Post by The Hannahverser on Apr 24, 2016 1:42:30 GMT
“Come in!” Thirteen shouts from somewhere in the quaint little home in suburban Toronto. With the camera still rolling, the cameraperson lowers the lens and pushes their way into the tidy front foyer then lifts the camera to get a look inside as the lens adjusts to the indoor lighting. Straight ahead, a short ways past a carpeted living room, is a walk-in kitchen where only the bent over back half of what must be Thirteen clad in yoga pants and low cut sneakers can be seen.
“One second!” She calls sounding like she’s wearing a smile. She closes the oven door and comes to stand in the opening looking bright and cheery as she towels off her hands. Clearly, she expected this visit from the camera, she’s all done up and fitted in workout attire.
“Sorry. I was just checking on my baking.” She sounds satisfied and at ease. She sets the towel aside as the camera pans the room.
“What do you think?” It’s not spacious. It’s cozy. A dark wooden coffee table sits before a sectional couch that fills one side of the room facing a plasma television set into a wall unit complete with authentic curios, collectible teaspoons and glasses and mugs painstakingly curated and looked after. Soft, pastel colors for the carpet, floral decorated couch, and fitted curtains and walls lend to the homely view. The camera returns to Thirteen who’s patiently allowed for the visual survey.
“Nice, eh?” She asks, pleasantly before scrutinizing a speck of dust invisible to anyone else on the top of the wall unit. She plucks it off with a lone finger and a disparaging glare, before returning her smile to the camera.
“It’s not mine. The house, I mean. I’m just housesitting.” She looked around the living room happily. “Indefinitely, I guess. They work abroad. Something to do with building new infrastructure in China, I wasn’t really paying attention I was too busy being floored by my fantastic luck. Get this: they’re gone like 6 months of the year, and because, apparently, the husband or the wife, I can’t remember which, is a fan of mine, I pay rent at half their usual asking price! Can you believe that? Did I luck out, or what?!” She’s almost giddy, that wide, bright smile practically illuminating the entire room.
“It’s really lucky, too, because I just opted out of my contract with Monarchy a few weeks ago. So, I was a little cash-light when I moved what few things I had at my London apartment to here.” A sullen look momentarily overtakes her the camera can’t fully translate, before she shrugs it off. “But the relaxed rent payment, made it end up working out and really helped me get over the way things ended up across the pond.”
“So, that’s why I didn’t cut a promo around the same time the other mental defectives I’m facing for the Chivalry title did. I was moving, and just out and out celebrating the silver lining that’s just fallen into my lap.” Her smile is overwhelming as she stares into the camera,
“It looks like my luck is about to change, ‘yeah’?”
She nods as she says it with an extra bright smile, ensuring a fake British accent for emphasis as she says ‘yeah’. She holds that framing like she couldn’t have planned it better, then she steps past the camera towards the nearby stairway.
“You want the tour before we get down to business and finally shoot my promo? Maybe file this under ‘4CW Cribs’, or something, ‘yeah’?” She emphasizes that ‘yeah’ again. The camera doesn’t nod, maybe the cameraperson does? The rhetorical device doesn’t work as one might intend. Regardless she’s leading the camera to the confined upstairs, which is really just a hallway, two open bedrooms and a bathroom. She stands in the hallway and presents for the camera.
“This is the upstairs.” She leads the camera partly into what must be a guest bedroom.
“And the guest bedroom.” She states, and brushes right past the camera into the master bedroom, with a double Queen bed and hazy light shining through thin gauzy white curtains. She spins on her heels with that wide smile turning playful.
“And this is where I sleep.” She winks. “OOO! Check this out,” suddenly remembering something on the dresser, she reaches for and lifts a still-green clover in front of the camera; all four leaves intact.
“A four-leaf clover!” She exclaims putting it on display close-up in front of the lens. “Can you believe it? How lucky is that? That’s like RARE, isn’t it? I was out doing some gardening in the backyard a day ago when I found it. Out of the clear blue sky, too. Wasn’t looking for it, or anything! Isn’t that a lucky charm? I tell you, fortune is seriously favoring me right now.” She shakes her head in awed disbelief and spins the stem in her fingers, marveling at the fanciful green-leafed plant before carefully setting it back on her dresser. “Come on,” she brushes past the camera, leading the viewer back into the hallway, stopping in front of the washroom.
“This, obviously, is—“ The shrill noise of the smoke alarm interrupts. It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it? She hurries down the stairs, the camera in tow, turning to see faint wisps of smoke coming from the oven. Thirteen rushes to it, opening it and peeking inside. Relief comes quickly as she sighs and smiles back to the camera.
