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Misty Waters · (12-26-2020)

The Fear:

Where all hope was once merely fleeting, I could now find it nowhere.

Lying like a taxidermied corpse in this steel framed cot mounted to the floor, I can feel the chills of the cold concrete below me rising up and pinning my aching frame down onto the cotton bed padding. I’m stuck. I want so badly to move but every attempt is proving more futile than the previous as I feel myself sliding deeper into some infinite regress. My eyes are open and able to dart around from each of the lifeless corners of my room and over to the tiny window to my right that was letting in but a small piercing of glow from the selfish moonlight.

What has happened?

Have the orderlies at this drug rehab finally taken my threats of murdering them and their families seriously?

I look down beyond the icy tip of my nose to notice there aren’t any belts strapped across my body. With no restraints I’m completely free, and yet I’m imprisoned beyond my comprehension.

Maybe I took a bad spill somewhere and blacked out, the result of which rendering me paralyzed.

I force my eyes to pull in as deeply as they can from my peripheral on either side of my cot. Where I’m looking for some green blood pressure numbers, and some zig-zaggy heart rate line I find nothing, only a heavy darkness.

Lying here in a suffocating state of inability I can only think of the offer he made to me. I may have been uncertain about it before, and at least wanting to straighten myself out -hence the drug rehab- so that I could properly burn some old bridges before accepting his improbable invitation; but forsaking all of that, I’m ready. I try calling out his name:

“...”

Fuck. I guess I can’t speak either.

Imagine, if you will, the cruel irony of a once thriving, then ridiculed and maligned celebrity allowing the unforgiving throws of those she perceived as even more narcissistic than herself to catapult her into a state complete do-nothingness, then once she’s finally ready to do something again, the one thing -this offer- that means more to her than anything, she’s unable to wiggle even a toe’s worth of something significant.

Woe, or toe, is certainly me.

Just as the empty soundlessness of my tightening surroundings begins to crush down into my chest cavity, my heart feverishly pinching up into my throat feeling like it was about to crawl out of my mouth, something finally breaks the silence. It sounds heavy and steel-like, scraping it’s way across the cold grit of the concrete floor, becoming louder near my uncovered feet. I hear it lift and clank around, bits of it falling into other bits of itself.

That sounds like a…

“I wear the chain I forged in life…”

That voice...

“The chain was made up of champagne bottles..Peter Gilmour sex tapes..and heavy PUUUSSIES!”

A tall, bearded figure lumbers up from my bedside, his skin so ghastly pale that it casts a bright ambiance over the entire room. Draped over, and tightened around his body are a series of large chains locked together by dusty champagne bottles, unmarked VHS tapes and…

“PUUURSES! I meant to say purses, bitch!”

The chains seem to be leading to some sort of bondage collar squeezing tightly around his neck, with two tightly drawn smaller chains dangling off into crude and scabbed piercings on his nipples. As my eyes are widening in terror my body is still unable to even tremble at his horrific presence. He leans down closer to my face and I’m able to get a better look as a freezing chill radiates from his body.

To my petrifying shock, the man is my old friend and colleague, John Madison.

The last time I had seen Maddy, he was skipping stones across a trench he’d dug and filled with the fluids from Peter Gilmour’s liposuction. It was a lovely evening. Madison was perhaps a symbol of my most wrought-like desires in the former stardom of my wrestling career. I would study for hours on end Madison’s promo tapes trying to inject as much of his willful contempt for anyone trying to be taken too seriously into my own guttural form of essay.

“Dolly Waters! You’re a stupid bitch!”

His unworldly sounding, yet familiar voice rings with a phenomenal echo and a ghostly groan that pierces the walls all around me and unbolts my cot from the floor. Though one might say that John Madison is a heartless bastard, I’m able to surmise while seeing the chains dangle away from his hollowed middle that Ol’ Maddy was seriously dead.

I feel a wetting warmth of fright streaming from my eyes and down my cheeks and still I’m unable to move. I try screaming out, but nothing. This paranormal Madison has come to kill me, or to make me listen to Linkin Park’s: Hybrid Theory until I collapse in on myself. Why? I have fucking no idea, but I really wish I could tell him that I prefer the plane old former.

