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... The Deeper Meaning Of Being Golden ...
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Amber Ryan
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#1
02-18-2023, 08:21 PM

“Comparatively, our private blunders are insignificant. Just part of the general pattern of human awfulness. We map our little disasters onto a beautiful picture of a great one, so that there’s continuity. So that there’s balance. We fail because we always fail. It’s not our fault. For evidence, see the paradise we lack.”
― Catherynne M. Valente, Radiance




Amber’s Apartment
Atlantic City, NJ
16.01.2022
3:02am




Time felt different when illuminated in neon green.

Through bleary eyes, the digital display read 03:01 however Amber could have sworn in the faintly illuminated pitch black that it had been 02:47 more than an hour ago. Perhaps it was her refusal to acknowledge that she hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours consecutively in the past seven months, her sleep pattern working in shifts that she hadn’t managed to acclimatise to mostly for the fact that even her body couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Despite the chill of breeze drifting through the balcony doors- a sheen of sweat clung heavily to her freckled skin, gently illuminating the multitude of faded scars that peeked out from between tangled sheets.

Amber had always considered them like battle worn armour, driven proof of her dedication to an industry that didn’t have the capacity to reciprocate the way she felt. Everything she’d given to it, she only ever received back through violence and regret- the vicious words of those with a grandiose sense of self cutting only slightly less deep than the steel and the glass chosen for her as a conduit. Deathmatches weren’t pretty, but they were the way she’d broken into the industry- a recklessness fuelled by spite and a determination of having nothing to lose except opportunity led the red head down a path she had no hope of returning from.

Sweeping a mass of crimson away from the edges of her face, Amber gently tried to pull herself up to sitting with her right arm, the left hanging loosely as though extraneous to the process. It was the prime reason she’d been plagued by sleepless nights- the ever present dull ache that electrified every nerve from her shoulder to fingers if she moved just slightly in the wrong way, the angry puckered edges of the forming scar tracing around in the shape of a crowbars sharpened edge.
If nothing else it was a constant reminder of her hubris and how it had been determined to see her turned into antimatter, a lesson perhaps on white knights and why they never seemed to last very long…

Abigayle ‘Masque’ De Lune had been a dizzying problem created by Amber’s ultimate obsession with being World Champion seven years prior, her decision to prioritise her chance to become champion over the fate of someone she cared about had haunted her every day since- but only in the past year had the nightmare itself reemerged from whichever manhole cover had been left ajar.
Amber had created this problem, karma had seen fit to act through Masque in delivering her comeuppance accordingly…

Two wrongs might not have made a right, but be damned if it wasn’t worth trying if only to avoid making the same heartbreaking mistake again. Only this time, Amber found her actions being fuelled by regret and determination instead of desire and guilt- as though it would have changed the outcome in hindsight. Whether she had realised it or not, by this point in June 2022- the Painted Hurricane had become little more than a violent whirlwind on the end of someone else’s string, a force of nature puppeteered and projected as though little more than a weapon to be wielded until it broke irreparably. 

Wiggling her fingers in an attempt to relieve stiffness built from deliberate inaction, Amber instinctively reached out beside her, finding only more cool, rumpled sheets. She knew Mac wouldn’t be there, most likely doing the same thing back in Vegas, she’d used the excuse of needing some time to clear her head- one which he accepted with the most knowing of expressions while still firmly disbelieving every word.

Truthfully it didn’t matter which way it was spun, five months was a damn long time to be out from an industry that fluctuated wildly in a space of hours. Landscapes changed with the frequency of titles, new names and faces forced themselves onto over-crowded scenes with the intent to be the ‘next big thing’ like it was a strangely foreign concept. Reputation had a shelf life, and no one was quite game to admit that it was shorter than everyone made out.
Five months might have been a long time, but if her surgeons were to be believed- it should have been much closer to seven or eight before she even gave a sideways glance towards a wrestling ring. Amber mused silently, imagining their looks of horror and disgust as she rolled for the first time, like some one armed bandit, after two and a half.

Mac, to his credit, had been stern with her at first, barely allowing her out of his sight for more than a few moments for fear she might try and be ‘independent’ (see: stubborn)… His willpower had lasted longer than either of them had anticipated, but eventually he relented to allowing her to do more than just muddle around with cabin fever whilst threatening to move the lounge room furniture for the fifth time in two weeks, cause the feng shui was still just a little off.
After a month and a half, carefully supervised, she was ‘allowed’ to return to Oblivion Garage and tinker- as though they both weren’t intimately aware she’d already been sneaking in a messing around with a particular nuisance engine block. After two, she’d been allowed to commence ‘rehab’ which only lasted a further month due to the physician losing their shit at her showing up without a sling and tape residue on her hands.