“It’s the cinnamon buns.” She grabs an oven mitt and fits it onto her hand to pull the tray of near flawless looking cinnamon buns from the oven. With her other hand she wafts the smoke clear. “Some of the cinnamon spilled off the tray onto the floor of the oven, that’s all. Nothing serious.” She closes the oven and sets the tray down on top. She turns the oven off, as the smoke detector cuts out. She removes the oven mitt and looks to the camera.
“Look at that.” She grins, even wider than before if that were possible as the alarm dissipates like so many puffs of vague smoke. “Life throws me a curveball, I catch it, throw it back, win a title, get a house, find a four-leaf clover and I still have time to make deliciously immaculate cinnamon buns. And we haven’t even finished touring the house!”
It’s like a whirlwind of potentially sarcastic glee. The cameraperson’s hand visibly reaches for the soft and supple pastry but Thirteen playfully smacks the hand away.
“No! Let them cool.” Back to that smile. “So, this is the kitchen. Isn’t it great?” She moves to the cupboard where there’s a surprising array of cakes, and pies and cookies she’s laid out beforehand to present to the viewers.
“I gotta tell you, this whole not wrestling in two promotions thing has done wonders for my time. The oven is large enough to let me bake multiple items, so here I have coffee cake, some sweet tarts, blueberry pie, and this delectable Oreo cake.” She shows off the creations, which have clearly taken some time and effort to prepare. Suitable for a magazine photo spread. She looks proud. “Gotta tell you, my luck really has changed now that I’m solely working for 4CW. If I were a moron banking on someone’s match performance relying solely on luck, and disregarding every other possible advantage a person might have, I’d find some new material and fast. And while she’s thinking of it, she can enjoy some of my delicious baked goods, (not saying anyone specifically, mind you, yeah?), but we all know how much that stupid cunt from Britain loves food. *Cough* Devin Hawk *Cough*.”
She finds the tea towel and wipes clean her hands then gestures with her head. “Anyway. Come on. I’ll show you the downstairs. It’s the best part.”
And down we go, Thirteen flips the light switch on the way down and illuminates an unexpectedly spacious, finished basement. It’s easily the largest room in the house, and an incredibly well populated gym. Thirteen steps onto a set of mats near the heavy bag and swing an errant punch.
“Isn’t this great? There’s a treadmill and an excercycle for my cardio, a heavy bag and speed bags over on the far wall, room for jump rope, space for yoga, check out the mook yan jong, there’s one of those multi-workout training benches for just about any weight training I’d need, and there’s also a fully stocked shelf of free weights, and… check this out.” She leads the camera over to a ceiling window where she leans up on the tips of her toes, the camera peeks out to see the metal railing of a set of stairs leading into what must be a pool.
“Can you see it?” She whispers giddily. The camera focuses on the fenced-in backyard, where refracted light on the red wooden fence proves there’s moving water in the ground. The camera shifts focus back to our hostess as Thirteen steps back into onto the mats and rolls her neck, letting her fist errantly smack into the heavy bag as she pays her attention to the viewers.
“I don’t even have to leave the house. It’s like a dream come true. Without having to devote so much time like I was previously to travelling back and forth from England to Canada, I’ve had nothing but time to train for this upcoming match. I make sure the house is taken care of; I bake then come down here. Pure match focus! Isn’t it great? This house has something for everyone. I’m sure you wouldn’t find those other two bitches in the Chivalry Championship match anywhere near this or any gym anytime ever, but there’s baked goods upstairs, and we gotta get some meat on them somehow that doesn’t come attached to a cock if they’re hoping to stand any prolonged, realistic, chance with a wrestling career, and Devin Hawk can workout and dwell and mourn the individual, simplistic reasons he hits things in seclusion in the basement. Shall we promo now?”
She smiles and looks down at the blue mats covering the concrete floor, stalking along them before looking at a space where a wall has lately been removed.
“You can set up there, if you want? I think there was a fourth wall there. But some dumbass broke it. Usually awkward when that happens, but we can work with it, right?”
The camera moves rather quickly and sets up where the aforementioned wall was removed, framing Thirteen front and center. She takes a breath.
“All right?”
She must get a thumbs up. Thirteen contemplates a moment before looking into the camera.
“They talk about selling. It’s a part of the industry. You do your work, you put each other over, it helps the industry, it helps the promotion, and it helps you. This is not a business that thrives when self-serving assholes are walking the locker room looking out for number one. Sometimes it can work out in the short term, but not usually for long, and that bullshit tends to catch up. I’ve been around long enough to know that, and I’ve never been innocent of it. In my modest amount of time in this business I’ve learned that problems always arise out of selfishness in this industry. That’s a fact. And, these days, in the wrestling business, they say nostalgically, that no one sells anymore.
