Post by Amy Jo Smyth on Nov 4, 2017 22:56:53 GMT -5
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Pick your poison, huh?
I got to pick the opponent for the number one contender and she got to pick my opponent. Interesting concept that I’m okay with, even with someone outside the bookerman doing the booking. But hey, we both got to pick so it’s fair play. There are many people I could have picked for Gabby Camacho to face, but honestly, I wanted to do something a little different and see if the odds can even themselves out a little. Ms. Jones seems like a nice girl and I liked what she did in Queen of the Ring. She can pull something off that none of us are expecting but I don’t have any expectations for this.
At the very least they’ll both get a decent fight from the other.
I’m going to assume that, given the name of the match, there is either drinking involved or supposed to be some kind of inference to poisoning your opponent before a big match so that you can get a leg up on her. As much as I’d like a drinking contest with Camacho, I suspect it has to do with the latter statement.
Truth be told, it’s a good idea.
You would put your opponent up against the most fearsome, worrisome opponent you can dream up so that you have that little bit of a boost in chances of winning. Maybe she gets hurt. Maybe she loses and that lose knocks down her confidence. Maybe you sneak out during the match and rough her up yourself to make a statement, injure her, and that’s an easy win for you. Hell, that’s a dreamy plan for most people. Most shitty people anyway.
I’m not a shitty person, not that shitty anyway. I play matches fair and square, before and during and after. I wouldn’t do that. Mainly because that ruins the fun of fighting and winning cleanly. I like do things clean and fair. It means you are the best of the best and have no need for that kind of nonsense. I don’t need it, plain and simple. I don’t need to poison my opponents to win.
I do, though, want to give a few other people some chances that they might get otherwise, that other people have basically stolen right out from under them, taking from them something that they-themselves already had just for the mere sake of giving themselves something to tout about. I do believe in making my opponents fight and fight hard. I do believe in giving fans a good show and nobody likes repeats or bores.
The number one contender might just think the same thing, but I suspect she had other things in mind. It’s sort of a double whammy for her in picking my opponent. Two birds, one stone. Her strategy could work but who knows what or who the intended target really is. She’s taking shots but where is the bull-eye’s located?
I already have one on my waist. But so does my opponent.
Problem here is, Ms. Millar’s target doesn’t mean much of anything to me and I’m not aiming at it.
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In the Continuing Adventures of Our Hero...
◀◀ Be Kind, Rewind
Allison and I sit in around the fire pit in our backyard, a little bundled up but not that much, just doing nothing before we have to leave in the morning for another state. Anya, Katie, and Valerie canoodle over on the opposite side of us, hiding as best they can in the dark, having no luck with it thanks to the full moon above us. Clouds keep coming around but the moon breaks through without a problem. My dear wife keeps staring up at it, disinterested in the roaring fire so painstakingly started and me.
Can't say I blame her.
Full moons are beautiful things. That cool white light casting this sort of eerie glow on things. You look up and there's the man on the moon looking back at you, a face made up of caters millions of years old. Then there's that American flag planted in the dirt, a symbol of American engineering and the great battle between the USSR and the US in what would be known as the Space Race, all of it brought together by the some of the greatest minds in the country, some them female, some of them female. That round dead rock controls our tides and yes, even our personalities and emotions. Science is still out on the subject, but from personal experience, I know it to be true.
Police officers can attest to this, as can hospital workers and other public servants. Anyone that works with people really. Law enforcement and hospital workers get it the worst though. Reports show that violent incidents increase during full moons, especially during the summer. It's a combination effect. Nice weather means people are more apt to go outside and be awake at night, hotter days mean heightened tensions and irritability, and the full moon means more light in what would be otherwise be darkness. Then, of course, you have the science that says that the gravitational pull of the moon on the water in our bodies messes with our brain and considering the brain is mostly water, it doesn't seem too far fetched. Then add in that the bright light messes with our body’s internal clock, things are going to happen. Especially with the mentally unwell.
