Post by Deleted on Aug 24, 2017 2:25:30 GMT -5
A letter.
The paper is a hard stationary, a high quality product from a special tree grown in Lacklanland Forest for this very reason, the color the soft eggshell of Jean-Paul Lacklan’s original mask.
The ink is a deep red, an eason dye colored with tallic and diluted with water out of the frigid springs within the forest.
The letters themselves are written by a fine hand, with wide loops and small hearts used in place of dots over the letter “i.”
Hints of lavender waft from the stationary and, towards the bottom of the page, two wet circles that could only be tears.
My Dark Goddess,
I am in so much pain. My body aches in a way I never thought was possible. The dozen stitches in my head from Baumer’s chair shots tell the tale of the concussion that I hid from you. The burns on my back and legs in my loss to Tolson scream whenever I lay down. The cuts and bruises along my neck and shoulders from that dog collar match with Lucy Wylde make it hard to do much more than keep my head straight.
But the worst pain of all?
I am a failure.
I have failed Father. I have failed you. I have failed myself.
Yes, I have won my fair share of matches. Yes, some could even say that, for a rookie wrestlers not even nine months into her professional career, I have exceeded all expectation.
But I know that is not true. I know that there is so much more I can do...so much more that I can be.
As of this letter, I am 0-5 in championship opportunities and...let us face it...I have simply taken on more than I can do. Too many matches...too much travel...just too much.
I am sorry that I have not been able to be the person you deserve. From my inability to win the important matches...to my inability to not hurt you or leave you when you need me the most...I have simply not been good enough.
We are getting married on Saturday and I am so GODDAMN TERRIFIED that I will not be able to live up to your expectations. I am so GODDAMN TERRIFIED that I will not be able to be your Selena. I am so GODDAMN TERRIFIED that I have...AGAIN...taken on too much. We fight for our CWC careers on Thursday night against the #1 contenders for the CWC world championships...we have our wedding on Saturday...and then we do battle in the Queen of the Ring on Sunday.
I cannot do it, Beloved. I cannot keep pushing myself this way...cannot keep overloading my body and my mind...I cannot be the person that my father...that all the denizens of Lacklanland...that you wish for me to be. I cannot be the person that I want to be for you.
But I will try. I will endeavor. I will fix what needs to be fixed...change what needs to be changed.
I will succeed.
For my father.
For the denizens that believe in me.
For you.
-Your Porcelain Princess
Sarah Selena Lacklan looks down at the letter sitting atop her table. The table is as opulent as one would imagine within the manor built by her father: A solid oak chopped down from within the forest, buffed and shined daily by the servants so that it gleamed, set with spans of crystal where most would have glass. The Mistress of the Manor is dressed for bed, wearing a black and red velvet pajama set that hugged her curves and fought off the Maine cold. Six months in Southern California had gotten her somewhat used to warm weather and her body was still working on acclimating to being home. Not an ounce of makeup was on her face, of course, just the remnants of the deep cleanse her handmaiden has soaked her face in in order to help her maintain her soft skin for her long life. But her red eyes poked out of dark circles, the obvious source of those two wet circles on the bottom of her paper.
She closes her eyes and shakes her head slowly, her thoughts on the content of what she had written. Words and worries she could never voice to anyone, not even Kenzi. She scoops up the letter and walks over to the fireplace, a red and yellow torrent of flames crackling alive inside like the breath of Smaug himself, and tosses the paper into the fire. She watches it disintegrate before her eyes, watched as every eggshell hue turned black and crumbled, and then turns, headed to the sweet silence of relief that was the Abyss of slumber next to Kenzi.
The howling of the wind sent shivers down the spines of even the most resolute citizen of Maine.
The wind, known as the Lacklan Mystral to all of those within Bangor, named after the recently departed eccentric man in the mansion off the Penebscot River, blew through the town without a care in the world for any hats that flew off heads, any hairdos forever ruined regardless of how much time was spent getting them just right, or even any kites that were blown into the branches of trees. It was unforgiving, unrelenting, and uncaring. However, the wind was curious, ever so curious, as it passed over the border from Maine to Lacklanland. It slowed, as it was wont to do, at the border check, the two small buildings that sat at the opening of the low wall that covered the land all along the border. The main road, unimaginatively named Main Street by some long-forgotten Mainer generations ago, stopped at that checkpoint, was halted by the two dividing arms, before it continued on its way to the mansion.