Sad day.
I’ve been thinking about how I would package this match at Panic at Capital City for the Chivalry Championship. Were I in Paul Knight’s shoes and trying to promote the main event, if it needed to be sold, how would I sell it?
Let’s see on paper…
It’s Jason Cashe’s Girlfriend
versus
Delusional Vampire Biker
versus
Rich Groupie Daddy’s Girl
squaring off against
A number.
I guess I could try and conflate where I’m at in life a little, and tack onto the rider that “the unluckiest person alive” is currently enjoying a sudden, and quite unpredictable branch of amazing good luck, but that might be overselling it. And to hear my opponents sell this match, that would be a lucky break for me.
I wanted to talk about the champ first. No sell for no sell. Fair being whatever it is at this point. You know her—”
Thirteen suddenly breaks into gut- busting laughter.
“Wait. Wasn’t it hilarious when Jason Cashe went ‘time-travelling’ on Twitter and in the end we found out it was just some bad weed? And! Remember when Jason Cashe later got arrested for it before he was supposed to meet some bitch for the first time on Adrenaline?!”
She shakes her head, laughter mixed with amazement before it dies slowly, Thirteen wipes a tear from her eye.
“Ahhh, Jason Cashe. So funny. And, of course, Psyche Devyne is the one who… uhhh…. Well… she dated Bryan Williams…”
Her finger taps against her thigh, eyes searching with a frown. Her eyes brighten once more.
“And damn, remember when Jason Cashe lost the XTV title to Bryan Laughlin?! That was like, EDGE OF YOUR SEAT entertainment. WOW. Or the time he went on that tirade against Boardwalk wrestling on Twitter and even confessed to running that phony Boardwalk Twitter account even though he didn’t do it?”
It’s enough to almost make her lose her breath. She shakes her head inexplicably.
“That Jason Cashe is such a character, isn’t he? And then, you can’t forget about Psyche Devyne! The time she…”
Thirteen mulls it over in silence.
“Well, that thing with the...”
More frowning contemplation.
“Uhm... Well, I know she likes food…? And dogs. That's something, right?”
The contemplation continues in drawn out silence before the eureka:
“She likes having the Chivalry title! She’s clearly defined THAT much. It’s her first title she ever won, I think, in spite of being around for a long time to have all those issues side line her and take some sort of hiatus from the ‘grind’.”
She fiddles with a lock of hair with her frown
“Either way, to hear an old pro like Psyche Devyne ‘psyche’ up this match, you’d hope you got some transactional awesomeness. You work off me, I work off you, right?
You would be flat-out wrong.
What you do get is a definition of chivalry she probably googled on one of her road-trips with Jason Cashe…”
Thirteen thinks a second.
“How did she put that again?”
She speaks in her fake British accent.
“Chivalry is Bravery, skill, loyalty, courtesy… all things that would define a proper knight. All the things I try to portray on my own.”
The accent falls as Thirteen frowns.
“I guess this would be accurate if Psyche Devyne weren’t umbilically attached to that pothead presumably in order to fill the meaningless void she embodies. But surely, I’m just being petty, right? Let’s see if I can remember the rest…”
She thinks for a second, clears her throat and returns to the British accent.
“Bravery to go up against even the most difficult opponents in the ring. Skill to win my matches and prove my worth. Loyalty to those who have helped me through the years and to my friends. And courtesy towards those who I come across.”
The frown returns.
“Okay. If this were true of our currently celebrated Chivalry Champ, then why is Persephone Marquis issuing the grand ‘fuck you’ to the woman she showed courtesy to only to feel it slapped right back ungratefully in her face? The same person who wasn’t actually herself pranking people at Uprising 10, Jason Cashe did most of that, and illustrated her bravery by running from the blame and calling someone a rat when the finger of blame was finally pointed at her... All for a prank.
How courteous and brave of you. Psyche.
Frankly, no offense, whatever guy you do end up with better be happy with someone as dumb as a fucking post the way you are.
‘But she’s finally getting into her gimmick’ They’ll exclaim!
Too easy, right?
The underestimation you expect from others to call you on being too skinny to wrestle let alone to be struck by a handful of corn after it’s thrown?
Being measured by the man you accompany the same way you measured Ashley Lynn by her man is a cheap shot, right?
Well, unless you're the one doing it.