Just based on tangibles, without the scientific theory of the moon’s pull on our body or our body clocks, it's incredibly likely. I speak from personal experience here. There were a few officers under my charge that would constantly request certain nights off, those nights being the full moon. I knew why, too. Others, they fucking loved it. Best night of the months for them. Lots of calls, lots of exciting calls.
I was not a huge fan of full moons, mainly because I was dealing with people who were otherwise decent people but ill, pushed to a breaking point, or yes, affected by the moon. It wasn't just bad people doing bad things, but good people affected by those bad things.
It took a few years to figure it out, but I got there. I still remember how naive I was those first years. Jesus, I wasn’t even supposed to work that night. It was midterms and I wanted to spend the night studying and preparing but I also needed the money. When they offer overtime, you take the overtime, especially when it’s sitting in a squad car at an emergency construction site as ‘traffic control’. There’s no traffic to control in the middle of the night. A few random cars - truckers, travellers, the third shift - but nothing like what comes at seven in the morning when all those commuters start their days. This is why I worked nights.
Like most nights, I brought my school books with me. Considering that I wasn’t on patrol and had nowhere to go, I could get even more studying in. I propped my book up on the steering wheel with a little book light clipped to the top so I didn’t drain the cruiser’s battery and got my study on, immersing myself in the chemistry equations, molecular formulas, and all kinds of things. For hours, I watched atoms and molecules float around me, illuminated by constant yellow flashing lights, the occasional set of passing headlights, and moon.
I had gotten so lost in the science that I didn’t notice it creeping up over the horizon and getting up over my head, right in my direct view. The workers hadn’t noticed, either, too busy with their jackhammers, steaming hot asphalt, and their heavy machines. At one point I didn’t even need lamp it had gotten so bright. About an hour more went by and we all started to slow down. Legends say that the witching hour is between three and four in the morning and that during that hour, all manner of spirit and demon enters into the physical world, rushing forth to bring havoc and make contact with witches. During the medieval and puritan period, laws used to state that if a woman was out at those hours without good reason - and God only knows what a good reason is to those people - would treated as a suspected witch.
That’s a long way gone.
Just as I having that thought and thinking about how much I wanted a cup of coffee, it happened all at once or at least it felt like it did. A small sedan came roaring up on my left side, knocking over cones, sending them flying in all directions, completely ignoring the signs, lights, and all the other clear markers of a construction zone. The car kept coming, only slowing down some as it neared closer to the back end of an bright yellow truck. It was going to end very, very badly. The car suddenly veered to the left even more, narrowly avoiding the ass end of the truck, and was now aimed at the workers. They all scattered, rushing away from the direction of the car coming right for them. All I could do is watch, unable to do anything but wait for the aftermath.
The car slowed more and more, wobbled dangerously, spun, and slammed into the concrete guardrail, finally coming to a stop, merely by force. I had a lot of thoughts about the why - driver in distress, impaired driver on drugs or alcohol, or asleep at the wheel. Seconds later, I’m out of the cruiser and rushing to the scene, my legs taking a long time to come alive because I sat on my ass for too long. Before I could get there, the driver swung open the door and started to climb out, which was more like falling out of the car, which is to be expected all things considered.
A few workers came to his aid, trying to help him. A skinny man in his boxer shorts and a ripped undershirt with no shoes on. A million bells went off in my head. Everything about him screamed drunk or high, or person strung out on Ambien. Never encountered one, but I heard stories of people losing their damn minds and doing all kinds things while sleeping, including murder.
“Sir?” I shouted as I stood just a few feet away from him. “I need you to sit down.”
The skinny man in his boxers pushed the burly workers’ vests away, grunting and moaning. One worker stayed with him and for that, the man in boxers paid him with a right hook. He then proceeded to scream; loud screeches like a bat might make. The worker with a bloodied and broken nose stepped away but not without a lot of swears and unkind words for the man.
Out of instinct, I released my thumb catch and prepared to draw my weapon. Using my shoulder radio I radioed for assistance and reported the accident. Dispatch wasted no time in making the callout. I stepped in front of the victim turned assailant and created a blockade with my body but still gave him ample room to escape. The man dropped to the ground, limp and aware, and continued with his screeching.