“Dolly! I died doing something really gay.”

I can tell. Especially having just noticed that a champagne bottle was lodged in his ass. The cork popped and the thing began to erupt like Old Faithful.

“You will soon be visited by three dickheads. Each one of them a bigger prick then the one before. Heed their warnings or suffer the same fate as me!”

Before I can even begin to comprehend what he’s saying, Madison starts dumping a bag of poisonous snakes all over my body, all I can do is watch as their terrible little faces slither up towards my neck. My blood runs cold, the sight of my tunneling vision outlasts my breathing.

The Loathing:

In a most cliché, coming out of a nightmare kind of way, I spring up from my cot, panting and drenched in sweat. I study my appendages and extremities to find they are all working and over to my right daylight has broken through the tiny window.

“Fu…fucking crazy.”

I say while gasping for air and clutching my chest.

I hadn’t experienced hallucinations of such intensity since my initial detoxing a couple of months ago. After having spent the better part of a year burning up the residual funds of my former XWF glory on methamphetamine while sleeping curled up next to dead opossums, and/or various other dead animals in random alleyways, I was finally ready to do what I knew needed to be done:

Buy the ticket. Take the ride.

I checked myself into rehab, and given my niche celebrity and the Coronavirus' hollowing of any semblance of infrastructure, my status as a minor was given a mere eye-roll by any and all who would care. But so we’re clear, I didn’t come here to clean myself up and make some silly little roaring comeback in the XWF -not that I would be capable of such a thing anyhow- that’s not what needs to be done.

Call me sentimental if you’d like, but as I stand on the precipice of accepting an unusual and spectacular offer from a friend, an offer that is going to change my life, or rather -leave my life unchanged- and for the better, forever; before doing it I know I owe it to myself and to my friends, the only people I’ve ever really cared about, to put an end to the old Dolly Waters, and to do it the right way.

One more walk down the ramp, one more match and one more bow at the bell.

Having now “recovered” from my drug addictions -or- pretentious attention seeking phase that I planned to further explore as a means to “develop”, whatever you fancy... I had admitted that I was powerless over dope and came to believe that a power greater than myself could restore me to sanity. I know exactly where to find that power.

With the arduous processes of having myself checked out from drug rehab behind me, I venture out onto the sidewalk. Autumn is beginning to crumble away, but there still remains that strangely gorgeous tang of the once tender life decaying into a warm and bright senescence. Very soon there will be nothing but for that which is forever.

I scan through my cellphone, there are advertisements aplenty for the new High Stakes pay-per-view coming up in a few days. Right there in the fray of faces posing in their typical doughty, pay-per-view-poster fashion, is my old friend Thaddeus Duke. My ever so endearing sentimental draw, and the one person I most desire to set things right with before doing what comes next.

With my eyes glued to my cellphone I begin to mosey on down the sidewalk, not really going anywhere but just for the sake of moving as I try to sort out exactly what my next means will entail. As I flip over to my Uber app, a voice bursts from somewhere,

”Aye!”

Not paying much attention as start to fiddle in my location and destination into the empty fields, the voice pesters me again,

”Doll-baby!”

”Wait… what in the…”

I turn up from my phone with a jerking twist in my neck and a reactionary twitch in my eyelid.

That voice, it’s not only familiar, but it’s one to induce a blood-curling, skin-crawling, chalkboard-scratching, innocent-marmot-mashing with a goddamn-mallet-esque rage. I jump back, my fists clenched and my vocals ready to scream rape, only there’s noone around, and yet I hear it again,

”BABY GIRL!”

It’s as if the voice is simultaneously springing from everywhere and nowhere.

There’s a sudden roar of deafening whitenoise, similar to that of a large arching battery charge. I clutch my hands over my ears and work to steady my balance as the very ground beneath my feet begins to rumble. In front of me the air begins to manipulate and twirl with a blinding radiance. The imagery is torn apart and scattered and in an eternity lasting instant, it all starts to recollect into some mosaic like silhouette.