Now, almost eight months removed from the initial injury - Amber was World Bombshells Champion again. Improbable, certainly. Impossible, well it should have been.
A title, HER fucking title that she’d lost back in January after 357 terrifyingly dominant days of razing a division to the ground, in hopes of rebuilding it into a greater image- now sat on her formica countertop capturing the muted yellow glow of the streetlights stories below.
It shouldn’t have been though, realistically she shouldn’t have been cleared to wrestle- any practitioner worth their licence would have agreed- and they did. Any bargain worth making was one worth making with the devil himself, only this devil didn’t proudly display his horns and pointed tail, but cloaked his chaotic intentions beneath a well tailored suit and behind a wall of cleverly psychological vocabulary - Amber knew, with a hollowing pang of understanding, that she was only champion again because of Dr Gabriel Baal.

That stung a little more than she had anticipated, but momentarily put it down to the dry feeling in the back of her throat. Rolling her tongue against the roof of her mouth, she tried to let her eyes adjust to the neon city landscape faintly illuminating the window. It shouldn’t have been that surprising really that money and influence spoke louder than ethics- Amber had raced the clock to be cleared in time for an impossibly soon return match and had only been asked for VIP entrance to the brewing shitstorm in recompense.
Shifting uncomfortably, Amber’s feet touched down against the wooden floor with a grimace instinctively swallowed. It only really hurt when she breathed, and when she didn’t. Pulling herself upright, lithe musculature rippled casting shadows against the far wall as though the monster under the bed was emerging in search of misbehaving children.

Perhaps it wasn’t that far of a reaching thought, as soft footsteps padded across the floor. Amber had made her name as the unstoppable entity of SCW, the Baba Yaga of the Bombshells where many had learned to instinctively concede defeat upon seeing their names across from hers on any given card- it hadn’t become a matter of if, but when, for many favouring the idea of surviving as a greater achievement than winning.

Amber, for more than a year, had been the ferryman…

Until she'd now found herself face down and breathing deep in the River Styx.





******



“What does it take to be considered a game changer?

Maybe you’re the type that likes to consult a dictionary, skim a few pages and make everyone else around you feel grossly uncomfortable cause they all know you’re just looking for the pictures. See, it's defined as an event, an idea or perhaps a person that becomes a catalyst towards significant change in the status quo… Or maybe you’re more the pragmatic type who likes to make sure everyone knows you are absolutely looking for the pictures and will complain loudly to anyone listening that you had to, shock and horror, read for yourself. In that case a game changer might be considered a spark that ignites an otherwise still, stagnated landscape for better or worse.

That's the thing though, isn’t it Larry?
A game changer doesn’t necessarily seek betterment- they seek transformation and transition while the consequences might rightfully be damned.

Yet here you are, leader of the Game Changers and the most starkly traditionalist bullshit artist standing tall as a contradiction to his own concept. I mean, you built a kingdom on shifting sands and surround yourself with a small army of miscreants rebelling for the sake of rebellion against which ever cause is the shiniest- you went and found yourself a bunch of delinquent children firing pellet guns into trees in hopes of hitting something that will make a noise…

You went and turned a concept that was fundamentally important in the industry into yet another cliche oxymoronic stance.

Don’t get me wrong though, I respect your game. I respect the belief that accolades are a whole-hearted representation of the way you’ll be remembered once Death comes barging through the door at your most compromised moment, once again forgetting to wipe the bone dust off his shoes. I admire your determination to make everyone else understand your perspective- even if you’re continually showing your age by playing into the ‘get off my damn lawn’ archetype when referring to anyone younger than you by five years or more.

I respect your stance that wrestling and what you bring to the industry is supposed to mean something, not simply trying to impress the cute girl in makeup with your anecdotes or win over Vegas hookers cause losing still pays for a couple hours of love and eventual ringworm treatment.
Hell, I agree that being champion should stand for more than just being an overpaid mannequin claiming that they deserve something when really they stumbled into a puddle of success on someone else’s worst day.

… and that was just the sound of everyone in the vicinity being collectively sick in their mouths.

