HELL hath no FURY as a WOMAN scorned. xx installment I
Sept 11, 2016 15:27:21 GMT -6
Spencer Adams likes this
Post by blanchecorrigan on Sept 11, 2016 15:27:21 GMT -6
You can shoot me with your words
.
.
You can cut me with your lies
.
.
You can kill me with your hatefulness.
But still I rise.
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Two years. Two years did I spend away from the ring. Not only the ring, but hell, the entire wrestling industry as a whole. I dipped and dabbled in business ventures, modeling, but none of it seemed to...fill that void, ya know? Anyone who's anyone that's retired, forcefully or by choice, from this business will tell you - for the first few months, it's refreshing. Who would trade getting to spend time with their family? Seeing their mother...their wife or husband...their kids. Spending time with them on holidays instead of listening to the ball drop on the radio as you're driving down the bumpy road after a show. But then the sixth month roles in. You turn on the TV and there it is. You flip through Instagram and there it is. You open your local newspaper and low and behold...in the lower right hand corner, there it is. Wrestling. And maybe for another month you can ignore it - a simple chuckle to roll from between your lips as you gaze over the images you see before you, reminding you of what used to be. Though, by that eighth month or so, you begin to feel this tightening in your throat as you gaze upon the new Era of workers doing what they love, through that computer or phone screen. You find yourself watching old clips of your matches. Your text to your acquaintances still enveloped in the business become lengthy, wanting to jointly reminisce on your career and “the good ol times”. Only to get no response or, if you're lucky, a response late on a Wednesday night. No one seems to recognize you anymore. When you go out, no one's day is brightened when they see you walking down the strip mall - no one is running up to you asking for your autograph. It hits you. Like a slow sinking feeling- it hits you. You begin to feel utterly poisoned by the fact that you're no longer within that hamster wheel many know as the wrestling business. You're a rejected little rodent - now on the outside, looking in. No more fans. No more trips. No more late night, crazy hotel parties. No more stories to tell about how you got stiffed in a match - breaking this bone or that bone.
You're drowning
You begin to hate yourself. Trying to find something, anything to fill that void. Many turn to drugs or alcohol. Some of us turn to other business paths - some successful, some...not so. Unlike many others, this wasn't my case - I didn't feel the need to turn to substances. Instead, my option was to thrive in something I was apparently “born to do”. My legs and stature, in itself, always gave people one vibe; “you're a model!”. I'd always scoff at that. I mean, what woman competitor would ever want to be considered a model when you're inside a ring, planting bruises on places on your body you didn't even know existed? But...I figured….with my six year wrestling career gone straight down the tubes because some asinine twit wanted to accuse me of stealing her paychecks (though she was totally forking over her money to drug lords for sex and pills)...why not dip my toes into something I was born with? I knew I had talent and gull. Courage and confidence. I knew I was sought to look like a business woman and hell, I acted like one too. I managed myself in the modeling world for about a year, all the while starting up my own lingerie line. It gave my hard exterior some softening up - people who once perceived me to be some badass and would poke fun at how my stature could never be up to par with the other women in the business, now respected me. Quite the opposite on how it should have been, don't you think? But whether I excelled in the wrestling world, modeling world, or business one thing was quite for certain - I knew what I was doing. Meticulously planning my every move. Before this, before having one of the biggest wake up calls of my life by way of losing everything I worked for in the wrestling business, I was a wild thing. I didn't care who I hurt to get to the top - no one mattered but me and I made that very clear, very vocalized. It wasn't until now did I realize that was probably my greatest downfall. I let people in on what I had planned to do next before I even executed it. Rookie mistake. This year will start my seventh year in this wrestling world. I'm not a rookie anymore. I've hardened pieces of myself that were once naive. I’ve taken my downfalls and turned them into fuel and how does that saying go? Ah, yes…
H E L L hath no F U R Y as a W O M A N scorned
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7:19 am, Sunday September 11th 2016 types in bold words across the screen...
