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Mercy · (12-08-2017)

We see a from behind shot of a fair skinned blond woman standing in front of a full length mirror. Her body is the waif thin form of a model. Her hair is perfect, no split ends or strands out of place. But we cannot see her face, and her reflection in the mirror is obscured by her body.

On a nearby nightstand, an older model cell phone is playing back a voicemail on speaker.

Voicemail: ….I'm sorry to inform you that we have selected other talent for our new brand initiative, but thanks for your interest in Chanel.

We see the woman, her face still obscured, reach up and touch her cheek gingerly. The message starts to play again as the camera drifts around her body such that we cannot see her actual face, but we see the reflection in the mirror.

Or at least what she sees her reflection to be.

Her face is a mess of horrific boils and putrescent sagging flesh, her eyes milky and infected, and her hair is falling out in clumps. Her skin, where it is exposed, is covered in edipose tissue and weeping open sores.

She screams in rage.

Sometime after...

The same woman, and again her face is obscured, is laying down on a gurney. Somewhere in the distance, salsa music plays dimly. On the surface of it, this would appear to be a hospital operating room. But when the eye digs deeper, all is not well. The counters are wooden and the wood is soaked through with something that has dried to look the color of spilled wine. The light overhead does not look like a hospital light at all, but more like a caged flourescent bulb you would expect to see in a garage.

The woman stares pensively at a rusted tray on the counter, upon which sits a number of surgical tools that are not in sanitary baggies.

A man in ER scrubs and a mask wades into the room. He takes a seat beside her in a chair that squeals in protest.

“Doctor”: Senora ready now?

The woman grips the edge of her gurney like a vice, her hand going white from the pressure. The last thing we see is a tear drip down the side of her face as she catches her horrific reflection in the polished metal of the light.

Mercy: Yes, I am ready.

Now

I was not ready....

Mercy is dressed in her full insane regalia, black leather suit jutting with vicious spikes and vacuous, eerie doll mask. She's wedged into a corner somewhere. It matters not where, just that it is a corner and sometimes that's the only place she feels safe.

I could never be ready. Not for what that unlicensed butcher did to me. But in the end, I had no one to blame but myself and my insecurity. I hated myself. I was disgusted by myself. And no matter how many times I went under the knife it was never enough.

My skin still burns everyday. Fully one quarter of my body is paralyzed tissue now, nerves severed, dead flesh pulled atop more dead flesh. But I don't want to be pitied. I want to serve as a warning to little girls and young women everywhere not to listen to Jenny Myst.

Her head tilts, casting a shadow on one side of her porcelain mask.

I watched your promo's leading up to your match with The Engineer, watched as you tried to fill the empty box that is you with meaning and character. Tried to convince Engy and the rest of the world that you're more than the sum of your parts...and the abuse you suffered. But as a fellow woman who has struggled with being seen as worth no more than her sex, how you can proceed as you do boggles the mind and sickens the heart.

Every woman you have ever faced you degraded her appearance. You called them fat, ugly, and worse. Ask yourself Jenny, how often is a man in the XWF called ugly by the competition? Oh, I'm sure it happens from time to time but it is the norm? No, no, no. That is a CRUELTY we women reserve for ourselves. And its a cruelty that society tells us to pay fealty to with it's airbrushed magazine covers and endless pornography.

But we can take ourselves back from that abyss....we are! It's all over the news, every day women stand up and say no more, pushing back against the fucking PIGS that abused their authority to treat them like a cheap piece of meat. A feeling you should know all too intimately, Jenny. It's more than a hash tag. It's half the goddamned population taking back our HUMANITY!

But we can't do that with people like YOU tearing us down, Jenny Myst. Tearing us down and telling us that all that matters are our looks and how pleasing we are to the eye. You want to be nothing but a polished pile of meat, Jenny? Fine! But don't you DARE pull the rest of us back down into those depths with you!

Mercy picks up one of her hands, which up until this point had been unseen. It's one of her weaponized gloves, but this one is new. Atop each finger on this glove is a different bladed instrument. The glistening blades catch the paltry light hanging above her, accentuating each one's keen edge.

I'm going to make you deformed Jenny. But not out of spite. No, I'm going to do it because you need to be pushed into being MORE. You need to learn just what Jenny Myst is capable of without her trademark beauty. You shall walk through the fire and flames and come out scarred but purified, or you shall succumb and die.

It is my hope that once I take the reigns of this dying division, and it IS dying, that I can breathe new life into it and guarantee that women's wrestling in the XWF has a future. And I think I can, by proving to every little girl out there at home watching, or even young athlete buying a ticket, that perky tits and a symmetrical face are not a prerequisite.

Come as you are ladies. And see if you can stop the beast.

Mercy reaches up and bats at the lightbulb above her with her gauntlet, shattering the glass and plunging the room into pitch.

Years ago...

We are back again in that ramshackle Mexican surgery room. An anesthesia mask is placed over Mercy's face, and for the first time we see what she actually looks like.

She's beautiful.

She shuts her eyes tight as and embraces the gas, parting her lips to allow it entry like a lover. More tears squeeze out from under her eyelids. She succumbs to the beauty monster.

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