CONTINUED FROM CHAPTER 1: THE BREAK OUT

LINK HERE: CHAPTER 1: PRELUDE: THE BREAKOUT: A Very Jenny Xmass

The car rumbled down the long, seemingly endless strip of desert highway. There wasn't another human in sight. It would be hard pressed for the average person to believe that anything living could survive out here besides plants. Just rock, sand and prickly plants. For hundreds of miles.

The heat was so thick that it made micro-wave lines in the open air, visible through the windshield.

Jenny took a few moments to survey the inside of the car as they drove. She seemed frantic, panicked. She was moving things, throwing them into the back seat. Her eyes scanned the windshield like they were in REM SLEEP, back and forth, back and forth. Finally, she spoke in a panicked tone.

"STICKER....Ash....where is the sticker? Where the FUCK IS THE STICKER?!"

Ash furled her brow, tilting her head.

"The what?"

The crazed girl took a deep breath, then another. She brought her hands up to her head then a long slow exhale as she brought them down.

"This is a rental car, correct?"

"Yes?"

"....And it is under Sarina's name, right?"

"It is."

"You used her ID, her credit card, her social?"

"Yes, yes, and yes. We went over this." She picked up the key fob and showed her the HERTZ tag.

"Okay, then pull in here."

There was a small, two pump gas station on the side of the desert highway. In the middle of nowhere. Literally one of those gas stations that people get killed at in horror movies.

The tires of the rented Nissan crunched over the gravel laden dirt as the wheel cut towards the sketchy fill up station.

It pulled to a stop by one of the rusted pumps.

"You hungry?"

"You know it."

Jenny smiled, patting her best friend on the shoulder. She opened the car door and got out, skipping towards the door. Ash looked down at her purse. Jenny had forgotten it. She was going in there with no money.

Ash shook her head lightly, but didn't call out after her.

The small bell at the top of the door jingled as it open and shut. Surveying the inside of the dingy roadside with raptor-like awareness, the blonde escapee made her way to the cooler in the back. Every step was a new victory for her. She had beaten it, she had won. She was free.

But, she wasn't ready to be free. Not yet. Her head shot back and forth as she walked. She felt trapped, just as trapped as she was inside the asylum, by the wall and the isle. Trapped in a prison of concrete and stale sunchips, overpriced name brand toilet paper and warm soda. As she turned the corner she flinched, expecting the orderlies to be there to grab her.

But there was nobody. She felt her scrunched face wince unlock, and she looked side to side. Nothing, empty. Silent except for the hum of the nearby cooler, the light flickering inside the door.

Composing herself, she walked over to the cooler. Opening it with a creak, she felt the cold air hit her face. Her breath began to increase. She felt her heart rate shoot up again. She didn't know why. Everything slowed down around her, as she reached for the drinks her hand felt as though it were sliding through an invisible molassas. When she finally grabbed the Moutain Dew she was going for, it snapped back to normal life speed.

What the fuck was wrong with her?

She grabbed a couple of them, as well as numerous bags of chips, popcorn and candy as she walked up the isle. It didn't even matter which one, she grabbed them without making eye contact.

When she made it to the counter, she set everything down in a messy cluster. The man behind the counter, wearing a dirty shirt, unbuttoned, with one of those stitched name tags with the blue writing and a browning undershirt stared at her. She stared at his chest.

"MARTY."

She moved her head up to make eye contact. His eyes were piercing directly into hers. He looked her up and down once, then brought a water bottle with a brown liquid up to his mouth and spit a brown chunk inside.

"Can I help ya little lady?"

Nobody could help her.

Didn't hide the fact that it was a dumb question, though. Why did everyone at these places always ask that? Yes, you can help me, scan my shit so I can get out of this shithole!

She nervously looked over at Ash, who was standing up against the Sentra outside, smoking. She looked back at the man and smiled wide like the good little dumb blonde he thought she was.

"Yes sir! My friend Sarina and I are on a road trip to Vegas! Woo! We are on our way for a girls weekend! Just wanted some snacky-snacks." She bats her eyes.

The man laughs a little, spitting another brown clump into the bottle.

She fixed her shirt a little as he began to scan the items, pulling it down a little. She leaned over the counter.

"You been working here a while, Marty?"

