Post by The Gothic Goddess on Nov 24, 2017 2:05:35 GMT
“I feel it necessary,” I begin, “To offer my personal perspective on the events that transpired at Sacrifice. Instead of the pointless wittering of Morasco, a woman whose job is, I understand, to state the perfectly obvious. I suppose somebody in the back office believes that the viewers are morons. They are right. Instead of the smarmy, self promoting thoughts of Vasco Dias,” I allow a hint of sarcasm into my voice, “I can see why he gets on so very well with my brother-in-law. Instead of the forsaken chatter of the commentary team, I will submit my own thoughts.”
Continuing, I carefully describe the finish of my match, “I lifted Crystal Hilton up, slowly inverted her body. By this point I had been surprised at her willingness to stand back up and continue the fight. By this point I may have even been getting frustrated. But I still had more to offer. I threaded my arm through her legs and clasped my hands together tightly, her weight supported only by my, I believe the industry term is ‘Gotch style’ cradle.”
“One who fights to the very end,” I muse, “Who faces adversity, looks the face of fear in the eye and says, “I shall not yield” is one who will be awarded plaudits by critics and onlookers alike. They are also a fool. Crystal Hilton should have realised that she was fighting a losing battle. Such misfortune as what occurred could have been avoided. Close your ears to heart, to fire, to spirit - those three false councellors that trick you into pushing yourself at times when you should have given up. Submit to your fate. Save yourself.”
Returning to the match, I finish, “I dropped to a seated position, driving Crystal’s head into the canvas.”
Quoting the lyrics of the song from which I take the name of my most devestating maneuver, I add "‘When empires fall, And nightmares crawl, From the cradle to enslave…This is the end of everything.’”
“I have been informed,” I add, a note of disinterest in my voice, “That the medical personnel performed the appropriate tests on Crystal Hilton.”
“I shall not shed a tear if the compression of her upper spinal vertebrae leaves lasting damage or the blunt force trauma on her skull leads to Chronic Trauma Encephalopathy in later life,” I follow, coldly, “She should have given up earlier. She did not. The warning was given from my own lips. ‘You are in for an unimaginable world of pain.’ She should have heeded it. She did not. And now that world of pain is no longer beyond her imagination. It is etched upon her memories forever.
“Victory.” I offer as a succint summary with a tone which I find quite natural but which I would hazard a guess one with a degree of compassion would find somewhat chilling, “Achieved.”
“That is what I am capable of, Dawn Haliwell. Be prepared.”
~~
Thanksgiving night, I sat in my spacious lounge, relaxing after a fulfilling meal. I sat, slouched comfortably in my favourite armchair, my gigantic monster of a husband perched, as one with a frame in excess of seven foot in height has to do, on his own chair of choice. Across the side of the room, my sister laid down on my couch across the lap of her husband, obviously more than a little tipsy from the expensive, and for that matter extensive selection of alcohol that my brother-in-law had provided. He looked relatively calm which was either a credible show, following the recent problems between us or that he is just difficult to shake from his usual demeanour.
There was a small silence, a calm in the room with only the sounds of my son attempting to sleep floating downstairs and the gentle patter of tiny rodent feet coming from the cage on the other side of the room.
Chris broke the silence, “I think we should have one more drink as a toast.”
“I think your wife has had enough,” I replied, affecting a minor note of sternness. I seldom refer to Diana indirectly when she is in the room, but I was not entirely convinced that her brain was.
Diana mumbled, “Yeah, Nats. ‘Cause we dipensed with the traditions earlier, we can at least have a toast now. I could use another drink.”
Chris beamed, “Another wine, dear?” he questioned.
“More wine!,” Diana confirmed. I do believe that were she offered a Thunderbird Red Label at this point she would have accepted. Chris poured out a small glass for her, ensuring that none would be accidentally spilled upon my furniture.
“And for yourself, Nats?”
“If you were about to break out something harder, I would not be averse.”
