702-867-5309: Noah Jackson? I thought Michael was the youngest?

Shoving her phone into her shoulder bag, she smiled at the lady behind the desk, thanking her for being the most pleasant Texan she’d ever met (seriously, they're all dicks. Not as bad as Australians, but in the discussion). The woman seemed a bit concerned about the dried blood that coated the girl like a second skin, but chose not to speak up about it (because, you know, the whole one good Texan thing).

Jenny walked through the lobby of the Courtyard by Marriot, right near NRG stadium, humming the tune to the famous children’s song “I can do anything better than you can, I can do anything better than you.” She had just gotten her room keys and checked in.


AND AND ANNNNNDDDD to top it off, they didn’t have any dog treats at the front desk. Apparently, Marriot is anti-dog. Or pro-Michael Vick. Who knows!

She walked through the longer than necessary lobby and to the elevator, still humming the tune. The elevator dinged and she wheeled her bags inside. Why did she ALLLWAAYSS bring so much stuff? She lugged it out of the elevator and down the carpeted hallway towards her room.

All of this travel was getting to be a bit monotonous. They couldn’t just do everything in one building like TNA and make these beer swilling troglodytes who are willing to spend their disability money to watch a wrestling show come to them?

She digressed.

Maybe she over-booked herself? Eh, better to get it out of the way. Contractual agreements, and such.

She had to be in Canada two nights before March Madness to dispatch Jason Cashe and then never have to worry about Anarchy ever again. Then she would come back and defend her title AGAIN…..two hardcore matches in three nights…..against a man who calls himself a “Sick Cunt” and has a lunchbox decal for a trademarked logo. Or maybe a crappy Wal-Mart shirt. One of those clearance ones they shove at the front of the store by the self-checkout lanes to entice sympathy buys from compulsive discount whores. Everything about it, is just fucking terrible in every way. Noah Jackson, the Mighty Morphin Gay Australian.

Where has he been anyway? Hasn’t he been gone from the active roster for like 2 years? Doesn’t he pop up every so often for comic relief when shit gets too real around here and Vinnie needs a good laugh to relieve that stress of his? (He’s been sleeping on the couch ever since his ED started to flare up again. Roxy drives a hard bargain.)

She arrives at her room and opens it up. Setting her bag down on the bed, she opens the thin off-white curtains that provide virtually no privacy at all, and looks out at her battlefield once again. This hotel is only a half a mile from NRG Stadium, you can see it from her room.

Still humming that toon, she unzips her bag. “I can do anything better than you…..” she sings under her breath–damn song has been stuck in her head for days.

She takes out a ziplock bag with assorted fruit inside. It had been buried in her luggage, under the multiple purple and maroon v-neck tee shirts and black spandex shorts. The inside of the bag was wet and the fruit was soft by this point, but she was able to salvage a banana that wasn’t too brown.

Jenny finished peeling her banana, looking in the full sized mirror above the desk they always put in the rooms even though nobody uses them. She had been through hell and back at Snow Job, but once again, she came out victorious. She told the world she was going to win, and she did exactly that.

The X-title looked better with some blood on it.

She took a bite and began to chew, the pain in her jaw from the parking lot brawl was almost blinding, but the soft, mushy consistency of the banana made things feel better at least temporarily. Who needs medication when you can enjoy the simple things in life?

She continued to enjoy her rapidly rotting treat, looking at her banged up and bruised figure. She felt every bump, every scrape, every cut and bruise. She almost died in Green Bay! But despite all of the pain that she had put her body through by being the company’s Hardcore legend, the first thing that came to her mind between the intermittent migraines was “will Mark Flynn ever lose again?”

She was still wearing the bloody Gengar shirt from the Pay Per View. Sort of like a rally cap in baseball–it's been good luck to this point. Finishing the banana she tossed the peel in the child-sized garbage can (really though–why were they always so damn tiny?!), and closed up her bag.

Laying back on her bed, always judging her room by how many inches off the bed she bounced when she plopped onto it (she left a bounciness review on the barely-big-enough-to-write-a-full-sentence notepad on that on that useless desk in every room she stayed in), and let her eyes close for a few moments.



Yeah, she was going to get shit from THAT guy this week. Same tired insults spewed in creative ways and gift-wrapped in CUNT until the very sound of the word makes us want to off ourselves with a nail-gun in a truck stop bathroom while our family waits in the car for us to bring the Sbarro out……..

