Pain seared through my brain as I walked up Morgy and Tim's driveway--the kind I could only describe as a jellyfish attached to my left lobe, stinging and sucking and leeching. Could jellyfish even suck or leech? I wasn't sure. It was an abnormally pleasant December day, but I had my whole face wrinkled and contorted with displeasure; a look in a mirror would give me a glimpse into my old age, when those lines would become permanent. Thoughts of my future as a crusty old woman only deepened my scowl.

Migraines. Stress gave me migraines that lingered for days, weeks and even months. All day, everyday, sans cesse. They made me evil and irritable, and anything could set me off--especially car alarms. Or lazy hobos jingling cups full of change at me. "What are whining for fucking money for, ass?!~ You have a god damn cup FULL of it already~!" I would rage to myself, just barely keeping myself from punching them in the throat. Unfortunately, doctors did little more than scribble prescriptions for some silly aspartame-filled headache pills, and I wasn't interested in ingesting brain medication that contained a substance known to cause cancer. What's worse: a headache or a tumour?

I had plenty to be stressed out about, however. Rejoining the wrestling world wasn't expected even a little; Morgy and I had decided to on a whim one night and called Corey Page. I had been going to university again (for shits and giggles that wound up being more shitty than giggly), and now had the task of completing endless deferral forms for school. In addition to that, I'd recently decided to build my own house, since it was high time I moved out of Morgy and Tim's. Tim was unabashedly happy about it, while Morgy was obviously sad that our 3-year, non-stop slumber party was coming to an end. I wanted to build a small cat sanctuary as well (actually, that's a lie--the whole damn thing was going to be a sanctuary, and I'd sleep wherever they'd let me), and I was drowning in all the permits and forms that needed filling out before I could become a crazy cat lady.

I slipped through the front door quietly, hoping to crawl into my bed and not wake up until the next afternoon. It was a skill I'd learned as a child to combat the migraines: instead of taking pills, I had trained my mind to convince itself that it was sleepy as soon as I felt a headache coming on, allowing me to sleep through the whole ordeal. Tim was standing in the front foyer, sorting through fan mail, flyers and bills that had been abandoned on an elaborately carved ebony cabinet, that, as far as I knew, had no purpose other than to be cluttered with said mail.

"Hey," Tim grunted, his gaze unmoving as he flipped through envelopes impatiently.

"Merrr," I replied, automatically veering for the main staircase. Our communication system was seldom more than monosyllabic, but it worked for us.

"Some dude named Brian Reed's secretary called this afternoon," he piped up, as if to contradict me, "and she said some stuff...about shit. Or something."

"Oh god, what does he want?" I moaned. He shrugged indifferently. "Did you take a message?" I asked.

"Yeah, Gina's got it upstairs," he waived dismissively towards the stairs. I suddenly felt energized and bounded up the steps, hoping not to betray my mild excitement. I didn't particularly like Brian Reed, but news of his call triggered a sort of emotional tug-of-war within me. Was I annoyed? Intrigued? Happy? Maybe a little turned on? I wasn't sure. Maybe I just liked arguing with him, and I needed someone new to do that with, as Tim and I were about fresh out of things to bicker about. Either way, he'd told me to call him over a week ago, and I hadn't. Being hunted down by him was oddly satisfying.

"Morgerinaaaa," I called, completely--though only temporarily--forgetting that my head hurt, "I've been told you have a message for meeee?" I practically bounced down the hallway towards her master bedroom suite. Despite the soft, thick carpeting and my light frame, my footsteps were thunderous like stampeding elephants. I told myself it was because I used up all of my poise and grace when in the ring or the public eye.

"Morgerina?!" she exclaimed, abruptly twisting her head around to see me enter the room. "That's awful, it sounds like margerine and fatness," she pouted disapprovingly. "How would you like it if I called you...Adorfat? Or Porkdora~!" she asked, her eyes wild and arms flailing about.

"Porkdora!~!" I cackled. "I'll kill myself before that ever becomes a reality," I said, my cackle dwindling to a sombre tone, "and I'll kill you, too, for letting me porkify."

"You know I'd never let a fatty live in my house, or co-own a sex shop with me!" she gasped, as if offended I'd underestimate her so. "Fat sex, pfffft," she chuckled derisively to herself.

"So I hear I have a message?" I asked, trying to sound cool as I changed the subject.

"Oh yeah, from that lawyer twat you hate," she jumped up and ran to her bedside table, where she'd left our newly bought, violently hot pink "Team Wifey" stationery. I followed her and plopped myself down on her plush bed. As pathetic as it was, I was slightly out of breath from just running up the stairs, and the cool sheets felt divine against my skin. Naturally, I'd dropped my pants immediately upon entering the room, and they lay in a crumpled heap in the entryway. I was left wearing only a long, leopard print tube top, whose hem was an inch below my ass. Perhaps if I were still 16, Morgy and I would have considered it to be a whole outfit, but for now it served its purpose as loungewear. She pulled out a slip of the pink paper, folded in half, and handed it to me. "Canoe, eh?" the corners of my mouth slowly perked up as I read the note, my lips forming a reluctant smile.

