Post by The Hannahverser on Apr 17, 2016 1:56:15 GMT
"I don’t know how others feel, but for me there’s a certain newness to Uprising. The way I understand it, 4CW acquired Knights of the Squared Circle a short time ago and created what amounts to a new entity. And, as much as Paul Knight’s foundation is still present in this new thing, it’s still a brand new page of the story Paul’s been writing with a brand new cast of characters. Regardless of whatever history has been written already there’s now all these new faces, myself included, and every one of us is going into this taping of Uprising with some hunger. It doesn’t really matter where any of us are in terms of our career; it’s like starting fresh here in Uprising. At least that’s how I’m viewing my own career these days.
I thought I was done.
After years of trying with literally no luck in the Wrestling business, I joined Monarchy Wrestling feeling like a has-been.
I honestly didn’t expect anything more than the same tired trend of me entering the wrestling world I adore so much only to find that one, unexpected and random trap door right back out.
And now, here I am, a title-holder entering into a brand new field of competitors as hungry, if not hungrier than I was when I got back into this industry a few months ago.
You can sense it coming into this Uprising. Everyone’s got something to prove as the lay of the land unfolds. There’s no better example than with my three opponents for this upcoming Sunday. Each of us newcomers to 4CW, some fresh as daisies, and none willing to walk out of this match without a win. This is true from the top of the card to the bottom of the card. In my match, at least, the general trend from all who’ve made mention of it is hunger. All of us are, in this match and on every part of this card, are hungry for a win, for a chance to make a mark of dominance, hungry to set the stage for future wins and the chance to sit atop Uprising as it’s champion.
It’s a field of wolves, if you ask me. Some more threatening than others on paper, but make no mistake, and I’m not exactly an expert, but I have it on good authority that there’s no such thing as a “safe” wolf out in the wild.
That’s what this feels like, you know? When I first signed on to Uprising, regardless of the circumstances that initially brought me into Paul Knight’s office, I felt like I was entering this brand new world where everything seemed fresh as newly fallen snow. And then, just like the period at Monarchy Wrestling after the ink dried on my contract, and I started to really look around at the field before me, I started to realize how serious it all was; how much it meant, and how difficult it would be to actually succeed. Here, in Uprising, there isn’t a single competitor I plan to take lightly, or refuse to see as a threat. I feel like this federation is barren wilderness full of some very mean and hungry animals willing to claw their way to the top. This federation is an unpaved landscape where every person on this roster is as hungry, and as dangerous as the wolves I alluded to earlier.
…So, picture this, if you will…"
Arctic Tundra. Snow falls lightly and settles. In a white-colored full snowsuit Thirteen crouches with a butane torch aimed and melting a small pocket of ice. She gives a careful look around as she unsheathes a double-edged blade from her side, reveals her bare hand, grits her teeth and slices the blade down her palm. Blood slides onto the blade. Thirteen cringes and clenches her fist shut as she sets the handle of the blade into the ice. Her bloody hand drips a red stain around the upturned blade now stuck into the pocket of ice. She gives a final look around before she stands and walks away.
"I’m not an expert in hunting. Truthfully, I’ve never been, I can’t stand the thought. But in a dog-eat-dog world knowledge like this sometimes comes in use. It was once related to me that this is the way that indigenous hunters would hunt a wolf. While it might seem counter-intuitive, I’d surmise it’s true in the arctic, just like it’s true in a wrestling ring: you don’t expend yourself needlessly, you have to think strategically if you hope to survive. So the hunter cuts herself, wounds herself. But one wound won’t end you if you use it wisely. So, too, in the ring, I’ve learned one mistake does not a match make, and sometimes how something looks isn’t always how it actually is…"
Silence. Snow falls. The blood stains the blade and settles into a deep crimson-ochre. When the wolf comes, there’s no howl and no fanfare, just the scent of blood to draw it near. Among the snow drifts, the ears perk, the head raises, the wolf hovers over the pool of blood and dips it’s nose down to sniff. It smells the blade, it smells the blood, and knows its hunger. The wolf’s tongue darts along the blade’s edge to taste the blood. The wolf settles a little on its haunches and runs it’s tongue along the blade again and again, not noticing the blood it now tastes, and has begun running down into the snow, is its own.
