| ..........When You Lose All Faith
It is night, and yet the city is alive. Pinks. Greens. Yellows. Neon lights flash everywhere, advertising the latest shows and newest gambling opportunities. The music of the cabaret plays in the street, leaking from spectacular shows and roman-themed buildings. Drunken couples stagger here and there, all giggling and laughing in their merriment, but all expecting a major hangover the next morning. But what casino filled scene would be complete without that unshaven man crawling along the street, searching for dropped coins so he can re-enter and continue his gambling spree.
The only thing that matters here is winning,
And so in the would-be darkness, walks a familiar blonde haired diva. It is obviously a cold night, or at least cold to the sober, and so she walks with her head down, folding her arms tightly across her stomach to keep warm. And yet despite the chill, she walks slowly, her long beige suede coat billowing in the breeze, exposing the faded jeans beneath. Her blonde hair, now in loose curls, flows behind her, sometimes whipping across her face and eyes as the wind changes.
She walks as if in some sort of trance, her eyes fixed upon the floor. For there is no Vegas around her. No bright neon lights. No slurring strangers beside her. Only herself, walking in quiet reflection.
It is strange to think what has caused this change in the diva's usually cheerful character.
A simple defeat.
Almost laughable to most. Defeat is expected in the life of a professional wrestler. It is a common occurrence. One that you just get used to. So why has it effected her so?
Maybe because she has never known defeat. For all she may doubt herself, she is actually a competent wrestler, formidable in the ring and as worthy an opponent as any. She came to America with a dream in her head. She trained. She exercised. She sacrificed. And the gods must have smiled on her, for she seemed to have a natural talent for the sport. And as her effort grew, so did her strength, her knowledge and her skill.
That blonde haired nobody from Blackpool, England had found her identity.
But suddenly everyone forgets all that. Forgets all her hard-work. All her victories.
Because she lost.
"Sorry about Mayhem - but you got to lose sometime, right?"
"Tough break at Mayhem. Neo really got you there, hey?"
"You're that chick from that wrestling thing on the TV aren't ya? Yea, you really got your ass kicked on Monday!"
Those years of victories. The blood. The sweat. The tears. And not a single word was uttered in congratulations.
But now everyone has some comment to make, some offer of supposed 'comfort'. They won't let her move on.
They keep reminding her.
Mocking her.
Taunting her.
It's almost...maddening.
The petite blonde stops in the middle of the street, the people behind her suddenly crashing into her and calling out "Watch it, lady!" She does not reply, but steps back to against the outside wall of the casino, allowing them to continue on their way. She inhales deeply, as if to calm herself down, attracting the attention of a couple of scantily clad prostitutes - or 'adult entertainers' as they prefer to be known - from across the street. They point and snicker at the troubled girl, before continuing on their way.
But the girl in question does not care. After holding her breath momentarily, she exhales and runs her fingers through her now curled hair, bowing her head and shutting her eyes calmingly.
Perhaps it is not only the thoughts of her loss that dwell in her head.
Earlier this week she had a visit from a man. Who this stranger was however, is anyone's guess. For this girl's past is one that constantly changes, constantly alters in accordance to what she chooses to divulge. For some reason she tends to avoid the subject in question. Perhaps she is embarrassed? Perhaps it is painful for her to remember? Or perhaps she is trying to hide something?
Nonetheless, judging by her reaction - a reaction never seen before from her - this is not the first time they have met. The anger in her voice. The fear in her eyes. The denial in her face. He knew things about her that nobody else did. Things she denied even to herself.
He was right.
Right about everything.
And in the dark recesses of her mind she screams.
The first female of FWW opens her eyes wide. She shakes her head slightly, trying to clear the confusing thoughts that flood her weary head. She blinks a few times, again running her fingers through her blonde mass of curls, almost reassuringly.
The street now slightly emptier now, our girl steps forward and continues sauntering forward slowly towards wherever she is going. She shakes her head and looks up towards the star-filled sky.
She looks for something, anything to take her mind of this.
The match.
Another thread of worry to weave into the tapestry of her life.
Four men - one ring - one victor - one title. She must admit the odds are stacked against her.
But she's won before. Beaten the odds before. The very first edition of Mayhem, she was in the last three for the Canadian-American championship. She's beaten Dragon. Matt Korben. Nikkon. The English Ambassador himself, Ian English. Orian Williams. Even Magnum, who was so sure he'd send her out in a stretcher.
So who says she can't walk out the champion after Sex and Violence?
I'll tell you who: Neo, Orian Williams and Jeremy Page.