Chris delved into his cooler and produced a bottle of clear liquid and one of a brown hue.
“I brought the smooth stuff. I know you’re not into the throat rippers. So, what will you have dear sister-in-law. Ivanov? Or will you be joining me in the pleasures of an Auchentoshan?”
“Vodka will be fine for me. Sean, will, I presume, join you in the Scotch.”
“I will,” growled Sean. Not a disgruntled growl, just his natural voice.
“Your meal was delightful,” complimented Chris, “So may I propose a toast...”
“Toast!” Diana called out, drunkenly and mimed throwing a piece of toast with her free hand. I do believe that woman has seen Rocky Horror recently.
“Yes dear,” Chris continued, unfazed, “To Card. To Murphy. To Fitzpatrick. To family. And to our continued success. Áthas!”
I was mildly impressed. He had bothered to learn how to toast in my family’s tongue.
“Áthas!” the rest of the room echoed.
“And to, Dee excepted, our continued success in the ring. Because we’re all going to be at Survival of the Fittest.”
“You don’t have a match.” I coldly pointed out.
“A temporary setback. I have something much grander planned for myself. Meanwhile you, Nats, appear to have booked yourself.”
“Well,” I calmly pointed out, “Dawn Haliwell placed herself upon the guillotine that is the open challenge and I will be there to unleash the blade. I wasn’t getting booked as it stood. I think that the senior staff are worried about somebody else accidentally getting... broken."
“Poor Crystal,” Diana offered.
“Poor Crystal nothing,” I chillingly replied, “She should not have got up that often. While your husband likes to outsmart people, I am far more direct. She didn’t study the footage. As I doubt my opponent for the pay per view has..”
“I doubt she has studied anything, ever,” Chris sarcastically commented, “She has the whiff of the intellectually stunted about her.”
“Her level of intelligence is not my concern, Chris,” I replied, “I think her biggest flaw is that she has failed to grasp who she is dealing with.”
“Well, try your hardest not to break another one, Nats. You’ll get a reputation.” He smiled at me with that sinister cracked gravestone smile of his.
“I could not care less about a reputation. Sometimes mouthy little brats step up and want to try their luck.”
“And they too will get broken.” Sean added.
“Quite, dear,” I replied knocking back the smooth vodka in one.
~~
Returning to the black walled room within my house from which I recite my promotional videos, I find a fresh topic to discuss. “Something has come to my attention recently,” I begin, “I hear the talk around the dressing room, I hear the endless chatter among those who so laughably call themselves journalists.”
There is a note of derision in my voice as I discuss the opinions of other people, as if they matter, “‘Why,’ they ask, ‘Does Natasha act as she does. What motivates her?’ I am a professional wrestler.”
A flat statement. People know I am a professional wrestler. But I fear I must shed a little, shall I say light on the questions? To shine a light darkly. How delightfully contradictory. “For the majority of my adult life, it is all I have known. And though Dawn Haliwell may be an irritant, I bear her no personal ill will. Crushing her utterly is but a means to an end.”
“I do not aim to spread fear like Rowan and her minions,” I explain carefully, allowing even the slowest of thinkers a chance at understanding, “I do not aim to stand for justice like so many women have said that they do. I am certainly no singer or actor.”
My voice, it was once cruelly stated to me sounds like nails on a chalkboard at the best of times. A sort of raspy Jersey tone with an underlying menace. I continue, near scoffing at the female wrestlers who use their fame as an unlikely springboard towards mainstream success, “Or whatever side career people boast about. And I certainly have no underlying Napoleon complex that I need to slay giants to cope with.”
“What motivates me is nothing,” A simple truth. There is no reason to be candid about such a core issue, “Many cannot comprehend this. It matters little to me if you count yourself among their number. You may not understand the empty void that is existence, how utterly meaningless it all is. How the final joke the universe plays on us all is that nothing ever makes any difference in the first place. There is no rhyme nor reason why I perform heinous acts within the wrestling ring.”