"My opponents on Sunday and forever after need to take note. You’re killing yourself if you see only the obvious. If you’re hungry enough, and you want it enough, it’s easy to see what you want to see. To me, the trap that wolf falls into time and again out of hunger is the same my opponents will find themselves.
I may make a lot of gaffes, you know? It’s not on purpose, and I don’t want to take the easy route and claim it’s just bad luck, or whatever. And… (thinks)… maybe it is, I mean I went on 4CW television and obliviously cut a promo for the wrong federation. Duh. Right? I must look like walking wounded to many. A disaster. And, in this case, in my upcoming match in particular, I really do feel like I’m facing competitors who aren’t seeing what they need to see when they go up against me."
“And what should they be seeing?”
"Someone who's prepared. Someone who's far more dangerous than any wolf could ever be.”
Thirteen’s on a stool in front of a black curtain under a three-point light set-up. She’s dressed casual, a white halter with a silver crucifix pendant set upon a heart hangs around her neck. The camera looks over the shoulder of an unseen interviewing presence that has unobtrusively seen fit to allow her to speak.
Truthfully? They’ve kept the fact the camera is rolling a secret from her.
Why?
After Gabriel Hartman’s initial attempt to interview Thirteen went awry, and after a bit of research on his downtime, he grew the idea that this was a woman who’s career had a way of turning sideways without warning, and often against anyone’s will. In Gabriel’s offhand remarks to a colleague in London, where we now shoot this promo, “strange shit happens to Thirteen”.
It was decided, and proven once she’d entered and proven her nerves as she arrived twenty minutes late claiming to have gotten the wrong directions to the studio, that perhaps it was best for her not to make it known the camera was filming.
Previously, each time they’d slated the scene and called for Thirteen to begin, a light would flicker and shut down; or the curtain behind her would fall and require re-dressing; hell, her halter came loose and gave the crew a momentary glance of more than cleavage which she quickly caught amidst a hail of embarrassment.
And yet, with the red recording light safely obscured from her view by a piece of cleverly placed tape, she sat and candidly, and comfortably shot her promo without interruption or happenstance to interfere, completely without her knowledge.
"Let’s talk about Chris Mosh. “Party Boy” Chris Mosh who cut a promo with his kids making it more than a little oxymoronic to call himself a party animal. “Family Guy” Chris Mosh, maybe? The name means nothing. He can call himself whatever he wants. A rose, by any other name, and all that. But, honestly, if he wants to spend his time cracking jokes with his kids, sweet as it may be, I can certainly arrange plenty of recovery slash sick leave for him after Sunday with which to spend with his family... laid up... in a hosptial bed. I won’t pull punches. If he had trouble with his last opponent, he’s in for a whole world of hurt against me and two other people.
I sat through his promo while working some free weights and used it as motivation to lift a personal best. I respect anyone in this business, regardless of who they are, or who they claim to be or how they behave. But, honestly, someone needs to tell Chris Mosh there isn’t some fairy win godmother that shows up to conjure a win streak. He has to make that happen. And, sincerely, pointing out one of my mistakes made outside of a ring doesn’t excuse the countless amount of mistakes Chris Mosh made in one match, let alone one promo. He saw one thing. One mistake. The wolf approaches the blade, smells the blood and wants to drink.
That will cost him.
I wondered to myself if I should pull him aside and warn him. Maybe, at least, tell him: ‘Drink up, Chris. Soak up this opportunity. But don’t forget to pull your head out of your ass or you’ll never see me coming to rip you in two.” He saw the speck of dust in my eye, and didn’t seem to realize there was a log jammed in his.
But I refuse to take him lightly. I refuse to take any of these competitors lightly, even if, in a way, I feel like I’ve entered into some kind of a joke.
Have you ever heard it?
A number, a Barbie, a Trojan horse and a useless tit walk into a ring.
That’s it.
There’s no punch line.
Chris Mosh is the preening, falsely advertised Barbie.
Neveah is clearly the Trojan horse who has all the training necessary to make it in this business, but may not be aware of it.
