Post by Lissie Hope AW on Sept 26, 2019 11:11:13 GMT -6
STAR JETS INTERNATIONAL
DEPARTURE 1:35 PM
ARRIVAL 3:45 PM
NON-STOP
DURATION 15 HOURS 10 MINUTES
We stood in a single-file line as the agent stood at the base of the steps leading into the charter jet. Action Wrestling fronted United Championship Infinite a little bit of cash to ensure that all of their current superstars would travel safely from Hong Kong to Chicago for the UCI Reunion. My sunglasses blocked out the rays of heat as my skin burned from the sun bouncing off the tarmac. I gripped my single carry-on and was getting antsy as I just wanted to recline in the leather seats and have a fucking drink.
The cacophonous laughter behind me pierced my ears and reminded me of my freshman year in college, and I knew this was going to be the longest fucking day of my life.
The agent checked my boarding pass and waved me in, and every step up the narrow stairwell felt like I was stepping with anchors attached to my ankles. The Toradol numbed my senses so when I had adrenaline pumping through my veins, I would feel weightless, painless, flying over the moon. I engaged in a battle with Teo Blaze just a couple nights ago, brutalizing our bodies, competing for the loudest cheers, the final bell ringing and awarding me the victory. It was the biggest one-on-one victory of my career, but it was hard to relish in it, because the sensation of the painkillers when I was anxious and exhausted was a numbing sensibility of a different breed. I needed to make the pain go away. It could either wrap me in an emotional hell or leave me devoid of any feeling at all.
I was greeted by the flight attendant as I entered the luxurious chartered airliner. Her name was Jiao, a smile tender and genuine, her voice soft and delicate.
She told me to enjoy the flight.
She assured me that if I needed anything, that all I had to do was ask.
Man, would kill for a Bourbon-on-the-rocks right about now.
I entered the aircraft and immediately made a bee-line to the single seat in the far right corner. I pulled my blanket out and placed my bag under the seat, adjusted the personal thermostat, reclined, and curled up into a ball with the warmth and comfort pulled all the way up to my chin. My eyes still blocked from my sunglasses, I watched as each of my fellow colleagues filtered onto the plane, one-by-one.
Claire Hawkins and Oblivion glided in nonchalantly, the callous stoicism in their steps, calculated and befitting of Culture Shock.
Erin Fausse followed. Who?
Teo Blaze, my latest opponent, holding in his hand a briefcase that shielded and protected his former identity, that luchadore mask.
Derrick Vayden, the Cruiserweight champion, a thorn in the side of the Royal Family for months.
And finally, that fucking douchebag who looks like he works in a gas station and trades handjobs for meth.
Fucking toothpick, looking like a number two pencil with an eraser topping his head.
His body covered in art, as if the tattoo artist he commissioned didn't realize he should've actually inked and improved that busted-ass face.
Dandy fuckin' DiVito.
Action Wrestling's World Chump.
Of course he's the one laughing his fucking ass off, palling around with Derrick in the front row.
I hear him call out my name, attempting to antagonize, attempting to get a rise out of me.
He's asking where the briefcase is, and if I'm going to shrivel up and balk at the opportunity to cash it in.
Oh, wouldn't he like to know.
Vayden laughs at his childish goading.
I see a smirk come out of Oblivion's evil snare as he turns to look at me.
Hawkins seems to be channeling some spiritual occult energy as the plane prepares for liftoff.
Blaze is tirelessly wiping a smudge off his mask with a sanitizing wipe.
Fausse is off in her own world, living in her own mundane existence.
I pretend to be asleep, ignoring all of the comments Dandy directs towards me.
Jiao places a Bourbon on my lap tray.
I don't remember ever ordering one.
We are a collection of the elite that Action Wrestling has to offer.
Bobby Rage is a fucking madman, a destroyer of whoever, and whenever he wants. This big brute makes his own rules, and I've gotta say, I respect that shit. If you can't beat 'em, fuck 'em up, am I right? I especially like that he has painted a target on a certain champion, so every time he jumps in the ring and flattens him like a pancake with Rage Slam after Rage Slam, I can't help but enjoy the action.
However, he's such a fuckin' dumbass, ain't he?