"Yeah, his secretary called earlier and 'requested Ms. Reed's company this evening, on behalf of Mr. Reed at Canoe Restaurant.' Sounds to me like someone is trying to impress you, Dorita," Morgy smiled, wiggling an eyebrow suggestively.

"Canoe does sound pretty brown-nosery to me," I nodded in agreement, my slight smile creeping further across my lips. "Also, I have to say, I'm still kind of weirded out that this guy has the same last name as me."

"Difference is that your parents were lazy immigrants who didn't want to have to spell out their last name forevermore. He probably is actually a Reed," Morgy pointed out.

"Ehhh, it's the principle," I said, glancing wearily at her. She was usually so quick and eager to be snippy and petty with me, but lately she seemed snippy at me. I tried not to make an issue of it, since she was her usual affectionate self more often than not--I just couldn't help but worry about her.

"Either way, she asked that you call her back before 5pm to confirm. You wouldn't want to leave the old geezer sitting there by himself, would you?"

"Eh, he's no old geezer," I said, realizing I'd told her very little about him after our meeting, "he's actually not bad looking. Not bad looking at all."

"Really? Can I see?" Morgy raised an eyebrow, suddenly showing interest.

"Internet stalking time!~" I cackled, pulling a small MacBook out of one of the bedside table's drawers. Once the laptop was on, I went to Google and typed Brian's name in. Nothing relevant--obviously, there were a fajillion Brian Reeds in the world. I narrowed the search, adding more keywords specific to him. Finally, pages about my Brian came up; University of Toronto and McGill law alumni websites, law awards websites mentioning him and websites for firms for which he'd either worked or been an intern in.

"Faust, Riesman, Ford," Morgy said, pointing to one of the search results, "isn't that your firm? Go there."

"Eeeexcellent," I said, clicking the link. We were quickly directed to an intricately designed Flash webpage, on the main page of which there was a high-resolution photo of the firm's lawyers and other miscellaneous employees. They were all dressed in black and looking somber. 'In memory of Bill Riesman, 1948-2006. You will not be forgotten," was written at the bottom of the photo in in fine, calligraphic script. I found it odd that they'd post such a tribute on a business website, but it made sense nonethless, considering that the man founded the company some 25 years earlier. "There he is!" I pointed to a man in the back row. Brian looked as dishevelled and confident as the day I'd met him. His nose was upturned and his head skewed to the right, as if he had been staring at the ceiling when the photo was taken.

"Holy crap, son," Morgy muttered, "that's your new lawyer? If I weren't happily married, I'd pay him for a whole hell of a lot more than legal advice," she said, bobbing her head and smiling in approval.

"Ha, yeah right, you wouldn't have to pay him for shit all. He should only be so lucky."

"So...why, pray tell, are you so set against this guy? He's clearly your type."

"He's so god damned arrogant; I can't handle his constant douchebaggery!" I exclaimed, exasperated that she'd question the reasoning I hadn't yet bothered to explain to her.

"So what, coupled with your arrogance, there's just too much arrogance in the room?" she grinned.

"Just imagine what it would be like if YOU were in the room too," I frowned.

"Oh whatever, either way, he's hawt, call him back and confirm the reservtion!" she exclaimed. "Better yet, I'll do it to make you seem busier! You just take a nap, you look all migraine-y and tired," she cooed knowingly, taking the laptop and tucking it back into its drawer before pulling a sheet over my half-naked form. She turned the lights off and left the room, closing the door behind her.

"Fuck baby, I was about to take a nap!" I heard Tim moan just beyond door as everything began to grow fuzzy. "Doesn't she have her own..." was the last thing I heard as I mercifully slipped into unconsciousness, where throbbing and pain were not an issue.

"I'm going to make sundried pooplets tomorrow!"

"Dorita, wakey wakey!" Morgy's distant voice called to me. I felt her hand on my shoulder, gently rocking me awake.

"So much...so much shit...everywhere," I mumbled groggily, unwilling to open my eyes and sort out my surroundings. Morgy stopped shaking me.

"Que?" she said blankly. "Are you dreaming about the insane amount of cat shit you have to scoop each day of your life?" she asked, feeling certain that she'd decoded both my ramblings and my dream. I didn't reply, my mind still half knocked out, and my sleepy face contorted quite moronically, with sheet patterns imprinted upon my skin. She sighed, realizing that reanimating me was to be, as usual, a difficult task. "My fater vas a vandersman, oont shvenken minen hoot, doo doo doot doo doo doo doot doo, doo doo doot doot doot doooooo!~!" she began to screech, her singing voice still freakishly pretty despite how she was straining it. I quickly began to regain the will to live, lifting myself into an upright position.

