Post by Amy Jo Smyth on May 20, 2017 22:31:43 GMT -5
I'll be okay
'Cause when I back away
I'm gonna keep the handle of your gun in sight…
'Cause when I back away
I'm gonna keep the handle of your gun in sight…
___________________________
The pay-per-view is upon us once again.
Last time, after Rising Stars, new champions rose to stardom while others saw their star fall. A new Marquee Champion. A new L.A.W. Champion. Now at Validation, these new champions must defend those titles they so hard-fought won. But now they have to actually earn it, prove their worth as a champion, and yes, that their win was far from a fluke.
Time to put their money where their mouth is.
After all, it's one thing to win a title, but it's a completely different thing to defend it. Especially in your first defense. It'd be a sad, sorry thing to watch a champion lose in her first defense.
In my world, you're not truly a champion worth his or her weight until you defend. It's in the defense, in the first defense that a champion really drives it home, validates the win. It's the first real test and it's a test a champion has to pass. With each passing defense, more and more tests are passed and more or more stock is earned. There is more and more for your opponent to overcome.
My very first defense is upon me.
In February, I did exactly what I said I was going to do and rose up. I rose up to the challenge and defeated Ms. Camacho. In a match for the ages, I took the L.A.W. title and now have the prestigious honor of representing my home as it's highest champion. I'm proud of that. I'm honored.
I want to continue to do that.
For months to come.
To do that, I have to fight, be a fighting champion, and defend. You see, a true champion defends and they defend as often as possible. A true champion defends successfully. Just like the Champion before me, I'll defend when required of me. Unlike the Champion before, I'll defend often, I'll fight often, and I'll be present and committed.
Even if it means that I have to defend while sick. We all know about my most recent illness - from a simple cold to what could be much worse. It's a huge distraction.
My opponent knows all about distractions.
It's also been taking a big hit on my training. So, let’s call balls down the middle strikes here - I’m not doing well and I’m going to be coming from behind in this match. I’m not going to be a hundred percent. Or am I? Listen, it doesn’t matter. I’ve gotten into that ring a lot worse off and I’ve won. This time will be no different. It's just another thing for me to overcome and kids, there isn't much that I can't overcome these days. Plus, we still have a full week until I gotta get in that ring and not just do what's required of me, but to do more.
Some stupid germ isn't going to keep me from defending. What kind of champion would I be if I was about to bail out of my first defense because I have a little cough? I’ve been a fighting champion since I won this title. In fact, I’ve won every match I’ve been in since my championship win and even long before that.
My streak won't come to end. The tear will continue. And once again, for the third damn time, Mackenzie Roberts will be on the wrong end of it.
She will help because with her, I will validate my title reign
___________________________
Edward Griffin stares at me, the gun pointed directly at me, shaking gently in his hand. The handgun takes all my attention, both from the condition of weapons focus and my own need to know what gun is being aimed at my fucking head. It's a middle-aged black-handled Browning Hi-Power, probably loaded with nine millimeters. Not that Brownings have changed much over the years, but knowing the history of this country and the history of this gun, it's probably a relic leftover from The Troubles, something someone brought off of someone’s cousin during that bitter feud between Catholics, Protestants, rebels, loyalists, and of course, the British government, and once things settled, sat in a box until they sold it to someone else or had it stolen.
Guns have strange lives and go on all kinds of magical journeys, moving from person to person, place to place until they fall into the wrong hands, the right hands, disrepair, the bottom of a body of water, or an incinerator. The gun that Griffin holds has any number of untold things - perhaps it took a life or saw war in the Iraqi desert or maybe it just sat in a box, a homeowner’s false sense of protection. Sadly, after its time with Griffin, its story comes to an end. It will either enter my collection or sit in an evidence locker for years until it is melted down for scrap.
It's all a matter of whether I live or die.
Griffin doesn't seem like a capable firearms user. It's likely he's never held one to a person before and even less likely that he's used one outside a firing range. I'm utterly unwilling to say he's incapable of using one to take a life because, well, he's full on prepared to take as many lives as possible and he's already killed, and he killed someone close him.
All bets are off.
In my life, I've had a few guns held on me - more than I care to admit - and there is no amount of training that prepares you for it. Okay, so, some of the training prepares you for it. There's the controlled breathing, situation de-escalation body language manipulation, and, the best of all, delay tactics.
Delay tactics are going to be a lifesaver.
Right now, just outside in the parking lot, gearing up to head back to base, is a highly trained team of men in full body armor with high powered assault rifles along with Hazard and a few other MI6 agents. Not more than a couple hundred feet away. They can very easily take him down and save me in the process. If I can keep Griffin was acting, delay his intentions, then the Knights in black armor can charge in.
