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+--- Thread: A Few Small Repairs (Epilogue) (/showthread.php?tid=32517)
A Few Small Repairs (Epilogue) - Dolly Waters - 02-06-2019
Epilogue:
It's been around four months now since I up and torched everything.
Returning to the site now to find the ashes had smoldered down into a gunky glob of grey clay. It's muddy now beneath my feet.
What a bleak way to shut the door on all of this, huh?
Well, for as much as I'm sure one could have found themselves invested in Brian Cawood's fanatical, yet ultimately moot take on Machiavelli- you have to admit the guy was scum. Take it from someone who understood the entire situation perfectly. Brian was only out for himself. Even after he believed himself reinvigorated, his main goal was always to profit from my glory, my hard work, my pain, my blood, my story. He said it himself: "Dolly Waters is going to be my Sistine Chapel."
Now how would that make you feel? Being lassoed into a form of intellectual slavery. To exist in a remembrance that's ultimate goal is that lionizing an author rather than it's basis. Your entire being becomes an adaption of some pompous, controlling nitwit's attempted servility, and said nitwit for the life of him cannot figure out his own failures while trying to assume credit for another's success?
Why, it's much like the feeble notion of the celestial dictator some of us refer to as God. The entire transcendence hogwash just makes me feel icky.
I haven't even started mentioning the lengths that this guy was willing to go to see these wild little dreams come to fruition. The way he manipulated my father, which was about as easy as a Stalin-esque dictator taking the reigns of Russia after hundreds of years of Tsarist orthodox credulity.
Poor ol' Muddy, right?
Well, for all of his annoyingly obtuse behavior he was at least, for a moment, on the right side of morality in this regard. That stain, that filthy sore, that little worm of a man had tricked Muddy into believing that I would - for ANY REASON - be willing to forgive him for essentially discarding me to the wolves all of those years ago.
For what it's worth. For those of you who remember. I wasn't always this way. Is it safe to say though that I always a little off? Sure! But I always tried my damnedest to enjoy my naivety. I was perfectly fine sitting back and revering my heroes. I never asked to become my own!
And so while my father couldn't get over his justifiably broken heart, as he laid in the wreckage left by my mother's insecurities and wickedness, he forgot something very important. He had an eleven year old daughter who thought he was the toughest, bravest, coolest, funniest, strongest man on the earth and loved him more than anything!
Just think about what I went through in the times that followed that folly. The road to Morbidonia, where I was lucky to find a helping hand in an unlikely friend, and mentor, Morbid Angel. But that was a road marred with a level of misery, bloodshed and loneliness that no human should endure, let alone an eleven year old girl traveling alone.
I never asked for life to bestow upon me the wondrous lessons of standing all alone. It wasn't my natural goal to be trained in the art of combat by a demon and be thrust into the spotlight. Nor was becoming a dominating house hold name, a beloved hero of the maligned and abandoned. Or the awkward sexual obsession of every slimy, mosquito-bite breast loving freak that my presence in the XWF pulled from the shadows like moths swarming to my radiance.
I doubt many of any could understand that level of pressure. Suddenly, at age thirteen, I'm one of the greatest competitors in arguably the most violent sport in the entire world. While my contemporaries were barley graduating from hopscotch and jump-rope, I'm fist fighting grown men on the top of twenty foot steel cells and undergoing routine concussion protocol. How was I then, or how am I now to ever return to any semblance of a normal childhood?
Even as I became a specter of sorts, intentionally vanishing to escape this erratic life I had dove into, it was clear that there would be no great emancipation back to some fabled life of a simple, southern small town girl. My life had been taken from me by my father. And as I tried leave what manifested from the former's ashes, Brian Cawood was actively trying to destroy that as well.
And thus, they both needed to be dealt with if I was ever going to move on, and move back. So that's what I did. And that's what I'm going to do. Only this time it's going to be on Dolly Waters' terms. Not my obedience lacking drunk of a father. Not some rat Jew bastard exploiting my talents like Paul Heyman. And certainly not some talentless hack of a journalist trying to bend my story towards his own grasp of notoriety.
