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Dolly Waters · (03-10-2019)

"Why am I even doing this?"

I wondered to myself, letting out a long sigh that blew a few sweaty, matted bangs out of my eyesight. Slowly, I gave my neck a good bend and twirl, letting off a series of pops and cracks to relieve that oh so familiar stiff feeling that was starting to settle in my muscles again.

Leaning forward, my forearms resting on my thighs I began slightly focusing on my hands which were interlocked as I fidgeted around with my fingers. I was irritated. Fidgety. Anxious. I stopped, and for a moment raised a hand up to my mouth, chewing a bit at some calloused skin on the top of my thumb- dedicating a smidge of time that followed to peering over at what I had slung onto the floor. I spat a piece of the dead skin towards it's lonely vicinity in the corner of the room.

"Maybe I orta' go out and just vacate this piece of shit right now on live television."

It was my newly won Hart Championship.

Just a few moments before, I had barged into this little makeshift locker room in the depths of Spark Arena. Slamming the door on what may or may not have been an actual barrage of chattering reporters. I really can't recall.

Shoot. It may have only been one poor ol' bastard just trying to make a living and aspiring to be an actual journalist someday for all I know. But it sure as shit felt like a lot of noise to me. And I sure as shit wasn't in the mood at the time to pull any predictable little platitudes out of my ass.

"You know, Steve, it was just a hard fought battle."

"Give a lot of credit to my opponents, they sure worked their butts off out there."

"Zane Norrison? He was a great Hart Champion. 'Was' being the keyword. I'm just thrilled that this baby is back home finally to it's rightful owner."

I could hear myself saying, bellowing about to the press like some worm-filled virgin feline in heat. None of those statements would have been true in the slightest either. Zane Norrison would only ever have been a champion for as long as he could luckily go without being matched up against moi.

And look, I get it, a great deal of folks would for certainly look at my sense of contempt for what I had then accomplished as some unwarranted high-handed and haughty pissing-in-the-wind- but...

Well maybe that's exactly what it is damnit! Aint no need for me to apologize for my own feelings.

So I barged into this tiny little room, slamming the door and instantly cutting the lights off. The modified broom closet stayed partially illuminated by the little television set that was airing the Wednesday Warfare broadcast. The commentators however were these odd New Zealand jagoffs, I honestly I have never seen these guys before. Like what happened to Jim Ross and Luca Arzegotti?

These two just kept hollering during the APEX entrance, their voices getting louder as the cameras would pan onto Drew and Robert's face. It was really awkward and annoying. Needless to say, I also cut the volume off on the television.

"What a goddamn joke..."

I muttered to myself... anyone else ever do that?

Well I muttered it to myself and slung the Hart Championship to floor before pretty much falling down onto the folding chair sitting in front of the television.

Staring off into the screen's imagery, I could see myself in the ring against the Universal Champ, Robert Main. I would be replacing these Job-Beer fucks who I had felt were arbitrarily slated where I belonged. My arm soon to be raised to the ceiling just before Robert shook my hand out of respect.

Respect. I suppose it was all I was ever really after, and could you blame me? I mean seriously. The little 'hick-girl-who-couldn't', that's the only legacy anyone would ever figure I'd have etched on my epitaph. Why wouldn't I strive to be a proverbial narrative changer? A Synopsis of my brief stints in the XWF should shed some more light:

In my very first match in the XWF I legitimately defeated a grown man who was trying every bit as hard as I was. And afterwards, while I sat back defending mid-card gold for months, I had to watch said man go on to reach the Universal mountaintop. Things from there only got worse.

After being only a mere miscalculation away from winning one of the greatest - and I'm personally dubbing it this. I'm sure at least Jim Caedus and Trax would agree. One of the greatest matches of all time, that essentially handed one of best to ever do it, Jim Ceadus, his first Universal Title surely then Dolly Waters had proven her worth, right? Wrong.

I was relegated to the absolute muck of the entire industry. Having to fend off a fucking pedophile while the XWF hierarchy turned a contemptuous blind eye to my plight. Dolly Waters, to them, was nothing more than the tastiest chopped liver on the menu. That was, and obviously still remains the narrative. And so there I was, positioned again to meaninglessly ride roughshod over the mid-card of XWF with the most ironically named championship in history in my possession. I was to forever be the Rodney - or Rhonda- Dangerfield of the entire wrestling industry. No respect.

A deep well of feelings began to be fetched up inside of my throat as I sat there.

Simply put; the place where I thought I had returned was gone. And I honestly didn't know if I could square up any rationale for sticking around. An opportunity for vindication and respect was nowhere to be found. And frankly, no one gave a fuck about Dolly Waters, but why would they? See I had been lost 'out there'. In the place 'they' say 'comes first'. But I had been longing for 'this' one last chance to prove them all wrong, but how could I do that in an old home that was moved to a new neighborhood?

Have you ever gone to an old house where you once lived? Gently knock on the door and with a smile kindly ask the new inhabitants to let you poke around inside for the sake of nostalgia? Well, it's something my folks did quite regularly anyway, but then again we did move around a lot. I'd be remiss not to tell you how fucking horrid and awkward it is- seeing someone else's shit spread all over what you used to 'own'. It's not nostalgic. It's a bittersweet battering of oneself, knowing that you'll never be back in that pace as it once were again.

