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Dolly Waters · (12-14-2016)

Tuesday, December 13th, 2016
Outside of Elkhorn Middle School
Frankfort, Kentucky, USA

“Shit! No! Wait!”

I hollered out while flailing my arms in the air trying to get the bus driver’s attention that was pulling away from the curb.

“FUCK!”

Obviously it didn’t work as I can be seen emerging from the carbon monoxide filled exhaust cloud, and now I was going to have to trot my happy ass fourteen blocks in the rigid Kentucky cold to my apartment; I guess I could take the city bus which was about four blocks away, but that thing always smells like shit and comes equipped with a high rape probability.

I stand there for a minute, blowing into my cuffed hands and rubbing them together while looking at the ground and kicking around a few rocks with my pink converses; I guess I was just prolonging the inevitable while still pondering all of the zero last ditch effort choices I had at a ride home. So I tucked my hair into the back of my hoodie, put up my hood, pulled the strings down to tighten it around my face and off I went, south bound on Georgetown road toward Franklin Heights.

It had been an extremely rough spill of time for me lately, and especially today. Granted, I was indeed happy about the outcome of my Wildcard matchup with that fraud, Alexis Riot. I’m not sure I can adequately express just how fulfilling it was to feel her skull crack open underneath of that chair when I dove onto her like I was Halley’s friggin’ comet plummeting from the heavens to send her entire world to a fiery hell. I happen to believe that thankfully we’ll never have to hear her open her stupid mouth again. But outside of all that I was still feeling empty, because just a few weeks ago I had a setback, a complete failure, something that in my mind and with my perfectionist attitude was completely unacceptable.

Luca Arzegotti and I failed to capture the tag team championships from Doctor SATAN!, and while it wasn’t my fault by any stretch of the imagination, I had been tussling with a tug-o-war of self-doubt and saying that irritated me is a gross understatement. It infuriated me… so maybe one could understand why the ever vapid happenings of my school life left me feeling like I was a withdrawing meth addict chipping dry paint from a wall with my nail-gnawed fingers.

Without my former manager now I felt directionless… hell it was Heyman who got me linked up with Luca and Zane to begin with; but now there was no mission, there was very little left for Dolly Waters in the wide world of wrestling. Take a serious, honest look at my accomplishments and tell me what’s left. From the looks of things, given the ridiculous XWF policy that a singles champion “can’t” hold two belts at a time, it appears as if I’ll be holding onto my Hart Title from now until eternity; especially if the best competition Vincent Lane could line up for me at Wildcard was bimbo like Alexis Riot.

So what more was there for me to prove now? Do you really think I give a rat’s ass about my schooling? I believe I could literally take the SAT, or ACT, or ASVAB, or any other preposterous Federally mandated intelligence qualifier tomorrow and not miss a single fucking question; so when I’m sitting in class listening to some super giddy “glad-to-be-doing-this-for-shit-pay” educator instructing us upon the ENTHRALLING steps to make a volcano replica with a two-liter and Mentos, it makes me want jam knives in my ears.

Academics clearly are not my path.

My goal was to become the best professional wrestler in the world, and I am that, and just because I’m not holding the best title in the company means very little; just look at people like Owen Hart for instance who was head and shoulders above the entire WWF roster while he was Intercontinental Champion. Hell, had I of been in that Chamber Match at Wildcard, it wouldn’t have been Chris Chaos winning and that’s for damn sure. But now, with no one guiding me toward that next phase of greatness in my career, I am becoming inundated with this feeling that I may never reach that peak, but rather instead end up like Owen; plummeting in a downward spiral neck-first to some metaphysical tragedy.

You know the song “Ironic” by Alanis Morissette? Well the only thing ironic about that song was that it was a song called “Ironic”, but filled with examples not of irony, but of just fucked up coincidence. Being stranded in the middle of the ocean with nothing to drink, that’s ironic. Being caught on fire by stress relieving candles, that’s ironic. A song called Ironic with no examples of irony, that’s ironic.

So is it maybe a bit ironic that the most dominate combat athlete in the world, with an IQ of a hundred and thirty feels completely incapable of managing her own way toward greatness? Isn’t it ironic that this person would have self-doubt? Isn’t it ironic that this person would be bothering with school and having to walk home in the cold because they missed a school bus?

I diced through a few of the urban alleyways between the historical buildings Downtown as I continued my march toward home. Sitting on the ground beside a dumpster was a ragged looking man with cats crawling all around him. For whatever reason I decided to stop and check on the man, and as I neared him I could smell a heavy mixture of scotch and body odor.

“Hey, buddy? Are you alright?”

Again, I’m not sure why I stopped. Not sure why in the world I would care about this poor fucker… but for some reason I couldn’t help but think about my father, wondering as the holiday season neared just where he might be, wondering if he was warm, wondering if he was hungry, wondering if he needed me in any way.

