Post by Amy Jo Smyth on Feb 25, 2017 23:57:09 GMT -5
Looking back I see I had the flame in me
I'm the wind that's carrying a change
I've had enough
Of chasing luck
I need, I need a change
I'm the wind that's carrying a change
I've had enough
Of chasing luck
I need, I need a change
___________________________
Determination is a good trait to have.
I happen to think it's my best one. I have many good traits, though. Many bad ones, too. I can be a hotheaded, foul-mouthed, asshole who will gladly rip anyone to shreds and other times, I'm a calm, eloquent, kindhearted spirit who loves to tell jokes at my own expense. I'm serious but not so serious that I think I'm above it all.
People tend to think this about me. It's always funny to me when people think they know all about me when in reality they don't. And, fuck, I'm an open book with most things.
Humans are unique creatures with varied personalities. Different likes, dislikes, hobbies, interests, the list goes on and on. We are always changing, too. We are a collection of many different interconnecting parts that come together to form a beautiful and interesting person. Even something as simple as our favorite color helps shape us and our personalities. No person out there in this world is just one thing.
Unless you're a one dimensional person and lack all substance.
And if you are, that's really sad.
Our personalities alter when we're in different or new circumstances and environments. You could say that I run into this situation. The person I am in that ring is profoundly different from the person I am outside of it. Of course there is bleeding from one into the other and vice versa but that's just how it goes.
Outside the ring, in my everyday life, I would gladly cross the street, climb six flights of stairs, and kick in a door to help a stranger. It’s a special trait to have. It can also be a major burden, but I like helping people. It's who I am and it's what I'm always going to do. I'll be the first one to lend a hand, offer advice, go to battle with another, for another. It’s part of the reason I became a police officer.
Here comes the overspill part. In this sport, yes, I do like helping my peers. I've made enemies, but I've made more friends. This is because I got no problem helping, especially my fellow female wrestlers. Regardless of what my opponent this week thinks about my ability to do so. I've been in this sport a fuck of a long time and suffice to say, I've been through a lot of shit.
Now, I see these young women, and yes, on occasion, men, getting into all kinds of trouble, going through all sorts of things… Being older, wiser, and having a lot of experience, I can offer some advice, give them some much needed guidance. I do my best to keep them from making some of the same mistakes I made. I can relate, empathize, offer them a hand when things get rough. And, yeah, sometimes, the flow works the other way. I'm there when they need me, not just some of the time, even if it's just for a funny gif or smack on the bottom. They look upon me, see that I've gotten back up, and find it themselves to get back up.
You're supposed to do these things, even more if you're a belted champion. That's not just what a good veteran of a sport does, it's what a good person does. At the same time, it helps me connect with others, reminds me where I came from and what I've accomplished, and keeps me humble.
There’s that word again.
In the ring, I’m something else. Save for that little downturn I took a few months ago. Y’all sure better hope to fuck all y’all didn’t get used to that because that changed real quick. Like all bad times, it couldn’t last. What I’ve done since last November could be considered unsavory and yeah, I’ll be the first to admit that I was out of control at times. The frustration and anger was real and it was high fucking time that I do a little something for myself so that’s what I did. That’s the only explanation I owe any of you fuckers that question my motives, including you, Camacho.
Truth be told, though, I could have easily broken some arms and done a lot more damage than I did, but I didn’t. I can be an asshole in the ring, but I’m not a fucking asshole.
That person you saw most recently, that's who I really am when push comes to shove. That's the person Gabrielle Camacho has to face on Sunday.
I earned myself a lot of attention, showed the world what I’m made of, and yeah, earned back some respect I had lost.
Seriously, I should probably be greatly disliked by people for the things that I’ve done. Yet, in this moment, I find myself with more support - and, yes, pressure - than I could have ever expected. I clearly left a mark on them, by being a quality wrestler who never backs down from a fight and pulls herself up when things get hard, having a good heart, being a good friend who’s there when they need me, supporting them, ready to fight for them. And I’m pretty fucking funny if I do say so myself. Simply put, I’ve done a lot to earn the respect of my peers by wrestling, competing, being a top competitor. They seem to like me, too, for the most part.
It could also be that they, ya know, actually know who I am.