The cameras pan in, around the corner and into an open, well lit room - filled with the sun’s early grasp. I lay lazily across the white love seat, draped in nothing but my silk black robe as I flip on the television placed above the mantel of the fireplace in my rented out Airbnb home in Portland. Immediate news coverage on numerous 9/11 memorials flash on nearly every channel. It’s a shame, there’s far better words than that but, it truly is a shame for an entire nation to have to mourn over such a massive, tragic loss, year in and year out. I lay there, almost in a daze, as video and photos of this day illustrated themselves disturbingly in faint hues. Nothing but gray. Nothing but ash. Nothing but death. Screams, people who once roamed downtown with ease, now stuck wondering where they were and what just happened. Their whole lives, instantly came crumbling down, faster than the towers themselves. They thanked God that day - thanked God they weren’t trapped somewhere in those buildings. Thanked God they were cut, bruised, but alive. Thanked God that, though their vision blurred from the gloom of dust, they were able to see some sort of light and life still around them. But, as I lay there, remembering this all so vividly, chills ran down my spine as though I just got splashed with ice cold water. I was sixteen - only a few months before I decided to go on my way to America. If this wasn’t an eye opener for someone my age, I have no idea what would have been at the time. People across the world felt the affects - it wasn’t just America that needed to wake up and realize being united is the only way to defeat evil, but the world as a whole. It’s what ultimately, struck so much fear into my soul that I decided on moving to California rather than New York for the simple unease that had smacked me straight in the face after seeing those towers get hit. At this very moment, fifteen years later, I came to a realization…
3:00 pm, Sunday September 11th 2016 types in bold words across the screen...
“Where the hell is all the food?! Is this company so cheap that all their feeding their workers is cookies and crackers?! I mean, honestly. What the fuck…”
A voice rang out in the catering section backstage of the Rose Quarter for Overload in Portland. A young, caramel skinned woman with long black hair looked utterly disgusted as she threw her hands up in the air - her lips smacking at the, what we can only predict to be, delicious cookie. She shakes her head…
“Feed these young folks the good shit. They don’t keep in shape for this type of treatment. Where’s the real carbs, the protein?!”
Security is called over swiftly and discreetly, asking the woman for ID. She hands them her driver’s license…
“Cambian Rana....”
“It’s Ranatunga, man. Fuck, can’t you read? Spent all that time in school for what? Not shit. Ranatunga. Sound it out for me, I’ll do it with ya’...Ran-a-t…”
“Ma’am, you’re not authorized to be here. There’s no one on the list by that name. We’ll have to escort you out.”
“I’m on the list. You better check that shit again, dude, I’m on there…”
The security guard simply shakes his head, grabbing Miss Ranatunga under her arm with a firm grasp. She fights against the burly man.
“Nah. I’m on there, you aren’t taking me away from this food…”
He sighs, loosening his grip as Cambian slashes around like a mad woman.
“Vista Kills. Why is everyone forgetting who the fuck I am anymore? I’ve been away from the ring too long…”
The guard looks over the list again, flipping through every page. Though his facial expression stays blank, almost in an annoyed manner, he lets her go completely. Cambian simply smiles, adjusting her top as he signals to her that she’s “free”.
“Who the fuck would put me under Vista Kills? I haven’t gone by that in years…”
“That...would of been me. I hope it wasn’t too much of a burden, miss.”
From across the room slinked over a tall, tanned, plump lipped blonde - her smile from ear to ear as her arms fly out for an embrace. Cambian’s expression went from confused to filled with joy.
“Dammit! I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Blanche, baby!”
“I’m not sure how you could miss someone like me - I’m nearly taller than most of these bloaks here and even more so since I’ve got my heels on. I’m the giant around this place.”
Cambian chuckles, sharing a quick entwine with the newly signed UCI star, Blanche Corrigan. Blanche grabs onto Cambian’s shoulders, her smile simply growing in size.
“I’m so happy you made it! I haven’t seen you in so long, miss, I’ve truly missed you. We’ve got some catching up to do, yeah?!”
“Oh of course,”
Cambian gently grins.
“A lot to catch up on, actually. But we’ll save that for later. You’ve got something to concentrate on tonight. Something pretty hefty, eh?”
Blanche shrugs, crossing her arms.
“Is it? Should I be freaking out? Because I’m not. You know those jitters one gets before or the day of the big show? I’m failing to get those tonight.”