I fall to my knees, bend over and clutch my ears even harder. I scream out with all of the fury of my soul, but the sound surrounding me apexes into an oblivion of ravaging silence. All you could see are the muscles and veins tearing just beneath the skin on my neck, my uvula swaying furiously like a lone windchime in a tornado, my eyes drench like the raging waters of a bursting dam.

Just as my head feels like it’s about to cave-in I look up to see that the silhouette has taken full form. It’s tall and faceless and caked in a messy mixture of the autumn blended earth and the somberly gray skies above. The figure takes a bludgeoning step forward and a simultaneous pop rattles all of my sensory as an enormous white flash consumes everything before fading away as quickly as it had arrived, only a subtle, yet brilliant white glow remains just ahead of me.

”GOT’DAMN!”

It’s radiance becomes less awe inspiring as it attempts to speak without choking on tobacco juice,

Muddy fucking Waters. My shit-filled father. Floating there all godly and enlightened-like in a white singlet Grecian tunic, a wreath of burning candles on his head. Wait!

”Why in the fuck are you floating, Muddy?”

”Bab-”

”STOP! Calling me baby…”

”Dolly, I died--”

My heart sinks down into my toenails as I feel the color flush away from my face,

”-- doing something really gay.”

Okay, it’s another dream, just minus the sleep paralysis this time.

I rear my hand back to give myself a good wack, I’m ready for this shit to be over pronto! I swing but Muddy catches my arm and proceeds to stare deeply into my eyes, his eyes glowing into mine like two terrible red moons. Flabbergasted and trembling, I rip my arm away from his grip looking like I’d just seen a…

”At’s right. I’m the Ghost of Gayness Past, Doll-Baby.”

”I see you’ve had a lot of practice!”

”Not my gay past, your gay past.”

”Humbug!”

-to be continued-

The Solo Cold Open:
”Uhh, hmm...

How to start this off...

How... to...

OH!

Hi! I'm Dolly Waters. I'm REALLY glad to be back.

There's really no sense in contriving some long winded reintroduction spiel is there?

By the time we’re -we- the participants in this upcoming tag team affair on Warfare are done dragging one another through the proverbial mud over the next few days, you’ll -you- the ever lauded fandom of the XWF will have gathered your own opinions about who’s being genuine, and who’s trying to pull the wool over your eyes.

See, while you’re all bound to be lulled to sleep by pompous, opinionated takes on who’s “worthy” and why, I don’t think the majority of you out there watching really care. You’ve tuned in to see three of the biggest names in wrestling today all hitting the ring at the same time, tearing one another limb from limb so you can wake up on Christmas Eve morning with something to smile about.

Oh… and Dolly Waters.

But I’m really just an afterthought among the thought-of in this whole shebang, aren’t I?

Or am I?

Maybe to the dozens of fans that might have been sadly -but know it’s appreciated- long awaiting my return, you folks know exactly what I’m capable of, and let me just make a promise to all of you one time and one time only: Dolly Waters, aided by the fierce enigma, and good friend, that is Corey Smith, is going to set the fucking house on fire for you one last time.

Now, maybe to folks like The Prophecy, and god what a shitty, unoriginal and pretentious name by the way.

It’s almost, ALMOST as stupid as calling yourself the Baphomet, or something gay like that…

Ick!

But to folks like them, people who get caught up in value words like legacy, and icon, and reputation, and respect, to them I'm worthless. To "The Prophecy", I couldn't lace their boots up during the lowest sags of their careers, and in fact I'm sure to them, they'll just be swinging downward out of sympathy to remind Dolly Waters exactly where she's stands in the pecking order of "legacy".

But differences are just that aren't they? And hell we've all got em'. Remember that cold open that Corey and I filmed together at his commune a couple of days ago? I brought up that Centurion and Raven might just want to teach ol' Dolly Waters a lesson, and remember what I said about picking and choosing?

Bear it in mind.

Let's say there was some mutual "respect" of "legacy" between us -as differing as these legacies might be- but that instead of desiring the miniscule amount of rub that might be associated with retiring an unworthy flake, like myself, Centurion and Raven just wanted make an example out of little ol' me.

What a self defeating conundrum that might wind up being, the whole "picking and choosing aspect" that is...