The wind was not halted as were any cars at the checkpoint, however. No, the wind was free, free to roam, free to billow, free to live. But still, that curiosity held it, that curiosity had it coming back to this place over and over again instead of breaking away to the true freedom of the river and the Atlantic Sea it fed into. Over the last two weeks, that curiosity had allowed the wind to see many things it had never seen. It had allowed it to see the return of the Firestarter, the daughter of the deceased owner of these lands, see her return with an odd assortment of followers.
This made the wind giggle to itself, its laughter a keen which sent small animals running in sudden flight. This entire land was odd, a land somehow annexed by misdirection and bribery and populated by the religious cult who had followed the masked madman. A land which saw that man crucify Jews and stone those who did not fully believe in him, a land which saw a small standing army trained by a terrorist and local politicians come to beg and curry favor.
It was indeed an odd land.
And Sarah? The famous Vampire of Lacklanland? She had returned home after living on the other coast. Had she returned to stay? And if so, was this dark-skinned lover going to stay with her? Would there be TWO Queens? COULD there be? And what of the wispy brunette who alway seemed to slouch her shoulders and hold her arms on her waist? The wind had heard whispers that she was a friend and was visiting, but there was something more. Something in the way she looked at the Firestarter. Something in her eyes. The wind had seen that look before, seemingly countless times. The look of someone who was hearing or seeing a Lacklan for the first time, the look of one who, though they did not know it, was about to become a zealot.
The wind had seen much since the madman’s daughter returned. The wind had seen the three young woman training, running through the forest, sparring in blueberry fields. It had seen Sarah and the brunette walking through the forest, getting to know one another. It had seen Sarah and her dark lover misbehaving in a surprising variety of ways in an equally numerous amount of locations. It had seen the brunette wander off into the forest with one of the prominent members of Sarah’s guard, both on foot and, of all things, clinging to his back like a small green creature on a swamp planet.
The wind had seen much. It had slid onto the grounds itself, making tall grasses weave and the eclectic array of plants bob as it flew by. It saw the three women leave for the weekend and return with Sarah’s body broken and burned, helped out of the car by her guards. It had seen the worry on the faces of the brunette and the dark one, seen them fuss and fret about the Mistress, and seen said Firestarter wave them away. Over-proud, much like her father, and prone to pushing away those who love her, particularly in times of weakness. The wind shakes its head at this. It had seen the father waste away, seen the cancer eat him from the inside until he was but dust to be blown away, and feared the same would happen to the red-eyed girl.
Now the wind finds itself outside the window of the third floor of the mansion, the floor originally dedicated to the Mountain King himself, but now occupied by the Mistress and her consort. The wind presses itself against that window, the voyeuristic curiosity concerning the albino girl too much to press on, and wonders at the scene before it.
Sarah Lacklan sits at her desk in full Red Queen regalia. Her hair is pulled up into a hive, giving her a full four more inches in height, with a series of gems woven into the silky strands to look like a crown. Her black veil is clipped into place above her brow and falls to her face, there so that none may accidently look her in the eyes and earn a flogging. Sarah the Blood Princess, the Childish GIrl, would have delighted in personally handing out those floggings, but Sarah the Red Queen, the Adult, thought differently on such matters. The same was with her dress: Gone were the low-cut gowns that allowed her supple bosom to jiggle teasingly for the staff to see, and in place was the high neck dress with the spiked collar that hid her charms for only her fiance’s pleasure.
The fine hand that wrote the letter doomed to a fire death glided across pages. Sarah had neglected her duties as the head of the Lacklan estate since her father passed in April, had spent her time traveling across the world and fighting for the memory and honor of the man who raised her on his own. Well, relative own. The family had been rich for generations, originally due to canning and later plastics manufacturing, but the gold mine the departed Lord of the Manor had found and exploited had turned her life of comfort into extravagance. And those that followed him, those who believed in the off-shoot of Protestant Christianity that he preached from his pulpit, not only did not think twice about their windfall, but wholly expected it. Of COURSE their Savior would gain gold as if mana from the heavens! He was the Voice! And his daughter the Reckoning!