And, at least so far, Joey Harris is a completely useless tit. The kind God first gave Eve back in the Garden of Eden and realized she only needed two so he threw the third away.
That’s Joey Harris.
But this isn’t a joke.
It’s serious. I’ve spent years getting myself into the shape I’m in, into the competitive state I’m in to be able to run a gauntlet at Monarchy Wrestling then fly over the Atlantic Ocean to Ontario and run another gauntlet all in the same night.
This isn’t a joke.
This is serious business.
It’s my livelihood.
On the same night I square off against these three, I defend my Monarchy Championship against Alexis Terry.
While my opponents train for three opponents, I’m training for four.
This isn’t going to be easy. And maybe I’ve stacked the deck against myself and don’t even know it.
I’m okay with that.
I plan on being a fighting champion wherever I go.
I plan on being more than a pretty face.
And that’s partially why I feel partially sorry for Neveah. With as much talent as she has, as much potential as she walks into Uprising with, she’s got a fifty percent chance of walking out of this match on Sunday with her face disfigured or her teeth knocked out.
So much for pretty.
I’m not messing around, and I’m not threatening.
I’ll be honored to face Neveah.
I’ll be honored to face anyone.
I’ll be honored to present myself in front of a camera and look my most beautiful, all made up and ready to make dicks hard and hearts thump a little harder in someone’s chest.
But, it’s demeaning to any woman in this sport to make that her reason for being, or believe that’s going to keep the people coming back for more.
Neveah can be a one-night stand if she wants to, or meat-beating fuel if that keeps her going.
Me? I plan on sticking around.
I’ve been in lots of fights, in lots of arenas, in lots of rings around the world and I learned that preening only gives you a target to wear.
A pretty face, in a lot of cases, is just someone’s excuse to destroy it.
Beauty really is only skin deep in this business.
So, I refuse to be another pretty face.
I’m here to win."
She stopped and looked nervously to the unseen interviewer.
"Do you think I should take that line for the actual promo? I don’t want to sound like I’m lecturing the poor girl.”
“Take whatever line you need to.”
Thirteen looks downward in thought. She shakes her head.
"I don’t need to prove I’m the best. I do need to prove that there’s something more substantial to me than my face, my tits, or my ass, all of which are fantastic, but Neveah’s going to have very little time to contemplate that, or anything else, after a roundhouse kick flattens her to the canvas.
I won’t be objectified. Fine, for anyone else who wants to go that route. But I’d rather show my face as a woman who got here through hard work, through skill, through determination and by just downright being everything that mattered when it mattered the most."
More thought until her face brightens.
"I met a fan last week. A little girl and her family. Amy Temple. She was great. And, I mean I’ve never really, to my knowledge, HAD a fan, you know? Especially not one that young.
And there I am, and here’s this little five year old who’s looking up to me not as some beauty queen she wants to look like, but as a champion. The beauty thing came second. For her, I wasn’t beautiful because I’d had a stellar day in front of the makeup mirror. I was beautiful because I was a champion, who’d just so happened to have a stellar day in front of the makeup mirror. That both shocked and surprised me. I discovered I was someone she’ll pretend to be on the playground when a bully is messing with one of her friends.
What better reason to do this than that?
To suddenly realize the impact you leave on that ring, and on everyone that sees you in it really made me wake up and see myself for more than just a single, solitary competitor out for her own glory. I saw myself as representative of something larger than my own accomplishments. Who knows what Amy Temple will go on to be as I influence her with my performance in the ring and out, you know?"
“And what would you say to anyone who might bring up your track record of bad luck in the ring?”
Thirteen smiles, as if ready with ammunition for just such a question.
"Well. I’d say that things change. I walked into my match against Leon Cashmere with my title, and walked out with my arm raised. Damn exhausted (laughs), and definitely willing to face him again if it ever happened.
When it came down to it, it didn’t matter what setbacks or hurdles I faced.
Leon and I met head to head, and none of the bad luck, hurdles or setbacks mattered.
If anything, I feel like my luck is about to change, just like Paul Knight so prophetically mentioned in our first face-to-face meeting this past Uprising.