There wasn't much made of the fire by the media. Lemmings will be lemmings, ya know? It was assumed that Muddy, Brian and Matthew had just bumbled on elsewhere as transient hacks so often do. As for me? Well, the world had long moved on from Dolly Waters. That was never more obvious for me then when I returned to XWF Headquarters a few weeks ago.
"Um, Mr. Lane?"
The almost grotesquely busty receptionist at Lane's office spoke into the telephone's intercom,
"I thought I told you not to bother me right now, dude? I have a naked Jacuzzi session to attend in thirty."
He replied. Still the same ol' Lane it seemed.
"Well there's a..."
The receptionist paused. She looked up at me from her chair a bit puzzled,
"...what was your name again?"
She lightly asks, while kind of covering up the intercom speaker,
"Dolly Waters, Ma'am."
I replied,
She made a strange face before repeating my handle to the boss man,
"Dolly Waters? I believe. Here to see you. I figured she must have gotten through security with good reason."
She inferred with her reply,
And she's right. Tommy Gunn, Lane's personal detail, let me right through the door with his crooked, creepy smile.
"WHO?!"
Aye-yi-yi. You'd think the name of a former holder of nearly every singles title in the company would warrant a more jarring response.
The receptionist rolled her eyes at me and cleared her throat before saying again, this time with a twang of irritation,
"DOL-LY WAT-ERS"
There's a brief moment of silence before Lane responds,
"The little girl?!"
The receptionist looks my childish frame up and down,
"Uh, yes. I guess you could say that."
She said,
I was getting a bit irritated. My foot tapping the floor.
There's another pause from Lane before he responds:
"Fuck it. Send her in. She should be of age by now."
Uhhh. I wasn't. I'm fifteen now, and even if I were of age... ew. No. Gross.
"So, the prodigal rose that grew from a trailer park septic tank has returned."
He said as I walked into his office, shutting the door behind me,
"Nice to see you too, Vinnie. Even nicer to know you haven't succumb to HIV yet."
Lane scoffed at me and rolls his eyes. Dressed in his typical drag so flamboyant the rotting carcass of Freddie Mercury would look at him sideways - he stands from behind his desk with a golf club in his hand and rolls over on a hoverboard to one of those little indoor putting greens.
The look on my face was beyond puzzled.
"What's the matter, kid? Never seen someone look this good while bossing the fuck out?"
Lane said, just before looking away from me and rearing way back with the golf club.
"SEVEN!"
He smashes the ball, rather than just lightly putting it towards the hole and sends it flying across the office. The ball crashes into the wall, where I noticed at least another dozen golf ball sized holes have ripped into the drywall.
"Well, yer' like really good at putting huh?"
I said while walking forward in his baroque office, taking a seat in front of his desk.
"And to think, dude."
Lane said, before taking an annoyingly long drag from his vape pen.
"I wasn't even trying."
He quipped while exhaling the smoke. Or the vape. Whatever in the fuck it was. The shit stunk worse than one of those Persian restaurants that offer dirty tobacco bongs with your meal.
"So!"
He said, rolling his hoverboard back around to his seat at his desk. Facing me now.
"What brings you in today? You no longer receiving your pension checks down in Deliverance?"
He asked with a shit eating grin on his face,
"Uh, actually I never requested for one of those."
Lane looks away from me and starts hammering away on his keyboard. Knowing I had his undivided attention, I continued on,
"So. After giving it a couple of years of thought. Resting my body up. Some rather cliché soul searching..."
"Uhh, uh huh. Uh huh. Yeah."
Lane was groaning out while I spoke. His eyes totally focused on his computer screen.
"Uhhh. Aimless blathering. Clammy taint sores and cold period flow."
I thought maybe that would grab his attention.
"Uhh, uh huh. M'Yep."
It didn't. So fuck it.
"I've decided to come back and wrestle for the XWF again!"
"GODDAMNIT!"