THAT GUY. Who hasn’t been around in years and hasn’t done anything worthwhile since–well, ever.

THAT GUY.

She rolled over, shifting positions to take some of the strain off of her probably cracked ribs. 

Her phone dinged. She checked it. 

323-874-6673: He's gonna be more upset after you beat him than you were when Tommy decided Amy wasn't as fine as Rita Repulsa no matter how much pink she showed him.

She LOL’d back, and set the phone down. Her body was hating her right now, but it was all the sacrifices of being the X-Treme champion, something Noah Jackson has never done.

She let her eyes drift to close again.


She opened her eyes, taking a deep, therapeutic exhale. That’s what the docs always told her to do. She closed them again.


She was going to take a nice bath after her sleep. Since the fruit would probably make her sick to eat at this point, maybe she’d use them as bath-bombs. A nice fermentation to help wash the blood—-

Nevermind. She liked the blood. Made her feel alive.

She sat up and unzipped her bag again, pulling out her jet black BEATS STUDIO 3 headphones. Pulling up spotify, she went to ANYTHING YOU CAN DO by Ethel Merman. The Broadway version, from Annie Get Your Gun. Track 6.

The original.

Original, like her.

PLAY-REPEAT.

“Ahhh” she laid back down as she softly sang the words under her breath.


Jenny woke up with a rumble in her tummy. She had some time to kill, as she had gotten to the hotel a week early. A nice bath would do the trick, and then maybe she would see what this place had for grub. She wondered if there was a raw bar.

Getting out of bed, she shuffled to the bathroom, drawing a nice bath. By now the fruit in her suitcase was beginning to stink. She could smell it through the bag, and through the closed suitcase. She walked back out to the main room where the bag was. Unzipping it, she held up the bag with the soft, wet, browning fruit and shook her head. With a shrug, she brought them into the bathroom with her. She giggled to herself as she dropped them into the hot water.

NATURAL.

Getting out of her blood stained clothes and standing fully naked in the mirror, she tilted her head to the side. Her body looked like the fruit she just dumped in the tub. Battered, bruised. She had more bruises on her than a Dalmatian has spots.

She had been through hell in recent weeks, and back in 2020-2021 (you know, the last time Noah Jackson even had his name on fight a card in the XWF–god he is such a flakey piece of shit) the thought of being anything more than a perfect Barbie Doll would have horrified her. Now, she could find peace in the pain. She could find purpose.

Sure, Noah got hit by a car, but she is in a car wreck every single show. She smiled through black lipstick as she thought about the tape she watched of Noah laying there, bleeding internally, saying he quits.

Hell, it was almost orgasmic to think about.

Her hand began to drift when……..

TISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

The tub was overflowing onto the bathroom floor.

“SHIT.”

She turned the water off. Her first instinct was to reach for a towel, but she stopped. She had never gone back on her decisions before. She had learned to take what life gives you, make the most of it. She giggled, an picked up the fruit that had spilled over with the water.



“Rubber ducky, you’re the one” she giggled as they floated.

Stepping into the bath the water began to rush out again onto the tile floor. She finally settled at the bottom, and the water went still. It had a rusty hue to it now.

She laid her head back and let her body relax. It felt good to relax. She was about to go through hell again.

She was going to do terrible things to Noah Jackson inside that ring. Terrible things that were totally within the parameters of what the XWF allowed. Jason Cashe, Noah Jackson.

She let out an exhale as she thought to herself that her workload had to be more than anyone else in the company, certainly more than any other champion. Eat your heart of Mark Flynn, you one match a month motherfucker!

Just kidding, I love you.

For now.

For now, she had to focus on the task at hand. The complete and total annihilation of Noah Jackson and Jason Cashe.

“Ahhh”, she smiled again.

After her bath, she got dressed–in the same clothes she had on before but with substantially less blood splatter–and decided that now it was time to finally eat something!

Leaving her room and letting the door shut behind her, she would stick her room key in her bra so she could access it easily for her return.

When she got to the lobby her eyes began scanning for restaurants or small cafe’s (this was a Courtyard afterall, maybe she was being too ambitious), when she smelled something that made her head snap to the right.

MEAT.

Steak, probably, but it’ll do. Beggars can’t be choosers at a Courtyard.