Because what they'd really be saying is that they've decided to morally flex on on a teenage girl, who along the likes of: Doc, Chris Chaos, Robbie Bourbon, Peter Gilmour and Jim Caedus, and some stellar, and dedicated management -not even mentioning the countless hours of work being done backstage by yours truly and many others to keep matches on the air- but we helped keep this federation running through some of it's darker days. James Raven and Centurion had taken their balls, and were playing with one another's balls elsewhere.

Did I bounce in and out during those times?

Sure!

I mean for fuck's sake! There for a while, every other week seemed like one rape or kidnapping attempt of yours truly by one person or another, after the other, always and forever.

While I was seriously capable -I won't use the word talented, it feels icky- enough of overcoming the constant harassment from people who had nothing better to do than shit on people who were earnest and tried to get better, can you blame me for growing a little cynical and cold?

Maybe some people are more immune to those types of challenges then others. And it just might be so that just the mere flash of Dolly Waters popping up into a booking opt-in would leave two of the biggest legends -NAY!- ICONS to ever grace the ropes with their musty genitalia so perturbed that they found it necessary to, hand-in-hand, Drive ol' Dixie Down.

So, again, let's please, for the sake of all things that don't completely suck about the XWF, let's cease the comatose-inducing virtuous legend'splaining before that garbage even begins... shall we?

Do you people out there truly think that I'm not aware just how big of a fuck-up I am? Or that I'm not aware of how poorly I've treated not just my friends in this federation, but even this federation itself by flaking?

I spent the majority of my career here rubbing people the wrong way, begging for attention. I was begging for an opportunity to prove that I deserved to be among the likes of my peers in this matchup.

Hell, I did it ad nauseum.

But what I never, EVER did was go out of my way to crap on anyone, I was at least humble enough that realize that I had my own issues to work out rather than projecting my obvious insecurities onto others, ESEPCIALLY those I "claimed to admire".

Call me selfish. I was.

Say I was only concerned with winning. It's true.

Make fun of me because I would watch, and rewind, and re-watch my own footage time and time again. Because I did it. Because I have always been my own biggest critic.

But say all of that with a ridiculously lionized cock crammed mouth and tell me that at least for the better part of my meager accomplishments here, that I didn't care.

You can't. And I wouldn't expect anyone to be stupid enough to say otherwise.

I can recall I promo that I cut on GameGirl a year or so ago...

Centurion had just returned to the XWF, and good ol' GG had been sure to point out over and over again just how much of a "flake" Doll Waters was. I remember pointing out during that promo just how stupid it would be for people to start calling Centurion a "flake" amidst his return, but that I was certain some "good-doing-dipshits" would be lining up, stroking themselves at the thought of using such a thirsty attack. I'm certain it's happened since, but there's no way on EARTH it would actually happen during this match, would it?

See, I've never held any ill-bodings towards either James Raven or Centurion. Neither of them have ever wronged me. In fact, James Raven, while not being an actual mentor of mine, was someone who was always kind to me backstage and willing to lend advice and feedback. I'm not so sure that there weren't several areas where he helped me improve. It's truly appreciated.

James Raven, as we'll be reminded time and again has a legacy that's out of this world. He's worked hard enough and accomplished so much that he could be an absolute dick to anyone... and he deserves to be noticed for it. But just because you can be a dick, and you deserve to be a dick, does it mean that you REALLY should?

That's not for me to decide. Fuck. I'm the epitome of mid-carder hell. Unabashedly Southern, stupid and unworthily confident.

AND!

Unashamed to be returning for what I feel are the right reasons for once. To pay homage to not only the fans, but to the friends I've made in the XWF over all of these years and go out "the right way".

If we end up going down this road, and either Raven or Centurion decide to play the virtue card, I dare say they'd run the risk of sounding utterly foolish. But hell, we all make mistakes, I know that first hand.

Those with the most pomp attitudes, the snarks you might call them, of the XWF might be viewing this matchup as a foregone conclusion. Maybe they're right. Maybe I never was QUITE good enough to deal with any of the TRUE upper echelon. Maybe James Raven and Centurion are just flat out better...

But I know one thing for certain, if they are, they're going to have to fucking prove it.

Happy Holidays folks.

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