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Dolly Waters · (03-15-2019)

It was sometime Thursday night while practically falling into my hotel room when I realized that I was beaten.

No, not literally beaten like in competition by any presumed peer of mine in the wrestling industry (that hadn't REALLY happened since sometime back when menstruating was still fairly a new nuisance of mine), rather I was just whipped. Worn out like an old sneaker. But nonetheless, your girl here was thriving!

I had been on an absolute tear over the course of only fifteen days.

It all started with a defense of my Hart Championship at Mastermind's mansion in New Zealand on the twenty-seventh of Feburary; (It was as horrifically delightful as watching Quo Vadis) which ended in me diving off from a goddamn balcony to hit a stunner on Arthur Grey. Any idea how bad that hurt? Landing on my tail bone in Mastermind's lawn from a twelve-foot high drop? Well, luckily the lion's share of my time off followed that bloodbath, giving me around ten days or so to rest my bones.

After that, it was back to the states. The first round of the March Madness tournament on March the ninth. I had to battle against the then undefeated and poorly executed Dolly Waters carbon-copy, Vita Valenteen. It ended in a decisive victory for yours truly, but the celebration was short-lived. I was bum-rushed, ew, nevermind, I'd better not use that expression. I was pummeled from behind- fuck! Not that either! Double entendres be damned! I was attacked by a returning Michael Graves.

But I had very little time to dwell on that sick-o and his typical scream for attention and relevance. He could be dealt with later. I had to be back in New Zealand on the thirteenth to defend my Hart Championship again.

Now I would be most remiss not to mention my very own renaissance of sorts that occurred backstage following that match with Valenteen. Or dedicating at least a paragraph, or two, to its current pertinence. After all, staying with the idea of Renaissance, it was much like being slapped aside the cranium with Descartes by a living, breathing Mona Lisa in Sarah Lacklan. "I think, therefore I is!" I'd be left dumbfoundedly blathering after my interaction with her, which soon after saw me become an unofficial intern for the entertainment mogul.

It was honestly a long needed change in the way in which I had perceived the world. For so long I sat around feeling so somber and slighted. Desperate to grow more shrewd than my detractors, and constantly pissed off to the nth degree- seeking some hollow vindication for my namesake. Lesser people were always going to be envious little scabs. Cynical and deprived by their own lack of will to compete in life. I didn't need to take enjoyment away from them any longer. I needed to enjoy being myself for finally. What I saw in Sarah Lacklan was a woman who was enjoying herself no matter what she was doing.

Well any-who, I went on to Warfare and successfully defended my pink plated gold again, only to find myself on the end of another arbitrary post match attack. This time from Peter Gilmour. Like really, Pete? The fuck did I do to rattle his cage anyway? He whispered something in my ear just before cracking me, but his breath smelled horrible so I kind of pulled away too far to understand his babbling. Oh well, just another worthless stooge I'll have to deal with, well, when I'm not too busy being anything other than 'like' Peter Gilmour.

Afterwards I spent the majority of Wednesday night and Thursday morning in the Christchurch International Airport waiting for my flight back to the states- participating in a telecom physical with The Legion's physician, followed up with a FaceTime interview with Mrs. Lacklan herself. But unbeknownst to Sarah, at least I think unbeknownst to her, I had already been acting as intern for her wife, Kenzi.

The tasks are rather simple, but it can be quite demanding nonetheless. She shared her calendar with me, so I just got a little proactive with setting reminders and scheduling accommodations and travel arrangements- if it'll get me a leg up in shedding the intern label sooner, then why not?

"Oi! Dolly fhakin' Waters!"

A gravelly Australian accent shouts out from across the nearly empty terminal,

I look up from my seat to see a fairly built man, maybe in his mid twenties approaching me.

"Ah shit."

Judging from his wrestling shirt, and the several, rather large duffel bags this goober was carrying- this guy was clearly one of the many airport autograph creepers I had encountered over the years. I don't know how these people do it, but they figure out wrestler's flight schedules and then entrap them in the airport for autographs that they'll later sale on eBay.

"Oh well."

I figured to myself, I'll just this on over with and be on my flight soon. But as he got closer something seemed off. The guy wasn't all giddy and smiling as they usually were, in fact he seemed rather militant, maybe even disenchanted.

"Bloody great job working the couple of alien kikes and da' bludger o pasty spic."

He said as my face twisted with incredulity. I didn't understand a damn word he was saying. But whatever. I was more taken aback that he was handing me, rather than memorabilia, just an Australian hundred dollar bill and a marker.

"What's yer' name?"

I asked, so I could got it down with some cliché little tag followed by my John Hancock,

"Brenton"

He said, just before following it with:

"It really is good to see a true white keeping that ilk in it's place"

Looking up at him, confused again while handing him his dollar, I started to finally piece together what this guy was getting at,

"Oh yer' talking about Drezdin, Blackwater and El Principe? Well I'm pretty sure Blackwater is an alien, I think Drezdin might be one too... and Principe might wear a lucha mask, but he's almost fer'certain' not a Hispanic. Though we all do battle from time to time, they actually ain't all that bad of fellers-"

He cut me off,

"Well, fhak some illegal alien's too! Coming into the white nations and breading with our women!

