic and downright drole as you. Absolutely NOTHING has changed since you and I first locked up in the tag match last month. NOTHING I had to say has been disputed or proven wrong. NOTHING that I said would happen proved to be false. The partner you chose took an L from me JUST LIKE I SAID SHE WOULD and the entire fed and company got to see you in the light I shined:
Like a cockroach.
The fact that you are even IN this tournament is laughable.
I GET that you have won it before.
I GET that you were once the standard bearer of this company.
And I GET that what I had to say before stands:
The sorry state of LAW is BECAUSE OF YOU and your “success” in the past.
Our GLORIOUS AND AMAZEBALLZ CHAMP THAT WE CAN NEVER TALK CRAP ABOUT just had a main event against ANOTHER ONE OF THOSE SINGLES CHAMPS I CALLED OUT and you know what happened?
Neither one of them decided to EVEN FUCKING BOTHER promoting the match during the CONTRACTUALLY OBLIGATED TIMEFRAME TO DO SO.
And you know where they got that shit from? Where people like them and Tolson think that being a champ here means you only have to show up once in a while?
They got it from you.
They got it from lumps of overrated junk like you who talk shit online or behind the scenes but, on holy hell BUT, when it comes time to actually DO SOMETHING, find themselves staring down a magnum when they only brought a child’s popgun. Across the ENTIRE business, you are getting your ass stomped on and can only seem to gain victories over the same handful of people. The running joke of Salvatore brought you into this tournament and the only reason you have any success in your Honor series is because of the equally sucktastic Millar. Mercedes Vargas was right in that your ENTIRE dealio should be known as the Beat Up Kate Steele Tour.
The entire IDEA that you are even trying to do your little challenge in one company while LOSING EVERY WEEK in ours is so laughable that I find myself rolling on the floor whenever I think of it. Like, legit on the ground, holding my belly, rolling over and over. That is like the Browns saying that they are going to dominate the NFC or the Rockies saying that they are going to go on a tear in the American League. Guess what, dearie: A perennial loser like yourself is a loser in EVERY FED SHE IS IN.
And you know what my favorite part about this tournament is? I get to knock you out myself in the first round. Oh, I know that you THINK that this is the moment you get to shut the albino loudmouth up and out finally. I know that you THINK that this is the moment you get to rise above the muck and mire of the career you have built over the last couple of years at the expense of a hotshot rookie. But that is not the case, it is not the story. This story is about that shark eating the Orca plank by plank and then swallowing the crewman whole like so many red velvet cakepops. This story is about the RISE of the future and the BURIAL of the past.
I REFUSE to allow Ladies All Star to turn into the wasteland that your name, talent, and workrate are leading it towards. I REFUSE to allow the fans of this most holy of sports to think that the Smyths, Reillys, and Tolsons, those who followed in YOUR footsteps, are the gold standard of what wrestling is about. I REFUSE to live in a world where someone as unremarkable as you could ascend to the Queen of the Ring when someone like ME is a competitor.
My OWN fight across the world has lead to victory after victory against veterans, legends, and fellow rookies. And my losses, and yes I have losses, are as few as your own wins. THAT is what it means to be excellent, dearie. THAT is what it means to be a shining light in the darkness for the would to look at and allow hope to fill their hearts. My light, a light which signs and sparkes like a diamond, is the lighthouse on the shore of greatness. This entire business may guide themselves out of the sea of mediocrity you helped create and find themselves safely moored on the shores of greatness.
Because that is what I am, Kate.
I am greatness beside your mediocrity.
A diamond, its cleavage sparkling, beside dull steel.
~~Tuesday, August 8th, 2017~~
Sarah felt love and admiration as she stepped out of the long black car. The Lacklanlanders had come out in force, pale faces with dark hair and eyes cheering wildly for the return of the Red Queen. The albino didn’t even notice the cold of the morning in Maine, even though she had spent most of her time over the calendar year in California, as she had grown up her. Kenzi, on the other hand, was already shivering as she was helped out of her car. She immediately grabs Sarah in a bear hug to share her body heat and gets an eyeroll in return.
“Weirdo.”
She looks back at the several hundred people gathered, at the large red carpet, at the marching band playing the Lacklanland anthem. It was good to be home. Two lines of large men, each wearing the matching uniforms of Sarah’s private security, approached them, a man in the lead making a deep bow as the others slammed fists across their chest.
