Threaded Mode | Linear Mode

Jenny Myst · (02-10-2018)

Wanna know the secret to victory? Defeat.

That was her mantra last time she went for a drive like this. Back then though, that last word wasn't nearly as crushing as it is right now. A loss isn't nearly as soul-consuming when it isn't something you love snatched away. That last word isn't as heavy when it is just a normal loss, or when you realize that there is so much more out there that you haven't accomplished yet. Last time, the world seemed so big. Sure, a loss was a speedbump, it slowed you down but it didn't stop you in your tracks.

This kind of loss, it hit you like a freight train hits you without making an attempt to slow down first. It makes you reflect. It makes you realize that maybe there is a world out there that you need to explore, and a life you need to live. There are so many out there, huddled in the cold with no food, water, shelter, families broken and shattered and people living barely on the brink of existence. There are people in the world who have nothing, why cry about being someone who has so much?

Because. Fuck them, that's why.

No, though, that isn't healthy.

But it is true. Why cry over spilled milk? She would get a rematch. Good god girl, get it together. She would win her title back, and even if she didn't right away, how many other belts out there could she qualify for? She is good at this, she knows she is.

But it still hurts. Not the fact that she lost, but HOW. Taylor Mayde and her new hand puppet Neville Sinclair. Two people who claim to be fair and just. Psssht.

The Los Angeles sun was beating down through the haze that surrounds this city. It was hot, not Vegas hot but hot. Her pink sportscar tore down the high way, heading away from the hustle and bustle of big city life. She needed to get away for a bit. Go to the hilltowns, see how the less fortunate live. Look at the people who live like she grew up. Down on their luck, depressed, and hopeless. People who were written off by the giant quill of life. People who were dead before they ever truly lived.

The base from her trunk bumped like thunder from a massive storm as Maria Brink screamed through her speakers. She needed a little In This Moment in her life right now.....eat your heart out Peter. Though, for Gilmour, that wouldn't be too difficult to do.

"I CAN BE YOUR WHORE"

Her hair whipped with the motion of her head as she head-banged to the music. She missed these old country drives. She missed some 'her time'.

But as she drove out of LA, she actually began to see how people who weren't on top lived, and it made her think more.

The falling apart trailers, the people whose cars sat on blocks or sat on the regular road, just without tires. The boarded up buildings from years of economic recession. These people lives in the halo of Los Angeles, the nations second largest city, and yet they were so far away from Los Angeles. That is sort of how she felt. She moonlighted with the upper echelon of XWF elite, but the more she realized it, she was still pretty far from there. Chris was there, and firmly ingrained. She still had so much more to prove.

These people were Californians, but they were the ones that were never talked about. The people holding the signs made of cardboard with sharpie that was sun-faded. These people were Californian's but were not Los Angeles-ians. She identified with these people. She felt like she was one of them, the broken, the worn down, the misfortuned.

The Diva of the Damned.

The girl cried in the corner. She felt like she didn't have any friends. She was different than the others. She had different interests, she didn't belong here. These were the "cool kids", but they also were bad influences. Hell, she still wore Hello Kitty underwear, and these kids were drinking and doing something called cocaine. They talked about partying and did their make up in the mirror while twirling the keys to the BMW they drove illegally with their fathers name on the registration. Sure, they got tickets, but they always got out of them. They total cars and get new ones, and she could barely pass her permit test because her hands shook too badly.

She had never been kissed, at least by a boy she wanted to be kissed by, and nobody paid her any mind due to her quiet nature. She liked nature, art and the beauty of life. Her surroundings. These girls liked anything that had glitter on it.

Normally, she wouldn't let them get to her. Her mother told her every day when she came home that she was special, that she was better than them, and to be herself. But she was a human, she wanted friends. She didn't understand why she couldn't like this stuff. She didn't get why she was different. She didn't understand why she had boobs and a funny feeling "down there" at 9 when these girls still had their innocence. Why did she bleed? Why was she different?

The tears flowed freely because she felt different than them. She knew that she was the same as them, if not a better person than them, but she felt as though she would never earn the respect she deserved in their eyes. She felt like no matter what she did she would be labeled as weird, or wrong. She wasn't allowed to have opinions at the cool kids table.

That's if she was fortunate enough to sneak into it while they were in the bathroom. She would sit there, briefly, while they got up to go to the bathroom together. She never understood why they did that, either. They all did it, every time. They brought their bags, too. What were they doing in there? She would just go sit in the stall alone.

Oh how she wished these people could just see who she really is, maybe they would like her, maybe she could sit with the cool kids without practically sprinting away when they even entered the cafeteria after a bathroom break.

Jenny saw the chain link fences with overgrown weeds. The closer she got to the edge of the desert she killed her "father" in, the more she thought about her role here. Would she ever be top 50? Would she ever even break the top 100? That would all be on her. Only hard word would get her where she wanted to go. She felt a single tear roll down her eye. She knew that she would be made fun of for it. If it wasn't her promiscuity, it would be this. Jealous people always loved to judge. Funny how that worked.