So let’s try this then:
The shit you talk now, directly contradicts, and ignores the shit you talked at your opponents weeks prior.
You become your own criticism, Psyche Devyne.
You can’t claim to be perennially underestimated and then turn around and underestimate me solely on account of a name, and a gimmick, you dumb stick figure.
Literally, you sit there and apply rock – paper – scissor logic to my place in this match?
‘I beat you in the battle royal. You weren’t lucky then. You won’t be lucky now. I’ll win.’
I oversimplify where you oversimplify.
Are you for real, or are you on that time-traveling weed Jason found?
Do you review your own matches or just skip to the end to see who wins?
Do you even watch the events at Uprising?
You talk up Devin Hawk like he’s the greatest threat you’ll have to face, completely negating the fact that Devin Hawk was the second last competitor to be eliminated from that same battle royal you’ve used to elevate yourself above me like it meant something more than, by your own admission, a lucky break.
Thanks for the no-sell, bitch.
The same guy you’re claiming to be a little scared of is the same guy that’s only in this match on account of a DRAW in a match he had against me.
By your own foolish rock – paper –scissors logic, if he’s scary as all get out, and a legitimate threat to you, then so, the hell, am I.
Rock beats Scissors.
But, nah.
That would indicate respect.
Respect for me, for your fellow opponents, and for the match you’re walking into, and the title that’s on the line of which ‘respect, as you’ve described, is built-in to the name of the title.
I sincerely hope you’re going to change all this up for round two, otherwise…
apparently the locker room in Psyche Devyne’s world exists to service her.
That belt’s not for the greedy.
You said that.
Not to worry, I’ll bake you a cake.
It’s not even a condolence cake, though you might deserve it after this main event.
Are you ready?
Here comes the sell.
You did win that belt. I did get eliminated. I do look forward to facing you at Panic at Capital City, and I do think you’re be a worthy competitor.
For all that it’s worth, I do hope your relationships prove fruitful and fulfilling, and I hope the current man, and, god forbid any future men, cherish you for the woman you truly are when the cameras disappear.
Trust me, sadness is less sad with company.”
She blinks thoughtfully.
“I’ll be honest. I lost my Monarchy Title belt two weeks ago. It’s at once a humbling and liberating experience to feel like you’re carrying a federation, and then lose it entirely.
Maybe you need that? A jolt of loss really makes you notice what you had.
Maybe you don’t need that, maybe you’ve had enough of that lesson?
Who am I to say?
I will say for certain that I won’t hesitate to give you that feeling of losing something so you can realize what you had.
Just as I will refuse to hesitate to congratulate you if you retain that belt.
Good luck to you, Psyche Devyne, and I sincerely, also hope that’s not your real name cause it’s absolutely as retarded as mine.”
Thirteen nods confidently, like she was placing a period at the end of her sentence. She heaves a heavy sigh after a few moments, and then once again returns her gaze to the camera.
“History, few realize, is mainly the study of significance. Who attributes it and why? Sure, they remember horrific events like the holocaust, but there are those who dispute the name, or that it even happened.
Significance. Such a heavy event can be used for all sorts of reasons, usually political.
A good example is Pearl Harbor.
A Day which will live in infamy.
Remember?
Or do you?
Think about it: stabbed in the back.
It’s the greatest American narrative.
Does it change your thinking if you realized they knew that attack was coming hours ahead of time but never signaled their ships?
Is it relevant now that the Japanese let it be known in advance they were attacking but were ignored?
Does it alter the narrative any to know that the Foreign Relations documents that have been declassified reveal the situation in the Pacific rim becoming noticeably worse as the United States embargoed Japan’s economic interests to the extent that the U.S. diplomatic liaison to Japan issued grave warnings to Roosevelt and his cabinet years before about what was going on in Japan, and what turn this would all take?
But nothing incites more than the other narrative, the stabbed in the back, the sneak attack narrative, which isn’t any less true, right?
For those Americans during the attack at Pearl Harbor, that was one hell of a surprise.
Just as it was for countless millions who agreed that it was time to go to war.
Significance, in this case, was interpreted through a very particular lens.
It still is. It depends on who’s speaking, and it depends on who’s listening.
Different people attach different meaning to the same thing, see?
It seems you can’t sit through a Devin Hawk promo without eventually getting to that dead horse of a match he keeps beating against Cyrus Riddle a few months ago.
Admittedly, I wasn’t there. I never saw this thing, and the only person I have to interpret it’s significance for me is a decidedly biased account from Devin Hawk himself.
At this point it’s like hearing the elderly prattle on about the good old days.