“Red Queen,” he says to Sarah before turning and bowing to Kenzi. “Duchess.”
Sarah gives him one of her smiles filled with two rows of perfect teeth and extends her right arm, presenting the hand which features her signet ring. The man wastes no time in bending again to press his lips to the face of the ring, a firebird with its wings outstretched in flight. She nods and takes pushes Kenzi out of the hug to take her hand and walk forward.
“A pleasure, Sebastian. I assume everything is prepared?”
The man nods as he falls into step next to the duo, the two lines of private security following behind. The two bodyguards who had served them well since Sarah’s move to Hollywood, affectionately referred to as Frick and Frack by Kenzi, fell into step directly behind them. They had earned much honor in the last seven months.
“Of course, my Queen. Your intention to return to the Manor was sudden, but we are constantly vigilant, as the Master teaches. Will this be a lengthy visit?”
“Yes and no. Was the podium erected, as I asked?” The man nods in affirmation. “Excellent. Then I wish to speak to the Denizens.”
Before long, the odd pair and their guard arrive at a podium set up at the top of the red carpet. The crowd were stunned into silence as Sarah stood at the podium in full Red Queen garb: Her dress was black and red and fell to the floor, her hair was polled into a hive and filled with gems, her eyeliner wings were drawn with sharp precision, and her odd red eyes blazed out from underneath the translucent black veil which was clipped into her hair and fell down to her chin.
“My dearest countrymen. I can say, without pause or reservation, that little in my life feels better than standing before your proud faces again. It is with overwhelming joy that I return home.”
Her voice is high, the Londoner accent coming in strong with every soft “ah” sound, her perfect diction making her words clipped and precise. Her lyrical accuracy rings true in her pronunciation of words, including “a-gain” and a strong “h” in “overwhelming.”
“My career is about honoring the man who built all of this, the man who inspired you to leave your homes and families, leave the bland and boring lives you had before, and find that SOMETHING which was missing. Father spoke the word of God as His Voice, he spoke of family and acceptance, he spoke of the Light. And for nearly twenty years, you have lived that perfect life he preached. And for the last seven months, I have fought for his honor, fought for his vision, fought for the Light.”
She pauses, taking in the collection of people before her. Single men and women, young and old, multigenerational families. Nearly all of pale skin, Sarah noticed with a grimace. She had forgotten about that. In her youth, there had only been one family of African American ethnicity, and two of Hispanic origin. The rest looked like Sebastian, or Frick and Frack: Caucasian with dark hair and skin. Citizens of Maine, for the most part. She had forgotten that her own interracial relationship was not only a rarity but actually looked down upon by some here. But she was going to fix that, over time.
“I return home to focus and to train. Because in that time, my dear Father left this world and joined Mother at God’s side and I ascended from your Blood Princess to your Red Queen. It is in THESE forests that I ran as a girl and WILL run as a woman. It is in THESE ponds that I swam as a Princess and WILL swim as a Queen.”
She points behind her to the small town of houses, the space between them known as Selena’s Square, and the massive mansion which stood against the sky like a juggernaut with its black walls and the spire ending in a large cross.
“And it is my father’s weight room where I picked up my first barbell as a young woman where I will train to become the Queen of ALL of wrestling. Because THAT is what is important, dear Denizens. Not just being YOUR Queen, the daughter of the man you found such comfort in. But the TRUE Queen of wrestling. It is HERE that I shall train and prepare. It is HERE that I shall focus on becoming the most prominent member of the Ladies All Star Roster. It is HERE that I shall become the #1 contender to Smyth’s throne of lies! And, I promise you on the graves of Jean-Paul Lacklan and Selena Jornagen, that I shall thrive, persevere, and dominate.
“RAISE THE FIST!”
As one, each Denizen and member of her guard, cultists all, raise their right arm into the air, fingers curled into fists, saluting their queen. Sarah breathes hard as she looks over the sea of her people, breathes hard as she remembers what it is like to be at the compound in Maine.
It was good to be home.