Sarah signed paper after paper, time and again, until the stack was gone. Reports on the forest and the blueberry fields. Reports on their outlet from the great river. Reports on their horses, their manufacturing buildings, their holdings across the world. A seeming endless array of reports and papers. But her mind was on her passion, on her drive to be the best wrestler she could be. On her pain.
Sarah hid the damage to her body with the help of handmaidens who had watched over her from birth. Imaginative makeup, dresses, and stances camouflaged burn marks, bruises and cuts, and a pronounced limp. Kenzi knew the truth, of course, though she still tried to hide just how much pain she was in, and she thought that Milisandre suspected much, as well. Her own staff did not shy away from her injuries or the need to care for her, of course; indeed, her own father’s ruined face had left them with little left in the way of horror.
Still, Sarah tried to be the physical reminder of her father’s message, tried to sit tall in her throne and walk with a straight back when around the citizens of Lacklanland. The latest census numbered the population of the compound at 350, give or take a few births, and many of them had worshipped Sarah from the moment of her birth. They had flocked to her father’s message, mourned at her mother’s death, celebrated Sarah’s life, and raised their fists into the air at her ascension to the throne after her father left mortality to sit at God’s side. So she did what needed to be done:
She was a queen.
“Hmph...Queen.”
Sarah’s soprano voice carries in the room. Red eyes look around her study, at bookshelves filled with tomes, at the giant map of the compound on a wall. She makes a small clicking noise with her tongue and a tiny ball of white scampers obediently onto her desk. Hasenpfeffer, Sarah’s dwarf white bunny wears a bow around her neck that matches her “Mama’s” dress and, like her “Mama,” has small eyeliner wings darting out from her black eyes. Sarah picks up the bunny and nuzzles her nose, both Sarah and Lil Has wiggling.
“They have no idea what it means to be a queen, do they, Lil’ Has? No they don’t! They have no idea!”
She places Hasenpfeffer on her shoulder and idly scratches her ears, the tiny bunny nuzzling into a nook of fabric. Sarah’s face looks thoughtful as she ponders what she just said. What did it MEAN to be queen? And who better to answer that question than her, a person who had been groomed for the position since birth?
Sarah reaches into her dress, pulls out her phone and, with a the pressing of a few buttons, begins to record.
Hello, Mister Dupree.
I wish to share this moment of intimacy with you, if I may. We have not spoken much, which is actually quite odd considering my proclivity for speaking, but reality is that we have not. I would like to take this time to change that.
My name is Lacklan. I, in general, pick fights, bully people online, make love to my Beloved at the merest drop of a hat, travel across the world to work on my chosen profession, am insanely wealthy to a point where even your dreams are but a pale shadow of reality, fully believe that Kitty Purry is a real life cat who has the capability of using Twitter, and never EVER back down from a challenge.
A queen NEVER backs down from a challenge.
A queen fights the world. A queen defends her throne. A queen proves herself time and again and, in moments of defeat, learns from her mistakes and picks herself back up.
I am a queen.
Now, I am FULLY aware that there are MANY people in this business who would call themselves queen. There are those who would mock anyone for using the honorific, but I shall not do so. After all, calling yourself royalty is something to aspire to, something to fight for and believe in. However, in my travels across this world, I have seen those who would claim royalty who do not deserve it.
Take the Nordic Queen, for instance. You remember her, yes? The one I Shining Wizarded straight out of contention for the Queen of the Ring? She believed herself to be a queen, yes? She believed that she could triumph over the Firestarter with silence, with an approach of stoicism to rattle my nerves. She figured, at least I assume, that embracing the stern ice of an Arendelle queen would defeat me.
She was wrong.
She was no queen.
Before then, I faced a queen in the form of Courtney Leinart. Remember her? The one who I dubbed the Queen of Trash as much for her lack of fashion skills as her ability to fight in the ring? I was ever so curious to if she would disappear into the Abyss after I defeated her and, to the shock of certainly no one, that is exactly what transpired. Apparently in our story, I was not just the Red Queen but also the Blade of Redemption and away she flew into obscurity.
She was no queen.