They voted me to be a future champion in L.A.W. and the future has arrived. They knew something that I didn’t at the time, but now I understand what it was. I feel it, too. They know I won’t give up. They know that I’ve risen again and will keep rising. They know I can give them something better. They know I can win. They believe in me so I’ve gotta believe in myself.
I’m going to do just that.
___________________________
In the Continuing Adventures of Our Hero...
◀◀ Be Kind, Rewind
Hazard and I went clear across London, to a small industrial part of the city, and we were dropped off a few blocks away from the club that has the gall to host a self-proclaimed and celebrated Neonazi metal band. The club resides inside some kind of old warehouse or factory off in a more, what are we calling it these days, economically depressed area. I just stand there, in the cold, trying to mentally prepare myself for what I’m going to see inside.
My partner actually has to force me down the stairs, through the door.
Evil isn’t always so clearly defined. It’s not always a scary monster like those we grew up with in horror movies. It rarely comes in the form of villains like those in superhero comics. It doesn’t always stalk in the desolate night or crackle with a sinister laugh as it slithers through the weeds, waiting for some lost soul to venture into its territory. It isn’t just the names we read in newspapers or hear on the news nor the acronyms used for faceless forces pushing and pursuing their agendas with violence.
It more often hides in the light, walks by you on the street, stands next to you as you wait for your coffee, buys the same brand of toilet paper as you, believes in most of the same things you do. Quiet, unassuming things that no one even notices. Sometimes, it’s even protected by law, strangers defend its right to exist, sympathize with its cause.
This is the scariest type of evil, the worst kind.
Ignorance-fuelled hate.
The room is thick with it. That, and the smell of raw sewage. White men of every shape, size, and age mill about the place, talking loudly, proudly displaying their hatred on their sleeves - literally. So many patches, stickers, tattoos, and paraphilia on these guys. How can they be so open about it? Everywhere I look Swastikas, White Pride World Wide, SS lightning bolts, Death Skulls, Celtic crosses, iron crosses, British flags with all those things of superimposed into them, and most jarring of all, American Confederate flags - a symbol I know all too well.
My breath gets stuck in my throat.
Living in the Southern States, I grew up with that everywhere. People took great pride in that flag, defended it, flew it without shame, they even fight to keep it flying today. For a long time, I thought nothing of it; it was just a sign of Southern Pride, a way of showing off our cultural heritage, an extension of our way of life. Then you have that shocking realization of what it really means, what it truly celebrates, and what it actually supports. It’d be nice if these people could remember that this flag, along with the symbols of Nazism, all belong to losers - literal losers, groups that were defeated.
This is overwhelming. I always knew it existed, that it was out there in force, but never in my life had I expected to see it such concentration. Then it hits me.
I'm in a room full of people who hate me for something I can't control.
“I need a beer,” I announce to Artie, shouting over the generic metal music. I can only imagine how much worse it’s going to get when this band starts up. After swimming through the smelly sea of Nazis, I finally step up to the bar.
A skinhead drops what he’s doing, looks at me, smiles. It seems that this blonde hair does have some kind of hypnotic power over these fools. As he gets closer, I can see the Swastika tattooed into his ear. His fucking ear!. My stomach turns knowing that I have to talk to this man, if one can call him that, and give him money. At least it ain’t my money. Gives new meaning to government-funded hated.
“Hey, luv, what can I get ya?” he asks.
Then I realize that if I want to talk, I have to enhance my accent. Smyth needs to be super Southern tonight. Ugh. Even this simple interaction is going to suck.
“Beer,” I say, my accent on full blast, looking at the taps. There is not a single brand I’ve ever heard of. “Pale ale?”
“No problem, pretty lady,” he nods and steps over to the taps. The process of pouring my beer begins. Apparently this guy can do more than one thing at a time - I didn’t think white supremacists had that kind of mental capacity. “You ain’t from ‘round ‘ere.”
“How’d you guess?” I answer.
“It’s the accent,” he says, pulling back the tap more. “American?”
“You’re a quick one, ain’tcha?” I snap. Damnit, be nice, Smyth.
He chuckles and winks. The foam crowds the glass. “You ‘ere for the show?”
I nod, staring at the growing head.
“I ‘ear they’re good,” he says, nodding, finally closing the tap. “You ever seen ‘em before?”
I shake my head, “no.”
“First time for everything, right?” he says, putting the foamy mess in front of me.