I am well aware that most of the people in this tournament will focus on EVERYONE. Like, they will spend time researching everyone and preparing for all possibilities and shoot little promos on everyone. Like, I’m sure plenty of people will try to prove that they are better than the entire field with witty comments and asides. But the reality is that I don’t even need to think about three of the women in the tournament. After all, I already know who is going to be in the tournament final to face me:
Kenzi Grey.
And I will get to my Beloved some time next week 💋
As for before then, it is clear and obvious that I shall waltz past Kate Steel with hardly a sweat, attacks with chairs from behind or not. This means that I will fight either Stacy Jones or La Estrella.
There is a misunderstanding between us, La Estrella. See, you have used a word out of context, or at least out of understanding. A powerful word which has had songs written about it, a word of great import.
Respect.
Your charge that I have no respect for this business is a falsehood on such a grandiose scale that I would find myself laughing harder than any Kate Steele proclamation if it wasn’t for the insult.
I respect this business.
I love this business.
I GREW UP in this business. I travelled the world with my father. I watched him wrestle in every country of importance, watched him master every style, watched him throw elbows in Japan, knees in Thailand, wristlocks in Europe, and brainbusters in America. I watched him go through tables of flame, personally put stitches in his back after matches with barbed wire tore his skin to shreds, and hoist countless championships into the sky.
His job, his reason for being, was to fight against the trend going in wrestling at the time: Commercialization. It seemed that every half-trained twit would sign with a company and be branded or marketed as some type of hot shit. They would give him a name, a costume, a t-shirt, and make money off him. All the while, the twit could do nothing but swing a chair or go through florescent light bulbs. My father was great at his calling, great at retiring those halfmen and children by showing them what a REAL wrestler was about.
I honor him, dearie. I travel the world, as he did, being a freelancer. I fight in every style imaginable, taking the time to weave in moves I have learned into a tapestry of awesomeness and badassary that likes of which has never been seen. I have fought pillars of our profession as well as paupers and rookies, fought legends and undefeated beasts.
I respect wrestling with every part of my being.
But that flippy shit you do?
That is not wrestling. That is more like watching
Lucha is a joke, dearie. All pomp and circumstance with little substance. Hell, if I wanted to embrace my Inner Luchadora and do sixteen flips without actually doing any damage to my opponent, then I would just go off and join the Lacklanland Gymnastics Team! Or perhaps I would dust off my old ballet slippers and reprise my role as the lead in Cinderella!
And anyone who WOULD embrace that style, anyone who WOULD put on a silly costume straight out of a child’s cartoon series, deserves as little respect from me as their style does.
Which means that I do not respect you.
I don’t care about your accent or your control of the English language. Hell, I take pride in being bilingual and knowing French! And there is NOTHING wrong with Spanish. Every now and again, my Beloved will bust out some Spanish and next thing you know the dams are overflooded!
And tacos! Holy HELL I love tacos! Totes one of the best things about spending so much time in Hollywood this year.
But other than your language skills and what I assume are killer taco shop skills?
I don’t give a damn about anything you think you bring to this business or this tournament.
Now, I FULLY get that you have been around this business and made some waves. I FULLY get that you were THIS CLOSE to winning the tournament last year. SO CLOSE! But, as I have explained EXHAUSTIVELY over the last few months, the field is different this time. That ocean of mediocrity created by the likes of Kate Steele? Full of sharks like me. And I if you make it past Stacy, this shark will swallow you whole.
Now, I am well aware that you are the type of competitor that doesn’t ACTUALLY do research and their opponent or ACTUALLY listen to what they said, which is OBVIOUS from your promo leading into the battle royal since your comments about me were STRICTLY based on my social media activities and not what I ACTUALLY do in this business, allow me to give you a touch of context:
I have been in Mexico as part of my world tour. I have fought alongside El Meido. I have experienced Lucha first hand.
And I beat the fuck out of my opponent so bad that she left the company.
THAT is reality. THAT is truth.
And if you get past Jones? I will allow you to flip. I will allow you to fly. I will allow you to do anything and everything in your silly little repertoire of showmanship bullshit.
And when you come at me with your flippy shit?
I will kick your fucking head off.
Respect that.
“Knees bent. Feet flat. Back straight. Lift slowly.”