You may be wondering why I bring this up. Because in this business, as you have well seen with your own eyes, those who would be queen are everywhere, not just in Ladies All-Star. The Crimson Queen this, the Queen of Roses that. My current favorite fake queen is probably Becky Balfour, the Queen of a movement so undefined that even the listless Occupy Wallstreet crowd is all “Damn chick, figure out what your purpose is.” But in Ladies All-Star, you have a queen who carries herself with both grace and passion, with both poise and ferocity. A queen who speaks with eloquence and perfect diction as well as fire and heat.
You have me.
The Red Queen, the Mistress of the Manor.
Now, I have made my position and intentions for Ladies All-Star quite clear over the last two months. Yes, I initially came her to fight Kate Bass and support my Beloved, but I have stayed because there is a sickness within the company, a champion who lacks both the integrity and charisma to attract quality challengers, and I intend on dethroning her. I intend on looking Smyth in the eye, spitting in her face, and kicking her head off. Because Ladies All-Star deserves a queen who can face all challengers and not hid behind pointlessly complicated bureaucracy. You, Sir, deserve a queen who is not afraid to put her title on the line every week, regardless of challenges.
And a queen who knows that “irregardless” is not a word, for that matter.
And to do that, or at least to do it PROPERLY, is to win the Queen of the Ring tournament. It seems to me that most people in this tournament do not realize the whole POINT of the tournament. Some seem to think that it is a simply accolade to add to their resume, and others do not even seem to realize that they are IN the tournament, but I know better. This is about that title match against Smyth. This is about headlining one of the rare Ladies All-Star pay-per-view events and ripping the title out of their hands.
This is why I am here.
This is what I am training for.
I am not here as an outsider or part-timer. I am not here to be like Abby and simply try to salvage my name from an embarrassing performance the year before. I am in this tournament, fighting for both the history books and the opportunity to dethrone the champion, because Ladies All-Star has become my HOME. And, by God, I REFUSE to allow rats and vermin to dirty my home with their diseased blood and muddy paws.
I refuse to allow Stacy Jones to ruin this company
One might wonder why I care so much about a random member of the extended Cornett family. After all, I have publicly criticized anyone who has their “stench,” from Jones to Bass to that despicable woman how caused Parker van Peters to kills himself. But there is something about Jones that bothers me, something that annoys me. And that something?
Bullshit.
Do you smell it? Do you FEEL it wafting into your company like a deadly fog from a King novel? Jones does not represent the excellence of a Farrah or a Zoey, woman who I admire for being fighting champions, but instead the whiny, back-room dealing types of a Bass. After all, both you and I know what kind of person Bass is, and Jones is that same flavor. Want an example? Allow me to tell you a little story:
I have, in the recent past, compared the genetics of Jones and myself. Now, she thinks that I am being petty for bringing up her rat’s nest of a head of hair or her emaciated body, but the POINT I was making, if she had not been so dull as to understand it, was that I am superior to her in every way. My training is of higher quality, my character is of more stern material, and my blood, my very BLOOD, is royal, whereas hers is...well...unknown. And I, simply for the shiggles, as one might say, made a couple of jokes about the likelihood that her father would be some type of vagrant.
Her response was to subtweet.
Now, I am aware that you may not know what a subtweet is, as you are somewhat older than I, so allow me to explain by saying that it is akin to talking behind someone’s back. That is, making comments about someone that they know will not be heard yet still feeling as if they had won an argument or had some other type of victory, no matter how pyric. She subtweeted, or talked behind my back with the hope I would not notice in this example, about how I must be an idiot and, and I quote, “Fuck you Sarah.”
I responded by finding a picture of the ugliest person I could find and suggested that he was just Number Ten of the upcoming ten possibilities of who her father could be. I, of course, pressed the little “@” key to make sure she saw it because, unlike people of her calibre and ilk, I take my fight directly to the person. This was her response:
“Unbreakable,” my verifiably squat booty. She should change her name to “Broken,” yes? Or perhaps, in the words of my dear friend Roxy, “Shook.”
This is akin to putting your fingers in your ears and saying “LA LA LA I CAN’T HEAR YOU” And for all of my bluster and heat, for all of the fights I pick, only ONE other person has ever blocked me: Courtney Leinart. It certainly shows you the calibre of a Stacy Jones. Now, while she DID later unblock me to be able to see what I was saying, I did not bother to interact with her after that, since she has that little lock next to her name and protects her online adventures. And as I said recently, something which apparently triggered a whole host of people, the only ones with a little lock next to their name have either something to hide or be ashamed of.