While he can't form a sentence, when he's got a puppet-master stringing him along and directing him to attack, unleashing him like a pit bull on that screeching, annoying, ankle-biting puss of a champion, I can't help but wonder why Bobby Rage is allowing himself to be used by this so-called father of his. He began his career undefeated, destroying everyone in his wake, until he stepped into the ring with Ryan Lockhart -- and it was all over from there.
Now, Bobby, you're just a mercenary.
I'll put it in plain terms for your stupid ass.
You're a hired gun.
A slave; controlled.
A destroyer with no direction.
And in this match?
The easiest out.
I used to think you were the same, Walter, as Rosetta would drag you along and direct your every move. But ever since you beat me at Glory and went on to win the United States championship, you've gotten better. You've proved me wrong. Now you sit in Action Wrestling with the second highest achievement, for a second time, after ruthlessly dispatching Kyle Kemp... for a second time. You're a powerful main who doesn't feel pain, and I can admire that. I can identify with that, because in that ring, no matter how brutal it can get -- I don't feel pain either. I'm soaring, sky-high, knowing that I can do anything anyone else can do... but better. And I always come out on the other end with my hand raised in victory.
When will you make that leap, Walter?
When will you no longer be... second best?
I don't think you've got it in you, to be honest.
You may be the strongest person on our team, and though you've beaten me once before, I think you're comfortable where you are. I don't think you can do it again. While you torment and abuse those beneath you, scrubs like Kemp, you're looking up at the World Championship scene and wondering how the fuck you'll ever elevate to that level. By all means, take that US championship to new highs.
But you'll never be All-In.
You'll never be pre-destined to become a World Champion.
It's not in your crosshairs.
Your finger ain't on the trigger.
You can't snipe me down, Walter.
You owned me for one match.
I own you, I own all of Action Wrestling, until I decide that it's time for me to pull the trigger.
Derrick Vayden, don't you wish you had this kind of control? Don't you wish you left this much of an impression? When we fought back in March and I bested you, the grizzly journeyman who never could quite find a home, I banished you to the Cruiserweight division to feast on a collection of scrubs. And to your credit, you made a name for yourself as the best the division had to offer, you became a multiple-time, and the longest-reigning champion. But then you saw me, the rookie who took out the veteran, continue to soar into new heights, bloom like the prettiest rose, blossom as a competitor and arrive at the summit of Action Wrestling at a blistering pace.
You're one of the best in a limited division.
I'm one of the best in the entire fuckin' universe.
You would kill to trade places with me, wouldn't you?
Fuck, you should thank me for setting you on the right path, Derrick. Because without me humbling you and forcing you to reconsider your standing in Action, you would've never relegated yourself to being the standard-bearer of the Cruiserweight division. That's a place where you can thrive, Derrick, and you have! I'm proud of you! Wisconsin's finest!
Let me let you in on a little secret, though.
I'm Action Wrestling's Finest, bitch.
You would have crumbled under the pressure, under the lofty expectations, under the illustrious domain of the best this company had to offer. And you'll realize that soon enough, because although you may be a part of the All-Stars Team AW was able to assemble... it will be clear who is the weak link. Who is the broken chain in our armor. You aren't prepared for this, Derrick. You aren't a star, and you'll never be one. I won't even have to beat you... again... to show you. You'll just know. Discovering your identity, your place in the lexicon and in the annals of Action Wrestling is one of the hardest pills to swallow. You have to figure out who you really are.
We all have weaknesses.
We all have assets.
The greatest thing we can ever do is be aware of them, shape them, mold them.
Become the architect and the creator of the best version of yourselves.
I know who the fuck I am.
I felt the gentle tickling on my cheek-bone, as if someone was tracing a finger along my face. The sensation was thrilling, one that fought through the numbness of the painkillers. It felt like a scintillating spark of electricity, the kind you feel when you're touched for the first time by someone you crave. Someone you lust over. My heavy eyelids weren't cooperating with my brain, which was slowly coming to life from this stream of consciousness.
I called out Jiao's name.
As if I was looking through a sheer curtain, I could only make out a few details, but I saw Dandy DiVito slink back into his seat. There was complete silence now, as everyone seemed to be resting here in the middle of the long flight. Jiao appeared from the cabin, placing a hand on my shoulder. I flinched, startled by the touch, feeling that same magnetic energy I had felt as I slowly woke from slumber. I saw the curve of her lips, dimpling her cheeks. Precious.