The man looked up at me with a pale pair of pity-filled eyeballs, and I was in utter shock to actually recognize this man.

“I… I’m fi- no, no I’m not alright.”

It was Mr. Felts; he was my former sixth grade English teacher. Mr. Felts wasn’t your ordinary educator. He had graduated as a Valid Victorian from Oxford in England and won a noble prize in literature for an editorial he wrote exposing President Reagan’s funding of the Contras with weaponry through Iran; and he did that at the mere age of twenty-three. Here was a guy, a man, who could have been anything he wanted to be and was offered many various prestigious jobs in the political world but opted to instead teach literature to a bunch of illiterate, asshole hillbillies in Kentucky whose parents all ceremoniously voted against their own interests.

He was a studly man of impeccable integrity, who had a beautiful young wife in a tidy, humble, white-picket fenced home in Uptown. Very ironic that he would end up in such a problematic predicament.

Maybe everything about life was ironic in nature… where happiness is only known because of sadness; silence is only appreciated because of noise, and presence is only valued in the face of absence. It’s funny how often how we become tangled into the perceptional mistake that our own lives are somehow all that is of relevance. Even more interesting is having the feeling of sonder, a word described by the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows as: “a realization that each passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own”, and then thinking that the feeling is indeed obscure, or unique.

Mr. Felts obviously had been having a rough spill of it lately, and I was curious to know why. Isn’t it ironic how I, an intellectual prodigy for my age, could have forgotten all about my favorite teacher?

“Mr. Felts, do you recognize me? It’s me, Dol…”

“Dolly.”

He hadn’t forgotten of me though.

Just then a three vehicle convoy of black SUVs comes barreling down the alleyway, stopping right behind us as Mr. Felts turns to hide his face. The front and back vehicle’s empty with peculiarly dressed militants who appear to be safe guarding the vehicle in the middle. The back window of the SUV in the middle rolls down, and sitting behind it is the young Thaddeus Duke, sporting a shiner he received from D’Ville on his left eye.

“Miss Waters…”

“Thad…”

“I’m hoping you’ve now had ample time to think over my proposition.”

Not responding, I turn back to Mr. Felts who appears to be growing very uncomfortable,

I honestly hadn’t thought it over much, and maybe, just maybe this was the direction I had been craving.

“Should I give you ride home? We could further discuss this during the ride.”

“Well, only if you’ll be willing to give my friend a ride as well…”

“No, Dolly. I haven’t anywhere to-“

“You’ll stay with me, Mr. Felts.”

"I see you're still surrounding yourself with some real winners."

“…Well, if that’s a problem then…”

“No problem at all, I suppose.”

Duke quickly responds, as I begin helping the reluctant Mr. Felts to his feet and helping him into the back of the truck. As we both enter the vehicle the militants return to theirs and begin to drive away. The ride is initially awkward as I glue my eyes to Mr. Felts, with Duke’s eyes glued on me as we head to my apartment.

“So… Miss Waters.”

“Please stop calling me that.”

The scene fades...

How ironic, huh Chris?

Dolly smiles ever enchantingly into the camera.

I had been feeling a bit uninspired since absolutely destroying Alexis Riot at Wildcard; but when I received the call notifying me of our main event match up this week on Savage, I started to feel a little flame igniting once again in my bones.

That thirst, that desire, that rage, that ever enigmatic whispering from the voice of destruction ringing into my ears; it was all coming back to me. And it’s ironic because it’s you, the very person who I already defeated in my very first match to capture the Television Title who’s inspired the proverbial prodding of the sleeping giant that is Dolly Waters.

But in fact, the only thing that’s made you “appear” to be an inspiring competitor this time around in my eyes is because of the gold that you’re now wearing around your waist; because what would it have been for me to face you two weeks ago? It would have been Dolly Waters facing off against someone she’s already proven to be better than. . See but now through a lot of luck on your part and some silly circumstances you’re holing a championship more prestigious than mine; but we all know that it would be a farce for anyone to claim that you’re somehow my superior even though you now have the Universal Title.

I’m going to lay it out for you plain and simple buddy boy: you’re going to lose to Dolly Waters… again.

You see, everything about you, everything about you being champion, and everything about this matchup of ours is indeed ironic.

You label yer’self as “chaotic”, even giving yer’self that cliché little handle, but the truth is yer’ not chaotic at all. What Krissy-poo will do is come out, guns blazing, trying to justify that he’s somehow better than me now since he did something I couldn't, defeat Dr. D’Ville; not mentioning the fact that my tag partner lost that match for me. He’ll then likely spat out dozens of edgy, R-rated four-letter-word plays on my age; mentioning also how he defeated my father by the skin of his teeth.

Chaos is supposed to be unpredictable, but yer’ not, just as you get involved every match like a schoolgirl desperate to find a prom date; that’s not chaotic. It’s redundant. It’s embarrassing.

And this Saturday, I'm going to embarrass you, in front of the entire world, once again.

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