“You can say that again,” I smile.
“That’ll be six quid, luv.”
Dafuq is a quid?
I hand him a ten spot, money given to me by Zed before we left.
“Ta,” he says, pulling away, heading for the till. That's enough of that. I turn away from him, look for Artie, leaving a four dollar tip for being a piece of shit? Sure, why not. “Oi, thanks!” I hear him shout.
Hazard finds me instead and slides up to next to me. “Are you sure you should be drinking?”
“You sure you wanna tell me what to do?” I answer quickly.
He slinks back as I take a sip of my beer. Instant cringe. It takes everything in me to swallow it down. “Shit, these fucks can’t even drink decent beer,” I say. “Didn’t y’all invent beer? You have no excuse for this shit.”
Artie-Fartie and I continue to keep watch on the club and crowd, waiting for our suspects to join the festivities. Shh, I be huntin’ Nazis. It runs in the family, too. My great-great grandfather hunted Nazis during World War II. Now I’m hunting Nazis.
↼ ⟡ ⇁
We either blended in too well or not well enough because no one talked to us the entire time we waited for our subjects to appear. So far, nothing. Thank God for small favors. The band is set to go on in a few minutes and I’ve been preparing myself for the pain that will come.
That’s when I spot him. A buddy to our lone wolf. He stands at the bar by himself. He isn’t much from here, just a skinny young white dude in jeans and a blue jacket. The weirdest thing about him is that he doesn’t fly his hate flag proudly; nowhere that I can see does he have a symbol of white supremacy or Nazism.
The bartender moves away from him and that’s when I move in. Time to put on the charm.
I’m disgusted by this.
I slip in next to him, give him a quick glance and smile, and try to get the bartender's attention. Just like last time, it doesn’t take very long.
“Hey, luv,” he says sweetly.
“Lemme get two shots of whiskey,” I say, then look at my target. “You okay with whiskey?”
The target seems shocked but that quickly gives way to a smile. “Sure.”
Mr. Ear Tattoo pours two long shots of whiskey and takes the twenty I leave on the bar.
“You gonna be able to handle this?” I ask him, smiling, raising my glass.
He nods, smirking. “This is the least of what I’m gonna handle tonight…”
I feel sick.
He lifts his glass. We clank them together. “To our new friendship,” he says.
I quickly take my shot. It’ll wash this disgusting taste out of my mouth. That’s when I see Hazard lingering nearby but far enough away to remain anonymous.
Okay, now what?
↼ ⟡ ⇁
The band sounds like screaming toddlers banging on pots and pans in the kitchen to their parents delight. It’s just loud noise. Different strokes for different folks, right?
Wrong.
There’s a fucking limit to that shit and this is it.
Regardless, I have to pretend that I love the musical stylings of ignorant white boys who play like they’ve had their fingers cut off by dull scissors and shout unintelligible nonsense into microphones to seig heiling fans who head bang and mosh. At least I avoided being mixed up in that moshpit.
My new friend, William, and I have set ourselves up at the bar, drinking and chatting. Surprisingly enough, it’s been pretty normal, save for the Nazi salute he did when the band took the stage. I shuttered and nearly died but he wasn’t paying attention to me then. Now, though, I have his full attention. He is under my spell, completely mesmerized by my charms. That, or it’s the accent, blonde hair, and pale skin. Zed was right, I am bait to these fuckers. It still sickens me.
William is far more inebriated than I am. For as much as he wants to pretend he isn’t, I can see it in his glassy eyes and reddening skin. He thinks I’ve been drinking with him, but momma knows tricks. Every shot we took, I chased with a beer so that I could spit the liquor into the bottle and when I take a sip from my beer bottle, I’m not actually taking anything in. Seems almost wrong but it’s not my fault that I’m smarter than he is.
The alcohol is making him frisky and willing to take flirtatious risks. He’s forcefully moved my stool closer to his and leans in closer to me. Suddenly, his hand is on my thigh. Gross.
A bell goes off in my head.
I lean into his ear. “It’s loud here,” I say. “We should go somewhere more quiet.”
The mere suggestion causes his eyes light up and h enthusiastically nods. “Yeah,” he says. The little racist with high hopes and expectations leads me through the crowd by the hand. Hazard looks at me, unsure, questions me with his body language. I give him a wink of reassurance.
