Post by The Hannahverser on Apr 17, 2016 2:16:27 GMT
Behold! The Nightmare
The grey Toyota Prius sputtered over to the rocky side of the road. Thirteen lifted her hand from the steering wheel to check the dashboard gauges and frowned at the Empty light.
“Thought I just filled it.” She murmured and looked wearily to the camera filming her from the passenger seat. She jarred the car into park with a sigh just as thunder rolled in. She glanced into the backseat at the Jerry-Can, then leaned forward to peer ruefully up at the sky through the windshield, then back to the camera.
“I think I saw a gas station just a couple of miles back the way we came.” She contemplated the distance through the back window with a hopeful frown, and then glanced to the camera once more. “Think you’re up for the walk?” She tucked long dark hair from out of the collar of her blue sport jacket as she zipped it up, listened to the sound of the thunder, and tried to look pleasant.
The camera tracked backwards and framed her from the knees up, one hand clinging to the large Jerry can, the other in her pocket walking away from her car as storm clouds built and threatened in the distance behind her.
“I want to talk about super kicks.” She looked down at the gravel and kicked a stone so that it skipped along the others and down the embankment.
“Everyone’s got one. The ‘superkick’ is one of Jan Van Der Roost’s favorite moves. Piper Terry hit me with one at the first Monarchy: Live! show, and it’s one of Alexis Terry’s set-up maneuvers. These are just the names that come to mind of only a few of the wrestlers who employ some variation of a high side thrust kick. That’s all it really is, and in the end it’s all a matter of how you sell it, and who buys it on both the giving and receiving ends of the super kick transaction. That, by the way, is lingo in the wrestling business, FYI.
Anyway, for all the fighters I’ve ever seen utilize the move in their arsenal I don’t know that I could say that one in particular does it better than another. Everyone performs his or hers a little differently. Some spin into the kick, others jump and others don’t, while still others rely on a rebound from the ropes to provide momentum. Bottom line: it’s contextual. Some have practiced the move, and perfected their form in schools or training facilities, and from a sheer technical standpoint perform it flawlessly, while others just throw a no-frills side thrust kick they learned through imitation or accident that can make any crowd anywhere pop.
I’ve puzzled over it, you know? How do you determine who did it better? Can you? Can you determine beyond a shadow of a doubt that Wrestler A threw a far superior super kick when compared to Wrestler B, who also threw a super kick, but threw it with a different style? Some would nitpick over the nuance, because you can do that. Someone might argue that THAT super kick told a story, or THIS super kick hit like a freight train, or THAT super kick was so fluid it could’ve been water, or THAT super kick thoroughly surprised the unfortunate super kicked and there’s no getting up from that. It’s different things that different people look for when determining the better super kick. At the end of the day, how would you really know that you’d chosen the superior super kick, and would it matter? Is it more important to throw the better super kick, or that you threw it in the first place? I suppose we’ll see.”
Thirteen looks down thoughtfully. Thunder rumbles and wind blows through nearby tall grass and pushes back against Thirteen’s trek alongside the lonely road and muffles the camera audio a moment before letting up.
“I don’t really throw super kicks.” She admits glumly. “I do my own thing. And if I did throw super kicks, I’d be that unfortunate moron who wasn’t interested in who threw the better super kick, but more hopeful that we can all throw good super kicks together. I know, I know. It’s stupid, it’s foolish, and sometimes, just sometimes, I wonder if I should solely focus on being the best super kicker there is, you know? Be like some others and super kick for the sheer sport of super kicking and to hell with everyone else because my super kicks are ‘the shit’. I’d develop a massive ego because of the perceived greatness of my super kick and make it known the world over, neglecting to understand that in a world of 7 billion people who all throw different super kicks there will always be a better super kicker than me.”
Thunder rumbles, the clouds roll by quickly. She frowns and stares into the distant impending storm.