“I intend to do them anyway,” I pause for a second before firing out the next three words with a little more venom than my customary cool tone, “Merciless. Implacable. Unstoppable. There is no ‘Why?’ There just…,”
I pause for a half second. Such nihilistic ideas are alien to many. I wanted to give the thrust of my argument time to settle in. I continue, “There just IS. Who asks a steel bar why it rusts? Who asks a flower why it wilts? Maybe, to fully understand my point of view you have to surrender your notions of motivation and accept that I am merely something that happens. Something that every woman on the roster will learn, in time, to dread.”
“Something that those who now understand,” I finish, estimating that at least a percentage of those who hear my words will cotton on, “Already do.”
“That is how I think Dawn Haliwell. Be prepared.”
~~
It was the following evening.
I looked at my husband. I smiled at him. Not sweetly. I do not do sweetly. My brother-in-law had already vacated the premises, leaving just my dear sister guarding my infant son. His snoring gave me the gentle signal that a night of entertainment was rich for the taking. Sean eyed me suspiciously, and then a facial expression crossed his face that I delight in. One of anticipation, excitement and maybe a little fear.
I carefully climbed the stairs, trying not to wake my little child. Diana was cooing over him, making sure he remained asleep. She smiled brightly when she saw me walk into the room.
“Isn’t he adorable? So young,” she purred.
“Would you mind doing the honours for an extra evening?” I asked, calmly.
“Yes, of course,” she replied softly. “May I ask why?”
“You may. But you would not enjoy the answer, so I shall spare giving it to you.” My sister knew what that meant.
“Oh,” she objected quietly, “Damn it, Nats, I am your sister, I am already agreeing to babysit your son so you may swan around the country on your great wrestling path of destruction. But I have to object strongly to being used as a personal childminder for your, how should I put this,”
“Perversion excursions?” I interrupted, stifling a smile.
She harrumphed. It is hard to argue over a sleeping child without waking him. And my sister is experienced enough to know there is little to no point arguing with me at all when I have the mood for doing anything proactive.
“Pass me the black bag from atop the wardrobe, would you?” I requested
“It’s zipped up, right?”
“Yes.”
"Good. I have no desire to know what its contents are"
Sighing, maybe a little overacted sigh for effect at that, she passed down the large black carry bag. It would make for good hand luggage, that bag would. Though I doubt it would pass through many customs checks. I grabbed it firmly in my hand and offered a sarcastic,
“Don’t wait up. You can use the land line to check up on Chris if you need to.”
Diana pouted. Armed with my bag of essentials I stepped down the stairs as gracefully as I could manage. Sean was waiting for me in the hallway.
“I have the car ready, my love,” he slowly stated.
“Be quiet, slave. I want to hear nothing from you unless you are spoken to. Do you understand?”
“Yes… ma’am.”
It was going to be a fun evening.
~~
“Dawn Haliwell,” I propose, “I am going to attempt to assess your mindset. What would make your own personal reasons for issuing an open challenge and why you are quite probably brimming with glee about my decision to accept.”
“You pride yourself on slaying giants,” there is nearly levity in my voice as I speculate on Ms Haliwell’s personal hangups. “You feel the need, the wanting, the longing to face off with competitors who physically outmatch you. And standing at nearly six feet I certainly cast a longer shadow than you. I am the sort of person you long to face in competition to prove your dominance in the face of imminent danger.”
“You will, no doubt, claim that defeating stronger, larger opponents is ‘What you do’ or words to some such effect,” I cannot begin to speak with the voice of one so deluded, but I place the effort in trying, “You will claim that your technical superiority is what will allow you to follow through your boast that you will, ‘Step’ and I note that you did not do your research, the original line is walk, ‘Into my parlour and then rip all my fuckin’ legs off.’”
That last line I deliver with a mocking tone. It seemed so very haphazard an attempt to belittle me, it deserved nothing better.