I guess I can announce it here officially since we’re not taping yet, but proving myself in the ring has drawn enough attention that I literally just secured my first endorsement deal for MuscleMeds. But I’m supposed to keep that a secret until they’re ready to officially announce it, so it’s a good thing the camera’s not on."
Her smile is bright and wide.
“Congratulations. How did you manage that?”
"Honestly, I’m as shocked as you are. Things haven’t always just landed in my lap like this. So, yeah, hugely surprised and honored by it. I mean, I use a few supplements, but nothing drastic so I wasn’t really sure where this was all coming from, but apparently what started the whole thing was one of their people saw a picture of me in a MuscleMeds shirt, they did some digging, saw me perform last week on Monarchy: Live! and now I have a deal.
So, yeah, there’s this silver lining in front of me right that should quash the idea that I’m ‘unlucky’. It has for me. I mean, I think with any wrestler, anyone really, there’s going to be doubts. I’ve had my share of those. But now? At this point in my career where I finally feel like I’m coming into my own – and, let me be honest…"
She shrugs to herself, a modest frown setting on her brow.
"I was ready for this in my early twenties. I was ready, and I was willing and I was willing to stop at nothing to achieve what I’m currently on the road to achieving now, nearly ten years later.
Back then? I worked myself into the ground for this.
I know it sounds foolish, but it just wasn’t meant to be then.
Now? I’m ready.
My shoulders are ready to bear the load.
I’ve never been more ready to step between those ropes. I’ve never been this strong, or this fast, or this capable to knock people around confident in myself.
All of what’s come before has been tremendous preparation.
I’m now used to watching my own back, preparing for the worst that could happen, and readying myself for war.
I’m ready for Uprising.
I’m ready for whatever comes next."
She smiles to the camera man, just over top the lens.
“And I’m ready for my close up when you are.”
She giggles playfully, whisking some dark hair past her shoulder. Half-audibly the cameraman speaks, only to be reiterated by the mic’ed interviewer.
“We’ve actually been taping the whole time.”
Thirteen’s face drops.
"What?"
“Yeah.”
She blinks.
"Oh. Well… should I wish my opponent’s good luck?"
Inaudible conversation as Thirteen stands, ready to remove the lapel mic hidden neatly on her halter.
"Oh. Okay. I guess I’ll have time to do that at the beginning of the match."
The camera feed cuts.
I thought I was done.
After years of trying with literally no luck in the Wrestling business, I joined Monarchy Wrestling feeling like a has-been.
I honestly didn’t expect anything more than the same tired trend of me entering the wrestling world I adore so much only to find that one, unexpected and random trap door right back out.
And now, here I am, a title-holder entering into a brand new field of competitors as hungry, if not hungrier than I was when I got back into this industry a few months ago.
You can sense it coming into this Uprising. Everyone’s got something to prove as the lay of the land unfolds. There’s no better example than with my three opponents for this upcoming Sunday. Each of us newcomers to 4CW, some fresh as daisies, and none willing to walk out of this match without a win. This is true from the top of the card to the bottom of the card. In my match, at least, the general trend from all who’ve made mention of it is hunger. All of us are, in this match and on every part of this card, are hungry for a win, for a chance to make a mark of dominance, hungry to set the stage for future wins and the chance to sit atop Uprising as it’s champion.
It’s a field of wolves, if you ask me. Some more threatening than others on paper, but make no mistake, and I’m not exactly an expert, but I have it on good authority that there’s no such thing as a “safe” wolf out in the wild.
That’s what this feels like, you know? When I first signed on to Uprising, regardless of the circumstances that initially brought me into Paul Knight’s office, I felt like I was entering this brand new world where everything seemed fresh as newly fallen snow. And then, just like the period at Monarchy Wrestling after the ink dried on my contract, and I started to really look around at the field before me, I started to realize how serious it all was; how much it meant, and how difficult it would be to actually succeed. Here, in Uprising, there isn’t a single competitor I plan to take lightly, or refuse to see as a threat. I feel like this federation is barren wilderness full of some very mean and hungry animals willing to claw their way to the top. This federation is an unpaved landscape where every person on this roster is as hungry, and as dangerous as the wolves I alluded to earlier.