Don’t think for a second though, that my choice to agree is built off some attempt at flattery as though it's gonna save my precious little freckled ass once we step in the ring together. I have no such allusions that stroking your ego is going to do anything except give your left hand a brief respite. It's certainly no secret that you have a resume longer than the reasons why you think you are the bees knees and the cat's pyjamas but honestly I don’t have nearly the attention span to hear you repeat ‘I’m great’ over in every possible word vomit iteration you can manage. No, your reputation Larry far precedes you- mostly cause you’re the one with your foot planted on the proverbial throttle, the spokesperson of the Larry Tact fan club busy spewing propaganda as though you might Tinkerbell if not enough people are calling you an insufferable asshole.

Don’t get me wrong, I respect the hustle as much as I think it's over-wrought and totally worthless beyond the momentary dopamine rush… I mean we get it, you weren’t hugged enough as a child.

None of us were Larry, that's why we fucking do this.

What bothers me is that you care way too much, about how much others care… or don’t. You’re so determined to tell the universe exactly all the ways they can get fucked by using a title belt- and theres this small part of me that takes exception to such things.
While you aren’t the kind of usual stock standard bullshit artist I’m used to dealing with, she’s supposedly headlining night one under yet another fucking married name. I’m sure that's now fifteen different marriages and polyamorous excuses for extra-marital threesomes which the next flavour of the fucking month…

Oops, let’s ignore the unfortunate segue before Crystal thinks she can suck up enough of other peoples balls before she feels brave enough to come for me again. Like that's worked out the last few times…

No, you’re a different kinda bullshit Tact. You’re the type that's so determinedly believing his own hype that there's no room left on the bandwagon for anyone else, so worried someone might disagree with your points of view that you simply say it louder in hopes that they might just give up.
You’re so full of bluster that you’re powering your own hype train, just a shame that you’re the only passenger… Well, toot toot motherfucker cause this bad boy is about to go off the goddamn rails.

Theres no denying that you’ve earned your place- Level Up Power Champion isn’t anything to be scoffed at, I’ve watched enough tape to know that you’re the champion for more than just aesthetic purposes. You’ve busted your ass time and time again, you deserve that belt hanging around your waist Larry- and I won’t sit here and try to deny you that.

You’re the Power Champion, sure. However no good deed goes unpunished sweetheart- you created a standard for everyone else to set by your peers, you gate keep a division made up of every other asshole who thinks the splash of talent on their shoes after stumbling through puddle of accidental successes makes them worthy to carry ten pounds of your blood and guts.
That's the funny thing isn’t it, everyone thinks they can be champion if they simply try really hard, that they are bound for greatness cause they were good people who did as they were told and respected their peers… Everyone thinks they can handle it once they have the belt- it's not the ten pounds of leather and metal that drags your feet along the ground though, is it?

What is it you’ve had to leave behind, what had to suffer for your successes Larry?

You’re the champion, you’re the man who has had to sacrifice everything to keep it. Part of me sympathises cause I get it…I get it more than you wanna know. I’ve given more than my fair share for the belt I have on my shoulder- I’ve done things I should feel guilt in admitting and justified them with the number of days I earned to my name. I’ve done heinous things to remain champion, things I’m neither proud nor ashamed of cause I knew it would be worthwhile in the end.

All that effort, the heartache and the hunger… determination to be that guy everyone sees and thinks they understand, think they know cause there's fifty thousand others just like him…Determined to be memorable, to be special- just like everyone else.

What has it cost you though… really...

… and why will it never be enough?





******



Amber’s Apartment
Atlantic City, NJ
16.02.2023
6:14am




Atlantic City tried its hardest at sunrise.

Smattering the concrete and neon dotted landscape with an orange glow, the murky waters around the Boardwalk rippled in intrusive black waves between kisses of the dawning bloom. In a few hours, this would be a distant memory polluted by the multitude of tourists wielding camera phones and entitlement on their faces like a fucking disappointing nametag.
Three coffees down, with a fourth going cold at her side and a cigarette half-smouldered between her fingers that she’d yet to have taken a drag from, Amber lazily pulled her knees up a little closer to her chest as her heels rested on the plastic chairs edge. One arm had been missing for as long as she’d remembered and the glass tabletop faded from the sun and dustings of ash, she could have afforded to replace them both an age ago- however somehow their flaws made it feel more like home.

Las Vegas was home any other time, but it always felt suffocating. Expectation lingering like a swinging anvil simply for having been there, the connotations that came with it poisoning the soul. Atlantic City was her sanctuary, her escape from the rigours of the reality she’d built. A head of ash tumbled off the edge of the cigarette, falling in slow motion to the ashtray below, as the glint of gold caught her periphery.
That belt, that godforsaken addiction was her heart, her life. Her everything.