THIS is the person who would be Queen of the Ring?
THIS is the person who would be silly enough to think that she was better than I?
THIS is the person who, in response to all of the facts and comparisons I made between us, only had “You won’t like me when I am pissed off!” to say to me?
Sweet Mother, Mister Dupree. Might as well color her green and charge her for gimmick infringement. If nothing else, at least I am original, yes?
You know what else I am? You know what other quality I possess that defines me as a queen, other than my supreme originality? My stamina. My endurance. Since turning pro in January, I have competed in forty-three matches of all shapes and sorts, with my forty-fourth coming tomorrow. And while that breaks down to an average of a match every five days, there have been several days with two or three matches since I started my faux world tour. Indeed, wrestling, and winning, several matches in one day, which I will need to do to win the tournament, is something I have already done a few times this year.
Additionally, something that should be noted is that, in this time, with all of these fights, I have never missed a show, date, promo opportunity, or deadline. I have fought my hardest through wins and losses with fire and fury and NEVER let a promoter down in any way.
Of course, there are people in this company who think that wins do not matter. Why, someone recently scoffed at me and tried to virtually pat my head for having a better than 50% record! Ha, to that person, I say! Ha! I have won a full 66% of my matches and, even moreso important to those within this tournament, I am undefeated in singles combat in Ladies All-Star. In fact, I have been DOMINANT in singles combat in Ladies All-Star. So while the Katalina’s and Gabby’s of the company dismiss me for being young or new, the reality for them is that I am neither. I have trained to be a wrestler since the day I turned fourteen, have lifted more weights than the next ten women combined, and have more drive than anyone on the roster.
Another aspect of my right to the throne of Ladies All-Star is how much I love this business in general and this company in particular. I study tape like none other and travel the world specifically to learn the different styles. I do not hold myself to one set of moves or a single strategy, as I have seen others in this business do, but instead take them all in. Well, except for Lucha. That costumed ballet nonsense is just silly. And no matter how hard La Estrella likes to make the case against it, I respect what has come before me. Just ask Lucy Wylde about that.
Of course, not everyone respect their opponents and this business enough to be a true queen. La Estrella has shown that in a high magnitude. It seems like everyone word directed toward me is an unimaginative slight on my name or slander against my character. My favorite thing this moment is her claim that I would probably be happy with a cheap win over Steele in the first round. This little tidbit from her shows her ignorance, as you are well aware, Mister Dupree. I have both said and shown over and again how I wish to fight everyone and enjoying a hollow victory is certainly not who I am or what I am about.
Perhaps La Estrella went to the same journalism school as Cassandra Baumer. Never let the truth get in the way of your narrative, yes? Perhaps she should change her name to La Estrella Caída.
Oh! And that reminds me of yet ANOTHER example of how I am one of the only two people in this company fit to be Queen:
Katalina believes that my assertion that I shall be fighting my Beloved in the finals is based upon favoritism. This is not so, and quite possibly is an example of yet ANOTHER person in this tournament not ACTUALLY LISTENING to promos or paying attention to shows, which is a shame, because I quite like Katalina. Her selection of whips is wonderfully varied! But, to the point, my assertion that the finals will be Lacklan vs. Grey is based on fact, must like my comparisons to my and Jones’ genetics or my breakdown of how having Smyth as champion is killing the company:
2017 has been the greatest year of Kenzi’s career. The Kenzi in this tournament is NOT the Kenzi of her rookie year in Ladies All-Star where she lost every match she was in. The Kenzi in this tournament is NOT the one who lost the Chaos to Tolson in a match where, no matter how far I and my Cool Kid Sistren look, cannot seem to locate the footage of. Hell, this is NOT the Kenzi of Guilty Pleasure.
This is the Kenzi that has defeated champions and outsiders all year.
This is the Kenzi who was THAT CLOSE to becoming a tag champion and subsequently earned the respect of the Angels.
This is the Kenzi who backs down from no one and fights doggedly for what she wants.
This is the Kenzi that I created.
While our champion, and our general manager, for that matter, choose to tear people down and cry when things do not go their way, I build people up. Oh, I may well use harsh tactics at times, and I may well break a few proverbial eggs for my omelette (See: Ashley So while Katalina may dismiss her, our kinda-sorta friend that we had dinner with that one time is in for quite the shock:
The finals of the Queen of the Ring WILL BE Lacklan vs. Grey.