Her nose led her to what appeared to be a large conference room. There were assorted trays out with food, and warmers to keep the various meat (steak, chicken, roast beef etc) warm. It was a “PRIVATE EVENT” based on the sign, put on by the “GREATER HOUSTON NAPAB (National Association of People Against Bullying). Never mind all that, they had food.

Jenny entered the conference room, and an overweight woman in a blouse and slacks (that says it all–she was wearing slacks).

“Excuse me miss, but this is a closed event for members of the association—-”

Jenny had a plate in her hand and a large serving spoon…..

“And the food is for members and invited guests—”

Jenny scooped some pasta salad onto her plate. 

“So I am going to have to ask you to leave—”

She puts her slacks wearing fingers on the edge of Jenny’s plate, and her head snaps up to meet the woman’s eye-to-eye. They were pure black circles.

The woman gasped and stepped back.

Jenny’s eyes rolled down and became normal. She blinked a few times.

“I am sorry mam, I’m just hungry. I am here for a wrestling event and haven’t eaten since I handed in this cesspool of a city and—”

“HEY! YOU’RE THAT WRESTLER FROM XWF!” Another voice shot out from the crowd. Jenny snorted to herself, “that wrestler.”

“I am a wrestler, yes. I’m also a serial killer so…….”

They laughed. “There’s that sense of humor!”

Had they ever even seen an XWF show? Probably not, the way they promote.

“You’re Jenny Myst!” another said. “I love the XWF, I watch every show!”

Well shit. She swallowed that last thought back and put a piece of steak on her stacked plate. It was rare really fatty on the sides. Perfect.

“She still isn’t a member of the association or an invited guest, so I don’t care who she is, she has to go.” The woman wearing slacks said.

“Ms. Myst!” another voice said. Holy shit, couldn’t they all just leave her alone?

“We are so happy to have you here!” a curly haired woman in a dress (that's better) walked up to her, and a lanyard with a card around her neck said she was the Director of the Event. Jenny furled an eyebrow.

“Whose that?”

She pointed to slacks.

“Oh, that’s Karen, she’s my assistant.”

“Okay first of all, that’s hilarious. Secondly, she was quite rude and I’d like to speak to your manager.”

“Well that’s me.”

“Oh hayyyyyyyy!” She waves with her full hand, excitedly.

She sat down, bringing mashed potatoes to her mouth. “Food looks great. Now, scram.”

The woman seemed confused by the interaction, but clearly wasn’t good at taking direction, seeing as she just stood there with a stupid look on her face.

Jenny continued to eat like a savage, as if she had never eaten before. The woman looked as though she wanted to say something. Jenny picked up the steak and took a bite out of the fatty edge, eating with her hands like a cavewoman. The director looked disgusted, but stood her ground.

“Is there something you need or are you taking inventory on the free food?” Jenny asked.

“Yeah, well. I mean. My daughter watches XWF–”

“I’m sorry to hear that….”

FATTY CHEWS

“---Yeah, well, either way, she LOVES you. She also gets bullied a lot in school and every time she comes home she puts on a Jenny Myst clip or promo and it makes her feel better.”

FATTY CHEWS, CHEWY FATS

“---so, I, uh…..I did some background research on you. I found that you were a victim of bullying, also. In fact, your entire background is quite…checkered, to say the least.”

Jenny puts the steak down, wiping her arm on her face and smudging her black lipstick a bit.

“So this is a nostalgic session about how fucked up my life has been? You couldn’t have waited until I was finished eating to make me want to puke?”

“Well, no….its actually…..me asking you to talk to some of the people here at the convention. We have several members of the local community who have suffered from the mental, physical and emotional turmoil that comes with being bullied….”

She is chewing on some mixed vegetables and chicken skin. It’s really not a bad combo.

“They kids?”

“Why no, they are actually adults aging anywhere from early 20’s to mid 40’s. Many of them still suffer from anxiety and severe PTSD from what they've been through.”


Pussies, Jenny thought.

“Okay well, I am not sure what you want me to say to them other than ‘Don’t Get Bullied’.”

“Just listen to their stories, make them feel accepted, and then give them some advice on how to handle it. How ‘you’ handled it and became successful. Overcame it and got to where you are.”

Jenny sighed. She came down to get some food and maybe rub one out in the public unisex bathroom in the lobby (she liked to play 'guess whose next to me and how uncomfortable are they), not to be volunteered for some wrist-slitting seminar for people who still live with their parents.