It wasn’t that Mac had ever meant any less- hell, the man had the patience of a fucking saint, and twice as much understanding. He’d been her rock as much as he’d been her enabler, a partner in crime when he wasn’t unexpectedly filling her entire apartment with roses for Valentines day…God, it had been weeks before she’d stopped finding wilted rose petals in the strangest places…
No, Mac had been a blessing that she’d never anticipated having. To say she was difficult to love was like saying that terminal brain cancer was a mild inconvenience to life, he had sacrificed almost as much just to keep her head above water while she’d been a consistent weight around his ankle.
They’d been married almost three years now, and each day she questioned whether that would finally be the one where he realised that he could do so much better.
One day he’d come to realise that he was worth more than a distant second best to the void in her chest.

Rummaging into her pocket for her phone, another wave of regret washed through her frayed nerves. It had been almost a month now since her first unanswered voicemail to Cassiopeia, the previous two hadn’t even rang before the familiar electronic cadence filled the silence in between held breaths.
Cassie had been a member of SCW Talent Relations, with a half smile Amber remembered how timid she was when they met, wearing a tea length floral dress and looking like she’d stepped off of a cottage magazine cover- she’d been assigned to ‘keep Amber out of trouble’ at least publically, and ended up being dragged through the collective crossfire.
It had been Cassie’s skin that Amber had gotten injured trying to save, the deja vu aching painfully down through her left arm. It had been Cassie that bore the brunt of Amber’s failures and Masque’s rapture, punished for caring way too much and being in the wrong place at the worst time- perhaps it was no wonder she wasn’t answering her phone.

Amber couldn’t blame the younger woman for being upset- she was never supposed to be this far involved. No one was. Too many had been dragged into the depths of this war- the dark leviathan shadows tangling everyone who seemed to drift into proximity, drowning them for a cause they had no stake in.
It was over though, the ten pounds of leather and gold were testament to that.

She’d been redeemed, returned to her rightful place atop the SCW mountain. Yet somehow this form of redemption was as satisfying as it was deceptively hollow.

For everything they’d done, for everyone they’d hurt. All the trajectories changed, the lives damaged and destroyed in search of what… sadistic revenge? A fairytale long reaching atonement arc where happily ever after never mentioned all the collateral damage just off screen. Out of sight, out of mind.
Like any good action movie, no one would remember the collapsed buildings or blood stains drying in the city gutters where a villain took their dramatic last breath- everyone would accept those things as though they’d always been like that, waiting for the inevitable next time cause stories didn’t end with the closing of a chapter.

Only that it was worth it.

That's what everyone told themselves, heroes gasping desperately for their next breath as blood bubbled through holes in their chest, that everything they had done could be justified because it meant something. Because it was worth something. That what they were fighting for was the right thing and everyone else would have to eventually agree or remain wrong.

How else could it be?

How else could they go about with heads held high and arms drenched in their accolades, determined that they were doing everything for the right reasons, cause those reasons were their own.

Planting the phone face down on the table beside her, Amber released the breath she’d been holding with as much restraint as she might manage - it was worth it, everything and everyone would understand one day that she had done what she had to do.
There wasn’t any other way, any other option. It had to be worth it… if only for her own sanity.

Besides, collateral damage no longer really mattered when you were the only one left standing.





******




“I’ve sacrificed everything for my World Title, Larry.

It's not some sardonic exaggeration to try and make this match seem more important- this Bombshells World Title means everything to me. Ask Mac, even he's come around to eventual understanding that he’s a distant second fiddle to this belt on my shoulder.

Does it make me a monster?

Probably.

I’ve been called worse by far better people, and better by far worse.

Of course there is a distinct difference between us Larry, one that I’m sure even you haven’t quite figured out yet- so allow me to spell this like we’re in elementary school kiddies…

I’ve sacrificed my life on more than one occasion for my belt, you’ve merely sacrificed what you were willing to, what was convenient and easy to cast aside. It's a pattern when it keeps on repeating Tact- and it's not exactly subtle anymore that your precious Power Title has become little more than a justification for all the ways you continue to fuck up.
Blame the title, being champion made me do it, right…

Just keep on digging in hopes that you might bury each mistake in the bones of the next one- you’ve become a facsimile champion drifted too far out to sea to swim back and too proud to admit that he’s drowning. Reacting like a junkie, jumping at shadows whilst looking for a hit, you’re yet to accept a very painful truth.