Not that they didn't just let him saunter on in here unseen.
Problem one, they don't know what's happening behind this closed door. Problem two, I have no way to get their attention.
“Sit’own,” he commands.
My body apparently takes too long to respond.
“Sit down,” he shouts, shaking the gun and pointing it at the same chair off to the corner.
“I'm going, I'm going,” I answer, slowly but surely moving toward the chair. It's everything right now to let him believe he's in control but it's actually me who has the control. Just can't push it too far. I fall into the chair, remain relaxed but still concerned and alarmed.
On the outside, I keep remarkably cool but on the inside, even this badass is freaking out. There's an unhinged killer pointing a gun at me and being this close to each other, he has a good shot. I regret taking off my Kevlar. I regret coming in here alone.
I regret so much.
“You're a goddamn bleeding American,” he growls. “Of course.”
My eyes finally move away from the gun and focus on his face. He is now a far cry from the pictures I've seen, the ones that MI6 has file, from the times I saw him in person from far away. The last few days has taken a toll on him. There are deep, dark cavernous bags have formed under his eyes and his cheeks have sunken into his face. Chapped lips. Greasy, unkempt hair. Wrinkled, ragged clothing that hangs off him. The kid is just a straight-up mess.
He did not anticipate being tracked.
“Americans are always sticking their nose into other people's business,” he rants. “It always costs you in the end.” He steps toward me, brandishing the gun more violently now. “You should have just stayed - stayed out of it.” He.steps away, confused and flustered. “How didn't the bloody bomb not kill you?!”
“Bad timing,” I say with a smug shrug.
“That's not fucking funny,” he shouts. “I paid a lot of money for that.”
“It's probably a little late, but you should ask for your money back,” I say. Pushing that luck, ain't cha AJ?
“Shut your damn mouth!” And more gun shaking in my face. “You - you…”
“Me!” I say.
“Ahhhhh,” he screams. “Shut the fuck up. You ruined this for me! This was supposed to be perfect. I had everything worked out perfectly.”
“Spoiler alert,” I say.
Why am I like this?
He steps right up to me. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“I'm AJ,” I say. “You're Edward. I hear that your friends like to call you Eddie. Can I call you Eddie?”
“No, no,” he shouts, spitting on me.
“Alright,” I answer nonchalantly. “My friends outside have been calling me Smyth. I don't know if you saw them…”
“They're too stupid to know what's going on,” he says.
“I'd have to agree, considering they let you just waltz on in here and kidnap me,” I answer. “But, still…”
“But still nothing,” he says. “Once I shoot you, it won't matter.”
“They're going to hear the gunshot and you'll never leave this place alive,” I inform him.
“That doesn't matter,” he says. “It doesn't matter. I'm a dead man anyway.”
“Not necessarily,” I say. “Give me the gun, we walk outta here, and yeah, maybe you’ll go to jail for the rest of your natural life, but you’ll be alive.”
“You can’t - you can’t fuckng trick me,” he says.
“Listen, you have a choice,” I say. “You can’t change the choices you’ve already made, but you can make some better choices now. You can’t take back what you did to your aunt or trying to kill me, but what you do from here… It's all a matter of remorse.”
“Remorse?” he mocks. “Ha! I don't feel any go’damn remorse. Fuck you. Fuck my aunt. You are nothing - nothing in the world, nothing in the world as it should be. Hindrances, nothing but bloody hindrances.”
Oh, okay.
“So that's why you killed the woman who took you in, took care of you… Because she was a hindrances?” I ask, leaning forward.
“That's really fucked up.”
“Sacrifices need to be made,” he rebukes. “If you're not with us, you're against us.”
This fucker is off his bean.
“Who is us ?” I ask.
“England first,” he shouts proudly. “Those who support the traditional English way of life.”
“Okay, but…” I start.
“No Islam! No EU. England is for the England. Everyone else out.”
“And deportation isn't enough? You gotta kill a bunch of innocent people?” I ask, eyebrows raised.
He moves in closer, gets into my face. “I wouldn't expect someone like you to understand. You think what those mongols worship - practice is okay. They practice hatred, violence. They want to eradicate the white race. Kill them or be first.”
“I don't think…”
“They are spreading like a disease, they are taking over, infecting every part of our life. Do you know how many children they have?” he says. “They are infiltrating our governments, sterilizing our race. Soon, they will take over the world and take us back to the stone ages, because, because that's all they know - they don't have - have - their brains are different, their smaller, more animal. That's what they are, animals.”