And yes, Mister Dupree, I am well aware that, come the night of the tournament, she and I will be wed. Thus the question must come to bear: Will we be able to fight one another? Will we be able to lay into one another, fangs and claws bared, for the right to call ourselves Queen? Or will we just make the fight a massive Best of 23 Ro-Sham-Bo tournament, as we threatened to do in the battle royal?
We will not make a mockery of your tournament, Sir.
We will fight. We will hurt each other. We will push each other to the limit and see who has the greater stamina and drive. And as a hand is raised into the air? The loser shall embrace the victor, hold them up, the first to congratulate them. The loser and winner shall show the world what true wrestling is, what a true relationship is, and what it means to be Queen.
And completely outshine the title matches and embarrass the participants of those matches in the process.
In summation, Mister Dupree:
There is only one person who has the skill, stamina, and drive to be Queen of the Ring.
There is only one person who defines what it is to be Queen.
Me.
Sarah Selena Lacklan.
I wish to share this moment of intimacy with you, if I may. We have not spoken much, which is actually quite odd considering my proclivity for speaking, but reality is that we have not. I would like to take this time to change that.
My name is Lacklan. I, in general, pick fights, bully people online, make love to my Beloved at the merest drop of a hat, travel across the world to work on my chosen profession, am insanely wealthy to a point where even your dreams are but a pale shadow of reality, fully believe that Kitty Purry is a real life cat who has the capability of using Twitter, and never EVER back down from a challenge.
A queen NEVER backs down from a challenge.
A queen fights the world. A queen defends her throne. A queen proves herself time and again and, in moments of defeat, learns from her mistakes and picks herself back up.
I am a queen.
Now, I am FULLY aware that there are MANY people in this business who would call themselves queen. There are those who would mock anyone for using the honorific, but I shall not do so. After all, calling yourself royalty is something to aspire to, something to fight for and believe in. However, in my travels across this world, I have seen those who would claim royalty who do not deserve it.
Take the Nordic Queen, for instance. You remember her, yes? The one I Shining Wizarded straight out of contention for the Queen of the Ring? She believed herself to be a queen, yes? She believed that she could triumph over the Firestarter with silence, with an approach of stoicism to rattle my nerves. She figured, at least I assume, that embracing the stern ice of an Arendelle queen would defeat me.
She was wrong.
She was no queen.
Before then, I faced a queen in the form of Courtney Leinart. Remember her? The one who I dubbed the Queen of Trash as much for her lack of fashion skills as her ability to fight in the ring? I was ever so curious to if she would disappear into the Abyss after I defeated her and, to the shock of certainly no one, that is exactly what transpired. Apparently in our story, I was not just the Red Queen but also the Blade of Redemption and away she flew into obscurity.
She was no queen.
You may be wondering why I bring this up. Because in this business, as you have well seen with your own eyes, those who would be queen are everywhere, not just in Ladies All-Star. The Crimson Queen this, the Queen of Roses that. My current favorite fake queen is probably Becky Balfour, the Queen of a movement so undefined that even the listless Occupy Wallstreet crowd is all “Damn chick, figure out what your purpose is.” But in Ladies All-Star, you have a queen who carries herself with both grace and passion, with both poise and ferocity. A queen who speaks with eloquence and perfect diction as well as fire and heat.
You have me.
The Red Queen, the Mistress of the Manor.
Now, I have made my position and intentions for Ladies All-Star quite clear over the last two months. Yes, I initially came her to fight Kate Bass and support my Beloved, but I have stayed because there is a sickness within the company, a champion who lacks both the integrity and charisma to attract quality challengers, and I intend on dethroning her. I intend on looking Smyth in the eye, spitting in her face, and kicking her head off. Because Ladies All-Star deserves a queen who can face all challengers and not hid behind pointlessly complicated bureaucracy. You, Sir, deserve a queen who is not afraid to put her title on the line every week, regardless of challenges.
And a queen who knows that “irregardless” is not a word, for that matter.