…So, picture this, if you will…"
Arctic Tundra. Snow falls lightly and settles. In a white-colored full snowsuit Thirteen crouches with a butane torch aimed and melting a small pocket of ice. She gives a careful look around as she unsheathes a double-edged blade from her side, reveals her bare hand, grits her teeth and slices the blade down her palm. Blood slides onto the blade. Thirteen cringes and clenches her fist shut as she sets the handle of the blade into the ice. Her bloody hand drips a red stain around the upturned blade now stuck into the pocket of ice. She gives a final look around before she stands and walks away.
"I’m not an expert in hunting. Truthfully, I’ve never been, I can’t stand the thought. But in a dog-eat-dog world knowledge like this sometimes comes in use. It was once related to me that this is the way that indigenous hunters would hunt a wolf. While it might seem counter-intuitive, I’d surmise it’s true in the arctic, just like it’s true in a wrestling ring: you don’t expend yourself needlessly, you have to think strategically if you hope to survive. So the hunter cuts herself, wounds herself. But one wound won’t end you if you use it wisely. So, too, in the ring, I’ve learned one mistake does not a match make, and sometimes how something looks isn’t always how it actually is…"
Silence. Snow falls. The blood stains the blade and settles into a deep crimson-ochre. When the wolf comes, there’s no howl and no fanfare, just the scent of blood to draw it near. Among the snow drifts, the ears perk, the head raises, the wolf hovers over the pool of blood and dips it’s nose down to sniff. It smells the blade, it smells the blood, and knows its hunger. The wolf’s tongue darts along the blade’s edge to taste the blood. The wolf settles a little on its haunches and runs it’s tongue along the blade again and again, not noticing the blood it now tastes, and has begun running down into the snow, is its own.
"My opponents on Sunday and forever after need to take note. You’re killing yourself if you see only the obvious. If you’re hungry enough, and you want it enough, it’s easy to see what you want to see. To me, the trap that wolf falls into time and again out of hunger is the same my opponents will find themselves.
I may make a lot of gaffes, you know? It’s not on purpose, and I don’t want to take the easy route and claim it’s just bad luck, or whatever. And… (thinks)… maybe it is, I mean I went on 4CW television and obliviously cut a promo for the wrong federation. Duh. Right? I must look like walking wounded to many. A disaster. And, in this case, in my upcoming match in particular, I really do feel like I’m facing competitors who aren’t seeing what they need to see when they go up against me."
“And what should they be seeing?”
"Someone who's prepared. Someone who's far more dangerous than any wolf could ever be.”
Thirteen’s on a stool in front of a black curtain under a three-point light set-up. She’s dressed casual, a white halter with a silver crucifix pendant set upon a heart hangs around her neck. The camera looks over the shoulder of an unseen interviewing presence that has unobtrusively seen fit to allow her to speak.
Truthfully? They’ve kept the fact the camera is rolling a secret from her.
Why?
After Gabriel Hartman’s initial attempt to interview Thirteen went awry, and after a bit of research on his downtime, he grew the idea that this was a woman who’s career had a way of turning sideways without warning, and often against anyone’s will. In Gabriel’s offhand remarks to a colleague in London, where we now shoot this promo, “strange shit happens to Thirteen”.
It was decided, and proven once she’d entered and proven her nerves as she arrived twenty minutes late claiming to have gotten the wrong directions to the studio, that perhaps it was best for her not to make it known the camera was filming.
Previously, each time they’d slated the scene and called for Thirteen to begin, a light would flicker and shut down; or the curtain behind her would fall and require re-dressing; hell, her halter came loose and gave the crew a momentary glance of more than cleavage which she quickly caught amidst a hail of embarrassment.
And yet, with the red recording light safely obscured from her view by a piece of cleverly placed tape, she sat and candidly, and comfortably shot her promo without interruption or happenstance to interfere, completely without her knowledge.