"Hey cunt!"

[i]I returned the favor,

"You can save all of the racist bullshit fer' someone else. We get enough of that filth back home since we elected that orange tainted turd as President."

"AH FHAK OFF!"

He shouted, wadding up the autographed money and throwing it my face before storming off. Go figure! Another racist, spoiled rich white guy who can stand to trash a hundred dollars for having their feelings hurt.

As he bitched his way back across the terminal, I couldn't help but laugh as the prick stumbled over from the weight of his bags.

"What's the matter, weakling? Pissed off that you can't have a slave carry yer' bags?!"

I yelled over to him as he flipped me the bird,

"Don't you worry color lover! I've got big plans for these, cunt!"

Eh, whatever. I was too tired to deal with that guy's shit.

By Thursday night as I slumped into a cozy armchair in the corner of the straight-up swanky digs provided by my Legion expense account, having even yet to wash the dried blood from my forehead I was - as I stated in the start - totally beaten. Another match on the horizon Saturday night, I wondered for a moment if maybe my plate was too full. Had Jet lag, airport dickheads and sneak attacks become my proverbial masters?

But as I opened up Twitter to see the litany of notifications from a grateful Kenzi Grey-Lacklan at all of the remote work I'd been doing for her and The Legion, it made me realize that I thrive under these circumstances And my ego, the way it is? I'm always happiest when I'm thriving.

Fulfilled and relaxed, I started scrolling down my twitter feed as I was dozing off- until something caught my eye and jarred me back into an upright position. It was a shared video from a former live stream on Facebook. It was the racist dickhead from the airport! His name was Brenton Tarrant. My face soon turned pale as my stomach rushed into my throat.

I watched the video just long enough to be utterly repulsed and shaken. Flipping on the news in the hotel- the coverage about a racially charged shooter murdering forty-nine innocent worshipers was non-stop. I suddenly felt like I neither deserved or needed any rest, nor did I have anything to complain about.
--------------------------
Savage promo:

"I really ain't in the mood fer' this right now. Just being real. The idea of bolstering myself in some four or five minuet tirade to "get over" someone else, well, it's just a level of trite I don't think I can currently stomach.

Why on earth would I need to find any reason to brag to the audience or my opponent about my abilities? I've been doing nothing but winning right? So why blab on and on about them, in this or that type of way to make some pathetic fucker sitting in front of a screen coo until they're red in the face?

The fuck difference does it make? I've won three matches in the last fifteen days while hopping from one side of the hemisphere to the other. I mean for what it's worth, my opponent should be at a great advantage. I am worn the fuck out! I'm probably lucky that my Hart Title won't be on the line when I go up against Hanari-WAIT!

Wait... wait, wait, wait.

Dude, yer' last name is meat in Spanish? Is that even real, dude? Ay-caramba! Tell me you didn't think this whole gimmick up while you were sitting in a Taco Bell drive-thru, did you?

Eh, I kid, I kid.

Honestly I'm sure you deserve much better than this. Hell you'd probably even go off from yer' script to let everyone backstage know you hoped you'd get better from yer' next opponent after that let down of a match you had last week. While ironically providing practically nothing of yer' own either until that skimpy little promo you cut late in the week. Hey though it worked, right? Pumped you up enough to get you over? All that matters is winning and losing, right?

Maybe to you, Hanari, that might be the case. But really it's more complex than that What would you or I gain from beating someone who didn't really try? What would we lose fer' not really trying? Well, neither is anything to gloat about and really, that's why I haven't go much to say to you...

Now I would hope that you wouldn't be the type of arrogant bastard who decides to tell me all about yer'self, and what I'm just going to guess is a non-gloat-worthy-ass record, you only wrestle on Savage after all. It's not like I would really give a flying fuck about it anyway. The tapes are out there. I started to watch one of your vignettes and I just couldn't bring myself to care, ya' know?

Allllll the goddamn bright colored subtitles, and English here and Spanish there...

It's confusing as fuck!

Aye-yi-yi, dude! If I wanted to watch an episode of Narcos I'd just stream the shit and promptly fall asleep. And really, it wouldn't even matter if you had cut a promo on me yet, Hanari. I wouldn't be able to respond to it. The fact that you won't do us all a favor and add subtitles to your promos should be a fucking crime.

'CHEW ASS EEN FAH FIGHT! CHEW ES PA'DRE CEENCO *FART NOISE* POONTA GRINGO!'

But all jokes aside, I'm sure you've done yer' homework on me, and I can't really blame you. There's so much more for you to gain in winning this match, and honesty, I haven't really got anything to lose either way.

I would just hope that someone of yer' supposed caliber doesn't take the low road. You know... digging up the same ol' recycled material that people try hurling at me in an attempt to be cute. I'd really hope that yer' not that desperate. I could have very easily sat here and talked about lawn couches until I'm blue in the face. But I didn't. That shit is just too... fuck I dunno, too distasteful right now.

Either way, compadre, I'll see you Saturday. We'll see if your homework gets you a passing grade. In the meantime I'll try not passing out.

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode PlaceMarker Jet lag, but it could always be worse
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