Prologue: YOU NEED A HERO


Emily Madison made it out. Slipped through the vice grip of Camden, New Jersey and never looked back. Why would she? It wasn't like there was anything worth saving inside the city limits. There was a point, and it happened at different ages for everyone, when the rot and decay of Camden crept its way into your heart, into your soul, and twisted you into a reflection of itself. She pondered that thought the first night in Galveston… the first night it sunk in that she'd actually managed to escape.

You can take the girl out of Camden, but you can't take Camden out of the girl.

That thought snuck back into her head a lot in the last few months, every time she looked at little Jamie asleep in her crib.

If a parent's job is to provide a better life for their children than the one they'd been given, she was sure she'd already achieved that.

Yet, that didn't stop her from worrying herself sick, staying up well into the morning-hours, reflecting on the life she led now and the one she left behind. Carrying on phantom conversations about how great it felt when she let herself realize that she was gone. That Camden couldn't corrupt her anymore. How she held onto those thoughts when the monotony of her daily routine drove her close to the edge. At least Camden was exciting she'd think during idle moments, before correcting herself. Burying the part of her that she couldn't save yet also couldn't bear to shed.

The memories of nights like this: two in the morning, talking with Alicia Frazier, the friend she left behind over a stolen bottle of vodka. Plotting their eventual escape. What they'd do when they finally got out. The people they'd be. How they'd change the world because while they weren't naive enough to think life in Camden would ever get better, they still thought there was a chance that they'd be able to do something, anything, to "carry the fire" as Alicia would put it, whatever that meant.

That was the thing about Alicia: it was impossible to tell if she knew what she was talking about and put it in the most needlessly violet-hued way she could, or she did that because she knew absolutely nothing.

Emily shook her head and cursed herself for giving that much thought to someone she hadn't seen in years.

It didn't matter to her anymore if Alicia made it out of Camden or not. The city had gotten to her. Infected her, the way it did to everyone who lived there long enough. She'd seen it the last time they hung out: dragging themselves down sidewalks and back-alleys in a drunken haze. A homeless junkie asked them for change and Alicia, who was going on another long-winded, slurred rant about nothing in particular and gesturing with the bottle in her hand simply turned and smashed the glass on the man's face. They'd laughed about it on the way home, and it wasn't until she'd sobered up that Emily saw the red flag and cut the unlikely tumor out of her life.

It was fitting, given how sanctimonious Alicia was; something she learned in hindsight. Of course she'd fall in the same hole as everyone else, she never watched where she was going. That was a problem for everyone else, not her. Never her.

Still, it wasn't like Emily could demonize her. If it weren't for her, Emily couldn't be sure if she'd ever make it out.

Which led Emily to her current predicament: sitting at her computer, cursor hovering over a button that would put her right back in contact with the enigma that was Alicia Frazier.

She sighed, and clicked it.

You can take the girl out of Camden, but you can't take Camden out of the girl.

Act One: SOMEONE TO RESCUE YOU

Dart in hand, Alicia lined up her shot with the eyeball of the woman on the picture taped to the board: Emily Madison, nee Shaw, torn in half. The other half, depicting Alicia herself, was tucked into her back pocket. She tossed the dart and smiled despite the fact that it missed her intended target by a mile, instead nailing the picture right in the throat.

"How's that for your 'friendship', bitch?" she snarled at the picture, teeth bared, nostrils flared.

She threw another dart that hit the picture in the cheek.

"Condescending cunt. If it weren't for me you'd still be here."

She wiped a tear from her eye. Why was she crying? She didn't miss Emily; she hadn't paid her a single thought since her betrayal. It wasn't worth questioning what the fuck had gotten into her, dwelling on the lows distracted from the mission. She never had the heart for the long game anyway, the game of rising up, being a fucking role model. Carrying the fire; showing everyone in the same situation that you can get out, rubbing it in the faces of everyone who said it was impossible. That's why she ducked out in the middle of the night like a whore being exiled. Why she never called, wrote, anything.

Alicia hoped that the guilt was eating Emily alive. She savored the thought of that haughty bitch - who did she think she was anyway - groveling. On her knees, begging, pleading forgiveness. The message in her inbox would have to do for now.

Alicia,

It's two in the morning here and I'm a little drunk. Sound familiar? Yeah, I thought so at least. I don't know, I've thought a lot about the talks we used to have, the plans we used to make, how ridiculous they were in hindsight. We wanted to do everything, didn't we?

I know things ended pretty badly between us and I don't think I've ever thanked you for inspiring me to get out of that place. I don't know if you ever made it out too, but if you haven't yet, I'm going to be in town in a couple of weeks for my father's funeral. First time in forever.

Wondering if you'd want to catch up when I'm in town.

Emily.

What a crock of shit, Alicia thought as she lined up her shot once more. She wanted to reply, to really let Emily know what she thought.

"Hey Emily, why don't you go fuck yourself? My life didn't fucking stop just because you left, I'm not the same scared little girl torn between wanting to run away and be the fucking success story this town doesn't need that you knew. I'm making that a reality. Going to London in a couple days - have you even been out of the country? Doubt it because you give up on all of your dreams. They're ridiculous now because you're scared to make them a reality so instead you substitute one cancerous routine for another some place far away. You're still stuck, stunted, and you don't realize it yet. Maybe your daughter will trick into thinking you've accomplished anything. Maybe daddy dying will remind you that you're a fucking human being or maybe it won't since you're nothing but a coward.