You’re STILL selling this match, Devin.
It’s been months.
What have you done lately?
One win, One loss, and One draw.
All against women.
No matter how you sell it, I can see why you might hearken everyone’s attention to your favorite exploit when the others don’t seem quite so spiffy.
To be sure, that Cyrus match probably would look pretty damn significant when compared to everything that’s come afterward.
So here stands Devin Hawk after that ‘bloodbath’ that seemingly is the last great match of Devin’s… whatever you call something someone does for no legitimate reason other than a lust for blood.
How is Devin selling the match upcoming?
‘Don't read too far into this. I'm not a misogynist. I'm a realist. And no matter how talented, how well built, or how well defined these women are - they're still women. Women playing a very, very dangerous game.’”
Thirteen blinks.
“The problem here is, of all three of the women slated to appear in this match, Devin hasn’t defeated ANY of them.
Seriously.
So what the fuck do you call a man who completely erases a loss to Persephone Marquis, plays off an inability to outlast both myself and Psyche Devyne in a battle royal, AND completely fails to follow through on ANY of the threats made against me two weeks ago in a match he could not win, then turns around and considers himself genetically superior to all three of us as though it were a statement of fact on account of our gender?
Way to no-sell, you misogynistic asshole.
And that’s the first of many such instances, isn’t it?
So, now it’s my turn.”
She moves in close to the camera, shows her unmarred face, rolls her arms, stretches one leg up to her head with ease then blows a kiss to the camera before cupping her hands to her mouth like a megaphone.
“EARTH TO DEVIN HAWK:
YOU DID NOT MUTILATE ME,
YOU DID NOT SCAR ME,
YOU DID NOT INJURE ME,
YOU DID NOT EVEN BEAT ME.
THERE WAS NO BLOOD,
THERE WERE NO BROKEN BONES.
THERE WAS NO SLAUGHTER.
Like EVERYTIME, you pop your head out to cut a promo you spew the same rhetoric like you were throwing shit against a wall and hoping some of it sticks so you don’t have to face the fact that you’re lucky most of the time if you turn out to be who you say you are.
You, you ignorant, deluded little fuck, have the prognosticatory accuracy of a groundhog predicting the weather.”
She imitates Devin’s gruff voice, playing her hands firmly on her hips assuming a real ‘intimidating’ Devin persona.
“s’gonna be blood! Or… not. Depends on a variety of factors. I’m a badass. Got a 50-50 shot of being right, though.”
She rolls her eyes and reverts back to her previous state of ease.
“It’s depressing is what you call it. Going up against me the first time you showed an inch of respect. Sure, you hit the automated response unit, or whatever that is, and threatened a hail of fury and all the rest of it and walked out… with a draw.
One would at least HOPE you’d appreciate that much.
You?
Hell to the no.
How did he put that?”
She reaches down for a remote and clicks play on a screen up till now hidden from view. The camera pans to frame it. Devin Hawk’s face is upon the screen.
“You gave me everything that you had, Thirteen. You looked me in the eye after you vowed to kill me - and you couldn't get the job done. But with that said, due to the referees decision to call the match a draw, you could say the same thing about me. .. They say that things happen for a reason, right? The reason our match was declared a draw and we were both thrown into this match, is for me to put the final nail in a few coffins at the same time.”
Thirteen pauses the screen and ensures the camera has her in the frame to give a sidelong, smirking look. She starts laughing.
“Riiiiiight. That’s why that happened. It has nothing to do with the fact you gave me all you had and, also, couldn’t get the job done. Again. Significance, and interpretation of events. If that’s how you want to look at thisI won’t stop you.
Or, wait, maybe it was because Paul felt so bad your genetic and gender superiority failed to assert itself in that match he wanted to give you a fifth, sixth, or however many-eth try to validate your seemingly bulletproof, yet decidedly unfounded, ego. Let’s continue with the bullshit, shall we?”
She hits play once more, and Devin’s promo resumes.
“Maybe I didn't put you out of your misery like I wanted to a couple of weeks ago, but I opened your eyes. The last time we stepped into the ring, you may have walked into the battle field with some doubts about me. Doubting my prowess, my abilities. But I opened your eyes. I showed you just a little glimpse of what could have happened.”
Thirteen pauses and glances with boredom in her eyes at the camera.
“And I still doubt you, Devin. I doubt you now. I’ll doubt you after Panic at Capital City, and I’ll doubt you in ten years. Because that’s what no-selling is all about, right?
You know how it works.
I gave you your props last time.
I sold. Stupid in hindsight, but I did.