“Mmm...I’m feeling some emotions cookin’ up for a swell promo, ma’am…”
Blanche joins Cambian in a grin, nodding her head in agreeance.
“When are you scheduled for yours?”
“Um, well, in about five minutes. Wanna head over with me, check me out? Oversee me like you used to? Maybe slap me up if I do horribly?”
“Oh, you fucking know it!”
Joining together in small talk, Blanche and Cambian make their way through the slim hallways of the Rose Quarter arena, winding up, eventually, to a small setup of cameras, dim lighting, and a small metal chair in the middle. Blanche, getting her hair fixed for a last minute touch up, asks a worker to turn the chair around so that the back is facing the camera. Cambian positions herself in the background - behind the camera and off in the dark to oversee her protege and first ever graduate of her school, the House of Prestige. Corrigan takes a seat on the chilly metal chair - her vibrant red tinted floor length robe muted by the shadowy space. A countdown began for silence - 5, 4, 3, 2…
“I’ve faced them all. I’ve faced the wicked, the righteous. I’ve faced the giants, I’ve faced the underdogs. My short time in this business has taught me many things, but one thing holds true over any. Focus is key. I may know little about my opponents tonight, but, you see, one thing is for certain. Jack Scorpion and Courtney Lienart are the very antonyms of what focus is detailed as in the dictionary. The lack of discipline is...well....”
A haunting laughter falls from between Blanche’s lips as she looks over her shoulder, her gaze shooting down the viewers.
“Comedic.”
She throws a quick, sharpened grin towards the camera before looking away.
“It’s a shame really. They’ve nearly become puppets of society - tweeting their pathetic little lives away in hopes of some companionship. And they found it! Within each other. Aha, I find it ever so curious as to how someone could be so...generous...in this company. I mean, isn’t that what Scorpion is portraying to be? Knowing Courtney is nothing but a charity case - running through this company and the next to enable her name to be in lights. Attention wanting whore, to say the least. Is this what the company means to them? Is this what the business is to them? A lighthearted game? One’s a savior and the other, a sad case of nothingness. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I possess more title reigns and matches under my belt within 6 years than these two can ever obtain within their measly careers. Courtney finds herself on social media, proclaiming to be the self dubbed Queen - the best theere is. Only to be corrected by her own trainer in the sense that she is being trained to become the best. She has no grit. No gull. No voice of her own. Courtney is the individual you see in a horror movie that has to link up with someone or she’d be dead within the first five minutes of the hunt. She can’t stand alone. And she may feel safe in this match - considering Jack’s sole goal is to be her friend, through and through. And how. We may as well turn this into a two on one.”
Blanche’s shoulders rise in a shrug. A soft sigh escapes her lips as she stands steadily - her curves caressing the dimmed lighting around her. She places her hands upon the backs of her hips, another sigh echoing about the small room.
“As a person with integrity, discipline, and the utmost humbleness, I can honestly say without hesitation…”
She turns, spreading her lengthy bare legs into a strong stance…
“Courtney and Jack have the slightest clue what they’re up against. Let’s...let’s turn this into a two on one, by all means. I dare you two. It’ll take you two and the entire locker room to rock someone of my stature off of her feet. Hit me. Kick me. Powerbomb through that mat and take me to the depths of hell! You two have no heart for this business - on highs that come from friendship and made up courage. But let me do something of substance for this company, for this business, before it chews both of you up and spits you out like bad habits. Heh, in commemorative manner of this day, I suppose, eh? Because like those twin towers that once stood in New York City…”
Blanche takes a quick seat on the backwards chair once more, this time facing the camera. Her glare was as keen as a predator’s sight on it’s prey. She lowered her head to intensify her stare, speaking through her violent broad grin.
“If I don’t take care of you tonight, believe me when I say, I am the plane that shatters your very core and sooner than later...you’ll come crashing down.”
She places her fist under her chin, her face in a pouting expression of mockery, only to laugh once more - the sinister sound coming from such a foxy woman is one that could haunt a man for weeks. She benevolently ascends from the chair, only to savagely shove it across the room - a booming clanking made from the metal hitting the concrete flooring as our scene fades to black.