“Fine. But at the end of this shindig, I get the rest of the steak.”

She rips another bite off with her teeth, chewing loudly.

“Deal.”

"Zing zoom!" 

"What?" 

"That's my thing now...I saw zing zoom....never mind, so where are these losers?"

10 minutes later:

Jenny was sitting Indian style on a chair, in a circle with a bunch of other mentally deficient people. It looked liked a fucking AA meeting. 

“This is XWF Superstar and current X-Treme Champion Jenny Myst! Say hello everyone!”

GROUP: “HI JENNY!”

Oh god, this is like an AA meeting but worse!

“Jenny has been a victim of bullying herself. But she has turned it around and made something of herself in the professional wrestling world.”

“Well, to be fair I was a stripper and escorted for years before joining XWF–”

“.....and she would LOVE to hear your stories about your experiences, and give you her advice on how to cope the best way you can!”

Jenny instantly regretted this.

“So who would like to start?!”

She was entirely too enthusiastic for the awfulness she was about make these people relive for a total stranger.

She kinda liked it.

A woman to Jenny’s right spoke up, she shifted in her chair to see her. She flinched when she made eye contact.

“There were so many horrible things said to me. I was around 12 when it started and going through an awkward phase. My bullying centered around how ugly I was.”

“Good start.”

“People spit at me out bus windows and generally loved to tell me how ugly I was. One of the worst memories I had was having to learn to square dance in gym class and no one wanting to touch me.”

Speaking of touching, Jenny saw the bathroom sign across the room and squirmed a little in her seat. Damnit, why didn’t she take care of this before she left the room?!

“One boy, after having to be paired with me, seemed like he genuinely had to throw up. If he was acting, he did a very convincing job. After that, I volunteered to be the odd woman out every time they changed partners.
I developed severe social anxiety which I still deal with to a lesser extent today.”

Jenny, trying to focus on not being horny, smiled at the woman.

“And how old are you?”

“I’m 37.”

“HA!”

The girls face changed to a visible question mark.

“I mean……okay.”

“You think thats dumb don’t you?”

“Of course              not. I get it.”

The woman looked relieved.

“When you go through years of having everything you say ridiculed, it's hard to develop confidence that what you say isn't dumb.”

If this is how the day was starting, she knew she was in for a long one.

“So, what do you want from me?”

“Well, how would you deal with it?”

“Well, first off I wasn’t bullied because I was ugly by any means. I was bullied because kids are dicks. All of them, boys, girls, whatever they identify as these days, they are all dicks. Don’t let it get to you.”

“Do you think I’m ugly?”

“This isn’t about what I think of you, it is about what I would do if I were you–which I’m not.”

“So how did you handle it back then?”

“I cut myself and developed a habit for injuring small animals for my own selfish high.”

The girl's eyes went wide.

“You could always get surgery, if you’re worried about it.”

“I can’t afford surgery.”

“Okay, then stay ugly, what do you want me to say?”

The girl was clearly holding back tears.

“See, this is what I am talking about. You gotta have thicker skin! You gotta take it all in stride. Keep your head up and say to yourself that they are being mean to you because they hate themselves and want you to feel the same pain they feel.”

The girl smiled through the sniffles.

Jenny sighed. “Next?”

A man spoke up this time.

“I had this one particular kid who would pick on me from eighth grade until sophomore year in high school. I was constantly made fun of, spit in my face, hit/punched/kicked/attempted to be stabbed with various objects ecetera. I had phone calls made to my house telling me that I would be beaten up and/or killed or making fun of me, all that.”

Oh god.

Jenny squirmed a bit.

She waited for the man to keep going.

“This kid would also do things slyly, and his MO would be to come up from behind and punch me in the kidney. Everyday leaving the school he would wait for me, and I'd be pummeled, or told I would be killed or have my head crushed under a bus wheel, the works. I lived in fear of this kid, and every day I silently waited for him to do something even crazier, and I wholeheartedly believed he would, in fact, kill me someday.”

Jenny bit her lip, and shifted in her seat again. Good thing she was Indian style.

“Damnit”, she said.

“The worst part of it all, the school required witnesses in order to do anything, and despite my "friends" seeing it, no one ever stood up to the plate.”

“So….how did you handle it?”

“I actually considered suicide, not because of depression, but because I was convinced this kid was going to kill me and I didn't want to give him the pleasure of doing so.”