“Your bravado, your braggadocious attitude will get you noticed in this industry. Such self-belief is often commended among fans of our sport.,” I add an extra chill to my voice for the next sentence. It is an acquired skill, “It is going to get you hurt.”
“You like to cause people pain? I can, and I use the following word so very rarely,” the next word comes out of my mouth with a hint that I am nearly questioning myself by using it, “Empathise with that sentiment. Causing people pain is somewhat more than a hobby for me. It is where my darkest fantasies lie. But that is in my personal life. In the ring, I do not yearn for the twisted pleasures of hurting people. It is merely what I do. I do not fight to prove a point. I fight to win. I cause pain to fight. Ask my opponents from previous federations. Ask Crystal Hilton. Or, if she is unresponsive, ask the medical staff.”
“The one thing I know about causing pain for pleasure,” actually I know a great many things about causing pain for pleasure but this promotional video would last hours if I had to list them all, “Is that the reaction of your chosen victim is the most gratifying part. Well, you are about to find great disappointment. Do not expect to hear my voice howl in pain. You will not. Do not expect to hear my cries of anguish fill the arena as you lock in one of your tortuous submission holds. You will not. And if I had your proclivity for violence within the ring, I would find the whole affair of attempting to elicit a negative reaction from me most frustrating.”
“That is, of course, if you are even able to trap me in the first place,” Having her over a metaphorical barrel, I calmly reinforce my point, continuing, “You presume that I will not be able to counter your technical wrestling with my own? I suppose such foolishness is to be expected from one who walks into the federation and attempts to get on the wrong side of those whom she faces and those whom she will no doubt face in the future. What your chronic case of overconfidence tells me about you is that you will underestimate my capabilities at every turn. You will try to apply holds to which you will not believe I know the counter. You will misread situations. You lack guile.”
“The wrestling ring is not a competition of who can shout the loudest, Dawn,” I add with the self confidence of one who knows this to be true, “The wrestling ring is a battle of who strikes harder, who throws the bigger moves. Who can outlast their opponent. Who can outwrestle and outmuscle their opponent. And for every person you tell that this is you, the next one will believe you less. Until the last person with any belief in you is you yourself because you have the air of one who will never stop revelling in their own hyperbole.”
“Storm and stomp and swear like the oversized toddler who just learned a word that their parents dislike them using, Dawn,” A simile that I am all too aware of, “Scream until you’re blue in the face about how great you are. Because once that bell rings, it will save me time and effort that I could put to use doing something more productive if you are already out of breath. Though I am prepared to wait until you make a mistake, which you undoubtedly will, if you would do me the favour of, I believe the term is ‘gassing yourself,’ because you love the sound of your own declarations of violence so much, then all it would require is one swift Dominion to end this charade.”
“Dawn Haliwell, you want to wrestle? We shall wrestle. You want to fight? We shall fight. You want to rip all my extremities out of their respective sockets and attempt to beat me to death with them? You are more than welcome to try,” I emphasise the last word of that sentence, I do not believe for one second she could succeed in such a hyperbolic task, “But your quest to take me down will prove to be Quixotic.”
“I am sure that you have faced off with many a dragon, your submission holds as your sword, your confidence in your abilities as your buckler. But I am not the dragon. I am the windmill.”
I try to remain unmoved by own own intellect at that last metaphor. I realise that not everyone has read many 17th century Spanish novels but the cultural ripples may find their way to some of my more aware viewers.
“What you are doing is sitting on the beach, ordering the tide away. What you are doing is screaming at the sun to stay aloft in the sky as it slowly sets over the hillside.”
“That is who you are, Dawn Haliwell,” I state, coldly.
“Who I am is Natasha. The Gothic Goddess. The Ice Queen,” I begin to finish, the matter of fact tone of my voice providing some level of dissonance fro the text of what I am saying, “Blood stains my past, broken bones pile up in my wake. Utter, complete and merciless destruction follow me around. Horrifying, terrible things happen where I choose to involve myself. An endless nightmare of violence wells within me. I would pity you. But pity is a commodity that I have in very limited supply. I will simply warn you. That is who I am, Dawn. Be prepared.”
