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Jenny Myst · (03-15-2021)

There it is again, that feeling in the pit of your stomach. The anxiety that consumes you like a cancer, eating away at your innards and withering you away to nothing while you sit helpless to do anything but watch your own demise.

What have you become? Who were you really?

Empty swings in the park as the breeze blows the leaves that had spent the last few months under thick snow. The trees, still dead, whispering in the wind as their branches click together. Your Doc Martin's crunch the pebble-laden dirt, still moist from the snow-melt as your shuffle along. A new season was beginning, the landscape around you was changing.

But had you truly changed?

You like to think you had. Learned from your experiences, all that jazz. But Betsy Granger still held your title, you didn't get the job done in the TV title match, and your entire Queen mantra has taken a severe cunt-punt. So who were you, truly?

There is nothing scarier than the human mind. Fuck Godzilla, those hororr movie lab creations that could never possibly happen. People are the scary ones. Especially when those people have nothing left. When those people are backed into a corner.

Little girls laugh and giggle on the swing set. They little shoes scraping the dirt below just enough to give them the push they need to go higher and higher and higher.........

You look away.......the swings sway softly in the breeze behind you, but don't look.........

You won't like what you see.

But all around you is what is keeping you down.

There is a man in a dirty white shirt and brown pants, carrying a garbage bag. He is talking to himself, mumbling almost inaudibly, and picking up trash. Each object he put in the bag magically appeared on the ground again a few feet away, and the process repeated. Stuck in a cycle, over and over, the same results, the same ending, and no advancement. That tingly feeling....jealousy? You wanted this? The same thing, over and over....and he seemed content, happy with it.

Talk about the definition of insanity. She also noticed this man was missing an ear.

No.

You look away again, trying to avoid looking at the swings.

On the grass, laying on a blanket was some hipster looking chick. She was laying on her back, looking up at the sky, tracing constellations with her fingers as her smile melted across her face. Next to her laid a book about the zodiac and a shiny gold trophy with your name on it.......

The goth kids stood in a circle, chanting and lighting things on fire in a dumpster. They spray painted a pentagram on the side walk like wanna be bad asses.

FUCK THE MAN!!!!

You kept walking......

No matter where you went, you couldn't escape. Your Doc Martin's were getting dirty now. Every time you crossed the threshold of what you perceived as reality....boom....one blink, and it all began again. The little girls on the swings, the fat trash picker, the hipster chick, the goth kids........

Over and over again.

With new variables mixed in.

Ugly twins arguing over which one looks better in spandex. Which one does daddy love more? Which one is less promiscuous?

There is some lunatic with spaghetti hair, running around flailing his arms, dressed like a 90's meth head. He has a mark on his palm....musta been hitting the pipe too hard. Poor guy. He seemed lost.

Over and over again, the same thing. You could see a shiny city in the distance, bright lights and the faint sound of music through loudspeakers....

Blink.

And here you were, back again.

The cycle continues and you feel like you'll never break out of it, like this is the only world you're going to know.

You drop to your knees, you want to scream but you can't. There is a pressure on your chest, as if a large animal has taken a seat just above your rib cage.

You bury your head in your hands. Maybe if you close your eyes tight enough this will all just go away!

There is a loud, almost siren like wail. The world is spinning in around you, your breathing becomes more rapid. It is getting harder to breathe. You scream, pressing your palms into your eyes.

Suddenly......silence.

A deafening silence. Was this is, were you dead?

You take your hands of your face. You gasp at the blank landscape before you. All that sits there is a black van. Windowless. A delivery van.

A window rolls down and an older gentleman smiles at you.

"Hello, Jennifer."

Just then the characters come back.......the old man smiles, blood on his teeth, and begins to laugh as the creature cycle begins to encircle you one more.

The van begins to pull away, heading towards the shiny city......you can see the plates on the back........

DOCTOR.

You try to run but you can't move........your legs seem to be rooted to the ground. Your ride to the top......

You reach, but your arms feel limp, numb......your heart sinks to the soles of your feet.........