“My own cognitive bias says I throw better super kicks than Ryan LeCavalier. How do I know? I just covered that. No one knows but through personal preference. Ryan would argue that her “super kicks” are better than mine, if she threw any. In the second round of the Coronation, even if I didn’t throw a single super kick, I ousted Ryan, I made the pin, I advanced and she didn’t. Empirically, I suppose you could say, I “super kicked” better than Ryan that time, if “super kicks” was just an umbrella term for out and out performing better in-ring than someone else, in this case the de facto number one Contender for my Monarchy Championship.”
The camera backs up onto a tarmac and continues with more ease off the gravel as Thirteen remains in the center of the frame entering the lot of a deserted, worn down gas station. She approaches one of the pumps, sets the Jerry Can down and unscrews the lid, lifting the gas pump off its cradle and tilts the nozzle into the jerry can. She compresses the nozzle handle. Gas begins to pump. Thirteen looks to the camera.
“And yet, still, they insist I haven’t adequately proven myself. They say I haven’t been appropriately challenged. I was quite literally told that in order to bear the Monarchy Championship I had to be the best. The best, in this case, would be a subjective term determined by a limited group, or potentially just one individual who has to choose from a similarly limited pool of suitors for such a title. I was told this with Ryan LeCavalier standing on the speaker’s right, presumably because she was considered to be the one to put me to the test, the best person for the job, because around these parts we believe that fair is fair, and therefore Ryan has earned the right to proclaim herself the ‘best’ Monarchy has to offer in terms of challengers. Not only this, but that I, ‘Unlucky’ Thirteen, have been a very lucky individual up to this point having advantages in matches, the upper hand, or the deck stacked in my favor. I was actually told this in all seriousness, and with a straight face.” The meter on the gasoline dispensary ticks with audible dings to ensure Thirteen maintains her attention.
“I call bullshit.” Ding. Finished filling the jerry can, she sets the gas pump back in it’s cradle, screws the cap back on the jerry can and stands up in a huff. Thirteen grumbles at some of the dirt on her palms, wipes them along the breast of her jacket, then lifts the jerry can. The camera tracks backwards with her in frame, now walking back to the car.
“We already covered the Coronation. So let’s talk about week two on our Monarchy Wrestling recap wherein Ryan LeCavalier faced a barely there Brian Williams. That’s a pretty lucky break, if you ask me, to fight a former champion not really in his prime at that moment. And the following week? Ryan didn’t have a match. The week after that at Line of Succession? Ryan beat an Artemis Kaiser who looked like she could’ve been just about anywhere else but in that ring with Ryan. And then last week, before the match had even happened, Tom Aldrich declared Ryan would certainly defeat Kelsi Ross. Like Kelsi Ross wasn’t even a challenge. Talk about a lucky string of matches. And here she is now the bona fide, unquestioned, unchallenged number one contender for my Monarchy Championship after a bye, and two competitors who most would argue weren’t at full strength when Ryan faced them, and a match that was evidently a foregone conclusion. And they say I’m lucky.”
More thunder. In the clouds, off in the distance, a streak of lightning sparks up the cumulous. Thirteen frowns, whisking some hair behind her ear then reaches into her pocket and pulls out a pack of Mayfair cigarettes. She fumbles with the pack having to stop walking, setting the jerry can down beside her and smacks the pack open against the palm of her hand. She tugs a cigarette out from the full pack with her lips and places the pack back inside of her pocket.
“You got a light?” She asks, stress and annoyance in her rolling shoulders. Thunder rumbles. A disembodied hand from the cameraperson extends a blank-faced zippo lighter which Thirteen retrieves gingerly with a waved hand of acknowledgement before she flicks it open with obvious inexperience and lights her cigarette. The tobacco ignites, smoke trails into the sky, she sets the zippo into her pocket. Thirteen immediately hacks her lungs out after the first inhale spitting the cigarette from her lips with disgust.
“What the hell am I doing?! PTHHHHH” She spits the bad taste from her mouth and frowns to herself. “I don’t even smoke cigarettes.” She reaches her hand into her pocket and pulls the pack out to glare at it with confusion, like she’s seeing it for the first time and chucks it into the nearby embankment.
“That was weird. Where did they come from?” Scrunch-faced with disgust, she spits the taste out as best she can as she reaches down for the Jerry-can and resumes walking with a shake of her head.
“Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, right. So I’ll be the first one to admit that I had it all wrong. I wasn’t thinking clearly. By becoming Monarchy Champion, by foolishly declaring myself queen of the roost, I failed to understand the realities of living within a monarchical system. I’m a figurehead. A standard-bearer. That’s all I am. The real power is parliamentary. And it appears parliament is on a quest to oust me. No matter how hard I’ve worked, how much ground I’ve covered or struck to build a solid foundation for this federation, the true powers that be seem to find my claim to the throne untrustworthy. I’m not the best, so they say. I’ve been told I’ve not earned my keep, essentially. I’m told this while the one they groom for the throne has faced even less challenges than I have, and has yet to face any of the detractions I have for doing even less than I have to get here. To me, the target of the proposed overthrow, she whom it could be said the powers that be wish to supplant with an even lesser contender, this definitely looks tyrannical; illogical; unfair even. If you ask me, this is an evil empire that, perhaps, I shouldn’t be queen of.”
She nears the side of the grey Toyota Prius still parked out of gas just where she left it and sets the jerry can down and exhales deeply. She breathes solidly as the dark, ominous clouds roll and thunder behind her, lightning courses and flickers through the billows, the wind picks up and whips at her hair. She fingers the gasoline tank cover and pops it open. Lazy and contemplative fingers run along the gas cap as the camera keeps filming. She looks up without unscrewing the gas cap.
“I wonder if Ryan LeCavalier will face the same criticisms I have should she succeed in claiming my belt. I’ve tried to carry the title with some semblance of dignity in spite of some awfully bad luck.” Finally she unscrews the gas cap and lets it dangle from the car. She shakes her head, disappointed in herself. “I wonder if she’ll believe herself worthy of the title, I wonder if those in power in Monarchy Wrestling will. In defeating me, if I am indeed unworthy of it myself, then I can’t see how her reign will be anymore legitimate than mine has been.”
She steps backward to grab the Jerry can, the camera tracks with her as she unscrews that cap and turns it upside down and fits it with the spout. She angles it toward the gas tank then stops, biting her lip, eyes trailing up to face the camera before lifting the jerry-can above the gas tank. She holds it above her head and eyes the camera.
“Tibetan monks still immolate themselves to this day in protest of the unwanted occupation of an evil empire.”
Thirteen tilts the jerry can of gasoline down over her body and tosses it empty into the nearby embankment.
“I now do the same, but also to prove that the only way Ryan LeCavalier can defeat me is by removing myself from the picture in the most violent way imaginable.”
From her pocket she flicks open the Zippo and brings the open flame to her body. The camera backs away as Thirteen ignites in a blaze.
Her eyes opened with a strong inhale. She could taste smoke and ran her tongue along the inside of her mouth to try to clear it. She sat up with a wince to peer into the darkness of the living room, and blinked feebly unable to grasp the memories of what she’d just dreamed. Outside, somewhere in the distance sirens blared. She swiped her phone and saw a stack of missed text messages from Patrick Donnelly requesting some interview time. A title defense was a good draw. Monarchy would sell some tickets undoubtedly for this show. She let the phone’s backlight dim as she stared at the sequence of requests with fading interest.
Her neck throbbed angrily and made her shut her eyes tight. It hadn’t stopped since Sunday, since Ryan LeCavalier’s impromptu demonstration of her D’arce choke submission hold. Admittedly, she hadn’t iced between matches on the flight over to Uprising, too wound up her excuse to herself went, and knew during the German suplex that closed out her second match of the night in a draw that she’d, at the very least, strained her neck. She didn’t tell a soul. Her trips to the gym had been infrequent since then. Instead headaches and domesticity had entered her daily routine. She’d started baking for no one in particular and purchased a cheap television set which she situated on an end table in the living room and started watching Coronation street or the news rather than partaking in her usual investment in valuable training time.
She turned it on now and scanned the channels before settling on BBC news.
TELEVISION: ...police suspect arson as the probable cause of the blaze.