I asked if the bathroom was free.
She said yes and pointed to the far-end of the aircraft.
When I shut the door behind me, I heard Dandy DiVito chortle, a loud guffaw, leading the rest of my colleagues to laugh at my expense.
Great.
Now everyone knows I want to fuck the flight attendant.
I sat on toilet and let out a stream of piss. I wasn't sure of the acoustics, if the door was soundproof, if everyone in the cabin could hear my urination. I assumed they could, because the laughs only got louder. This might be a luxury charter jet, and yes, the bathroom design was a lot roomier than even the first-class bathroom on a standard airliner, but still -- it was a piece of shit.
PLOP.
An actual piece-of-shit.
Fuck.
I could hear Teo Del Sol ask Erin Fausse if she was ready to begin challenging for the Cruiserweight Championship. Something about the mask, and his recent string of failures in prime-time, made Teo yearn for a belt he could actually compete for. She didn't answer, so I assume she already forgot who the hell she was was since everyone else already had. I could hear Oblivion ask Claire Hawkins what she had being doing the entire flight, and she answered that she was summoning the spirit of Zombie McMorris.
And finally, I could hear Dandy DiVito and Derrick Vayden, laughing their fucking asses off like prepubescent virgins. Like fucking frat-boys, always trying to be the center of attention. One of them, an idiot from Wisconsin's who's been trying to punch above his weight class for months but continues to find himself beyond his depth. The other, a paper champion from the dick of the US who looks like he smells like old, crusted loins and unwashed cum residue.
They're joking about dicks on faces.
Balls on chins.
Pubic hair mustaches.
Then I looked in the mirror.
I realized they were talking about me.
Fausse.
Bishop.
Holmes.
McMorris.
I don't know who the fuck you are.
I don't care to.
I hear the legend of Kevin Bishop, a multiple-time and longest-reigning World Champion and all I care to know about you is that you had several opportunities to unseat Casey Holliday in the company that matters and you failed to deliver. Every time. You weren't able to extinguish her scorched earth. But I did.
Next.
Oh cool, Erin Fausse. A Rising Stars Champion who rose to the levels of... one-time Television Champion? Seriously? That's it? I hear a lot about the reputation that precedes you but you seem like the blandest taste of vanilla and I can't honestly believe that you are one of the best UCI had to offer. You've had a couple cups of coffee in Action and haven't done shit with your opportunities. Why are you here?
Zombie McMorris...
I thought he died?
Andre Holmes, a Triple Crown winner and the face of this hokey team, a cumulative effort of has-beens and never-was's... but I have to say, when I arrived in AW and you were battling a best-of-seven with L Verez, I've gotta say that I was impressed. You drew my attention. But like a flame that could never quite catch under brighter lights than you'd ever fought under, you faded into obscurity. You'll probably show up with a mangled mess on your head and spaghetti sause crusted on your unkempt beard because seriously... where the fuck have you been for the last six months?
Fuckin' hobo.
Alex Richards... you fuckin' failure at life, failure of opportunity, failure of three consecutive World Championship matches. What the fuck, man? If you're shittin' bricks every time your name is called, every time your star is set to glow, then that really does say a whole fuckin' lot about you, doesn't it? Maybe it's time to ditch the underwear you rock to the ring and put on a pair of fuckin' pants, because I'm tired of seeing that piss and shit drizzle down your fat fuckin' legs. Are you deserting Team AW and fightin' against your new butt-buddy because you're tryin' to reclaim that old glory? You were actually somethin' in UCI, huh?
A World Champion.
Someone to be feared.
Someone who could destroy.
Now?
You're a fuckin' joke, and you know it.
Pissin' away all of your potential, ridin' the jock of the man who beats you, time and time again.
You're fuckin' pathetic, Alex.
This team you've compiled... pathetic.
And you're goin' against a set of All-Stars in Team AW.
A monster.
A Cruiserweight stalwart.
A dominating US Champion.
Miss All-Motherfuckin'-In.
And of course, our esteemed captain himself...
I saw what he'd done when I was incapable of fighting back.
I realized he only sought to humiliate me.
But that's only because deep down, he knows I have the upper hand.
He'll never know when I'm planning to strike.
He'll never see me slithering behind him, ready to dig my fangs into his neck.
He'll be riding the wave of another defense, thinking he's got the world at his fingertips.