She had a match coming up against two people who didn't matter to her in the grand scheme of things, but seemed to be househould names in the this fucked up social media cess pool we all live in. Louis Maxwell Pryce looked like he belonged in a Bowflex commercial but spoke like he belonged in line at a methodone clinic. Random was a poster-boy for a bad shape-shifter movie trailer. Who were these two? Well, apparently, they were her new competition.

Every house she passed had some sort of truck or van, the newest one had to be from the 90's. The windows, if there even was glass left, had a white milky shade over them. How did these people live this way? The mailboxes were crooked and none of the lawns were kept.

The bills came piling in, like an avalanche, and they just couldn't make ends meet. No matter how hard they tried, there was always a new bill and always a new foreigner calling them about a payment plan they didn't even remember they were on. They were a young couple, and were blinded by the illusion of love. They thought life would be good because they had each other. They soon learned that life was a cruel hell and they were owned. They could never truly be together because there was always a higher power that controlled every breath they took. Their possessions, that they claimed were 'theirs' were also claimed as 'theirs' by the people whose they actually were. Life is always going to be split, and not always with the people you want.

She was beautiful, with auburn hair and big green eyes. He had a well trimmed goatee and a nice body, with brown hair and he dressed well. They met at a Christian benefit, and had gotten along great ever since. They made each other laugh, they had deep intellectual discussions, they challenged each other to be the best they could be. They thought this was it, a match that couldn't be made more perfectly even if they were a puzzle at its completion. They hugged, kissed, nuzzled and cuddled. Every day they told each other 'I love you'. Those days, though only a year in the past, seemed like a life time away. Now, all they did was fight, cry, scream, punch walls and speed out of the driveway with a nice buzz only to be brought home that night, apologize, and go back at it the next day. Was this a curse, a hex? Did someone have it out for them? They met at a Christian benefit and never before felt so far removed from 'God'.

Jenny skidded the car to a stop, kicking up dust under her tires. The rims shone bright in the sun and the tint on her windows blocked her golden locks. There was a gleam on the window like the one she used to emit from her soul. Her hand was shaking, and she picked up the phone. The little noise came on through the radio.

'Bluetooth Ready'

"Megan. Meet at the hotel in 30, we need to talk."

"What now?"

"I just had en epiphany. Bring coffee."

45 Minutes Later

Jenny sat at the table in the hotel conference room, slurping her Starbucks and staring at the wall. Megan was concerned, but knew better than to ask. Jenny would make herself known when she wanted to.

On the wall were two photos. One of a jacked up black man with bug eyes, some internet meme photo, and one of an ink blotch that it looked like Micheal J. Fox drew while blowing Mohammed Ali.

"Megan....what is life all about?"

"You're asking me about the meaning of life?"

She shuffled the papers in the clipboard. One of her three phones chirped with a message.

"No, I am asking if I am a joke to you. Do you think I am a joke?"

"No, Jenny, I don't. I think you're a deeply disturbed girl with an affinity for fighting, and you may need counseling, but I don't think you're a joke at all. I think you were a great champion."

"Were...." Jenny huffed, "that's exactly it. I AM, and I will be again."

"I know you will be" Megan said with a smile. "I know you will."

Jenny slurped her coffee as Megan picked up one of the phones.

"Lets just focus on this week, though. This isn't an easy task."

Jenny shook her head. "Its not, you're right. I think I have a few things to say about these two ass hats. Write this down."

Megan sighed and took out a pen. Why did Jenny make her write everything?

Then she remembered her paycheck.

"I never noticed it before, but it is clear as day to me now. Louis Maxwell Pryce is cheating on his chicken nugget. He has to be. I mean, think about it, his mannerisms, his goofy sense of humor, his bad puns and over use of the N word like he thinks it makes him cool. Over-indulging in the corny comedy that seems to win the hearts of people around here. He must have Cadryn's stetson hat hanging on his hotel room door while he sends the dude from the Super Bowl M&M commercial out on a dildo run. It has to be the case, because this dude went from intense thug to crack head black man in the blink of an eye. It all makes sense now. He is taking Tiberius jerky up the poop shoot and trying to hide it from all of us. I have had to suffer through enough of the Cereal Jester promos to know a fake-ass punk bitch when I see one. Cadryn has dug his claws in, and he probably didn't even charge him. I always knew that little turd burgler swung both ways.