Lane slams his keyboard and mouse down into his desk and looks up at me.
"The fuck, Vinnie?!"
"This douche canoe on Fortnight was totally fucking camping me, dude! Cheating little prick! What's his fucking name?"
Lane started scouring the computer screen with his eyes,
"Hashtag Based Meme Queen? The fuck is that bullshit? Millennials. I swear to fucking god!"
"Okay. Fuck it."
Lane's attention span had somehow worsened over the years. Pissed and really ready to start fighting motherfuckers again I jump up from my seat and head towards the exit,
"You and I both already know I'm still under contract, Lane. I just thought it'd be common fucking courtesy to drop in and say hello before I start ripping through your current pathetic excuse of a wrestling roster."
Lane's the type of fellow who will always get serious once he knows you're done playing around.
"You may still be under contract, kid. But it's me, and me alone who decides whether or not you're mentally, and physically fit enough to compete. So I suggest you sit back down, Dolly."
Goddamn this guy.
"Competent? Really, Vinnie? Isn't Drezdin still appearing on your programming weekly?"
I spat back,
"Exactly. Drezdin has been around every week. He didn't up and flake on the industry for two years like someone else did in this room"
Lane had a very specific way of cutting one down. It's because he wasn't wrong. The truth stings like a fresh burr to the ass cheek.
"Finally at a loss for words?"
He asked as my face sunk,
"Listen. I was under a lot of pressure back then, and not to mention, thir-FUCKING-teen years old."
Lane cut me off,
"Oh! Like I was standing on the corner begging for a thirteen year old girl? Who do you think I am? Mike Graves? Had it not been for Paul Heyman practically begging me to sign you, Dolly Waters would have never happened."
What an asshole, right?
Ehhh.
I guess it was pretty obvious to me that I had let the guy down. I won't go as far as saying I might had hurt his feelings, because as many times as Lane had been dropped on his neck, I doubt he had any feeling left. But nonetheless, the XWF had always been a tightknit fellowship of sorts. I sort of went against that grain, I suppose.
I know it couldn't have been the easiest thing in the world to do for his stand point. You know? Promoting a barely teenage girl as a champion in a sport where grown men had literally died on live television. But even he admitted,
"And you didn't disappoint did you? Well at least not until you flaked."
He pauses for a moment before continuing,
"Listen. I'm going to bring you back in, but this time let's not just have an 'October of Waters', cool? To ensure that, I'm starting you off back down at the bottom. Not like anyone around here really remembers you anyway."
Perfectly fine by me.
So with a few small repairs to all things pertinent, I had burned it all down to finally build Dolly Waters on my own accord from the ashes. No lovably drunken heroes. No demon mentors. No Jew manager. No shadow friend alter ego. No obsessed journalist.
No. This time it's just me. Standing in the rubble of where that story ended, I don't look back in anger.
Instead in the wooded area just beyond the burnt down trailer, I see him dressed in all black still, waving at me from behind the trees. I simply smile and wave back, and dig my heels in to where this story now begins.
How fucking cliché right?
-end-
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Warfare promo:
"To my dearest opponents,
Let me start this little verbal shindig out by apologizing for my previous vignette. Management had kind of pissed me off, and I got off track a bit. You two deserve better than that.
Wait a second.
No you don't.
Let's be real here for a moment. For as well equipped as I'm sure you both are at letting me, and everyone else know just how you each respectively plan to win this match- you've both been rather quiet. It's honestly not a good look.
Here we are, what? Seven days away from this match, and neither of you have even muttered as much as a faint fanny fart about anything! It's not you two fuckwads who deserve better, it's the XWF fans who deserve better.
So excuse me again if my previous promo might be "misjudged" by the folks who might give a damn about that kind of thing. Feelings all hurt and such. At least it got the Warfare card fixed. But the further all of this drags out, the more my points are proven.
If the booking team had any fucking clue how to do their jobs, they would have never booked, me, The Phenom, Dolly Waters in a match with two disinterested scrubs. All they've done is ensure a second Hart Title reign for yours truly. Maybe it's a ratings ploy? If that's the case, then at least kudos to them for being bright in that regard.