I interlock my thumbs and splay my fingers, forming my spider like hand gesture. An affectation, if you will.
“...to Embrace The Darkness.”
Continuing, I carefully describe the finish of my match, “I lifted Crystal Hilton up, slowly inverted her body. By this point I had been surprised at her willingness to stand back up and continue the fight. By this point I may have even been getting frustrated. But I still had more to offer. I threaded my arm through her legs and clasped my hands together tightly, her weight supported only by my, I believe the industry term is ‘Gotch style’ cradle.”
“One who fights to the very end,” I muse, “Who faces adversity, looks the face of fear in the eye and says, “I shall not yield” is one who will be awarded plaudits by critics and onlookers alike. They are also a fool. Crystal Hilton should have realised that she was fighting a losing battle. Such misfortune as what occurred could have been avoided. Close your ears to heart, to fire, to spirit - those three false councellors that trick you into pushing yourself at times when you should have given up. Submit to your fate. Save yourself.”
Returning to the match, I finish, “I dropped to a seated position, driving Crystal’s head into the canvas.”
Quoting the lyrics of the song from which I take the name of my most devestating maneuver, I add "‘When empires fall, And nightmares crawl, From the cradle to enslave…This is the end of everything.’”
“I have been informed,” I add, a note of disinterest in my voice, “That the medical personnel performed the appropriate tests on Crystal Hilton.”
“I shall not shed a tear if the compression of her upper spinal vertebrae leaves lasting damage or the blunt force trauma on her skull leads to Chronic Trauma Encephalopathy in later life,” I follow, coldly, “She should have given up earlier. She did not. The warning was given from my own lips. ‘You are in for an unimaginable world of pain.’ She should have heeded it. She did not. And now that world of pain is no longer beyond her imagination. It is etched upon her memories forever.
“Victory.” I offer as a succint summary with a tone which I find quite natural but which I would hazard a guess one with a degree of compassion would find somewhat chilling, “Achieved.”
“That is what I am capable of, Dawn Haliwell. Be prepared.”
~~
Thanksgiving night, I sat in my spacious lounge, relaxing after a fulfilling meal. I sat, slouched comfortably in my favourite armchair, my gigantic monster of a husband perched, as one with a frame in excess of seven foot in height has to do, on his own chair of choice. Across the side of the room, my sister laid down on my couch across the lap of her husband, obviously more than a little tipsy from the expensive, and for that matter extensive selection of alcohol that my brother-in-law had provided. He looked relatively calm which was either a credible show, following the recent problems between us or that he is just difficult to shake from his usual demeanour.
There was a small silence, a calm in the room with only the sounds of my son attempting to sleep floating downstairs and the gentle patter of tiny rodent feet coming from the cage on the other side of the room.
Chris broke the silence, “I think we should have one more drink as a toast.”
“I think your wife has had enough,” I replied, affecting a minor note of sternness. I seldom refer to Diana indirectly when she is in the room, but I was not entirely convinced that her brain was.
Diana mumbled, “Yeah, Nats. ‘Cause we dipensed with the traditions earlier, we can at least have a toast now. I could use another drink.”
Chris beamed, “Another wine, dear?” he questioned.
“More wine!,” Diana confirmed. I do believe that were she offered a Thunderbird Red Label at this point she would have accepted. Chris poured out a small glass for her, ensuring that none would be accidentally spilled upon my furniture.
“And for yourself, Nats?”
“If you were about to break out something harder, I would not be averse.”
Chris delved into his cooler and produced a bottle of clear liquid and one of a brown hue.
“I brought the smooth stuff. I know you’re not into the throat rippers. So, what will you have dear sister-in-law. Ivanov? Or will you be joining me in the pleasures of an Auchentoshan?”
“Vodka will be fine for me. Sean, will, I presume, join you in the Scotch.”