But Louis, what have you said in this new promo that you didn't already say? I get it I am a whore with daddy issues. Yawn. You're back story flash back was LMN good--if that means anything--but your insult chucking came up as ugly as Bababooie throwing out the first pitch. It just swerved in a weird, creepy, not funny or amusing direction and you never quite got back on course. I am not mad, no, more mournful. You have dropped this far. I thought maybe there was some hope for you as something more than the guy who your friends laugh through their nose and say "dis nigga stupit". That is all you are, like I said, comic relief. For some reason that is popular around these parts. Holy hell, between you and Random I feel like I am chaperoning an autism convention.

It is too bad because you are a big, hulking, pumped up black dude who looks more like a worn out ex-line backer than an athletic professional wrestler. You're about as agile as one too. Watching you in the ring is like watching two girls one cup, it sucks but you can't take your eyes off of it because of how disgusting it is. Your body is disproportionate, its no wonder you have to expel your boner juice on the face of someone the size of your bicep. You're compensating for something---so I guess the stereotype about you people isn't always true.

"Louis Maxwell Pryce ain’t here to play with yall niggas. I’m here to win matches, fuck bitches, and eat chicken." This is what I am talking about. You want to further your culture? I mean jesus I don't come out and say I am here to sleep my way to the top, earn a big enough pay check to shut down Sephora, and be hand fed sushi. I am not a diva, but you sir, are clearly a nig----"

Megan puts the clipboard up in the face of Jenny, she smacks it away.

"Oh, stop. Come on. It isn't like this dude doesn't know. I mean, shit, he is one bad joke away from the Sandman and his famous cane-hook. This dude would bomb at the Appollo---it isn't about the color, it is about the attitude. He sounds like a white dude trying to be black. I am pretty convinced he is just a really tan dude who used to be albino and now tries to hang out with the people his family used to own because his mid card checks can't afford reparations and he has a guilty conscience. I am sure of it.

"Fuck dat. Megan prolly hate your salty, crybaby ass too, bitch."

"Is this true?"

She pressed Megan with her nose to her nose. Close.

"I don't hate you, Jen. I do get frustrated with you, however."

"I'm not paying you to get frustrated. I am paying you to do your job."

"And I do a damn good job of it."

"You're damn right, or else you'd be just another pretty face with a useless bachelors degree."

Jenny turned away from her associate.

"So Louis, I already know what is going to happen here. It is the same story over and over again. The old narrative that happens in these types of matches. You are going to try to pin Random because you won't be able to put my ass down, and if you somehow get lucky enough to win this match you will have a victory over Jenny Myst via technicality not because you actually have the skill to beat me. I am glad you think me showing my emotions for once makes me weak, because that means you are underestimating me. It isn't a smart idea to underestimate me."

BoyzOrMen Said:Do you see me bragging about the niggas I’ve put down over the weeks?

"Dude, you're 3-0 according to your fancy promo intros. Who the fuck do you have to brag about anyway? I guarantee you'd be bragging about beating an opponent like winning a c-note in cee-lo if you actually beat someone of merit. Shit, I bet if you manage to pin Random in this match you will boast about beating Jenny Myst. You will rub it in everyone's face because that is the type of scared little bitch you are. You don't want a piece of this one on one, nobody does. Hell it took Madison two goons providing a distraction to finally do it, and she is twice, maybe three times the in ring competitor you are. She would mop the floor with you, as would I. I know, I know, its all speculative, right? Lets see who you pin in this match IF you win. I can promise you on my unborn kids it won't be me."

"I have been slept on too long. Louis is a clown who talks funny and moves his hands a lot. Random is, well, random. He doesn't have an identity, kinda like all those liberal sandal wearing Vermont fucks. Random can be literally anything, which makes him interesting, but it doesn't make him any better between the ropes. Random is literally the punching bag in this match. I don't think anyone actually expects him to be a factor tomorrow night. All he is, pin bait. He will get knocked on his ass and covered by Louis coward ass. Me, I don't care about Random. I am gunning for that loud mouthed douche who looks like 50 Cent after the prison sentence. I want to make him understand that Jenny Myst is a force here. Whether I win the match or not, I am going to make a statement. If I go down, I am going down swinging. Random can say all he wants about me, but all he has one me is my previous promiscuous history. He has nothing on me in terms of accomplishments here. Hell, I didn't even know he was still on the roster until I saw him on the card. He means literally nothing. To anyone. Fuck outta here.

"There is literally nothing else to say about Random other than the fact that he hovers somewhere between Isabella Ravenwolf and Kruzer. Either way, he's a pile of hot garbage. This match is going to be the highlight of the night but not because it is going to be a good match but because yours truly is coming for blood. Fuck what has been said already, the time for talking is over. I am going to take Carlton Banks on steroids and whatever the fuck Unicorn-Potatoe-Mel Gibson meets Joy Baher sex robot clone that Random decides to be this week and bend them over my knee, like bad little boys, and give them a true spanking."

She bites her lip.

"Ooh......if only we could all be so lucky."

PERFECTION

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode PlaceMarker A Drive To Reflect: Again
Author	Message