And to do that, or at least to do it PROPERLY, is to win the Queen of the Ring tournament. It seems to me that most people in this tournament do not realize the whole POINT of the tournament. Some seem to think that it is a simply accolade to add to their resume, and others do not even seem to realize that they are IN the tournament, but I know better. This is about that title match against Smyth. This is about headlining one of the rare Ladies All-Star pay-per-view events and ripping the title out of their hands.
This is why I am here.
This is what I am training for.
I am not here as an outsider or part-timer. I am not here to be like Abby and simply try to salvage my name from an embarrassing performance the year before. I am in this tournament, fighting for both the history books and the opportunity to dethrone the champion, because Ladies All-Star has become my HOME. And, by God, I REFUSE to allow rats and vermin to dirty my home with their diseased blood and muddy paws.
I refuse to allow Stacy Jones to ruin this company
One might wonder why I care so much about a random member of the extended Cornett family. After all, I have publicly criticized anyone who has their “stench,” from Jones to Bass to that despicable woman how caused Parker van Peters to kills himself. But there is something about Jones that bothers me, something that annoys me. And that something?
Bullshit.
Do you smell it? Do you FEEL it wafting into your company like a deadly fog from a King novel? Jones does not represent the excellence of a Farrah or a Zoey, woman who I admire for being fighting champions, but instead the whiny, back-room dealing types of a Bass. After all, both you and I know what kind of person Bass is, and Jones is that same flavor. Want an example? Allow me to tell you a little story:
I have, in the recent past, compared the genetics of Jones and myself. Now, she thinks that I am being petty for bringing up her rat’s nest of a head of hair or her emaciated body, but the POINT I was making, if she had not been so dull as to understand it, was that I am superior to her in every way. My training is of higher quality, my character is of more stern material, and my blood, my very BLOOD, is royal, whereas hers is...well...unknown. And I, simply for the shiggles, as one might say, made a couple of jokes about the likelihood that her father would be some type of vagrant.
Her response was to subtweet.
Now, I am aware that you may not know what a subtweet is, as you are somewhat older than I, so allow me to explain by saying that it is akin to talking behind someone’s back. That is, making comments about someone that they know will not be heard yet still feeling as if they had won an argument or had some other type of victory, no matter how pyric. She subtweeted, or talked behind my back with the hope I would not notice in this example, about how I must be an idiot and, and I quote, “Fuck you Sarah.”
I responded by finding a picture of the ugliest person I could find and suggested that he was just Number Ten of the upcoming ten possibilities of who her father could be. I, of course, pressed the little “@” key to make sure she saw it because, unlike people of her calibre and ilk, I take my fight directly to the person. This was her response:
“Unbreakable,” my verifiably squat booty. She should change her name to “Broken,” yes? Or perhaps, in the words of my dear friend Roxy, “Shook.”
This is akin to putting your fingers in your ears and saying “LA LA LA I CAN’T HEAR YOU” And for all of my bluster and heat, for all of the fights I pick, only ONE other person has ever blocked me: Courtney Leinart. It certainly shows you the calibre of a Stacy Jones. Now, while she DID later unblock me to be able to see what I was saying, I did not bother to interact with her after that, since she has that little lock next to her name and protects her online adventures. And as I said recently, something which apparently triggered a whole host of people, the only ones with a little lock next to their name have either something to hide or be ashamed of.
THIS is the person who would be Queen of the Ring?
THIS is the person who would be silly enough to think that she was better than I?
THIS is the person who, in response to all of the facts and comparisons I made between us, only had “You won’t like me when I am pissed off!” to say to me?
Sweet Mother, Mister Dupree. Might as well color her green and charge her for gimmick infringement. If nothing else, at least I am original, yes?
You know what else I am? You know what other quality I possess that defines me as a queen, other than my supreme originality? My stamina. My endurance. Since turning pro in January, I have competed in forty-three matches of all shapes and sorts, with my forty-fourth coming tomorrow. And while that breaks down to an average of a match every five days, there have been several days with two or three matches since I started my faux world tour. Indeed, wrestling, and winning, several matches in one day, which I will need to do to win the tournament, is something I have already done a few times this year.
Additionally, something that should be noted is that, in this time, with all of these fights, I have never missed a show, date, promo opportunity, or deadline. I have fought my hardest through wins and losses with fire and fury and NEVER let a promoter down in any way.