“I will,” growled Sean. Not a disgruntled growl, just his natural voice.
“Your meal was delightful,” complimented Chris, “So may I propose a toast...”
“Toast!” Diana called out, drunkenly and mimed throwing a piece of toast with her free hand. I do believe that woman has seen Rocky Horror recently.
“Yes dear,” Chris continued, unfazed, “To Card. To Murphy. To Fitzpatrick. To family. And to our continued success. Áthas!”
I was mildly impressed. He had bothered to learn how to toast in my family’s tongue.
“Áthas!” the rest of the room echoed.
“And to, Dee excepted, our continued success in the ring. Because we’re all going to be at Survival of the Fittest.”
“You don’t have a match.” I coldly pointed out.
“A temporary setback. I have something much grander planned for myself. Meanwhile you, Nats, appear to have booked yourself.”
“Well,” I calmly pointed out, “Dawn Haliwell placed herself upon the guillotine that is the open challenge and I will be there to unleash the blade. I wasn’t getting booked as it stood. I think that the senior staff are worried about somebody else accidentally getting... broken."
“Poor Crystal,” Diana offered.
“Poor Crystal nothing,” I chillingly replied, “She should not have got up that often. While your husband likes to outsmart people, I am far more direct. She didn’t study the footage. As I doubt my opponent for the pay per view has..”
“I doubt she has studied anything, ever,” Chris sarcastically commented, “She has the whiff of the intellectually stunted about her.”
“Her level of intelligence is not my concern, Chris,” I replied, “I think her biggest flaw is that she has failed to grasp who she is dealing with.”
“Well, try your hardest not to break another one, Nats. You’ll get a reputation.” He smiled at me with that sinister cracked gravestone smile of his.
“I could not care less about a reputation. Sometimes mouthy little brats step up and want to try their luck.”
“And they too will get broken.” Sean added.
“Quite, dear,” I replied knocking back the smooth vodka in one.
~~
Returning to the black walled room within my house from which I recite my promotional videos, I find a fresh topic to discuss. “Something has come to my attention recently,” I begin, “I hear the talk around the dressing room, I hear the endless chatter among those who so laughably call themselves journalists.”
There is a note of derision in my voice as I discuss the opinions of other people, as if they matter, “‘Why,’ they ask, ‘Does Natasha act as she does. What motivates her?’ I am a professional wrestler.”
A flat statement. People know I am a professional wrestler. But I fear I must shed a little, shall I say light on the questions? To shine a light darkly. How delightfully contradictory. “For the majority of my adult life, it is all I have known. And though Dawn Haliwell may be an irritant, I bear her no personal ill will. Crushing her utterly is but a means to an end.”
“I do not aim to spread fear like Rowan and her minions,” I explain carefully, allowing even the slowest of thinkers a chance at understanding, “I do not aim to stand for justice like so many women have said that they do. I am certainly no singer or actor.”
My voice, it was once cruelly stated to me sounds like nails on a chalkboard at the best of times. A sort of raspy Jersey tone with an underlying menace. I continue, near scoffing at the female wrestlers who use their fame as an unlikely springboard towards mainstream success, “Or whatever side career people boast about. And I certainly have no underlying Napoleon complex that I need to slay giants to cope with.”
“What motivates me is nothing,” A simple truth. There is no reason to be candid about such a core issue, “Many cannot comprehend this. It matters little to me if you count yourself among their number. You may not understand the empty void that is existence, how utterly meaningless it all is. How the final joke the universe plays on us all is that nothing ever makes any difference in the first place. There is no rhyme nor reason why I perform heinous acts within the wrestling ring.”
“I intend to do them anyway,” I pause for a second before firing out the next three words with a little more venom than my customary cool tone, “Merciless. Implacable. Unstoppable. There is no ‘Why?’ There just…,”
I pause for a half second. Such nihilistic ideas are alien to many. I wanted to give the thrust of my argument time to settle in. I continue, “There just IS. Who asks a steel bar why it rusts? Who asks a flower why it wilts? Maybe, to fully understand my point of view you have to surrender your notions of motivation and accept that I am merely something that happens. Something that every woman on the roster will learn, in time, to dread.”