BLACKNESS

You wake up and you are inside the van. There is blood everywhere. The old man sits in the front seat with a giant wound on his neck...........you touch your lip.

You tore his throat out.

You look at the city all around you. You see new people, people you haven't met yet, but have heard about. People who are "above you". A different class. People who wouldn't reach out to you if you needed a hand, wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire.

As they begin to notice, you shut the doors of the van.

DOCTOR.

It kicks into gear as the van rolls back towards the field from which it came, back to the cycle, back to the familiar names....faces...victims........

There's a creature in my closet
I can hear him rumbling 'round
The demons screaming in the distance
Creates such a humbling sound
The monster that's outside my window
He's like family to me now
The things that people are afraid of
Never let me down

HE'S NOT SO SCARY AFTER ALL

THE MONSTER YOU'VE BEEN RUNNING FROM THIS WHOLE TIME............IT'S YOU.

[Image: oj7H5Jb.gif]

"Many people may look at Jenny Myst as simply a character. A personality, not a wrestler. Hyper-focused on a shiny belt with some bedazzled features and an over-the-top bitchy personality due to an ego inflated ten fold to what her accomplishments merit. Some look at me, and my nearly four year long affiliation with perennial punching bag Chris Chaos, and consider me and my aptitude inside the ring to be a, as they call it, a "laughing stock". Hell bent on humiliating me beyond belief every time the opportunity rears its ugly head, my ride through the clouds here has been rather....turbulent. That is being generous. In an ideal world, this is where Jenny Myst's career and life as a professional wrestler would end, and come crashing down to the earth in a fiery plume. But here is the thing about laughing stocks, humiliating them is rarely the end. As the often misattributed quote goes "First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win." With my dreams of being the Queen of XWF and the Shooting Star Champion all in one all but shattered in one fell swoop, I am now ready to fight. For the first time in my career, actually fight. I have largely been ignored by the "upper crust" around here, given a title and a division to keep me satisfied while the XWF world revolved around me and opportunities to be the true top passed me by with every rotation. The opportunity to be Universal. Guys like Doctor D'Ville, they don't care about Jenny Myst. They don't care about anyone that they deem "below" them. To be the best you need to beat the best, and Jenny Myst has not beaten "the best". Has she tried and failed? No. She hasn't been given the opportunity.

Chris Chaos has been given those opportunities and has landed on the asphalt in a face plant every single time. Jenny, she was just along for the ride. Simply arm candy and the occasional mouth piece. I've sat back and watched those who don't deserve to get lucky do just that. Chris being one of them. Chris beat Doctor D'Ville in 2016 and he still won't let any of us forget about it. But this isn't the same Doc, is it? It's the same Chris Chaos, but his failure to grow and adapt is why he is sitting in a dingy hotel with a strung out Mandii Rider as his cock-holster, Gabe Reno as his emotional support animal, and a browser full of Shane

scat-porn. A "man", bent and broken with nothing more than a number on an all-time list to cleanse his pallet; a trophy for nothing more than longevity. Doc is just as intimidating to 90 percent of this roster as he was back then......and perhaps even more vulnerable.

Monsters aren't so bad when you take away the one thing that makes them scary; fear. Monsters pray on the fears of their victims, and those who don't fear them don't see them as monsters, they see them as...

Well, lets just say they see them, hmm?

They see them, but don't see them. Just like someone can hear you, but not listen. If you don't consider a monster a monster, then they simply are a figment of reality and not imagination. They become more.....human. You can read them, because you are one. You won't fall victim to the jump scare. You can compartmentalize them--put them in your cute little bag and take them with you--instead of running down the streets away from them, screaming. I have spent my entire career running from monsters like this because I have been too focused on my own--the one's inside my head. I was too stubborn, or too ignorant, to get out of my own way. To break out of my shell. To spread my wings like a blood covered butterfly and take off into a world that had went on without Jenny Myst in it.