Being champion isn’t some bandaid for the irreparable damage you’ve caused, it's not just some gold tinted consolation prize for everyone who had to endure your excuses for why you couldn’t be a better person. Winning world titles doesn’t fix your marriage- believe me, I would like to think I’m the expert by now, even being married to the business doesn’t save the failings from breeding the kind of resentment that sticks between your ribs. It doesn’t alleviate the pressures of not being good enough nor smooth over the wrinkles of fundamental disagreement.
No, being a champion in this godforsaken industry is bound to leave every relationship in tattered ruins fluttering in the empty doorway they left open as they left to go to their parents. Again.

There is no having your cake and eating it too, it's having your cake and choking it down cause you told everyone you could.

You took everything you sacrificed to be champion and turned it into self-aggrandizing excuses, used your position as champion to justify why everyone thinks you’re a douchebag. Spoiler alert, it's not cause you’re misunderstood, it's because you’ve used your title to justify being an entitled douchebag, oddly enough enough. As a fundamentalist, you understand that the title only has the meaning bestowed upon it by the person who holds it…

Perhaps that's why it bothers me so much to see you using it as a mere scapegoat for your issues, an easy way out when anyone forces you to take some kind of accountability for your actions.
I may have done some heinous shit to become champion, and worse to stay it- but I’ve owned my shit Larry, I accept that my actions put me in this position and will continue to do so.
All you’ve come to own is the majority shares in your continued power trip.

I’ve made my title worth the sacrifices I made to get it and keep it. I’ve made it into a belt that people want cause it means something more than shutting me up for two minutes, before hoping I might simply implode on myself like a sentient blackhole.
I’ve made every sacrifice worth the days to my name, whereas you’re simply claiming to have done everything you can to bolster a failing standard whilst throwing every *disposable* relationship you might have under the fucking bus.
Everything I’ve done and will do, is to remain champion Larry.

Maybe for just a minute, you should stop using yours to mask the fact that you’ve failed everyone for absolutely nothing.

Are you regretting your choice yet Tact, or everything choice you’ve made till now?

I suppose you’ll next tell me that the World Series of Wrestling was just a further ploy to fill out dream matches on your bucket list in hopes of elevating yourself against those the industry actually has a stake in. Credit where credit is obviously due- you were a successful enough name to be a judge, but anyone with two brian cells to rub together can formulate a criticism to a half-hearted attempt to profuse on a stale prompt in front of an otherwise apathetic audience.
Must be terribly hard to judge wrestlers when all you allowed them to do was talk- you know, as though that's the gold standard for being a professional in our industry.

What was it about me that made you want to challenge me- the visceral obscenities that I sprinkle throughout my unforgiving prose, a little too realist and grounded for the head in the clouds hopeful nature of the series?
Perhaps my unwillingness to play to a camera for the sake of good television practices, sparring verbally against mirrors and deadpan expressions cause we couldn’t be trusted to run with sharpened tongues. Or maybe… you saw a target painted in a giant red bullseye and thought of an easy way to remind people that you weren’t just one of the ‘other’ champions in Level Up.

We’re predators by nature Tact, and I’d be remiss not to speak on the fact that I did the whole World Series of Wrestling whilst on the sidelines and I’d be a liar to try and admit that I’m even close to 100%. I’m not an idiot and can see opportunity as clearly as you do- unfortunately ‘easy’ isn’t written on my forehead nor does it appear anywhere in my nature. I’ve had better men dead to rights on worse days, I’ve left more blood on the canvas than I've left in my veins- I no longer fight from underneath cause the holes were getting a little too deep for most opponents' comfort.
I might be a lot of things, and very few of them are complimentary, but I won’t be someones ‘Golden Ticket’ back to the big lights and brighter times. I’m not some embellishment on your resume, a little glitter to distract from all the spaces where your recent achievements are supposed to go.

Before we meet on night three, I want you to consider something very carefully…

What is my name really worth to you Larry, and what does another high profile loss on your record do for your standing in this industry?

You need this- you need this more than the blood in your veins or the air choked up in your lungs. You need this win cause you’ve got so much to prove and so little time in the spotlight to do so, fifteen minutes is just a suggestion but for you I might be able to make five in my schedule…

You might need this, but truthfully

What do you think you really mean to me?”
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Theo Pryce (02-19-2023)




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