“Something that those who now understand,” I finish, estimating that at least a percentage of those who hear my words will cotton on, “Already do.”
“That is how I think Dawn Haliwell. Be prepared.”
~~
It was the following evening.
I looked at my husband. I smiled at him. Not sweetly. I do not do sweetly. My brother-in-law had already vacated the premises, leaving just my dear sister guarding my infant son. His snoring gave me the gentle signal that a night of entertainment was rich for the taking. Sean eyed me suspiciously, and then a facial expression crossed his face that I delight in. One of anticipation, excitement and maybe a little fear.
I carefully climbed the stairs, trying not to wake my little child. Diana was cooing over him, making sure he remained asleep. She smiled brightly when she saw me walk into the room.
“Isn’t he adorable? So young,” she purred.
“Would you mind doing the honours for an extra evening?” I asked, calmly.
“Yes, of course,” she replied softly. “May I ask why?”
“You may. But you would not enjoy the answer, so I shall spare giving it to you.” My sister knew what that meant.
“Oh,” she objected quietly, “Damn it, Nats, I am your sister, I am already agreeing to babysit your son so you may swan around the country on your great wrestling path of destruction. But I have to object strongly to being used as a personal childminder for your, how should I put this,”
“Perversion excursions?” I interrupted, stifling a smile.
She harrumphed. It is hard to argue over a sleeping child without waking him. And my sister is experienced enough to know there is little to no point arguing with me at all when I have the mood for doing anything proactive.
“Pass me the black bag from atop the wardrobe, would you?” I requested
“It’s zipped up, right?”
“Yes.”
"Good. I have no desire to know what its contents are"
Sighing, maybe a little overacted sigh for effect at that, she passed down the large black carry bag. It would make for good hand luggage, that bag would. Though I doubt it would pass through many customs checks. I grabbed it firmly in my hand and offered a sarcastic,
“Don’t wait up. You can use the land line to check up on Chris if you need to.”
Diana pouted. Armed with my bag of essentials I stepped down the stairs as gracefully as I could manage. Sean was waiting for me in the hallway.
“I have the car ready, my love,” he slowly stated.
“Be quiet, slave. I want to hear nothing from you unless you are spoken to. Do you understand?”
“Yes… ma’am.”
It was going to be a fun evening.
~~
“Dawn Haliwell,” I propose, “I am going to attempt to assess your mindset. What would make your own personal reasons for issuing an open challenge and why you are quite probably brimming with glee about my decision to accept.”
“You pride yourself on slaying giants,” there is nearly levity in my voice as I speculate on Ms Haliwell’s personal hangups. “You feel the need, the wanting, the longing to face off with competitors who physically outmatch you. And standing at nearly six feet I certainly cast a longer shadow than you. I am the sort of person you long to face in competition to prove your dominance in the face of imminent danger.”
“You will, no doubt, claim that defeating stronger, larger opponents is ‘What you do’ or words to some such effect,” I cannot begin to speak with the voice of one so deluded, but I place the effort in trying, “You will claim that your technical superiority is what will allow you to follow through your boast that you will, ‘Step’ and I note that you did not do your research, the original line is walk, ‘Into my parlour and then rip all my fuckin’ legs off.’”
That last line I deliver with a mocking tone. It seemed so very haphazard an attempt to belittle me, it deserved nothing better.
“Your bravado, your braggadocious attitude will get you noticed in this industry. Such self-belief is often commended among fans of our sport.,” I add an extra chill to my voice for the next sentence. It is an acquired skill, “It is going to get you hurt.”