"Let’s talk about Chris Mosh. “Party Boy” Chris Mosh who cut a promo with his kids making it more than a little oxymoronic to call himself a party animal. “Family Guy” Chris Mosh, maybe? The name means nothing. He can call himself whatever he wants. A rose, by any other name, and all that. But, honestly, if he wants to spend his time cracking jokes with his kids, sweet as it may be, I can certainly arrange plenty of recovery slash sick leave for him after Sunday with which to spend with his family... laid up... in a hosptial bed. I won’t pull punches. If he had trouble with his last opponent, he’s in for a whole world of hurt against me and two other people.
I sat through his promo while working some free weights and used it as motivation to lift a personal best. I respect anyone in this business, regardless of who they are, or who they claim to be or how they behave. But, honestly, someone needs to tell Chris Mosh there isn’t some fairy win godmother that shows up to conjure a win streak. He has to make that happen. And, sincerely, pointing out one of my mistakes made outside of a ring doesn’t excuse the countless amount of mistakes Chris Mosh made in one match, let alone one promo. He saw one thing. One mistake. The wolf approaches the blade, smells the blood and wants to drink.
That will cost him.
I wondered to myself if I should pull him aside and warn him. Maybe, at least, tell him: ‘Drink up, Chris. Soak up this opportunity. But don’t forget to pull your head out of your ass or you’ll never see me coming to rip you in two.” He saw the speck of dust in my eye, and didn’t seem to realize there was a log jammed in his.
But I refuse to take him lightly. I refuse to take any of these competitors lightly, even if, in a way, I feel like I’ve entered into some kind of a joke.
Have you ever heard it?
A number, a Barbie, a Trojan horse and a useless tit walk into a ring.
That’s it.
There’s no punch line.
Chris Mosh is the preening, falsely advertised Barbie.
Neveah is clearly the Trojan horse who has all the training necessary to make it in this business, but may not be aware of it.
And, at least so far, Joey Harris is a completely useless tit. The kind God first gave Eve back in the Garden of Eden and realized she only needed two so he threw the third away.
That’s Joey Harris.
But this isn’t a joke.
It’s serious. I’ve spent years getting myself into the shape I’m in, into the competitive state I’m in to be able to run a gauntlet at Monarchy Wrestling then fly over the Atlantic Ocean to Ontario and run another gauntlet all in the same night.
This isn’t a joke.
This is serious business.
It’s my livelihood.
On the same night I square off against these three, I defend my Monarchy Championship against Alexis Terry.
While my opponents train for three opponents, I’m training for four.
This isn’t going to be easy. And maybe I’ve stacked the deck against myself and don’t even know it.
I’m okay with that.
I plan on being a fighting champion wherever I go.
I plan on being more than a pretty face.
And that’s partially why I feel partially sorry for Neveah. With as much talent as she has, as much potential as she walks into Uprising with, she’s got a fifty percent chance of walking out of this match on Sunday with her face disfigured or her teeth knocked out.
So much for pretty.
I’m not messing around, and I’m not threatening.
I’ll be honored to face Neveah.
I’ll be honored to face anyone.
I’ll be honored to present myself in front of a camera and look my most beautiful, all made up and ready to make dicks hard and hearts thump a little harder in someone’s chest.
But, it’s demeaning to any woman in this sport to make that her reason for being, or believe that’s going to keep the people coming back for more.
Neveah can be a one-night stand if she wants to, or meat-beating fuel if that keeps her going.
Me? I plan on sticking around.
I’ve been in lots of fights, in lots of arenas, in lots of rings around the world and I learned that preening only gives you a target to wear.
A pretty face, in a lot of cases, is just someone’s excuse to destroy it.
Beauty really is only skin deep in this business.
So, I refuse to be another pretty face.
I’m here to win."
She stopped and looked nervously to the unseen interviewer.
"Do you think I should take that line for the actual promo? I don’t want to sound like I’m lecturing the poor girl.”
“Take whatever line you need to.”
Thirteen looks downward in thought. She shakes her head.
"I don’t need to prove I’m the best. I do need to prove that there’s something more substantial to me than my face, my tits, or my ass, all of which are fantastic, but Neveah’s going to have very little time to contemplate that, or anything else, after a roundhouse kick flattens her to the canvas.