"Valdereeeeeee, valderaaaaaaaa, valdereeeeeee, valdera-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha," I sang bag to her, my voice low and breaking from sleep. "Gawd I love that song," I said, doing my best impression of the crazy old, 'Gawd that's cute,' horking lady from Mad TV. "I don't even remember the English part, but there was something about a backpack involved!~"

"Yeeeeep, there sure was. Now haul ass and make yourself pretty!" she ordered, yanking the sheets off of me. I hopped up easily, energzied by the German wanderer song.

"Oont shvenken minen hooooot," I sang, pressing my chin into my neck as I struggled to hit the last, freakishly low note. "Ohhh, if only I had Ville Valo's freaky Finnish range. So, what to wear? I feel like putting something--" I stopped short as I came upon Morgy's vanity table chair, over which a set of clothes were lain. She had set out a a sleeveless, white turtleneck sweater, pair of short dress pants, hemmed just above the knee, to be worn with a pair of black, knit stockings--not quite as trashy as fishnets, but just as sexy--topped off with a bright red pair of lacquered pumps with 4-inch cork heels. As I slipped the top over my head, I realized that a large, intentional chunk was missing from the back, allowing an elegant view of my shoulder blades. Pleased with her selection, I set about sweeping my shoulder-length blonde hair into a neat ponytail. "I had the strangest dream, man. We were like, eating poop and stuff. What do you think that means?"

"Here, put some black liquid eyeliner on," Morgy instructed as she re-entered the room, her outstretched hand offering the makeup vial. "As for your shit dreams, I don't know--maybe it alludes to everything you're going to have to deal with, being a girl in the wrestling world again."

"That sounds about right," I agreed. "Shit son, you could retire right now and just be a stylist. The world could be your Barbie!" I marvelled as I expertly applied a coat of crimson lipstick. I hesitated before taking the eyeliner from Morgy, as I wasn't quite as confident in its application.

"Eh, you're Barbie enough for me. A lazy, lazy Barbie," she sighed. Noticing my apprehension, she took the eyeliner from me and easily lined my lids as she spoke, barely thinking anything of it. When she finished, we both positioned ourselves in front of a full-length mirror. "Team Wifey strikes again!~" she exclaimed triumphantly. "P.S. don't go to school again, you look hotter when you're not 10, 000% grumpy all the time."

---The Lawyer---

I stepped gingerly out of my cab, tightening the white cape I'd overestimated as being warm around my shoulders with a shiver--global warming was taking a day off and typical January conditions prevailed. A Canoe attendant immediately recognized me when I approached the restaurant's entrance, and she led me to a small table in a seemingly more exclusive section of the restaurant. Brian was already there, looking through an extensive wine list. He looked up at me as I approached, one glint of approval and two glints of condescension in his eyes.

"Ms. Reed," he said--a little too graciously, if you ask me--as he got up to bow theatrically and pull my chair out for me.

"Mr. Reed," I replied, more like a stern, turn of the century schoolteacher than a young woman meeting a young man for dinner. I sat down and plucked the wine list from his hands.

"Let me guess, you're looking for a blush wine? Or should I go ahead and order a Smirnoff Ice for you?" he asked cockily.

"I wasn't looking for anything just yet; you'd have to be a moron to order wine before ordering your meal. Unless you want to have to choose your meal according to the wine you hastily chose."

"You know about wine, do you?"

"Apparently more than you do," I snapped. He smiled. It made me furious, as I couldn't always read him--clearly, a lawyer was not one to have a faltering game face.

"Well it's pretty basic, isn't it? Match the colour of your food to the wine, more or less."

"What if you have salmon? You'd order a blush?" I asked pointedly.

"No, I guess I'd have to drink white, wouldn't i?"

"I wouldn't, but then I wouldn't eat salmon, either. Regardless, if you like red, why not pair a Pinot Noir with it?"

"Touch�, Princess, touch�." He beamed yet another winning smile.

"So, everything looks good in the SW contracts?"

"Yep, nothing looks off or like it could potentially come back to bite you in the ass," he confirmed.

"Seeeexcellent," I muttered creepily to myself.

"What was that?" he asked, half paying attention, half trying to flag a waiter down. I didn't have the desire to explain, nor did I have time. Moments later, a man in a stiff, white shirt and freshly ironed black slacks came over to take our orders. "I'll have the grilled salmon and a bottle of your finest French Pinot Noir," he flashed two gleaming rows of perfect teeth, "and the lady will have..."