This is what I was sent in here to do.
We step outside into quiet darkness. My ears ring, hurt by the loud music and the sudden blast of cold air sobers me up completely. What did I just do? I removed myself from a moderately safe situation and put myself in one of pure danger. I’m in a place that I don’t know, going with a highly intoxicated man who might be dangerous, in the dead of night.
I gotta stay committed. I know Hazard isn’t far behind.
“Where we going?” I ask as we move along the sidewalk. I start to squeeze his hand a little harder.
“You’ll see,” he says.
“Hm.” I plant my feet and start squeezing harder now.
He is forced to come to a stop and looks at me. “What? C’mon?” He tugs me harder but it doesn’t get him anywhere.
“No, thanks, though,” I quickly answer.
“Don’t be a fucking tease,” he shouts, pulling me harder. He keeps trying but I will not be moved.
“That’s not a very nice thing to call a lady,” I say. “It’s not smart, either.”
Artie suddenly appears behind him. He’s like a fucking ninja, just coming out of nowhere. William, the Nazi, turns around, comes face to face with Mr. Hazard.
“Whoa, what the fuck? Who are you? What’s going on?” William asks frantically. Fear rushes over his face. I can feel it flying off of him in little sparks.
“Oh, that’s my friend, Artie,” I say. “Artie, say hello.”
“Arthur Hazard, at your service,” Hazard says, gently bowing his head politely.
William looks at me then back at Hazard then back at me. “Whatever, bitch.” He attempts to break free from my grasp but nope. “Let me go!”
I shrug. “Okay.” Without warning, I release him.
He goes falling back, lands flat on his ass, barely avoiding crashing into Hazard. “What the fuck?”
“Oops,” I innocently say.
Hazard chuckles.
William struggles to get to his feet in a hurry, sliding and fighting against the concrete. He manages to get up and when he does, he pushes Hazard with all his might, sending Hazard into a wall. William takes off running.
“Well, fuck,” I groan.
Hazard looks at me while I continue to stand at start. “What the fuck are you waiting for? Go after him.”
“I’m giving him a ten second head start. Seems more fair.” I calmly answer. “Three, two, one.”
“What?” Hazard asks, peeling himself off the wall.
“Ready or not, here I come,” I shout and and I’m off. “Momma’s huntin’ Nazis!”
I keep pace with him and make up ground without much effort. William suddenly takes a sharp turn, clips a corner, and falls down. Going at full speed and unable to stop, I’m forced to leap over his body as it lays out on the ground. I land on my feet, barely. William grabs my leg. Seconds later, I’m face first on the concrete.
“Ow,” I yell.
The pain lingers but I still manage to flip myself over. The Nazi fuck is baring down on me, straddling me, fist aimed at my face. In the few seconds I have before impact, I have to decide if I’ll take the punch or somehow counter it. He might be a weakling, but I still don’t want to get hit in the face. Even the weakest punch can connect with fifty to a hundred pounds of pure force and pressure.
That’s a lot of force to a hit much stronger object with… Simple physics. Newton’s laws of motion. The concrete requires much more force to break than his punch can offer and it will not absorb his energy.
I quickly move my head out of the way. Just as predicted, his fist collides with the concrete and he’s raring back in extreme pain. If he hasn’t broken all the bones in his hand, he’s broken some. He screams out in pain, clutching his fist, and falls back to sitting. I quickly sit up and punch him square in the face.
It is my civic duty as an American to punch Nazis.
“Fucking ignorant piece of shit,” I scream. I’m fired up, my heart is beating out of my chest, and every muscle in my body is on high alert.
William lays on the concrete, clutching his hand, bleeding from his nose, crying, actually crying tears. “Please stop,” he moans. “Please.”
I slowly climb to my feet and give him a kick to the ribs. “Not so big and bad, now are ya?”
He grunts and keeps crying. Hazard finally shows up, panting.
“Good of you to finally show up,” I say, smirking. “Thinking you might wanna lay off those chips now?"
“Did you kill him? Please don’t say you killed him. We need him,” he quickly says.
I give him a look. “No, worse,” I say. “I made the bitch cry.” With that, I flex proudly. Then it hurts so I stop.
Artie and I look down at William, the Wannabe Nazi, as he lays on the ground, defeated, bloodied, and sobbing.