I won’t be objectified. Fine, for anyone else who wants to go that route. But I’d rather show my face as a woman who got here through hard work, through skill, through determination and by just downright being everything that mattered when it mattered the most."
More thought until her face brightens.
"I met a fan last week. A little girl and her family. Amy Temple. She was great. And, I mean I’ve never really, to my knowledge, HAD a fan, you know? Especially not one that young.
And there I am, and here’s this little five year old who’s looking up to me not as some beauty queen she wants to look like, but as a champion. The beauty thing came second. For her, I wasn’t beautiful because I’d had a stellar day in front of the makeup mirror. I was beautiful because I was a champion, who’d just so happened to have a stellar day in front of the makeup mirror. That both shocked and surprised me. I discovered I was someone she’ll pretend to be on the playground when a bully is messing with one of her friends.
What better reason to do this than that?
To suddenly realize the impact you leave on that ring, and on everyone that sees you in it really made me wake up and see myself for more than just a single, solitary competitor out for her own glory. I saw myself as representative of something larger than my own accomplishments. Who knows what Amy Temple will go on to be as I influence her with my performance in the ring and out, you know?"
“And what would you say to anyone who might bring up your track record of bad luck in the ring?”
Thirteen smiles, as if ready with ammunition for just such a question.
"Well. I’d say that things change. I walked into my match against Leon Cashmere with my title, and walked out with my arm raised. Damn exhausted (laughs), and definitely willing to face him again if it ever happened.
When it came down to it, it didn’t matter what setbacks or hurdles I faced.
Leon and I met head to head, and none of the bad luck, hurdles or setbacks mattered.
If anything, I feel like my luck is about to change, just like Paul Knight so prophetically mentioned in our first face-to-face meeting this past Uprising.
I guess I can announce it here officially since we’re not taping yet, but proving myself in the ring has drawn enough attention that I literally just secured my first endorsement deal for MuscleMeds. But I’m supposed to keep that a secret until they’re ready to officially announce it, so it’s a good thing the camera’s not on."
Her smile is bright and wide.
“Congratulations. How did you manage that?”
"Honestly, I’m as shocked as you are. Things haven’t always just landed in my lap like this. So, yeah, hugely surprised and honored by it. I mean, I use a few supplements, but nothing drastic so I wasn’t really sure where this was all coming from, but apparently what started the whole thing was one of their people saw a picture of me in a MuscleMeds shirt, they did some digging, saw me perform last week on Monarchy: Live! and now I have a deal.
So, yeah, there’s this silver lining in front of me right that should quash the idea that I’m ‘unlucky’. It has for me. I mean, I think with any wrestler, anyone really, there’s going to be doubts. I’ve had my share of those. But now? At this point in my career where I finally feel like I’m coming into my own – and, let me be honest…"
She shrugs to herself, a modest frown setting on her brow.
"I was ready for this in my early twenties. I was ready, and I was willing and I was willing to stop at nothing to achieve what I’m currently on the road to achieving now, nearly ten years later.
Back then? I worked myself into the ground for this.
I know it sounds foolish, but it just wasn’t meant to be then.
Now? I’m ready.
My shoulders are ready to bear the load.
I’ve never been more ready to step between those ropes. I’ve never been this strong, or this fast, or this capable to knock people around confident in myself.
All of what’s come before has been tremendous preparation.
I’m now used to watching my own back, preparing for the worst that could happen, and readying myself for war.
I’m ready for Uprising.
I’m ready for whatever comes next."
She smiles to the camera man, just over top the lens.
“And I’m ready for my close up when you are.”
She giggles playfully, whisking some dark hair past her shoulder. Half-audibly the cameraman speaks, only to be reiterated by the mic’ed interviewer.
“We’ve actually been taping the whole time.”
Thirteen’s face drops.
"What?"
“Yeah.”
She blinks.
"Oh. Well… should I wish my opponent’s good luck?"
Inaudible conversation as Thirteen stands, ready to remove the lapel mic hidden neatly on her halter.
"Oh. Okay. I guess I’ll have time to do that at the beginning of the match."
The camera feed cuts.