I have sat back in the shadows while men like Doctor D'Ville captured our imagination and guys like Chris Page, Robert Main and Thaddeus Duke captured the gold. Doc making his sporadic appearances here and there--like a herpes outbreak--to hurt for the sake of hurting and winning despite not needing to. Every time Doc's name is on a card it brings a lump to the throats of those who stand parallel to it, and a collective gasp to the rest of the card who gets to witness the bloodshed first hand. Doc got to show up whenever he pleased and they rolled out the red carpet for him, put out Hors d'oeuvre's and popped the finest bottles of vintage champagne while those who put in the grunt work, who came to work every single day and put their bodies on the line, got a Diet Pepsi and a Medium French Fry.

How did Doc get so lucky? Well, I wouldn't call it luck at all. He has earned his stripes, and he gets to have that aura of mystique and novelty.....nobody has had the internal fortitude to challenge him, until now. Guys like Demos have said they aren't afraid of Doc, but then again those same people joke around about death and destruction until it is staring them in the face. Then they wet themselves and leave a load in their pants, and not post-prom-back-seat-of-the-limo kind. Guys like Demos have a lot to lose. A title, a reputation, pride, ego, and a bad case of toxic masculinity mixed with small-dick syndrome. Me? I have nothing more to lose. I have lost my title, I have lost the allure of being the Queen, I have lost the edge that I had over competition. I WAS the top tier of a division that scored a B- at best. I WAS the best of a mediocre situation, and I allowed the lioness to mingle with gazelle's when I should have been ripping out their jugular and beginning to feast while they were still alive and twitching. Nobody expects me to do anything anymore, and much to the contrary of popular opinion, that is exactly where I want to be. I have nowhere to go but up. As much as I hate the disgusting cum-stain known as Chris Chaos, seeing him beat Doc, seeing his career launch into the cosmos with one match, was something that I have yet to do. Many have tried, many have failed. I come into this tournament the massive underdog, with that one signature win looming on the horizon like a golden sunset. Will it come this week? It may, it may not. The only thing left to do is fight.

Doc, you've made a career off of instilling fear in your opponents, playing head games, and taking heads off inside that ring. You've preyed upon those weaker than you, and set a bar higher than even a professional pole-vaulter can jump. You've been the standard of excellence, and the face of terror. You've been looked up to and despised in the same sentence, and have ruled over your subjects with an iron fist. But even the most brutal fall to a resistance that is strong enough. I compared you to herpes before--well, you can only catch herpes if the one you're with has an outbreak. Otherwise, it sits dormant, a nuisance waiting to rear its ugly head at the worst possible time. But far from contagious. We have a Doc outbreak, and Jenny Myst is primed to catch it. I am not going to sit here and tell you that I am going to beat you, Doc, because that would be something that Chris Chaos would do. I am simply going to tell you that I am going to push you to the limits of your very existence, question for the first time if you still have it, and give these Rhode Island scumbags a main event that's worth their blue collar money. Ivan Drago once said "If he dies, he dies." Doc, if I fail, I fail. I've failed before, and it would be preposterous to expect I won't fail again. I'll fight my ass off, and I'll give it all the hellfire and brimstone inside my tiny body. If I win, I win. If I don't, who really expected me to anyway? One thing I WILL do, Doc, is earn your respect. There is nothing you can do to me inside that ring that I am not prepared for. You're the bringer of pain, and I happen to enjoy pain. Beat me down, Doc, break me in half, torture me inside that vaunted squared circle you call your office. Bring a grimace to my face and tears to my eyes. Spill my blood on the canvass. Make me beg you to stop, then keep going. Knock me down 9 times, but watch me get up 10, even if I need assistance to do so. You've done a lot in your career, many things that many people will never even dream to do, but the one thing you'll NEVER do is kill Jenny Myst.

I said it before, and I'll say it again, a little louder for those in the cheap seats.

Don't hunt what you can't kill.

The only thing I fear is what I am truly capable of. Why the fuck should I fear you?"

"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat."

--Theodore Roosevelt

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