I open my mouth but he keeps going. When someone is this deep into their delusion, there is no way to get them back. These are the men who bring the world to disaster. Their hatred, ignorance, their belief system is rock hard and untouchable and they have no issue oppressing it around through any means. They breed, they find weak-minded, easily manipulated, less than intelligent men and women with low self esteem who are looking for someone to blame for their problems. More or less, they're looking for victims or those that perceive themselves as victims.
Griffin was the perfect target. He bought the vitriol hook, line, and sinker. Then sustained himself on a steady diet of misinformation, hate, and anger. For men like him, anger is everything. It's misdirected. He's angry at the wrong people and that's exactly how the people who have made him angry and are the cause of his ills want it to be.
It's odd. They don't even realize that what they're doing is exactly the same reason they use to attack others, to diminish other races and cultures. I think they call this displacement. I'm not sure, psychology was never my thing. This much I know, this guy is gone with no hopes of rescue.
At this point, I have no choice but to listen to him rant and rave, release his anger, and hope he tires himself out.
“You're white, you should be protecting your race. You should be at home, populating the planet with the good white children who believe in the Christian God, taking care of your husband. Everything went downhill when they started letting women work and wogs vote, when they started letting the bloody Polacks in, have those - those bloody Pakis and towelheads waltz on in, take jobs from white men, stink up our streets with that - that shit food. They have polluted the pure, white blood line with race mixing and those disgusting half-breed sewer babies that I gotta support with my tax dollars. They let fags marry, ass fuck the traditional way of life.” He suddenly stops, snarls. “That’s what those oven-dodgers in charge of the world banks want… Even - it’s the kikes that run this country. They control everything.”
I slowly raise my hand. “Sorry, but I thought it was the Muslims who were in control of everything.”
“They want to and they are! Sharia Law is getting into everything. Before you know it, they won’t let us eat bacon and tell us that we gotta worship Allah and those fucking bells will be ringing all the time. They’ll run around my country - the white man’s land with shit on their hands, raping women.” He starts to shake his finger at me. “You - you - you’ll have to cut off all you’ll hair and dress in a burka. So don’t think this won’t affect you. You’ll be a servant to a disgusting man who rapes you! They need to be wiped off the planet, one by one. Don’t you understand? I’m doing God’s work, protecting the purity and sanctity of his people - his chosen people.”
This kid is literally just spouting off shits he’s been fed from people like him and shit he’s read on websites decorated with pictures of eagles and swastikas and happy white families. He just absorbed the information and rambles it off. I grew up around zealots, just Christian ones, so I know one when I see one and there is one standing in front of me.
I’m sickened. I want to jump from this chair, tackle him, choke him to death, watch the life slowly fade from his eyes as he painfully suffocates. I want this to be the last face he sees. A pretty blonde lesbian straddling him, crushing his larynx. It isn’t Islam he needs to fear or the global Jewish conspiracy, but this bitch right here. This piece of human garbage needs to die. There is no other choice.
Just when and how is the issue.
Heavy footsteps clank against the metal balcony that lead to the second floor. They quickly approach the door. “Smyth,” Hazard shouts. “Smyth, where are you? The team is getting ready to leave.” The doorknob jiggles. “Lemme in.”
No movement, no sound, no anything from Griffin. He is shocked, scared, taken off guard. The young man has no idea what to do but he had to expect this. And I tell him exactly that with my eyes, face, and body language.
“Smyth?” Hazard calls out again. The door knob moves again, this time more violently and longer. “Open up. This ain’t funny.”
“He isn’t gonna go away,” I whisper.
He hisses at me, looks at the door. There is panicked thought controlling his every movement.
Hazard starts slamming his hand against the door in rapid fire succession.
Bang. Bang. “Smyth!” He keeps banging his hand against the door. “Bloody hell, the joke’s over.”
Griffin holds the gun up to the door. His finger shakes toward the trigger. With all his focus being on Griffin, I could easily leap from the chair and tackle him, resolve this whole situation. Then again, it probably wouldn’t end well. There’s the bed, there’s the movement, the effort involved.
Hazard throws his body into the door now, not once, not twice, but three times. The door shakes, looks ready to come off it’s hinges. “Are you okay?”
“Don’t fucking come in,” Griffin yells. “I’ll shoot.”
“Who’s that?” Hazard asks. “Smyth, what’s going on?”
“Back the fuck up or I’ll kill her,” Griffin demands.
“Griffin? Griffin is that you?” Hazard asks. He starts banging on the door. “Don’t you fucking dare!”