Because, again, that’s what we do. I tried to put you over.
You could argue a draw indicates we both went over in that match.
But not according to Devin Hawk, who alone holds the knowledge gleaned from past failures. There’s just no way Persephone Marquis could have new tricks up her sleeves, that, alone, is the skill of DEVIN HAWK. There’s no way Thirteen’s better prepared for this match than she was the last time. That type of mastery is relegated to the beast that is… DEVIN HAWK.
Fuck selling you, dude.
Why?
Because I went to the Devin Hawk school of no-selling, where only I seem to have an advantage.
Most strong people don’t go around perpetually telling everyone how strong they are, Devin.
They just know it.
There’s no need to constantly reiterate a fact, Devin.
The fact you literally used an entire promo to tell me how much I didn’t hurt you illustrates the opposite point, dumbass.
Who are you trying to convince?
And what’s really sad? If you listen to the other two women who can each count some form of victory over you already who are slated to participate in this match, whom in spite of your bluster and threats to the contrary, still live, they, also, doubt you.
Oh, sure, you’ll no-sell that doubt and claim it as fear.
You might even ask the Human Centipede-like chain of hangers-on attached and permanently sniffing at your ass to confirm for you that your shit doesn’t stink, that you are badass and then speak the secret code that ensures Devin rises to haunt the living for one more match: bloodgutsskullsbrainsargggggh.
Trust the three woman who already have something on you, Devin: Your. Shit. Stinks.
If all three of us are calling you on the utter bullshit intrinsic to your one-dimensional, oft-repeated, spiel, you might want to, at least, give it a consideration to put up or shut up, ‘yeah’?
A convicted murderer serving back-to-back life sentences has credibility when he claims to be the dark angel of death.
You?
You’re Jerry Seinfeld repeating, ‘I CHOOSE… not to run’.
Not because you’re the fastest kid in school, or the most violent kid on the playground.
Because, actually, you’re not.
You’re a wrestler who gets paid to fight people and tell them that’s not actually what you’re doing.
Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, and sometimes when you face those lesser opponents who don’t pose enough of a challenge, according to you, you draw.
The blood’s optional, by the way; it comes in ketchup packets or bags dished out on the sly at ringside by those in the know.
KAYFABE be damned.
The injuries are real but usually come in the form of a person who doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing in the ring.
Inspired as I am, and the fact my camera’s shooting from the previously busted fourth wall thanks to someone else in this match…
Consider that bubble burst, fucknut.
No. Sold.
It infuriates me that you play the same card over, and over, and over, and over, and over again.
Others sell for you, and you give nothing back in the transaction.
Selfish prat.
So there I am flying over the ocean from a match I won, but shortly thereafter got sideswiped by the woman who would one week later take the Monarchy Championship from me, boohoo, being forced to submit to her submission hold that night, lately enduring the effects of jet lag, fighting at arguably 50%, managing to take the destroyer of worlds, shatterer of septims, crusher of logic centers himself to his limit, (if you watch the tape, Devin, your shoulders are on the mat too, I can see that’s just because you didn’t want the win, must’ve been biding your time to truly unleash?)
The result?
In spite of the odds stacked against me, in spite of you being the ‘TERROR”, I managed to, at least in the eyes of the fans and everyone watching, give you one hell of a fight.
Did you give me my props, dickweed?
Nah. This is the best I got:”
She clicks the remote for the television with a forceful, angry glare at the camera as Devin’s promo resumes.
“You stayed true to your words, stuck to your guns, and threw everything you had to offer at me.
And I want more.”
We got a real worker here, folks.
The same could, is, and will be said about you.
You gave me everything, douche canoe, and came up short.
You didn’t even come close to breaking skin, let alone a bone.
I’m not backing down from you, either.
Why?
The bears actually toothless, kids.
I’m even less worried than I was the first time we faced, Hawk.
As stated: where’s the blood? Where’s the broken bones?
So, all right.
Yeah, I gave you the one hundred and ten percent of the fifty percent I had after the night I had and came up with a draw.
Panic at Capital City I’ll bring the whole thing with no limitations. No travel issues. Plenty of prep time. Here comes 110 % of 110%, just for you.
Fuck selling Cyrus Assmunch every other match.
I’m taking a page from the Devin Hawk playbook of no-sellage.
This match is going to be a massacre, duncecap.
You’re going to be left crying like a little baby because it hurts so bad to be schooled in the center of that ring by not one, not two, but three ‘genetically inferior’ women who all emasculated your weak, puny, tiny, insignificant little set of balls that need perpetual stroking so you don’t feel the slightest hint of weakness in this world cause you’re too much of a PUSSY for that.