The man looked up when she said his name. He huffed. "Own it."

She smiled again.

"Oh wow. You must be doing very well. You're the only station from LA to Vegas!"

He huffed again, trying not to look at the top of her chest, which was now more exposed. "Couple more."

He finished scanning, and told her the price. $35.80

Not terrible, considering how many snacks she grabbed.

Jenny blinked several times, fumbling for her non-existant pockets.

"Oh poop. I think I left my wallet in the hotel! Oh my gosh! Umm......oh, I'd ask my friend Sarina but she would kill me for being so dumb!"

He looked at her, unphased.

"There must be SOMETHING I can do" she said, leaning forward with anticpation that his shallow male ego will fall for the oldest slut trick in the book.

He looked at her again, and she leaned even more forward batting her eyes.

"Are these worth thirty five dollars, Marty?"[ she grabbed his unbuttoned, dirty shirt, pulling him forward.

She licked her lips and bit at him.

Without saying anything, he looked out at the girl standing by the car smoking. They were the only customers. If she tried anything, he had collateral.

"Quick." he said, coming out from behind the counter.

The two disappeared into the restroom. Ash flicked her cigarette.


A short time later, Jenny and the man emerged from the bathroom. The stench in there was horrible, but she tried her best to put it out of her mind. Lord knows there was enough occupying that already.

"Thanks Marty!" she said, shifting her top back to its normal position. "You're a saint." She blew him a kiss as she grabbed the snacks and took off out the door. The bell ringing to signal her depature.

As she turned the corner, she saw Ash standing there.

"Did you get it?"

She holds up Marty's keys that she clearly swiped from his pocket.

The two girls got into the car that was parked on the back side of the building. They started it up and took off. It too happened to be a Grey Nissan Sentra. It was Marty's car. During the course of their "interaction", Ash had unscrewed the plates to the rental and put them on Marty's car. Vice versa. All of the paperwork with his VIN and year and warranty info, his identifying info, everything, was inside the glove box. Marty did not know any of this info, and he never thought to car.

As he grinned, putting another lip in, he saw a car, his car, peel out from around the corner. He ran out to the back to check his parking spot. It was gone.

"FUCKING A" he ran back inside, phoning the police.


"Sir....you're sure this isn't your car and this is where you parked it?"

"NO, DAMNIT, THAT ISN'T MINE!"

"Okay, and what kind of car is yours again?"

"A Nissan Sentra!" The officer looked out at the very obvious Sentra sitting at the pump.

"And your plate number is NEVADA GSX-4566"?

"YES"

The officer peeks out again, seeing the plate on the car. NEVADA GSX-4566.

"Sir, do you know your VIN?"

"I don't. What the hells a VIN?"

"And your security cameras work?"

"No. Been meaning to get those damn things fixed, but don't get enough traffic to worry about it."

"Okay sir, well, we will take it under advisement. She will call the VIN in and check for you, and I would reccomend you go home, get a good nights sleep."

The cops walked out and got into their squad car, laughing to themselves. Old Man Marty was really losing it. All the way the hell out here in the middle of east-bumblefuck.

They pulled out of the old lot, as the ripped off HERTZ tag blew in the breeze the tires made.

Meanwhile, almost 50 miles down the road, Jenny and Ash laughed and joked as they blared the music, pigging out on the free snacks.



"So my third match back, the powers-that-be decide to give me a bonafide legend (or so we are led to believe) at the Pay Per View! Some might say that is them trying to bury me, some may say that is a nod of confidence....what do I say?

I say let the blood flow plenty!

This is anything goes. Is that supposed to scare me? Is that supposed to make little old me fear for my well being? Is going up against Mr. Smiley the tuxedo guy really supposed to make me quiver in my asylum provided stick-em socks? It sure would have before. I cared about my image then. I cared about how people would perceive me. I cared about messing up in front of a national audience. I cared about being laughed at. Honestly, I cared about being in the biggest moments, the biggest stages, under the brightest lights, and falling right on my pretty face. I faced the world under the impression that nothing scared me, that I was ready to face the world and take on all challengers.....all 5 feet of me, full of piss and vinegar.......What could I possibly have been afraid of?

I was afraid of myself.