Of course, there are people in this company who think that wins do not matter. Why, someone recently scoffed at me and tried to virtually pat my head for having a better than 50% record! Ha, to that person, I say! Ha! I have won a full 66% of my matches and, even moreso important to those within this tournament, I am undefeated in singles combat in Ladies All-Star. In fact, I have been DOMINANT in singles combat in Ladies All-Star. So while the Katalina’s and Gabby’s of the company dismiss me for being young or new, the reality for them is that I am neither. I have trained to be a wrestler since the day I turned fourteen, have lifted more weights than the next ten women combined, and have more drive than anyone on the roster.
Another aspect of my right to the throne of Ladies All-Star is how much I love this business in general and this company in particular. I study tape like none other and travel the world specifically to learn the different styles. I do not hold myself to one set of moves or a single strategy, as I have seen others in this business do, but instead take them all in. Well, except for Lucha. That costumed ballet nonsense is just silly. And no matter how hard La Estrella likes to make the case against it, I respect what has come before me. Just ask Lucy Wylde about that.
Of course, not everyone respect their opponents and this business enough to be a true queen. La Estrella has shown that in a high magnitude. It seems like everyone word directed toward me is an unimaginative slight on my name or slander against my character. My favorite thing this moment is her claim that I would probably be happy with a cheap win over Steele in the first round. This little tidbit from her shows her ignorance, as you are well aware, Mister Dupree. I have both said and shown over and again how I wish to fight everyone and enjoying a hollow victory is certainly not who I am or what I am about.
Perhaps La Estrella went to the same journalism school as Cassandra Baumer. Never let the truth get in the way of your narrative, yes? Perhaps she should change her name to La Estrella Caída.
Oh! And that reminds me of yet ANOTHER example of how I am one of the only two people in this company fit to be Queen:
Katalina believes that my assertion that I shall be fighting my Beloved in the finals is based upon favoritism. This is not so, and quite possibly is an example of yet ANOTHER person in this tournament not ACTUALLY LISTENING to promos or paying attention to shows, which is a shame, because I quite like Katalina. Her selection of whips is wonderfully varied! But, to the point, my assertion that the finals will be Lacklan vs. Grey is based on fact, must like my comparisons to my and Jones’ genetics or my breakdown of how having Smyth as champion is killing the company:
2017 has been the greatest year of Kenzi’s career. The Kenzi in this tournament is NOT the Kenzi of her rookie year in Ladies All-Star where she lost every match she was in. The Kenzi in this tournament is NOT the one who lost the Chaos to Tolson in a match where, no matter how far I and my Cool Kid Sistren look, cannot seem to locate the footage of. Hell, this is NOT the Kenzi of Guilty Pleasure.
This is the Kenzi that has defeated champions and outsiders all year.
This is the Kenzi who was THAT CLOSE to becoming a tag champion and subsequently earned the respect of the Angels.
This is the Kenzi who backs down from no one and fights doggedly for what she wants.
This is the Kenzi that I created.
While our champion, and our general manager, for that matter, choose to tear people down and cry when things do not go their way, I build people up. Oh, I may well use harsh tactics at times, and I may well break a few proverbial eggs for my omelette (See: Ashley So while Katalina may dismiss her, our kinda-sorta friend that we had dinner with that one time is in for quite the shock:
The finals of the Queen of the Ring WILL BE Lacklan vs. Grey.
And yes, Mister Dupree, I am well aware that, come the night of the tournament, she and I will be wed. Thus the question must come to bear: Will we be able to fight one another? Will we be able to lay into one another, fangs and claws bared, for the right to call ourselves Queen? Or will we just make the fight a massive Best of 23 Ro-Sham-Bo tournament, as we threatened to do in the battle royal?
We will not make a mockery of your tournament, Sir.
We will fight. We will hurt each other. We will push each other to the limit and see who has the greater stamina and drive. And as a hand is raised into the air? The loser shall embrace the victor, hold them up, the first to congratulate them. The loser and winner shall show the world what true wrestling is, what a true relationship is, and what it means to be Queen.
And completely outshine the title matches and embarrass the participants of those matches in the process.
In summation, Mister Dupree:
There is only one person who has the skill, stamina, and drive to be Queen of the Ring.
There is only one person who defines what it is to be Queen.
Me.
Sarah Selena Lacklan.