“You like to cause people pain? I can, and I use the following word so very rarely,” the next word comes out of my mouth with a hint that I am nearly questioning myself by using it, “Empathise with that sentiment. Causing people pain is somewhat more than a hobby for me. It is where my darkest fantasies lie. But that is in my personal life. In the ring, I do not yearn for the twisted pleasures of hurting people. It is merely what I do. I do not fight to prove a point. I fight to win. I cause pain to fight. Ask my opponents from previous federations. Ask Crystal Hilton. Or, if she is unresponsive, ask the medical staff.”
“The one thing I know about causing pain for pleasure,” actually I know a great many things about causing pain for pleasure but this promotional video would last hours if I had to list them all, “Is that the reaction of your chosen victim is the most gratifying part. Well, you are about to find great disappointment. Do not expect to hear my voice howl in pain. You will not. Do not expect to hear my cries of anguish fill the arena as you lock in one of your tortuous submission holds. You will not. And if I had your proclivity for violence within the ring, I would find the whole affair of attempting to elicit a negative reaction from me most frustrating.”
“That is, of course, if you are even able to trap me in the first place,” Having her over a metaphorical barrel, I calmly reinforce my point, continuing, “You presume that I will not be able to counter your technical wrestling with my own? I suppose such foolishness is to be expected from one who walks into the federation and attempts to get on the wrong side of those whom she faces and those whom she will no doubt face in the future. What your chronic case of overconfidence tells me about you is that you will underestimate my capabilities at every turn. You will try to apply holds to which you will not believe I know the counter. You will misread situations. You lack guile.”
“The wrestling ring is not a competition of who can shout the loudest, Dawn,” I add with the self confidence of one who knows this to be true, “The wrestling ring is a battle of who strikes harder, who throws the bigger moves. Who can outlast their opponent. Who can outwrestle and outmuscle their opponent. And for every person you tell that this is you, the next one will believe you less. Until the last person with any belief in you is you yourself because you have the air of one who will never stop revelling in their own hyperbole.”
“Storm and stomp and swear like the oversized toddler who just learned a word that their parents dislike them using, Dawn,” A simile that I am all too aware of, “Scream until you’re blue in the face about how great you are. Because once that bell rings, it will save me time and effort that I could put to use doing something more productive if you are already out of breath. Though I am prepared to wait until you make a mistake, which you undoubtedly will, if you would do me the favour of, I believe the term is ‘gassing yourself,’ because you love the sound of your own declarations of violence so much, then all it would require is one swift Dominion to end this charade.”
“Dawn Haliwell, you want to wrestle? We shall wrestle. You want to fight? We shall fight. You want to rip all my extremities out of their respective sockets and attempt to beat me to death with them? You are more than welcome to try,” I emphasise the last word of that sentence, I do not believe for one second she could succeed in such a hyperbolic task, “But your quest to take me down will prove to be Quixotic.”
“I am sure that you have faced off with many a dragon, your submission holds as your sword, your confidence in your abilities as your buckler. But I am not the dragon. I am the windmill.”
I try to remain unmoved by own own intellect at that last metaphor. I realise that not everyone has read many 17th century Spanish novels but the cultural ripples may find their way to some of my more aware viewers.
“What you are doing is sitting on the beach, ordering the tide away. What you are doing is screaming at the sun to stay aloft in the sky as it slowly sets over the hillside.”
“That is who you are, Dawn Haliwell,” I state, coldly.
“Who I am is Natasha. The Gothic Goddess. The Ice Queen,” I begin to finish, the matter of fact tone of my voice providing some level of dissonance fro the text of what I am saying, “Blood stains my past, broken bones pile up in my wake. Utter, complete and merciless destruction follow me around. Horrifying, terrible things happen where I choose to involve myself. An endless nightmare of violence wells within me. I would pity you. But pity is a commodity that I have in very limited supply. I will simply warn you. That is who I am, Dawn. Be prepared.”
I interlock my thumbs and splay my fingers, forming my spider like hand gesture. An affectation, if you will.
“...to Embrace The Darkness.”
Well howdy there pardner.