God, don’t say pleasure. She was FAR MORE worked up than she should have been.

“You’re still here,” her voice cracked a bit. “So you didn’t kill yourself. How did the situation turn out?”

“I got the last word in.”

“Hard to imagine, you…..talking….”

“In college, he ended up being in one of my classes. One class, he ended up coming up to me to apologize about everything, and he hoped there were no hard feelings. I looked him dead in the eye and simply replied, "Fuck you." and walked away.”

Well, that was anti-climactic. Hello crotch, welcome to the Sahara.

“Sounds like you handled it the best way you could.” She tried to sound as not-sarcastic as possible.

“This is very enjoyable. Anyone else?” Also trying to sound as non-sarcastic as she could.

A guy spoke up. But when they started speaking, Jenny gasped. It was a chick!

“I’ve always been super flat-chested and I’m still totally traumatized by something that happened in seventh grade. These two guys came up to me and asked if they could call me stingray ‘because you’re really flat."

“Okay, that’s awesome.”

“How is that awesome?”

Jenny turned towards the next in the circle of 20 year old teen angst.

“You.”

The man spoke up.

“I've been bullied for being "special." The "normal" kids would get dropped off first a few minutes before my short bus did so some of them would wait til I get dropped off.  On the way back home they will make fun of me by calling me all sorts of names like , idiot, dumbfuck and they would throw rocks at me.”

“Did any of them hit you?”

“Of course they did.”

“Mmmm, did you get injured?”

“Yes, on several occasions.”

Jenny squirmed a bit again.

“I can go on about all the bullying I went through as a kid, but I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I eventually stood up for myself, but I got expelled from the public schools where I lived for self-defense. Thank you for the zero tolerance policy. I had to redo the 8th grade.”

“Okay, that didn’t end the way I was hoping. I have time for one more.”

“Please be good” she mumbled under her breath, exhaling hard.

“Well, I was in grade 7, and I was walking down the hall. People were calling me a , loser, fat, lardass, queer--regardless of the fact that I wasn't gay. I got kicked from behind, so I hit the ground, where five guys starting kicking the shit out of me. Before they were done, two teachers had walked by, and done nothing.”

“Mmmm, and then?” The guy not even realized that her mmmm was more out of pleasure than interest. But then again, why would he know? He’s a nerd.

“They left me alone when the bell rang. I was missing a tooth, had a broken nose, three broken fingers, and a cracked rib. I wasn't allowed to go home, or to the hospital."

He tapered off for a second.

That was a bad day.”

“Yeah, so is this. Okay well, I have to go I have–uh—business to attend to.”

Was it bad she was moist? Why was she moist?!

“Don’t give up, all that jazz—”

She got up, a bit awkwardly (her leg was now asleep to compound the issue between them) when she stopped. There was a man sitting on the far end of the circle. He had his hood up, his arms crossed. Unlike these other nerds crying over spilled milk, he had a look in his eye. A devilish look. A HATEFUL look. She LOVED it.

“You….”

She said, pointing.

“What is YOUR story?”

“Ms. Myst I think that will be it for today, but thank you SO much for–”

“I want to hear his story.”

“Donnie is a bit….well….tortured….”

She sits down, crossing her legs this time, and smiles.

“So…..Donnie………I have time for one more. Tell me.”

He just sat there staring at her for well over a minute while the rest of the group sat in terrified silence.

“So…..were you bullied for being a moron? Cuz, pretty sure not answering a question is what moron’s do.”

Everyone gasped collectively, and the director was making her way over to usher Jenny out, when Donnie smirked.

“Three kids who had been giving me shit all through eighth grade decided to step things up the summer before ninth grade. They came to my house and found me in the backyard, breaking apart the old asphalt patio with a ten pound sledgehammer so that I could rip out the asphalt in pieces and build a new patio using a shitload of bricks we found in a pile in one corner of the yard.”

Jenny moved to the edge of her chair, uncrossing her legs.

“I told them to fuck off. The kid leading the others pulled a knife. I was home by myself, and this was in the early 1990s, when cell phones weren't fucking ubiquitous. So I decided to protect myself. I rushed the guy with the knife and thrust the head of my sledgehammer into his face. Then, while he was on the ground, I broke his right shoulder. Then I broke his right hand. I finished by breaking his legs.”

“Oh godddddddd,” she shifted hard, her head back. Her hand on her thigh was dangerously close to a disorderly conduct charge.