“I am the son of the butterfly from hell,” he started shouting. “You cannot hurt me! You cannot hold me! I am the offspring of Satan’s bat.” He looks me directly in the eyes as I leaned over him. “You! I see the devil in you! He’s in your eyes. He is with you!”
His screeching carried on.
“Can you stop that please?” I asked. “It’s super annoying.”
He suddenly leapt to his feet and knocked me down on my ass. He took off running, barefooted on the hot asphalt, arms opened wide. “I feel him! Satan, your son feels you! Your son and daughter are with you now. Come to us, free us! We are here! Give me my wings so that I take flight!”
One of the workers looked at me, eyebrows raised. I answered with a shrug. “At least he doesn’t think he can fly,” I said.
“At least we’re not on a bridge,” I answered.
I considered tazing him but that might have made it worse, especially if he was on something or off something he should have been on. There really is no way to subdue him until backup arrives. He rushes back toward me and gets in my face.
“Don’t you hear him?” he screeched. “You belong to him.” He suddenly grabbed me by the shirt front and started shaking me. “Where are your wings?! Give her her wings, Lord!”
It got tiring and annoying real fast. His breath smelled like dog shit.
“Pray to him so that he might give you your wings,” he shouted right into my face. “You are evil.” He abruptly pushed me away and before the workers could react to this man attacking not just a police officer, but a female police, he fell to the ground. “You are not his daughter! You are not his. He tells me that you are not one of his - a fake.” He popped upright. “You are a fake. Truly evil for not loving him! I have to kill you - I need to kill you to get my wings.”
“Whoa, okay,” I shouted. “Down on the ground, hands behind your back.” I drew my weapon but kept it at my side. Any sort of sudden movement or the brandishing of a weapon could have set this whole house on fire. From a slow smolder to a town engulfing brush fire. “Do not make this worse.”
Then a big construction worker came up behind him and tackled him to the ground.
“No,” Boxers boy shouted as the three-hundred pound construction worker held him place. “No! I need my wings!”
“Yes, we know,” I said, “you are Satan’s butterfly. Now wrap yourself in a cocoon and shut the fuck up.”
He screeched and screamed more, rambling all kinds of things that make absolutely no sense.
Backup arrived, they bound him up, put him on a stretcher, and off he went. Turned out he was schizophrenic off his meds who had a history of hearing voices, especially that of Satan, and would often lose his shit on full moons because he wouldn’t sleep, thinking he could see his fellow brother bats in the face of the moon. If he could just see them, he could become one too. An EMT cleaned the small scrape on my wound and someone brought me coffee.
I will never, ever forget that. To this day, I still link construction yellow to bats and bats to the chemical formula for asphalt. Somehow I managed to pass my midterms, too.
“Hey,” Anya says, standing directly in front of me, obscuring my view of both the moon and the fire. “It’s cold!”
“Move closer to the fire, then,” I say.
“No, then I’ll smell,” she answers.
“Go inside,” I suggest.
Anya folds her arms in front of her chest and pouts. “Come inside with me.”
Allison touches my arm. “It is chilly,” she says. “Let’s go inside.”
I nod. Anya is already halfway toward the back door by the time I get to my feet.
“It’s fucking cold,” Allison says, curling up on herself.
“I know the perfect way to warm you up,” I say with a wink and nudge.
Allison laughs.
“Hot chocolate,” I say.
Anya must have heard that as she screams with excitement. “Hot chocolate!”
My wife just keeps laughing as we head toward the house, moving purposefully slow to tease Anya.
“Hurry up!” she shouts, bouncing on her toes as she stands in the doorway.
“Coming,” I answer then turn to Allison and wink.
...To Be Continued…
Ms. Crystal Millar has gotten herself the Marquee Title, her very own target. A lot of people have their sights set on her target, too. Not as many as me, though. There’s a price to paid when you wear this title. Never forget, Ms. Miller, we have something everyone wants, me more so than you. That’s meant to be degrading to you, but just a simple fact of truth. Hell, I bet you’ve got your eyes on this golden title just as much as everyone else does. So that alone speaks volumes about who’s the bigger pray in this game.