The words of her father ring through Sarah’s ears as she sets herself at the barbell sitting on the floor. The Firestarter was wearing her workout gear, a matching pair of black shorts and sports bra, red and orange flames fanning out, that were so tight that anyone looking could see even the tiniest detail of her unmentionables. Part of her mind knew that there WERE people looking, her fiance Kenzi and their friend Milisandre, who had surprised them by coming to spend the intervening weeks with them at Lacklanland to train for the Queen of the Ring. Milisandre had her own important match on the card, a fatal fourway which would most likely lead to a Breakout championship opportunity, and spending quality training time with them was a wide choice. Sarah was also quite aware that her curves, including a large butt developed by years of heavy squats and deadlifts, drew her friend’s eyes as well as her lovers. Their friend Ashley quipped that she was straight as an arrow until she got a few drinks into her, and she had a feeling that Milisandre was the same.
She thought back to her time with her father, the hulking brute that was the Mountain King. In his prime, he had packed a full 300 pounds of muscle onto his 6’3” frame, an obsession of his lifetime equal to wrestling or growing the family business. The man had overwhelmed opponents with his might as much as his guile, and that was an important thing to remember. One of her happiest memories was on January 1st in the year 2012, her 14th birthday, when he allowed her to begin lifting weights with him. Like in all things, he had been a wonderful teacher, harsh when he needed to be, loving when he needed to be.
She pulls the barbell and stops, just before it would lift off the ground, the ready position. Head up, shoulders packed, just as he taught, and up comes the weight. She slowly rises to a standing position, settling there for a moment, until going back down.
“And, no matter what you do, do not rock the weight backward at the top. You will see fools do this as you travel the world and visit different gyms. This is a flawed technique that garnered popularity through ignorance, not logic. Do not throw out your back.”
His words always filled her head when she lifted. It brought him to her, it brought his massive arms around her again. Many opponents, including some within her new “home” company of Ladies All Star, incorrectly labeled her as having “Daddy Issues.” The fools. Being a rich white girl didn’t who like beating people up did not automatically equate to daddy issues. She loved her father, and he loved her. Their bond was not even separated at death.
She nearly drops the weight on her third rep as her mind drifts to that terrible day in April. She had flown home immediately when she received the call that said that her father’s cancer had taken him to the edge. And she had arrived just in time to watch him die. His final words were spoken to her, words that would forever be etched in her brain.
“Light be with you, Sarah.”
It was. It was with her at all times. She never forgot the light, never let it out of her mind. But, she had to admit to herself, she had pushed it aside. In her bid to grow, she had allowed other pursuits to get in the way of the Light. Acting, singing, dancing. The Hollywood lifestyle of parties and restaurants and shows. And coming back here to train, to remember what and who she was, made her remember that.
“Do not forget stamina, Daughter. Run! Leap! Sweat! Enjoy the Light’s embrace and strengthen your heart and lungs! You must have stamina to travel the world!”
She had done so since returning home. She had taken Kenzi and Milisandre, much to the chagrin of her friend, on runs in the fields and hikes in the forest. She had pressed them to lift more, run faster, leap higher. She had pressed them to train like they never had for such an important event as the Queen of the Ring. The Maine air, particularly in the religious compound affectionately known as Lacklanland, had been good for her, and she suspected, good for the other two Cool Kids. She pressed the question to Kenzi about possibly living part of the year here after the wedding, and Kenzi seemed pleased. Hell, even Milisandre seemed pleased! The three of them had gone shopping to fill out the decor of the rooms Sarah had given to her for the duration of her stay, however long that ended up being.
“Read, Daughter. Read everything. Voltaire. Melville. Hugo. Be smarter than your opponents. Out think them. Out wit them. Be MORE than them.”
She did. She read nonstop at times. An entire wall of their apartment in Hollywood was dedicated to books and she had a large library in her rooms upstairs. She read everything she could get her hands on, whether in traditional paper or on her phone, and spent nearly all of her free time engaging her mind. She WAS smarter than just about everyone she knew, often tying them up in knots with her words. A particular specialty of hers was gaining the trust of someone older than her, particularly a champion, and then destroying them when it suited her designs. Her father had taught her the importance of manipulation and control, and she used those weapons better than any she had yet to face.
As she said recently: It is all fun and games until she turned her attentions to you. Smyth had learned that.