She cupped her palm to the side of her neck and tilted her head sideways and cringed at the loud uncharacteristic pop she knew shouldn’t have emanated from that part of her spine but there it was. With a dismal roll of her eyes at whatever the news was, she stood and made her way into the kitchen allowing the sound of the news report to follow her to the fridge and adjoining freezer to grab a cold compress.
TELEVISION: If you’re just joining us this evening we’ll repeat there’s been a tragic fire in the maternity ward at Kingston, Hospital. Details are still coming in, and we urge viewers, if you’re sensitive to change the channel as…
Thirteen poked her head out from behind the open freezer door, straining her neck in the process, to frown in disbelief at the television. The reporter looked to be having a tough time giving the report.
TELEVISION: …so far at least thirteen casualties have been reported, and yes, some of them are reportedly infants, though we do have vague reports that at least one of the infants on that wing is reportedly missing.
Thirteen let the freezer door swing itself closed with a slam and ignored the ache in her neck as she leaned her palms on the island counter top and watched more closely with an increasingly slackened jaw at the report, her heart thudding dully in her chest. Fire crews worked behind the reporter to distinguish the last embers of what appeared to be a localized fire.
TELEVISION: While the investigation is ongoing, police suspect the blaze was intentionally set. A statement has been released indicating that surveillance footage of the ward revealed a figure in some sort of metallic mask walking around the hospital throughout the night, obtaining access to the regions of the hospital most affected by the first and disappearing shortly after the fire was detected.
Thirteen watched the hazy footage she could only wonder how the BBC had obtained and broadcast with or without the permission of the police and tried to make out the image. Her heart throttled in her chest, not on account of the ghostly figure stalking the hospital halls and managing to avoid all traffic, but with the sound knowledge that there was one very specific infant she had personal interest in recently housed on that ward.
TELEVISION: …reports of a video sent to police potentially linked to person or persons who caused the fire…
Numbness overtook her as she swallowed hard, bumped her hip awkwardly off the lip of the countertop on her way to her cell phone wincing as shooting pain kept her neck straight with one hand while she fumbled for her cell phone with the other. She speed-dialed the hospital only to get railroaded to a switchboard obviously inundated with calls; hers was one amongst hundreds of concerned individuals.
TELEVISION: We’ve obtained portions of that cryptic video, which we playback for you now. If you have any information about who may have made this video, please call…
Thirteen was too busy retrying the hospital, tucking strands of hair behind her ear and frowning full of stress. The sound of the television turned her back to face it with a look of confusion at the clip they were showing.
TELEVISION: [align=center]1…..
2……
3….
4…
5….
6…
7…
8… [/align]
The numbers were drawn in neat red font on the screen and appeared in sequence. A deep, modulated pitched-down voice spoke as if ushering them into existence. Thirteen could feel it in her stomach, a lump, as one number disappeared, and the next number appeared in its place.
TELEVISION: [align=center]9…..
10……
11…..
12….
…..
13
13
13
13
Little ones gone.
Failed me.
You see how this is not a threat. And it never was.[/align]
The reporter looked confused as she appeared back on screen.
TELEVISION: Again, all we have are vague reports that video was left to police on purpose in connection to the fire. If you have any information as to what it could mean—
Thirteen shut the television off in spite of the pain in her neck.
Coincidence.
It meant nothing.
Thirteen winced and swallowed, her hand bracing her neck and felt her heart rate decrease. She bit her lip and frowned at the black screen in the dark of her room and felt nothing but concern for the baby she’d been told she couldn’t adopt who, quite plausibly had just perished in an intentionally set blaze. At best, she’d gone missing.
Whom?
Thirteen felt uneasy. Nervous. She returned to the freezer for a bag of ice she wrapped in a towel and moved back to the couch. Her cell phone buzzed an incoming text message. She swiped the screen clear and winced once more at the pain in her neck as she tilted her chin down to read yet another message from Patrick Donnelly.
Interview?
Thirteen sighed softly, and responded back with a text:
I won’t be doing an interview this week. Sorry. See you at the show.
And the backlit screen faded, and Thirteen laid back down on the couch and iced her aching neck.