But there's a prime opportunity at #WrestleSeason3 for me to make my move.
To strike when the iron is hot.
To send his whole world fucking crashing.
His title reign?
Just as irrelevant as Kevin Bishop.
Just as forgotten as Andre Holmes.
Just as hollow as Erin Fausse.
Just as hopeless as Alex Richards.
Just as buried as Zombie McMorris.
Maybe our esteemed Captain should enlist Claire Hawkins to summon the ghosts of his dead fucking supremacy.
Fuck you, Dandy DiVito.
Fuck everything about you.
You are nobody's captain.
Nobody's champion.
You are a wart on Action Wrestling's dick.
An embarrassment to the greatest company in the world.
You're safe for a night, Dandy. You aren't set to lose your championship in a one-off match where we are forced to team together... at least, for a little bit. Because once we eliminate all of those scrubs on the other side, and when you and I are left one-on-one, you'll get a taste of what's to come. You'll see the power that I pack behind my fists. You'll see the courage when I abuse my body and fly through the air. You'll find out first-hand what it's like to lose to Lisse motherfucking Hope.
And it'll just be a prelude.
It'll be your introduction.
Because every time you set foot in an Action Wrestling ring, you'll have it in the back of your mind that I'm capable of defeating you. And the next time that I do, I'm robbing you of that belt, like a thief in the night.
Sleep with one-eye-open, Dandy.
Because once again, I'm fully awakened.
I must have pumped the entire dispenser of soap out, trying to scrub those insulting, demeaning, and embarrassing sharpie drawings off my face until my skin was raw. I could almost feel my skin cells flaking off into the sink, only to wash away as the water circled the drain. I felt as if my body wasn't mine anymore, as if I had allowed a bitter enemy to weaken my armor. I couldn't refrain from letting my tears mix with the rest of the waste so I let them fall, but I would be damned if I let him see it.
The black ink stained my cheeks, leaving smudges on my hands and fingers. I toweled off, my eyes moist and reddened with pain, with anger, with resentment. No longer would I allow this fucking juvenile moron belittle me, or ridicule me, or discredit me. He was going to have a goddamn hyena on his heels, willing and able to wreak havoc at the most opportune moment.
I am ready to begin my legacy.
I beat Karlie at Execution.
I won All-In.
Week by week, I beat fucking everyone.
If I have to break my friendship with Kennedy Matthews to do it?
So be it.
I'm ready to take that title off of Dandy fucking DiVito.
And if I'm to get kicked off this plane to show him a taste of what's to come?
...so be it.
I pushed open the door of the bathroom stall, and I was on a mission to confront him.
I screamed out Dandy... you fucking dick!
...
...
...
A full cabin of passengers on an American Airlines 747 turned to face Lissie Hope as she stormed out of the bathroom. The flight attendants had noticed peculiar behavior from this passenger who had spent the majority of the flight slumped over in her seat, oblivious to instruction and commands from the staff and conversation and chatter amongst fellow travelers. She slept the majority of the international flight, but there were moments when she was active, but her eyes provided no sense of awareness or feeling. She was numb to her surroundings.
One speculated opioid abuse.
He was right.
Washing her face in the sink finally allowed that faint hint of high escape from her brain, slowly bringing clarity. But still, she was unsure of where she was or how she arrived there.
"Where are they?" she strangely asked the confused flight attendant.
"Please get back to your seat," she instructed, having noticed that Lissie had disappeared into the rear-cabin bathroom for an extended amount of time. "We're about twenty minutes from landing, so you need to get buckled in."
There was no Dandy DiVito.
No Oblivion or Claire.
No Derrick or Teo or Erin.
Lissie Hope was making a scene. She noticed several passengers pull out their phones to record, and she slid her sunglasses back over her eyes and walked past all of them, arriving at her window seat. The man in the seat next to her stood up and let her pass, finally receiving a nod in acknowledgement as his travel-mate had just spent half a day next to her with the two not sharing even more than a passing glance. But he knew the severity of the situation, he had kept a watchful eye as long as he could before his own fatigue caught up with him, and it was that man who had alerted the flight staff of what could have become an entirely awful situation.
If she knew about it, if she wasn't numb to her surroundings?
His humanity would have touched her soul.
But there wasn't a soul left to salvage.