“Shit, you fucked him up,” Artie says.
“Actually, no. You see, like assholes do, he did that do himself,” I quickly answer.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” William cries.
“I almost feel bad for him,” I say. “Another scared white boy mixed up with the wrong crowd. Then I remember what he believes so I don’t feel so bad.”
Hazard bends over him and looks him dead in the face. “Where’s your friend, Edward?”
“Who?”
“Edward. Your online buddy. Edward Griffin.”
“I don’t know who that is,” he answers.
That’s when I push Artie out of the way, stand over William, and lift him to sitting by his shirt collar. “Listen here, Count Dumbshit von Fuckface, I don’t have time for your shit.”
“I really - really… I really don’t know who that is,” he cries. “Please let me go.”
“Bullshit,” I shout. “Edward Griffin, EGKing17…”
“Eddie?” he asks suddenly. “What do you want with Eddie?”
“Look at that, Artie,” I say looking at him, “he suddenly knows who we’re talking about.”
“It’s like some kind of revelation,” Hazard mocks. “Praise Jesus for the miracle.”
My attention returns to William. “Now, Billyboy, where can I find Eddie?”
“What - what do you - you want with Eddie?” he asks. “Eddie’s done nothing wrong.”
“Oh, wow,” Hazard says. “A true friend to end…”
“Your loyalty is admirable, but, really, not the best thing for you right now.” I smile, take a hold of his broken hand and start squeezing, inflicting deep pain on him. “Now, please, just tell me where I can find Eddie and we’ll leave you alone.”
His tears and whimpers start up again. “Please - please,” he sobs.
I squeeze harder, smile bigger.
“Ow, fine, fine, he’s - last time we spoke he said… He said he was going to Hastings for a little while.”
With the revelation, I release the pressure on his hand. He falls back, defeated. “Thank you,” I say and stand up.
Hazard and I leave the young man on the sidewalk, crying, and head toward our designated pickup spot. I almost - almost - feel bad, but bigger fish and the fucker is a Nazi and that’s what should happen to Nazis. Maybe it’ll steer him to the right path.
I look at Hazard. “Okay, so, what the fuck is a Hastings?”
“It’s a small seaside about an hour away. If we leave now...”
A shiver runs up my spine. “Sorry, no, I need to go take ten showers,” I quickly answer.
...To Be Continued…
Maybe some people don't like who I've become recently but that just means they have no idea who I am. If you ever doubted me then you knew nothing about me at all. I put you on notice, Camacho, and the rest of the world took notice, too. If you still doubt me then you're digging a nice hole to live in while you recover from being proven dead wrong.
Yes, Ms. Camacho, things are looking much different than they did in recent past, aren't they? For you, it's looking more and more like you've met your match in the ring. It was only a matter of time. Perhaps for the first time in title defenses you're facing someone bigger, stronger, faster, more experienced, and perhaps, dare I say it, better than you.
I'm not what you want me to be or you hoped I'd be. This is not going to be easy. For either of us. This match, that title, it isn't a fucking game to me. I've got something to do and I'm gonna fucking do it. It's really that simple. You want fire and I've been bringing fire. And since it seems that you haven't been paying attention or maybe you just forgot, I'm gonna bring it to you on Sunday. I'm gonna burn you.
I'll burn down your whole fucking house.
Be weary, Ms. Camacho, there is never a more dangerous person than one who wants something this badly. I'm not going to play nice. I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get to the top again. It has been a long time since I've held a title of prestige like the L.A.W title, since I've had my moment on top of the hill.
And I'm hungry.
I'm also ready.
But I'm not going to stand here and say look at my past, look at all the titles I once held, and look at how long it's been since I held a world title. Sure, it has a lot weight and clearly proves that when I'm on, I'm fucking unstoppable. That, however, can bring us down and at one point, it was bringing me down. No more. Ms. Camacho, you can linger in the past, but I refuse. I won't look back because I'm not going backwards, I'm going forward. I'm not going to lower my head because I'm looking upward.
I'm focused on the future.
