Even Cowgirls Get the Blues

My fingers, bleeding, nails bitten halfway to the cuticle, tremble underneath the table. My hair is a tangled mess of twisted knots and split ends and if the lighting in this hole-in-the-wall were any better, I'm sure you could see the blackheads and incoming pimples on my face from a mile away. I catch quick little glimpses of myself in this cramped, sweltering shithole -- in passing glasses mostly -- and for those brief seconds the only thing that receives my full attention is my face. In those moments I study myself with bloodshot eyes before my attention diverts back to aimlessly darting around this glorified sardine can, looking for something, anything. Anything that can get me out of my skin for a few moments. Some place in my mind palace where I can't hear the deafening thuds of my heartbeat. Where I can't feel it in my throat. Where I can be Erin Fausse, my not-so-cleverly named alter ego instead of Azra Dević, my reality.

To tell you the truth (you don't know how hard that is for me), I don't even know which of us it was that decided to take the ill-fated plunge. Was it Erin letting her swollen ego get the best of her, trying to add some pizzazz, to rub another victory in the face of Crow, of Holmes, of 1000 gullible marks who paid to watch her lose? Or was it vindictive little Azra, whose hunger for chaos, for the temporary thrill that makes her forget about the emptiness within that she'd gladly burn every bridge we've ever built to attain it? See, that's a riddle for the ages. Two sides with equally reasonable means, motive, and opportunity. And like I said (thought, thought-said, whichever), I don't know the answer. I guess that means there isn't a wrong answer. Or a right one, now that I think about it further. This is almost Schrödingerian.

Maybe it was both of us, in a sense. I love to act like we're literally two different people, Erin and I, but we aren't. Erin's the role I've been perfecting ever since I learned that I possessed the innate knack for confidence tricks that the rest of my family (sans my dear brother of course) was blessed with. I don't even remember the last time I've been called Azra and yet here I am still, lurking under the skin. My driver's license bears the new name but I still have to think twice whenever I hear "Erin" in reference to me. At least until I slip into Erin's skin and everything makes sense.

Through my eyes, my dreams of hellfire and oblivion are nothing more than my brain struggling to visualize death and the inevitable rot that awaits us all. Through Erin's, a brilliant narrative is formed. We're suddenly God's choice, set to become professional wrestlers. It had to be professional wrestling, Erin reasoned. "1he wav3" and all of its related insanity was apparently a response to the combat sports ban, right? It had to happen for a reason. We'd have to become a wrestler to save the world.

Craziest thing, I don't know what's going on in her head the second I drop the facade.

"Hey," a voice says, cutting through the rest of the noise in the building. I turn around and am immediately greeted by the smug smile of some douchebag. The odor of his body spray is suffocating. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

I close my eyes and for a second consider letting my better half take over, before deciding against it.

"I don't think so. Guess I just have one of those faces."

He chuckles and offers his hand. I glance at it questioningly for a second before accepting it with a shaky hand and weak grip.

"Guess so. Nice to meet ya. Jack Pembry."

"Nice to meet you. Azr-Erin Fausse."

You're welcome.

I became a martyr on June Fifth, the day my chances in this little tournament died. Do you know what it felt like, to have victory in my reach, only to have it ripped away at the last possible second? You all know the story of Jesus' crucifixion, how he was beaten, whipped, made to wear the crown of thorns before being nailed to the cross? An execution, not carried out swiftly and painlessly, no, dragged out and made as excruciating as possible. There's something I can do that none of you fake, holier-than-thou Christians who question my devotion can: I can emphasize. I feel Jesus' pain because in that instant, when my dreams of gold were so heinously ripped away, I realized that this whole tournament was my execution.

My first round victory was me stepping on the hangman's platform. Knocking Andre Holmes the fuck out, was the noose being tied around my neck. That call for Divine Intervention? That was the trapdoor opening from under me. That was me falling to the Earth. That was the rope snapping my neck and leaving me to dangle lifelessly as all the psychopathic onlookers watched.

And fittingly enough, June 12th, UCI Lazarus, is my resurrection. There isn't a thing anyone can do about it either: not Crow McMorris, not that sneering, sanctimonious douchebag Andre Holmes, not any of the thousand fickle morons in the crowd, and most tragically, not even the upstart Chase Jackson.

It's interesting that we'll be meeting in the ring so soon, Chase. Our careers thus far have run parallel. Rookie upstarts who shocked absolutely everyone by making it to the final four of UCI's inaugural tournament. Went from nobodies to household names -- in a few households at least -- in a matter of weeks while the big bad veterans struggle to find their footing. No one expected us to make it this far. It's kind of fun to look at all the supposed safe bets to be in our shoes right now.

Wade Moor? Nope.

Andre Holmes? Psh, saw to that one myself.

Occulo? Not a chance.

It's you against me in a match for a title whose condescending name is kind of fitting for us: the Rising Stars Championship. It's got a ring to it, buried underneath all the condescending head patting"oh you'll soon be a star but quite yet" bullshit. But make no mistake about it, Chase. This title? It's mine.

There aren't any hard feelings here, Chase. I don't hate you or anything. I don't want to make you go the way of Boobie Miles: broken but too fucking stupid to see it. All that potential wasted. Gone. Poof. That's not what I want. But I'll do it. Ask Andre Holmes how his knee is and you'll know I'm capable -- physically and emotionally -- of making you sure you'll never walk limp-free again.

This isn't a request for you to concede either. I don't want to just give up, to roll over and die and hand me the title. No, I want to rip it from your hands like Crow McMorris ripped my opportunity away from me. I want to inflict the same pain I feel onto others. I want you to get close, Chase. I really do. There's nothing I want more, in fact, than for you to be this close to victory, then have it yanked out of your reach just as you were about to close your fingers around it.

Oh, wait. You've felt that already, haven't you?

No matter, I want you to feel it again.

I want you to have to look your fellow Chicagoans in the eye as you come up short. To feel the weight of their judgment when they see their prodigal son fail once more. I want every single person in the crowd to feel what you feel in that moment. A thousand and one hearts breaking in unison. See, I heard it once. Right about the time a steel chair just so happened to find its way onto Andre Holmes' face.

The hatred, the disgust oozing from the crowd was something else. You had to be there, in that moment, I guess.

I guess you wouldn't appreciate it anyway. You like these people. You want them to like you. These fickle, bandwagoning losers; these are the people you want to attract? The types who'll love you when you're on, but will kick you to the curb without a second thought the second you fall? Have you already lost some fans when you couldn't put Omega away?

That's your problem Chase. You're looking for validation from the wrong people.

And Sunday night? It's going to cost you.