"I'll have the penne Salicce--minus the Salicce--and half a litre of Chianti." I closed the menu and handed it to the waiter. He looked perplexed by my request to take the meat out of the dish, but knew better than to question a guest.

"So, bulking up for your first match?" he asked, smirking. My eyes immediately shot up to glare at him.

"What?" I asked icily. "I have a match?"

"Oooh, someone's not on top of things," he scolded sarcastically. "You're up against Tony Millennia."

"Oh god, how exciting. So much for a fresh start in SW. My first match, I'm stuck with someone from XWW and NEW."

"You've faced him before?" Brian raised a curious eyebrow.

"No, actually, I haven't. I've tagged with him twice, though. We won both times."

"So what, you're worried that he's not only as good as you, but better?"

"Not necessarily, though he has been more consistent in his career in terms of almost always being in one federation or another. He rarely stays away from the ring for long. Although he does no show a lot these days. I suppose that's not very consistent at all, is it?" I smiled slightly, a faraway look in my eyes as I tried to recall past encounters with Tony Millennia.

"Regardless, even I had heard of Tony Millennia, before I'd ever heard of you. He clearly has the talent and longevity to stay afloat in the business, regardless of his professionalism."

"True enough. He really does manage to do well for himself, despite being as professional as shit is tasty. I remember when we tagged together, he would actually rag on me in his promos. It was like, hey, earth to jackass, WE'RE ON THE SAME TEAM. And even then, he didn't say anything particularly intelligent. It was like, 'Adora are girl, Adora are whore. I are Tony.' He's a legend, yes, but does anyone really respect or fear him anymore? His name is becoming synonymous with no-showing, and he's so erratic and downright retarded in his behaviour sometimes. And seriously--seriously--who cuts someone's fingers off? He's so fucking weird that I have no trouble imagining him taking them home, stripping down and like, having dinner with them. Then he'd alternate his various, equally psychotic personalities while having deep, meaningful conversations with each of them. It'd be like a group date--Tony, Allistair and Ghost, each in the company of a rotting finger. Then suddenly the three Tonies would get really pissed off and create some melodramatic problem and freak out at the fingers," I waved my arms around emphatically, obviously a little too absorbed in my little story. Brian simply stared at me, his mouth hanging open. "Oh, I don't know, my point is that he's weird and crazy."

"...and you agreed to fight this guy why?" he asked, not at all understanding what motivated me to do what I did.

"What am I going to do, chicken out because he might blow my car up? Hopefully he won't try to beat me in the face with a crackpipe or something in the ring.

"Should I be drafting a company-paid reconstructive surgery clause for the contract?"

"...maybe." The waiter returned with our meals and wine. The smell made me realize how hungry bitching crazily made me. "Bottom line, I know Tony's good at what he does when he wants to be, so if I want to be able to pay your offensively high fees, I'm going to have to start winning right off the bat."

"Fresh ground pepper or parmesan cheese?" the waiter offered, hovering a pepper mill above my plate.

"Please." I moved my hands out of the way. "I know there's very little I can say against him, considering the fact that he held the world title for a whopping 28 days, while I barely had it for 28 seconds. Though the fact that he won it from Dumbass Kyle Rayner detracts from that a little," I snickered. "And of course, he couldn't defend it against my wifey, Morgana."

"Your 'wifey?'" Brian rolled his eyes, exhausted just from hearing about various fed things.

"Nevermind," I waved the subject off. "This pasta is delicious, but not $22 delicious," I commented, spearing several noodles with my fork and shoving them unceremoniously into my mouth.

"You're fucking gorgeous, but you act like a drunken pirate," he marvelled, staring at me in either awe or with longing, wishing that I was a little more refined. "You don't look like a wrestler or a scholar."

"I used to be a singer, too!"

"Yeah, I guess you look like one of those," he agreed.

"How's your Pinot?" I asked, in an attempt to remind him that I was, indeed, more refined than I let on.

"I'll admit, it's a perfect match, Princess." He smiled, for the first time with sincerity. "But should you really mix steroids with alcohol?" he added, quashing any soft spot for him I was beginning to develop.

"Oh, feck off," I laughed reluctantly. As much as I want to kick Brian in the teeth, it felt good having him in my corner--perhaps my problem in my last runs was not having enough strong, solid people in my corner, aside from Morgy. I vowed that that would no longer be the case. I would no longer doubt myself, or put forth as little effort as it took to get by. "To my career taking off in SW," I said, raising my glass, "so I can make us both a bunch of money."

"I'll always drink to that!" He clinked his glass against mine and we both took large gulps of wine. He'd consumed twice as much as I had and his cheeks looked flushed under the dim, warm restaurant lights. Our waiter approached us once more, this time with a couple and their two children in tow.

"Ma'am," he began, "could you take a photo with these patrons? They're fans." This would be a longer night than I thought.