Or...?
I could flip the script.”
She rolls her neck, her guard drops a little.
“It was a great match, Devin.
You’re a stellar competitor.
Your shit doesn’t really stink.
And, while I’m not really afraid of you, or what I’m quite sure you CAN do in that ring?
I can see how others might be.
I can see how your presence on the Uprising roster might motivate some to work harder, and completely de-motivate others.
In spite of the complete lack of reciprocity, I will sell you.
You hit hard.
You can take a punch.
You are a beast.
Your kicks come fast and often.
And your endurance and stamina is redoubtable.
Regardless of what else happened that night, you did take me to my limit.
I did give you all I had.
And I didn’t walk out of that match the victor like I said I would.
And I’ve spent an entire 2 weeks dwelling on that failure, and all the ways I plan to rectify it.
I’m looking forward to this second round, even with two others in the ring to make it less likely we’ll square off one-on-one.
Win or lose, blood or not, you always know you’ve been in a fight with Devin Hawk.
And I do respect you.
Frankly?
I think it would be the funniest thing in the world to see you win the Chivalry championship.
Because you don’t want it.
What happens then?
Do you instantly vacate it?
Or do you become even more of a force because of the fact you’re not buoyed by it being in your possession?
Time will tell, huh?”
She looks contemplative once more, her hand pushing the power button on the remote before she sets it down and thinks inwardly while looking into the camera.
“It’s kind of sad, but you can’t follow a formula with Persephone Marquis can you?
It’s kind of sad that I sat through your promo wishing someone were beat boxing out a rhythm to jive to.
Persephone, if this were a battle rap competition you’d win.
It’s not.
But if it were?
Chick, you got this.
And even though you’re the one person in this match who doesn’t deserve to be here, that’s exactly why I’m rooting for you.
Hear that? I’m actually selling you for no other reason than I want you to win.
You’re the underdog Psyche Devyne or I play ourselves up to be.
Why take the time to try “tear you down”, when in the end you already are.
Meanwhile, verbally, you’ve got the jump on all of us.
You got me, at least.
You’re right.
My life is awfully inconsistent.
It doesn’t follow a neat and proper narrative, almost like I were tracking with it by the seat of my pants part of the time, (like I got up from a computer, did other things and came back periodically over the span of days or weeks, and returned only to go ‘where on earth was I with this thing’, but pay no attention to she behind the curtain).
As you so rightly pointed out, it doesn’t make much sense, does it?
While we’re pointing out inconsistencies, do you mean to tell me there’s ALWAYS a fan along the aisle way willing to hold out a wad of cash for you to steal as you make your way to the ring?
Doesn’t he know you’ll just take it?
That does not make sense.
And, again, neither does you being in this match.
You lost your right to challenge for the title LAST time.
Wait… did I just repeat myself?
I’m sure you’ll be the one to draw attention to it.
Significance.
Remember?
If your greatest concern is how boring my promos are…?
Then you’ve already lost, bitch.
Is that what matters in this match, or the fact that one of us is walking out of Ottawa with that belt?
One of us who doesn’t want it, or one of us who wants to keep it, or one of us who wants it to show her dad, or another who wants it to replace the one she recently lost.
That’s what this match boils down to.
Regardless of who gets their way, the significance of it will be decided by everyone watching.
For one of the competitors, perhaps, it’ll become a rallying cry to repeat ad nauseum, ad infinitum in every promo we cut forever after as some signal calling card. You will know us by that one match at Panic at Capital City.
For someone watching, this could be the match that inspires them to pick up their own wrestling boots and try it themselves with the hopes of making it into a 4CW: Uprising ring.
For me?
It’s significant already for my own reasons.
Win or lose.
I get to walk in and out of that ring with my head held high.
Like it or not, Thirteen’s luck is about to change.
See you there.”
The camera cuts.
“One second!” She calls sounding like she’s wearing a smile. She closes the oven door and comes to stand in the opening looking bright and cheery as she towels off her hands. Clearly, she expected this visit from the camera, she’s all done up and fitted in workout attire.
“Sorry. I was just checking on my baking.” She sounds satisfied and at ease. She sets the towel aside as the camera pans the room.
“What do you think?” It’s not spacious. It’s cozy. A dark wooden coffee table sits before a sectional couch that fills one side of the room facing a plasma television set into a wall unit complete with authentic curios, collectible teaspoons and glasses and mugs painstakingly curated and looked after. Soft, pastel colors for the carpet, floral decorated couch, and fitted curtains and walls lend to the homely view. The camera returns to Thirteen who’s patiently allowed for the visual survey.