Griffin pulls the trigger, firing off two shots directly into the metal hotel door.
All I can do is take cover as best I can, curling up into a ball in the chair. My knees cover face, protecting my eyes from flying metal fragments and the muzzleflash. My hands clamp against my ears to reduce injury from the explosion in such small quarters and resulting echo that will cause further damage.
I have no idea what’s happening now. My eyes are slammed shut and my ears are covered. At least he isn’t firing anymore. There’s muffled shouting back and forth - something about letting me go and staying back.
Whoa.
Griffin grabs me by the upper arm, pulls me out the chair. I am literally dragged toward the door.
“Show me,” Hazard says.
My captor shakes me violently. “Tell him! Tell him to back off.”
“What?” I ask as I’m incurring brain damage from this movement. Shaken baby syndrome has new meaning right now. “Stop fucking shaking me first, you fucker.”
That was totally not the right thing to say. At all. I’m forcefully thrown to the window. He pulls back the curtain, exposes me to the world, blinds me with the sunlight. Then he slams me into the window. My head smacks against the glass with a thunk and everything is just a muddled mess. On top of that, my shoulder is just about ready to pop out its socket thanks to his rough trade.
Right now, I’m fucking seeing stars swirl around Hazard as I try to look at him. All I know is that Hazard keeps his gun pointed at Griffin.
“Tell him,” Griffin demands, shoving me again.
I meekly wave at Hazard. “Hey Artie,” I say in a normal tone at a normal volume. “So, for all the searching we did, he actually found us. Go figure.” I shrug.
Griffin pushes the gun up against the side of my head. “Back up, go away!” he howls. “Go away or I’ll shoot her.”
Off in the distance, I think I can see the tac team taking cover behind whatever they can wherever they can. About eight assault rifles point in my direction. These guys are trained to hit a red dot on a piece of paper hanging yards away but not gonna lie, I don’t trust them to hit Griffin from here, especially with my body acting like a shield. First time for everything, I guess. Never thought I’d be a human shield in my life.
The gun is forced against my forehead even harder now causing me a deep, sharp pain that causes me to cringe. Hazard and I look each other in the eyes. I give him a flat smile, a flat expression, and gently nod my head. He nods in agreement.
Hazard lifts his gun above his head as he puts his hands in the air. Without taking his eyes off me, he slowly backs away, heads out of sight. I listen to his footsteps stomp down the steps. My partner disappears, leaving me alone with Griffin.
A hostage situation has begun and I'm the damn hostage.
...To Be Continued…
Fucking signed, sealed, and delivered. Stamp of approval. Proof positive that I'm right where I belong and that I didn't come to dick around. The L.A.W. title is mine and will be mine for as long as I'm physically able to provide L.A.W. the very best of myself and as long as my body is willing and able.
And that could be fucking years to come.
Which could be very bad for everyone else. Including my opponent - the very first lady I get to defend against. Which, well, maybe the third time is a charm for her but probably not. It's not like I haven't faced her before. Once in singles and once in tag action.
Each time, it was like she wasn't even there.
A lack of zeal, if you will. No passion. No fire. No love for the sport. Perhaps she'll find it once more, but who really knows.
She was just another, dare I say victim of my ascent to the top. Another win. A big win, actually. I've said it before and I'll say it again: there is no greater propellant to the top than defeating a standing champion. Come to think of it, it may have been defeating the then Marquee Champion that secured my L.A.W. Title shot.
That alone should tell a lot about Ms. Mackenzie Roberts.
There's absolutely no denying that you, Ms. Roberts earned your place in this match and you earned a place in the L.A.W. Hall of Fame. Hell, you've done that over and above me right now. But just like you, I'll get there with time. Maybe I'll go in as the longest reigning L.A.W. Champion. Maybe I'll best the length of your reign. Ha. That's highly unlikely. In fact, it's highly unlikely that anyone will ever touch what you've done. Congrats.
You wanna know something you won't be touching?
The L.A.W. Title.
Not as long as I have it. Take some unsolicited advice - do what Ms. Camacho is doing and bide your time while waiting for me to lose or vacate this here title if you really want it. It's gonna be a long time before I relinquish it. It's going to take a fight that you just don't have in you to pry this thing golden bounty from me.
I'm still not seeing that fire in you. Even now, with this opportunity of a lifetime just days away. Certainly nothing I have.
I waited a long time for this, fought battles that never got me any closer to gold, did the impossible, and most of all, I pushed myself to the limit, did things that I didn't even think I was capable of. But, well, anything goes when you want something that badly.