I was afraid that I wasn't ever going to be good enough. I was afraid I would let everyone down. I was afraid I wouldn't live up to the image that I had given myself........of the mean girl queen...I was afraid of what I had become.

I was living a lie!

So concerned with what you all wanted and never concerned enough about what I wanted.

*gag turns into a violent dry heave, followed by some coughing*

"Honestly. I was disgusting. I fell into the XWF trap. This place, it changes you. It gives you stardom, builds you up and makes you whole, then rips it all away in one violent motion and leaves you quivering in the corner, knees up, wondering what went wrong. What we fail to realize through all the wreckage is that is ourselves. We fail to adapt to the ever-changing environment, and the talent around us gets better, leaving us in the dust. Only a small handful around here is consistent enough to be great. Everyone here is good, only a small number are great. An even smaller number STAY great. You can't even manage to keep a title on the company's C show. You're consisent, I'll give you that (and a hell of an endorsement for Just-For-Men, by the way, because at your age, that hair is FLAWLESS), but have you been consistently GREAT? Some may say so, but then again, when I got back, I didn't even know you were still here until I saw your name across from me on the card. Main, Caedus, Cory, Thad, they are plastered all over the XWF propoganda. You are in the shadows, the memory of the superstar that once was, and surface every time they need a legend on air to boost ratings. Big match? Sure, lets but Centurion in there! The people will love it! You win most of those matches, though, I have to question if you ever really get put through the gauntlet. Through the ringer. Do you STILL have it? Who really knows. You had a great December, but you're not unbeatable. You lost to another Top 50 and legend in Mark Flynn. You seem to make a habit out of beating on those that aren't quite in your tax bracket, but when the new "best" shows up, or even old best apparently, show up.....Centurion is......just good.


"And I know you've heard this before.......BORING.....but perhaps it needs to be said. Again. For the umpteenth time. There is no change in you. Main, Caedus, they have always tweaked their style a bit to adapt to the modern times but you......you've stayed the same boring self you've always been. You must be one of the most bland human beings I've ever seen. You're the fucking human equivalent of plain yoghurt. Even just doing this promo about you is boring the shit out of me. You're saving grace is floating through by being a pretty boy. Prison pretty, not real-world pretty. When you're bent over, you can almost imagine you're the hairless love child of Adam Sandler and Drew Barrymore.

It's quite entertaining!"

*giggle, clap*

"We're not so different, you and I"

"People like me have never mattered to people like you, Cent. People with your repugnant ego. I can say it from a place of knowlegde because I used to be the same way. I snubbed my nose at everyone deemed below me. I looked at people as my inferiors and treated them terribly all for the purpose of making myself feel better. Funny thing is, Cent, is that I KNOW just how fucked I used to be. I think you're still trying to figure out how fucked you still truly are. It's okay, we all have to find ourselves eventually! Progress is healthy! Acceptance is the first step!

I see where you are coming from because, hey, why not, its convienient. It's the easy way. It's so much better than telling the truth, isn't it? Hiding is healthy for some, isn't it? You may view yourself as a legend but behind that brash bravado and sharp tongue I see a scared, insecure little boy. A little boy whose sole purpose on this planet is validating himself with accomplishments that make him look good in the eyes of others. You make a list, other people consider you a "legend", but deep down inside it just isn't good enough, is it Cent? You want me to tell you what you want to hear, because you are so used to everyone cupping your balls with their mouth on your shaft. Maybe a finger in the ass here and there, if you're feeling frisky."


"For years, you have coasted because of opinions. Opinions from people whose opinions from others of them make them more important than me. People like Jem Williams, Trent Gein, Steve Jason, Dominator, Aidan Collins, Lee Stone...."

*she takes a breath, wiping her brow*

"Whew....there sure is a lot of them....okay....so....The Brand....Kevin Jewert....Boondock Saint.....- Ryou Bakari Itemri......

You are a legend because people have told us you are a legend. Opinions of people who would look at me much the same way you do, Cent. With an upturned nose and a snarl lip. People who wouldn't give me a snowballs chance in hell to be anything here.

People's whose opinions hold a lot of weight around here.....

But you know what they say about opinions, Cent? Everyone's got em.........Opinons are like assholes.....

Problem is, girls don't poop."