“His friends left him there, screaming on my patio. So I stepped over him, went inside, called the cops, and told them to bring an ambulance. I wasn't charged, since the police found the knife the other guy had pulled on me. I did end up having to buy a new sledgehammer so I could finish ripping apart the old asphalt patio, though. That was a pain in the ass; twenty bucks meant a fuck of a lot to me back in the day. When school started, I spread the word that the kid who attacked me jerks off left-handed because I thoroughly fucked him up.”

“YESSSSSSSSS!”

Jenny stood up.

“Thanks for your time, but I neeeeeeeeed—mmmm—to go. Stingray, Rocky, grab the food trays.”

“HEY!” they both said collectively.

“Bring them to the desk to be sent to my room. I—-uhhhgghhh—-”

“Any words of advice for the group”

“Don’t be ashamed of who you are. That’s your parent’s job.”

She takes off towards the bathroom, flinging herself into the nearest stall and locking the door.

10 minutes later:

Jenny comes out of the bathroom after taking care of her business, feeling refreshed and thoroughly satisfied by the pain memories she had witnessed tonight. She came out of the bathroom and looked around. It looked as though the nerd convention had cleared out. Phew. She walked through the conference room and out to the lobby. She was going to sneak back up to her room to celebrate more—those food trays BETTER be there or their childhood bullies will be the least of their worries—”HEY JENNY!”

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

It was the director of the convention. At least she called her Jenny and not that stuffy ass “Ms. Myst.”

“I am very busy, what do you want?”

“Well we are getting ready to get out of here”

“---thank god—”

“And I was wondering if you could do one of those promo’s you are so known for where you talk about your opponent? And can I record it? My daughter would LOVE it. She’s gonna be a the show next week, you know. It would really mean a lot.”

FINALLY

Jenny smiled.

“What is your daughters name?”

“Chloe”

“Hey Chloe—I just want to let you know that what I am going to do to Noah Jackson at the show is probably not appropriate for your age group, but your mother incessantly nagged me to do this so………here goes: “

She clears her throat and looks intensely into the camera.

“I’ve faced competition of all shapes and sizes, personalities and skill sets. I have defeated them all. Some of them were unique in their approach, some of them weren’t. You fall into the ‘disappointment’ category. I just came off a match with a six foot four piece of walking drywall and Nick Cannon’s less enthusiastic cousin. Now…….I have Diet Dick Powers. A ‘funny guy’ who provides nothing but shock value and hot air. A part-timer whose success rate here is about the same as finding a McDonalds with the ice cream machine working, about fifty-fifty (they’ve actually gotten much better in recent years after Mount Everest sized pile of complaints and social media panning). Okay, maybe 20/80. Point is he sucks, okay??!!

 A man (and I use that term loosely) who shows up like herpes at the worst possible times and throws a wrench into any sort of established order we may be building here. Sure, I am an agent of chaos, I thrive in it, but when someone who has less matches here in the last year than Charlie Nickels has Universal Title victories comes in and wants to pretend like they still matter in the collective memory of ANYONE, you see that’s where I have a problem. The last time you were on Warfare, the Hart Title was still a thing. Now, you come back and enter the March Madness tournament and probably giggled like a schoolboy seeing his first set of tits when you saw my name across from yours on the card.

I was excited to see yours. I was hoping that maybe you would bring something to the table other than the sophomoric humor and foul language you have become known for.

Boy was I wrong.

Still a baby-man. Still the douchebag in class spitballing the chalkboard and throwing the double bird to the teacher. Still giving wedgies and knocking books out of hands while laughing with delight. Still giving swirlies and putting icy hot in jockstraps, you know, for entertainment. The rest of the school grew up around you, and here you are, a 26 year old burnout who still thinks being the class clown is trendy.

I have changed since the last time we shared a card. I have worked tirelessly to improve everyday, and get to where I am at currently. You just expect that you can skate by because you use a common word in Australia like it's going extinct, banking on the fact that soft millennial and Gen Z’ers will think its “too edgy for TV” so you can flip them the double bird as well and revel in the fact that they are too ignorant to know that other countries speak differently than we do.

God you’re so fucking blockish I can’t even.