The future does not include someone as unforgettable as the current L.A.W. Champion. It doesn't involve someone who complains about the things happening around her, in the place she supposedly leads, but who does nothing to remedy the issue and takes zero responsibility for it. It doesn't include someone who makes contrived, contradictory statements about people based on convenient and/or out of date information, that only shows up when booked or when it's time to defend, and who brings about questions of their devotion and love of this sport. It certainly doesn't include someone who people don't seem to support as much as some others.
I speak from evidence here.
It’s starting to come out that Ms. Camacho is not well liked by her peers. That, or people just like me better.
If I were on some kind of high horse, holier than thou, or egomaniac, then why would so many like me?
I get it. Ms. Camacho has her fans, friends, supporters, and I have my fans, friends, and supporters. Odd to me that no one has come out of the woodwork to lend their support and encouragement to her. Camacho and her friends, whomever and wherever they may be, will try to paint me in a terrible light, try to break me down, wear me out, destroy my confidence, tell me that my confidence is too much, or not enough or tell you that I'll crack under the pressure like I've done before.
Fuck you.
Not this time. I've got something to do and I've got people behind me who believe in me, want me wearing that title. Even people that I’ve never spoken to before in my life have stood up and said that they want to see me as L.A.W. Champion.
That's gotta hurt the ego.
How does it feel to be so unpopular, Ms. Camacho? Problem is, it isn't because you're a bad person or a terrible wrestler, it's because they just don't know you, you haven't stood out, you haven't done anything to make L.A.W. better. No one talks about you because nobody knows you and there's nothing to talk about. Like I asked Ms. Roberts, what will you become without your title? Where is your legacy but in a moderately successful singles title reign? A blip. Keira had a more exciting and noteworthy title reign than you are right now and hers was two seconds long. You're honestly doing jackshit to stand out and you're doing even less to help L.A.W. stand out.
Stop trying to deflect your shit onto me.
You go out in that ring and demand everyone respect you, give you attention, remember you, but what for? Why? Why the fuck should I give a shit? You haven't done anything but win and anyone can do that on any day of the week, as Keira proved. You call people out after they've called you out days or weeks before so that you look like the challenger, but it's really because you weren't there. You weren't there to stand up for your federation, for your roster, for your fucking self. Where are you? Do you even know what's happening around you most of the time? Where's your head, huh? Better yet, where's your fucking passion?
I don't see any here.
Sad truth, no one cares about your small vanilla cone with no toppings reign.
There's a reason for what I did. It takes a lot to get you to wake up from your naps, Rip Van Winkle. Somewhere in my head I thought that if you cared enough about L.A.W., that by me playing menace, you'd step up and step out, try to stop me, and make a statement for yourself.
You never did.
What does that say about you?
Actions speak louder than words.
It took me saying your actual name to get you aroused, it took me challenging your precious fucking title to get you to actually get up from your comfy napping chair and come out there and try to fight me. It was fun watching you squirm. I was gonna step up and challenge you for the title either way, but holy fuck, I didn't think it'd be this bad.
Your inaction with Kenzi and Ms. Steele shows that if it doesn't involve you or the title, you couldn't give two flying rat’s asses about it. It's proven by barely talking to your peers and fans and those that look up to… You have a brand to represent and provide for… Did you forget that, you self-centered twit? Poor Orchid is out there, on her own at events, doing what you should be doing, meeting fans, giving them what they want - I'll remind you, they pay my fucking bills, don't know how you pay yours, though. That's part of the job, that's part of what you signed up for, Camacho. I'm not asking you to act in a movie or sing in a band or strip or pull crazy antics, I'm asking you to do your fucking job as a champion. Have some fucking passion and devotion to your sport.
You don't seem to have an interest in that so allow me to remove the burden from you.
That's enough of your shit. People are onto it and don't want it anymore. Don't run around here and try to be some kind of hero to L.A.W., saying you love it then insulting it in the next breath. Don’t fucking pretend you're some kind of great champion when you'd rather sit with your thumb up your ass than do something about the problems, one of which you call Kenzi - which, need I fucking remind you that people come to these shows for entertainment and Kenzi gives better entertainment than you do any day - and don't you dare claim you give it all to L.A.W. when you barely put on your gear for it.
Let’s drop this truth… You care about your title and nothing else. Your actions prove that. You're all too happy to just be a champion and nothing else.
The rest of the world isn't happy with that. How can you be happy with that? What I don't understand is how you can't want more from yourself, from your career, from what you're doing in this sport. Don't you want more than to be labeled as a part time champion or to have more than one accomplishment on your record?