But I mean fer' fuck's sake people! Scully doesn't want a damn thing to do with this match either. Trust me. Scully, tired of having his teeth kicked in for years has been tweeting for months about how he couldn't decide if he should give the XWF another go. I'm not sure what you had to lose, pal. Either spare us all another string of cringe worthy rap freestyles, and spare yourself of a few more ass beatings, or don't!
At the end of the day, nothing you say or do in this federation will ever... EVER change the fact that you, and no one else, you Scully the goddamned
gave us all a Peter Gilmour Universal Title reign. It was and still is un-fucking-forgivable. And just so we're clear, that happened while you WEREN'T working that ignorant 'Hi I'm Scully, I'm a " gimmick. A simply sad attempt to elicit laughter that worked about as well as your rap music, and left us all pondering the idea that "Hey, this dude does seem legit ." It was when you were, just as you are now, trying yer' damndest to be normal. That's it dude. That's your legacy. The
who lost the Universal Title to Peter Gilmour. Can you fight? Can you up and get lucky and win title matches? Of course you can- but it just ain't happening against me sweetheart. I'm far too focused. I'm not sitting around deliberating my wrestling future to my twelve followers on Twitter. I've been sitting back thinking about how good it's going to feel to run my knee into that flimsy little jaw of yours.What I haven't been doing is sitting around bitching about either of you to the XWF shrink, aye Zane? I get it that yer' deep and conflicted and such given yer', um, predicament. But dude, really? There's not that much to understand about Drezdin, he, like our other opponent is a living, breathing
. Lysenko's biology in the human form. Heed what I'm saying dude. The fact that you had to have that Forest Gumpian's thought process psychoanalyzed should be a real call for concern that yer' starting to go full zombie mode. Night of the Living Dumbfuck, babe. It's happening harder than a Ron Paul meme.
So when you get in the ring and all of that brutally boring, deep reflective crap you've got going on escapes you and suddenly all you can process are gargle sounds and how wonderful you find the smell of Scully's piss stained tights -PLEASE- fer' the love of god try and at least keep yer' face about you. The last thing anyone wants is to see your jaw slung open and your tongue dangling about. You already look like Avril Lavine with cancer. No need to take it any further.
Look you seem like at some point you were a swell guy, a fucking weirdo mortician who's likely into necrophilia, but a swell fella' nonetheless. I can't really fault much of anything you've done while spending time in this FINE federation. But let me make one thing clear, if you try and fucking bite me I will go full Walking Dead on your skinny ass and crack yer' skull wide open, pal. I'm not trying to turn into whatever it is yer' turning into. That's too fucking boring of a story to repeat, capeesh?
Instead how about you do yer'self and the entire world a favor. I have a plan. I can play the proverbial David, with NO semblance of a Goliath in sight and instead kill two birds with one stone. I'll bust Scully's skull open, and then you can finally eat those brains you need, and then the entire world will never have to hear Scully rap again. It's a win, win. Just as it will be another win this Wednesday for Dolly Waters.
Bye guys!!!
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OOC:
This will serve as the conclusion, or the wrapping of so to speak, of a series I worked on dating almost two years back:
"Dolly Waters: The curious life of a combat prodigy." In this link I've provided easy access for those interested to the flow of the series.
It's not often I'll provide much OOC insight into story direction, background inspiration or things of that nature; but for me personally I felt it was very important close the door on this series with proper explanation.
But just as I had written that last sentence it dawned on me that most of the aforementioned doesn't need an explanation. Muddy and Dolly Waters, along with Brian Cawood, Matthew, Big Rhonda, The Buronan are all characters I have a very deep, personal connection with. They know better than even I do just how to explain all of this to anyone interested, and they've been doing it for years now already.
And so now I give you, to put all of this wonderful trip into perspective as she moves into a new chapter of her life: Dolly Waters. I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed dreaming it over the years.