As her mind wanders towards the event, her mind focuses on one Jeremy Page. She has never seen this new-comer in action before. Doesn't know anything about him. He may be her most formidable opponent as of yet. Then again, he may not. She cannot assume anything here. Not make such a mistake. A rookie's mistake. She must do what she always does: prepare for the unexpected. Because Jeremy Page cannot be underestimated. After all, she did that last week, and now suffers the consequences.
Orian Williams, on the other hand, she has wrestled before. Faced for this very title before. The official #1 Contender until but a week ago. She knows all to well the strength and aggression he brings to the ring. But perhaps she can use this knowledge to her advantage. She knows his moves. His strategy. Maybe she can use this to gain the upper hand. He may have the fans behind him - but it is only himself in the ring. And she will need to take him down.
And her final opponent. Well, what is there to say? She underestimated him last week. Took him for granted. 'Got lazy' as that unknown man had put it. She had heard the rumours of him and his skill, and taken them as nothing but rumours. She let her guard down Monday night. Made a mistake. Slipped up.
But she cannot slip up again.
Will not slip up again.
"Hey - look! It's her from Free World Wrestling! Girl, Neo pummelled your ass on Monday! Loser! Loooseeeer!"
Her blue eyes flick up towards the drunken lout, anger in her gaze. And yet she says nothing. Instead she simply walks slightly faster.
"Look! She even knows I could kick her ass!"
Breathing deeply, she continues walking. But the drunkard follows closely behind her, spitting his words at her.
"She doesn't deserve to have that title."
She stops.
And turns.
The drunkard, a man barely over the legal-age to drink with an athletic build and lowering eyelids, grins at her and turns to his friends, pointing behind him to the unmoving blonde. He cockily makes the gesture he is going to punch her.
Then swings.
But she catches his fist.
His eyes suddenly widen, now filled with a fear of what this woman may do back unto him.
She stares at him, her gaze burning into him.
But she drops his hand and spins on her heel in one swift movement, and continues walking. A few metres further, she turns and enters a hotel, leaving the drunken fool with his drunken friends.
"Now what the hell is up with her?"
Cutting to inside the hotel now, we see the door open in a dark room, light flooding from the bright corridor beyond. As the lights flick on, the darkness is cast away and we see a simple hotel room. Nothing fancy. Not what you'd expect a star of the famous Free World Wrestling to be staying in. But nonetheless, our diva enters the room and tosses her keys half-heartedly onto a nearby table. Noticing the flashing red light on her answering machine, she presses a button as she passes. She removes her long beige coat, revealing the white turtleneck jumper and faded blue jeans beneath, and tosses it onto the bed, a mint lying on the fresh pillow and a variety of frilly cloths arranged for no real reason underneath. The voice on the answer phone, a young mans, begins to speak.
"Hey doll. It's Stuart."
The blonde suddenly smiles relieved, something we have not seen her do this week. She walks towards the white answer-machine, and stands nearby whilst it talks.
"Hey, sorry about the match this week. Everyone's got to lose sometime right? It was just your week. It's nothing to be ashamed of."
Her smile drops.
"Neo was the better wrestler at the end of the day. You should be proud you lasted so long in there! OK - it's a loss on your record, but who looks at those things anyway?"
Her breathing deepens.
"You're still a good wrestler, you just lost. I'm sure you'll learn to cope with losing. It's nothing embarrassing. You just lost. That's all. You lost. You-"
In a flash, she suddenly throws the machine across the room, it hitting the wall and smashing into it's base pieces.
She pauses, the words resounding in her head.
'You lost.'
Suddenly an explosion of movement in the room. She hurls an unused glass ashtray at the wall. She kicks the cheap table, knocking the leg off and causing it to fall onto its side. She tosses a chair over towards the photo filled dressing table.
Blinded with anger.
Anger that will be released at Sex and Violence.
She turns and throws over another table behind her, silver-wear and small tokens of welcome clashing against the floor. She sends a cheap lamp hurtling against another wall, its ceramic base shattering and falling to the floor like rain. The room is filled with thunder. Everything crashing. Falling. Breaking.
And then all is silent and still.
She stands alone in the shattered remains of her room.
Feeling a fool.
From her pocket, she pulls out a small white business card.
The camera lowers to the rubble covered floor of her room.
On the floor lies a golden photo-frame, its glass now broken, a deep crack running through it. And inside the frame is a photograph.
Of a certain blonde haired diva and a man with thinning black hair.
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| (C) Layout made by silver. Free World Wrestling rocks - deal with it. | ||||||||||||