It baffles me.
I have a legacy that I'm proud of that took years to build and one that I'm still building. You can knock my achievements, sure, but they are ample and they were all hard fought for. And yes, I can be accused of being a title whore or an achievement seeker. These things are half true. I go out and pursue things. I wanna wrestle as often as I can, where I can, because I love it.
What do you love, Camacho?
When you do that and you have the talent back that up, it happens. Right now, as a matter of fact, I'll be a double champion for the rest of my life no matter what I do, win or lose. And, of course, I've lost. I've lost a lot in my time. It's gonna happen. You can't have success without failure, as that cheesy quote says. I'm talented and one of the best out there today but I'm far from infallible or untouchable. And it's about time I get a title to prove that fact.
Right now, I'm feeling good.
This is no time for self-doubt or a loss of courage and confidence. No more whines from me. That's not me you hear crying, that's everyone who's over you crying. Listen, Ms. Camacho, listen to the people now, they want this.
I'm gonna go out there and do what I do best.
Give them an unforgettable match, a new champion, some change. They want change, something different. Change is good, it's essential to the growth and the future of all things. Without it, where would we be?
You're not bringing any kind of change, Camacho.
But I changed. I changed my thinking, my way of doing things, my training regiment, and like I always do before big matches, I haven't had a drop to drink in weeks. I got better. I had to. I need to be that much better than Ms. Camacho and I need to be that much better if I want to become L.A.W. Champion.
I need this. L.A.W. needs this. I'm not going to say that Camacho has expired but whatever she's doing, it just ain't working anymore. Sad news, Ms. Camacho, a change is coming. Status quo doesn't work for a lot of people and it doesn't fucking work for me. And since you seem unwilling to even so much as accept your role in things here, I'm going make you change whether you like it or not.
We're kinda over you.
We're bored. We deserve something better.
You’re good but I’m better. Listen, I could totally like you, and I kinda do. You're a tough cookie and before you got here, you were doing something I would do and have done, look out for other people.
Which, begs the question, why can't you look out for L.A.W.?
That's an admirable trait and something for us to bond over. At the end of the day, we’ve survived some pretty fucked up shit while protecting and serving our country.
At the same time, I've also survived some pretty crazy shit in the ring. I won't just survive this, I'll fucking thrive and bring a gleam to that title and L.AW. Fuck, I'll bring a rainbow I wanna. I'll rise and bring all of L.A.W. with me. After all, it is called, Rising Stars.
I'm not asking you to believe that, it's your choice to be in the minority, Ms. Camacho. I don't need you to believe in me. For all that we have in common, we're not friends and your opinion of me has been proven wrong and worthless. I mean, we could be friends but I just don't like your attitude. If you just got over your arrogance, I could see us getting along just fine. But here we are.
Pot, meet kettle.
You don't know everything about everyone. You aren't always smarter. You aren't always going to win. You aren't untouchable. You aren't always going to get everything you want. You're not always right. You’re not always the best there is. You won't always be champion. You are fucking far from fireproof.
Check that fucking ego at the door.
Maybe it's you that needs a little humbling. I’ll be all too happy to do that. Girl, you gotta learn to respect veterans, the women who have carved out a path for you to follow, the woman who has been through hell and back for her career and still keeps fighting, who still gets up, who just won't fucking quit, who has a spirit that just won't die.
That's what champions are and do. Champions are present, stand up when others won't, face challenges that others would back down from. They have a strong presence and nobody can forget about them. They are proud but always ready to help. They have pure, unbridled fire running through their veins.
I'm bringing that fucking fire. With fire comes change. Come get yourself some.
But you have no idea what you're in for, you mouthy, know-it-all nitwit.
You only wish you knew me, Camacho. You're gonna come to find out a lot about me very soon, though. I'm looking forward to it. I hope you are. Then when I win, you're just gonna have to suck it fuck up, buttercup. You did this do yourself. I was already pissed off and now the wrath is coming straight for you on Sunday…
I won’t go quietly into that good night. I’m going to fight, I’m going to fight like none you’ve ever faced in the past, Gabby. Prepare your ass for that shit because I refuse to accept things as they are and I won't fucking stop.
See ya Sunday, sweetcheeks.