Sincerest regards, your pal Alicia."

The dart struck the picture right in the eye.

"Bullseye," she said, beaming, as she finally sent her response to her personal Judas.

Sure. Name the time and place. It'll be good to see you again.

After all, appearances mattered.

Act Two: I'VE GOT NEWS FOR YOU

Let's all have a moment of silence for Frodo Smackins, to reflect on just how many times he impaled himself on the blunt swords he calls trash talk, falling back on the same routine even after the ridiculousness of it was exposed.

More nitpicking.

More asinine, inane rambling.

It's a collection of all your favorite Frodo tropes: from "edgy rape jokes" to "fiercely debating something that doesn't matter in the slightest", all the way to "idle threats that he can't back up in the slightest".

We're not in a debate class, Frodo. All your posturing about how you aren't a psychopath doesn't matter in the slightest, but hey, if we're going to get all nitpicky why don't we talk about how psychopath and sociopath aren't even recognized as diagnoses anymore? If you're going to nitpick, why not go all the way and call Jon's shrink a hack for referring to someone as a psychopath in 2016? It's called antisocial personality disorder, after all.

Is it because no matter how much you want to act like you're smart - there's no other explanation for even perpetuating this argument in the first place, you're not? Is it because you're a desperate, scared, attention-seeking, praise-hungry, weak-willed, sniveling bully who can only feel good about himself when he creates scenarios where he's better than people? And you have to create those scenarios because the real world offers you no such luxuries? You're a wrestler whose greatest accomplishments weren't earned. You're a general manager no one respects. You have to have something, right?

So you cling to fabricated, irrelevant nonsense to trick people into thinking you're some intellectual superior.

You denigrate Jon's Anarchy Title, always quick to remind him that the thing isn't a sanctioned title because he earned it on his own. Without someone rigging it in your favor - which, if you're going to get nitpicky with me, you might want to remember that I never said that was a revelation - or leeching off of someone else's hard work before ruining it for both of you - which is still relevant today because you lost it to the guy you brag about raping because you can never actually beat him either. The fact that Jon Willis did in his debut something you could only dream of sends you into a rage and what do you do when you're in one of those moods? You try to burn the bridge down to cover for your insecurities. He's not better than you because that belt doesn't even count.

Rebel Star won the crown you challenged for a couple of years ago, but it's fine because it's a trinket now.

And now you try and take credit for her coming back to your show like anyone has any respect for you in any aspect of the wrestling business. Really. Are you that pathetic? Are you that desperate to feel important?

Here's the truth, Frodo.

No one cares about you in the slightest.

You'd think, seeing as you hold the second most prestigious title in this company, that more people would be interested in ripping the belt from your hands, even if it meant putting up with the ridiculous stipulation placed on the match. It was open to everyone, and guess how many people turned up to dethrone the King of Dwarves?

Two.

Two people who anyone could see were no real competition. That's the kind of attention you draw, Frodo. That's the truth.

But don't focus on that, it might hurt your fragile ego and you might go off on a tirade and rant and cry and scream about how worthless the whole XWF roster is, about how you're superior to everyone - oblivious to the boomerang effect and how it just makes you look worse to be the best of the worst. Focus on something else. Something irrelevant - like, I got it!

Hear me out, this might sound a little crazy.

Focus on a pastiche of all of your personality traits: your love of rape, your sense of blue and orange morality, the fact that literally nothing you do makes any sense to anyone with a brain - where you get things factually wrong which is a sin in your nitpicking books. But don't focus on that last part, that's for people with self-awareness which you obviously lack.

You know, I might not be able to hang with the big dogs, but I won't have to worry about that this week. Not from you at least.

Act Three: SOMEONE THAT YOU CAN RUN TO

My hands are shaking and my heart is racing as I pace back and forth in my hotel room. I'm somewhere between nervous and ecstatic because I love this feeling. This sense of unease, where I've done all I could and now I have to wait and wait and wait until the lights shine and "Throne" by Bring Me the Horizon hits the speakers and it's my turn to go out there and have a great match, to really excite the crowd. Or maybe the thing that has me chomping at the bit, ready to go more than anything is the urge to give Frodo Smackins the career ending injury he's begging for, to punk that glorified sex doll Rebel Star and show her how fucking worthless her manufactured "advantages" are.

I can see it now. My name in lights, the confused reaction of the London crowd when I make my way down the ramp for the first time, to the awestruck applause that will surely erupt when I steal the show in my debut. Walk out the winner of my first match, my first main event, my first championship, all in one night.

I can see Jon Willis and how great of a partner he'll be. It's almost a shame that I'm going to have to take the real belt from him and leave him with his unsanctioned title - which is still more of a credible accomplishment than anything Frodo's earned so I don't think he'll be too upset.

I feel like I should do something for him to really let him know how thankful I am for his presence.

But what?

As if through divine intervention, the corners of my mouth turn upwards and I smile; I know exactly the thing.

I turn and look at myself in the bathroom mirror as I pass by the open door and I swear I can see my reflection begin mouthing a familiar phrase:

You can take the girl out of Camden, but you can't take Camden out of the girl.