She lowers the bar a final time, the clunk of the weights hitting the pads on the floor hard enough to sound like thunder, and walks to the side to look in the mirror. Kenzi and Milisandre were arguing about whose turn it was, each trying to avoid having to actually work, but Sarah didn’t notice. Her eyes were on the mirror.
On herself.
On the woman who would be Queen.
She would be ready.
Hello Stacy.
I applaud you. I do not applaud many in this business, but I applaud you. You went into that battle royal and, though technique and taking advantage of circumstance, you won.
Only one in seven could win and garner momentum.
You did so. NO ONE can take that away from you.
But this tournament?
I can take it away from you.
I WILL take it away from you.
See, I much like how I GET that Kate Steele thinks she matters in any way, shape, or form, and how I GET that La Estrella thinks that ballet is a combat sport, I GET that you think you have a lineage worth a damn. I GET that you think that everything you have come from matters. But just like I GET to personally hand Kate Ls every time we face each other and I GET to kick our local star chick out of the air, I GET to tell you this:
I am genetically superior to you.
At 5’2”, I weigh 143 of powerful muscle crafted by countless hours in the gym for over five years.
I am more intelligent than you with a knowledge base which would make you sit and weep in horrified jealous.
I have been to more countries, eaten a wider variety of foods, experienced more flavors of life than you.
I run in a better circle than you. Hell, even the LEAST important person I know is LEAGUES greater than a single member of that bullshit Cornet nonsense.
I am a better singer, dance, actor, model, fill in the blank whatever else people put in their profiles.
I am a better WRESTLER than you.
And!
Furthermore!
My father was better than yours.
But you know what the thing that REALLY makes me laugh, like, SUPER HARD?
I triggered the fuck out of you when I said that before, right? Mind you, your silly little context bullshit was all about taking my comment, which was that my trainers were superior to yours, and making it sound like I said that your father was a shit-filled dumpster fire, but we ALL know what I actually said. And after all that? After you went to town in your promo and you got all of your little Cornet buddies to talk shit about me on twitter and toss around TOTES original comments like sociopath?
That dude may not even be your father in the end.
Holy shitballs.
I mean, like, wow. After ALL THAT, the dude that trained you, the dude who had this title and that hall of fame and some other 34234132432 reasons why he’s important, may not have had a SINGLE thing to do with the blood in your body.
In the end, you may well just be from low, pauper stock.
Mind you, that makes sense. Like, really dearlie, look at yourself. Go ahead, do it right now. Go look in the mirror. I will wait.
………………………………
………………………………
……………………………..
Back? Sweet. Did you get a good look in the mirror? Did you see those hollowed out eyes of yours? You know, the ones that make you look like something even Skeletor would left-swipe? Did you see the splotchy complexion that makes you look like you are suffering from ebola? Mind you, I’m not making fun of you for being pale, ya know? That would be the Ballad of Pots and Kettles. Or Eggs and Milk, in our case. But Sweet Mother, Stacy! Learn to take off your makeup with vaseline for once!
And that hair! Holy crapballs that stringy rat’s nest you call HAIR! It looks like an eagle has picked out half of it! And do NOT EVEN get me started on the twigs you call limbs!
I AM GENETICALLY SUPERIOR TO YOU.
THAT is reality, Stacy. I kick harder. Run faster. Jump higher.
I WANT this more.
Winning the Queen of the Ring isn’t just about having an accolade, as winning the UGWC WrestleStock Cup was. WInning the Queen of the Ring isn’t just about the adulation of the crowd, a winner’s paycheck, or the hugs and kisses from my Beloved. It is not about behind hoisted onto the shoulders of my peers.
It is about taking down Smyth.
This tournament is for ME.
This tournament is for MY ascension to the top of Ladies All Star.
This tournament is so that I can take down the hypocritical Paragon of Boredom who gets laughed at by EVERY SINGLE PERSON ON HER ROSTER for the silly idea that she actually matters to any of them.
This tournament? It has nothing to do with you.
And after the 27th, I want you to go back to that mirror, dearie.
I want you to take a long, hard look at the face staring back at you.
And realize that there is ONE word which describes what you see. ONE word that accurately details what happened to you when you faced the face of the Revolution in the semi-finals of the Queen of the Ring. ONE word that is synonymous with Stacy Jones.
Broken.
Light be with you.