I’m also the biggest predator in this game.
Nom-nom-nom.
I suspect, that at least partly, Ms. Camacho picked you to face me because she knows something that both of us know - you are the last person to hold a win over in L.A.W. You were, are the last person to defeat me and since then, nobody has come close to beating me. Camacho knows this. Camacho knows that my streak has been long and impressive and she’s looking to bump me off. But that’s okay, for a number of reasons.
You see, Ms. Camacho probably think this far ahead, neither did you, Ms. Millar. You are, Crystal, a reminder of what I was and that I can be defeated. I look at you and yes, I’m sorry, I see a time when things were not good for me, when nothing was going my way, and I couldn’t find a footing in anything, especially the first rung in the ladder toward the job. Credit is due, Crystal, you did help me then - got me all worked up and lit a fire up under my ass and helped propel me to where I am now - and you’re going to help me now by just existing. Okay, so it’s a little more than existing considering we’re going to be facing each other now.
Crystal, I have to defeat you and I’m going to defeat you. Now, mind you, I won’t be crushed if you do manage to pull a win out of your ass, not like I was last time, but here’s the thing - you can’t light a fire under someone’s ass and then expect it just to go out, expect not to burn you. Sure, you didn’t mean to do it and sure, it didn’t work out in your favor back then either. It did help you realize that things cannot be taken for granted in this sport and that everything is as fragile as glass. You learned your lesson and I learned my mine. I found my fire and it took you a little longer to learn yours.
Last time we met, in that strange tag match, I saw something different in you. There was passion. There was a championship wrestler waiting to get out and she did get out. You’re Marquee Champion and there is absolutely no denying that. It is now up to you to keep that title, to win when it matters, and do what you need to do. While you’re not going to defeat me, simply because I won’t let you defeat me and that means more than you think it does because I put a lot of value in my words - please pay attention to that because the next thing I’m going to say adds into that.
I promise not to do anything to hurt you or jeopardize your ability to defend your title in just a few weeks. Mainly because, again, not a shitty person, and because I don’t want you to lose your title. It suits you and I think you’re a worthy Marquee Champion. Let others say what they will about your reign or capabilities or run their mouths about you, but there is one thing I’ve noticed since we started bonding, you have the ability to do it, especially against that little firebug.
Do not let her take your loss against me and use it against you. How many other people have lost to me? How many greats have been felled by me? A future hall of famer in Camacho and a current hall of famer who I’ve beaten twice now. Not everyone can move mountains. For as much they say, they probably couldn’t defeat me either, not right now anyway. Maybe a year ago like you did, but not right now. Maybe a year from now, if I’m even in this sport then. There is no shame in this and the only thing I expect from you is a good fucking fight. Give me all you got and I’ll give you all you got.
While we’re not the best of friends, we’re still friendly and I have no illwill toward you. I’ve let it go, what happened a year ago, and what happened between us. I’ve moved on. That was nothing but dead weight holding me back so if Ms. Camacho thinks that’s somehow going to help her in whatever her plan is, she’s very wrong. If she wants to remain in the past while claiming she has a clue to the future, that’s her business, not mine. If she thinks I’m the same person I was when that happened, that’s her problem, not mine.
There are so many problems that aren’t mine.
This match isn’t a problem nor are you, Crystal. I don’t mean this to mean that I care so little for you that I think I’ll swim through it, but just, you’re not a problem. You’re a friend and a wrestler I respect. Even for all the shit we’ve gone through. We can rise above. We rise up. We rise up over and over again. It’s my expectation of you that when we are done in that ring, you will rise up. Even if you need my help. I’m all too happy to help you. That’s what real champions do, they help others even if they don’t think they need it or want it.
Let’s show them what the two highest champions in L.A.W. can do. Let’s give Ms. Camacho exactly what she wants and everything she doesn’t want.
I’ll see you there, my friend.