If they knew what cigarettes are called in England they’d lose their Birkenstock wearing minds. A word critically panned over here as one of the most hateful things you can say is everyday lingo over there. So are we supposed to be impressed by your use of Cunt? Or put off? Are we supposed to give you the rise you are looking for? I think anyone with half a brain cell (which takes three quarters of this roster out of the equation), can see right through your childish bullshit and sees you for the overrated chunk of hamster meat you really are.

You don’t offend me, but damn now I’m hungry.

Long story short, Noah, YOU aren’t going to be the one to take me out. YOU aren’t going to be the one to stop this run I am on, take this title I have fought so hard to keep, and knock me out of the tournament that is mine to win. YOU are not going to be the one who keeps me away from the briefcase I deserve. YOU don’t have what it takes.

You’re a gimmick, nothing more, nothing less.

I am a fucking assault rifle, fully loaded. I have proven that I deserve to be here, you’ve proven nothing more than the fact that people in Moine, Illinois, are shitty fucking drivers. I am going to finish the job like they should have. X-treme rules, Noah. Can you hack it? The only thing X-treme about you is your fucking mouth, but lets see how much you want to talk after I break it at Warfare. See how much that mouth says when I bend your bones back until they snap. When I peel your skin off like a fucking potato.

It’s all legal. I can do whatever I want to you in that ring. You can do whatever you want to me.

I look forward to it.

You aren’t a bully, Noah. You aren’t a bully and you aren’t edgy. What you are, is a hypocrite. (COMING IN PART TWO–STAY TUNED!) 

You can say all you want in your little come back promo, and frankly, I welcome it. I welcome the daggers and the cheeky remarks, blended together like a perfect deli sandwich.

You have no other card in the hand.

Every single time I come in front of this camera I talk about growth. My growth as a woman, as a performer, as a champion. Hell just a year ago, I would be sweating bullets about this match. I would be so nervous I would give myself stomach aches, and probably chuck a few chunks here and there. You know why? Because I didn’t have faith in myself. I didn’t have confidence. I thought I was just going to be another name on the roster, with no real resume to build off of. Hell, when this place shuts its doors would I even be remembered?”

*She laughs to herself*

“Silly goose I was.

Now, the tide has turned. Now, when this place shuts down, I wonder if I will ever remember IT. I’ve been here for the majority of my career and since 2017 I’ve seen a lot, done a lot, and learned a lot. I learned that blowhards like you can’t get under my skin anymore. I learned that trolls like you just want attention, but bring no real substance to anything they do. I learned that gimmicks get laughs, but when it comes to winning matches they come up short every single time. I already know what you’re going to do, Noah. I already know what you’re going to say, because I made it that way. I have put myself in a position where you have NOTHING you can say about me that holds any merit. You’re going to pull whatever you can out of things I have said, things I have done, but not once are you going to say that Jenny Myst doesn’t produce. You can’t. Even as much as you flap your lips, you can’t. I am on a run right now that only a handful have ever been on here, with a chance to do something not many get to do. I already know what you’re going to say, because its all you CAN say.

Jenny Myst wins matches, plain and simple.

Jenny Myst hurts people, thats the facts.

Noah Jackson is just another name on the list for me. Just another rung in the ladder. Just another notch in the belt I’m not even wearing.

I get off on pain. You get off on being a pain in the ass.

You may intimidate the new talent, may get laughs out of the veterans and the fellow blow hards in the office, and may get a lot of views whenever you come on camera, but at the end of the day it’s as simple as night and day…..

What has Noah Jackson actually done?

What I am going to do to you in that ring at Warfare is unimaginable. Should be considered criminal. So go ahead, pretend to be a bully, and try to get inside my head with over the top promos trying to highlight why I am not one of the top superstars in this company right now.

You try SOOOO hard to be a bully, but you look like Dil Pickles grew up only to struggle with depression and a failed marriage. Someone who had to beg to get their job back to even have the luxury of sharing a ring with me is not a bully, its a sniveling little sewar rat. That fits you to a tee.

You aren’t Shawn Warstein, you aren’t Dick Powers, you are barely even a human being. You try to bully those around you until they give up because they get so flustered by your words—but that is all they are. Useless, dribbling off your lips, no backing to the bark, words.

You can never be the bully, Noah.

It took me years to figure it out, but now its more clear than its ever been.


You go ahead and do that, and I’ll continue to do what I do and show you why the fuck I am.

You may be well versed in cunts of all kinds, but I assure you, you’ve never met a cunt quite like me.”