How badly do you want this title, Ms. Roberts?
I'm just not seeing it.
Maybe you're just too distracted. You got a lot going on. I mean, you're in a new relationship that seems to, well, you spend a lot of time horizontal so when I lay you out, it shouldn't be that new to you. Or, ya know, when I wrap my legs around your neck, that won't be new either. After all, there's a reason I named it what I named it.
All that aside… Your biggest distraction just might be something I had a hand in making. Just like we will never know how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop, we will never know the real answer to that mystery. I either did it or I'm taking advantage of a good situation.
So while you're off playing babysitter and thinking about Kenzi, I'll be thinking about my next move. Just like last time.
Do you remember what I did to you the first time we faced, Ms. Roberts? I do. It didn't end well for you. I'm prepared to do it again, too. Don't think that I've lost my edge, either, just because I don't try to snap arms anymore. I can and I will. Push me far enough, push this match to that point, and you'll find yourself on the wrong end of an Amy Jo that you don't want to know. Now don't worry, I'm going to show what it takes to be a champion. Not just any champion, but the L.A.W. Champion.
I'm setting a new standard, a new level of excellence. I'm going to force this place to step up its game and push competitors to their limit. All so that they can discover what they're truly made of. All so that L.A.W. is led by a woman at the top of the game. Talent begets talent. I'm gonna bring a spotlight onto L.A.W. like one that hasn't yet fallen upon it. And not just by doing tournaments - which has been a hotly contested aspect of my career.
Yet, look at you… Doing some tournaments, ain't cha? I must say, I'm actually proud. Kudos to you, darling. About damn time you step outside of your teeny-tiny box. And you know what, I wish you nothing but success in that and any tournaments or rumbles you take part in. Unless, of course, I'm involved, then - let's not stack the deck on you. It's already stacked against you here in L.A.W.
Not that things aren't going well for you.
This won't be one of the things to go well for you, though.
You hit a little bit a hiccup toward the end of your time as Marquee Champion and then you just spiraled. Hey, happens to the best of us. Even me and right now, I'm the so-called best of us. The trick is to come back from it.
You coming back or is this a performance piece?
Did the alarm clock go off yet?
Girl, no one will deny that you got hit hard and all at once. You lost a lot. Your girlfriend ghosted on you. The title you had held for over a year had been taken from you. Well, um, that's about all I can remember happening to you. The girlfriend thing aside, that says a lot.
You lost the only thing you had ever known, your biggest thing… I'm gonna bring this shit up again… What else have you done? Is that all your career is going to marked by? Yes, absolutely, it's great and we'll all go blue in the fucking face talking about it, but that's it. What the fuck else you done? Other than the length of it, there isn't much to talk about or really anything noteworthy.
I think you won an award. Maybe. So did I.
My advice still stands, if you want people to pay attention to you, do something worth paying attention to. It isn't that we are ignoring you, it's just, well, you're not exactly standing out and giving me a reason to engage. Hell, when I do try to rile your feathers, you seem less than interested. That's the huge difference between you and I. I got my shot by standing out and I continue to be a top name not just in L.A.W. but in this sport because I have exceptional talent and do things that I allow me to stand out.
You're getting there, but you're just not there yet.
You're definitely not ready for the L.A.W Title, that's for dang sure.
Listen, Ms. Roberts, I don't ignore you on purpose and it's not that I don't take you seriously - of course I do. I'll play broken record here… I respect and take every opponent seriously. Even more so when they're coming for my title. If you thought what I did to you before was bad, now the title is on the line.
Big time change in the dynamic.
There will be no stops. There will be a woman in the ring who needs to solidify her championship win and show everyone that I am far from a flash in the pan or a one hit wonder. I'd say it were sad that it's you, especially after such a great run, which, yeah, even if you hadn't beaten Camacho, you earned this shot through past feats and I always like to see if people are worth the metal filling the gaps in their teeth and I would have made damn sure you got a match with me for the title.
I digress.
Fact remains, it wouldn't matter who I faced, they'd still lose and I'd still win. Because, fuck yeah, there's a lot at stake. For both us. Mostly for me though.
The L.A.W. title is staying with me. Come pneumonia. Come the floods of Noah. Come a hundred pound soaking wet with rocks in her pocket former champion known as Mackenzie Roberts.
So, Ms. Roberts, it's time for you to take flight again, my little birdie. And you're in for a hard landing because your wings just aren't ready to support you Smack. Meet the mat. There is absolutely no stopping my rise.
Chirp, chirp, my chickadee!