So I sat there, halfheartedly enduring the rest of the Warfare broadcast, the thoughts of me being slighted beating my emotions into oblivion. My fingernails, for whatever reason, all but fucking gone. The trite little post match shit was starting up...

'Yadda- yadda, we're APEX, yadda-yadda'

'Suck our assholes, yadda- yadda, we just beat some nobodies, yadda - yadda'

OH LOOK! IT WAS CHRIS CHAOS! BY GAWD HE'S HERE!

Apex for some reason still had beef with Chris Chaos. Then again, pretty much everyone had beef with Chris Chaos. How chaotic right? That's a use of irony by the way.

But then something... different happened. Jim Ceadus appears. More irony.

My eyes widen. My pupils dilate. My bottom lip gets snuggled by my teeth.

"...That's why I'm doing this."

I again thought to myself,

Perhaps there is a hope for vindication after all. And after all, I began to figure; The XWF is always the place where the lost things go.

-end-

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Savage Promo[literally]….

"Well, shit the bed!

What a horrifying misstep that whole little spiel was, huh Vita?

Yikes girl!

You really should watch where yer' walking, sweetheart. Because it appears as if you've slipped in a pile of yer' own doody, and now yer' sliding towards what will sadly be a rather dreadful encounter with all of the GRAVES you've been digging fer' yer'self.

Look, I get it...

I seriously doubt that six, or seven months ago when you started yer' career in the XWF that you ever expected to have to be in this position someday. Forced to reconcile with the fecally little landmines of contradictions you were about to start shitting all over the playing field. Buuuuut here you are, babe, and what a beautiful goddamn shame it is.

Look, so let me just get this out of the way so we can at least be on an even keel here:

I'm calling bullshit on yer' entire schtick.

Well, to be fair, it's either total bullshit, or since yer' having one hell'uva time speaking in hyperbole, you have to quite possibly be the dumbest little troll-faced cunt walking the planet.

Awww!

Does it hurt yer' feelings that yer' "inspiration" to wrestling would be oh so cruel to the self-proclaimed "Princess" of the XWF?

Well for starters, I believe you've totally gotten Dolly Waters mistaken fer' someone else.

Because if I were yer' inspiration, and one of yer' favorite wrestlers, or whatever other bubble-gum flavored bullshit you want to blow up my ass- then you SURE as fuck wouldn't be so...

Well.

So pathetically you, Vita.

If I were yer' inspiration, Vita, you wouldn't be constantly cooing towards every returning XWF wrestler, desperately sniffing their crotches like some malnourished, attention starved little shelter puppy.

If I, Dolly fuckin' Waters, were yer' TRUE inspiration, VEEEETA, you wouldn't be so sickeningly subtle with those shaky little insults you tried to slide in as if anyone with half a brain didn't realize you was tryin'ta' be subliminal.

Nah, nah, yer' "INSPIRATION" goes straight fer' the goddamned throat, always has, always will.

If I, Dolly Waters was actually yer' inspiration...

Someone's career you followed fer' YEARS.

If all that were the case you would KNOW that you couldn't have POSSIBLY followed my career fer' YEARS you fluttery little nitwit. Because over the span of time from when I made my debut, until now, has amounted to about six total months of ACTUAL wrestling.

So how does that fit yer' subtle little jab about you having had accomplished more than me in a shorter amount of time? We're at worst contemporaries here, genius!

See, I don't have to sit around and psych myself up, or take advice from some talentless hack that loses all of the time like Jess-a whatever in the fuck her name is to know that I'm "better" than someone. Nor do I need to desperately emulate someone who I know is a beast when my other life has turned GRAVELY stale.

I mean, let's cut the shit. If all of this posturing you've done is true. All of the constant defending yer'self since day one against accusations that yer' trying to be Dolly Waters instead of having merely been inspired by someone SOOOO galvanizing- then yer' entire little face-esque façade is now dead.

Because you've been inspired by one of the most crude, callous maniacal competitors to ever step foot in this business. Someone who you admitted will take a face full of piss and still come back for more so long as it means making another person look feeble.

You expect us all to believe that you are on of the good guys, or gals, in wrestling, inspired by someone YOU Vita tried to empathize with for having been the subject of obsession by another "fiendish" wrestler as you put it. You expect everyone, let alone the cunning country cunt Dolly Waters to not see through yer' mask when you were fucking running around with Michael Graves when you first started? Even going over to the guy's house fer' advice?

PFFFT.

And also, damn well knowing that you very well might be the new victim of the same form of pederast attacks? GEE! How many Vita's does it take to screw in the bulb to shed some light on just who the fuck-stick stalking you might be?

See Vita, what you fail to realize is that "beating" me in some silly little match on Savage wont make you better than me. Nope. Because I've already destroyed any credibility you had because you talk too much. Twain said it best, something or another about "an idiot who keeps their mouth shut". Fuck it, I can't remember the quote.

But it's really obvious. I'm not yer' inspiration, Vita. I'm yer' subject of envy, and as stupid as that would seem to a normal person, it's true. You saw a Dolly sized hole in the XWF and tried to fill that void.

Well I'm sorry, hun. Come tomorrow night, it'll be time fer' you to go back to the drawing board again. Hopefully yer' next inspiration won't be something you have to cross paths with.

Oh and, Vita?

The whole BUH-bye thing? It's really, REALLY fucking lame.

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