“Nice, eh?” She asks, pleasantly before scrutinizing a speck of dust invisible to anyone else on the top of the wall unit. She plucks it off with a lone finger and a disparaging glare, before returning her smile to the camera.
“It’s not mine. The house, I mean. I’m just housesitting.” She looked around the living room happily. “Indefinitely, I guess. They work abroad. Something to do with building new infrastructure in China, I wasn’t really paying attention I was too busy being floored by my fantastic luck. Get this: they’re gone like 6 months of the year, and because, apparently, the husband or the wife, I can’t remember which, is a fan of mine, I pay rent at half their usual asking price! Can you believe that? Did I luck out, or what?!” She’s almost giddy, that wide, bright smile practically illuminating the entire room.
“It’s really lucky, too, because I just opted out of my contract with Monarchy a few weeks ago. So, I was a little cash-light when I moved what few things I had at my London apartment to here.” A sullen look momentarily overtakes her the camera can’t fully translate, before she shrugs it off. “But the relaxed rent payment, made it end up working out and really helped me get over the way things ended up across the pond.”
“So, that’s why I didn’t cut a promo around the same time the other mental defectives I’m facing for the Chivalry title did. I was moving, and just out and out celebrating the silver lining that’s just fallen into my lap.” Her smile is overwhelming as she stares into the camera,
“It looks like my luck is about to change, ‘yeah’?”
She nods as she says it with an extra bright smile, ensuring a fake British accent for emphasis as she says ‘yeah’. She holds that framing like she couldn’t have planned it better, then she steps past the camera towards the nearby stairway.
“You want the tour before we get down to business and finally shoot my promo? Maybe file this under ‘4CW Cribs’, or something, ‘yeah’?” She emphasizes that ‘yeah’ again. The camera doesn’t nod, maybe the cameraperson does? The rhetorical device doesn’t work as one might intend. Regardless she’s leading the camera to the confined upstairs, which is really just a hallway, two open bedrooms and a bathroom. She stands in the hallway and presents for the camera.
“This is the upstairs.” She leads the camera partly into what must be a guest bedroom.
“And the guest bedroom.” She states, and brushes right past the camera into the master bedroom, with a double Queen bed and hazy light shining through thin gauzy white curtains. She spins on her heels with that wide smile turning playful.
“And this is where I sleep.” She winks. “OOO! Check this out,” suddenly remembering something on the dresser, she reaches for and lifts a still-green clover in front of the camera; all four leaves intact.
“A four-leaf clover!” She exclaims putting it on display close-up in front of the lens. “Can you believe it? How lucky is that? That’s like RARE, isn’t it? I was out doing some gardening in the backyard a day ago when I found it. Out of the clear blue sky, too. Wasn’t looking for it, or anything! Isn’t that a lucky charm? I tell you, fortune is seriously favoring me right now.” She shakes her head in awed disbelief and spins the stem in her fingers, marveling at the fanciful green-leafed plant before carefully setting it back on her dresser. “Come on,” she brushes past the camera, leading the viewer back into the hallway, stopping in front of the washroom.
“This, obviously, is—“ The shrill noise of the smoke alarm interrupts. It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it? She hurries down the stairs, the camera in tow, turning to see faint wisps of smoke coming from the oven. Thirteen rushes to it, opening it and peeking inside. Relief comes quickly as she sighs and smiles back to the camera.
“It’s the cinnamon buns.” She grabs an oven mitt and fits it onto her hand to pull the tray of near flawless looking cinnamon buns from the oven. With her other hand she wafts the smoke clear. “Some of the cinnamon spilled off the tray onto the floor of the oven, that’s all. Nothing serious.” She closes the oven and sets the tray down on top. She turns the oven off, as the smoke detector cuts out. She removes the oven mitt and looks to the camera.
“Look at that.” She grins, even wider than before if that were possible as the alarm dissipates like so many puffs of vague smoke. “Life throws me a curveball, I catch it, throw it back, win a title, get a house, find a four-leaf clover and I still have time to make deliciously immaculate cinnamon buns. And we haven’t even finished touring the house!”
It’s like a whirlwind of potentially sarcastic glee. The cameraperson’s hand visibly reaches for the soft and supple pastry but Thirteen playfully smacks the hand away.
“No! Let them cool.” Back to that smile. “So, this is the kitchen. Isn’t it great?” She moves to the cupboard where there’s a surprising array of cakes, and pies and cookies she’s laid out beforehand to present to the viewers.
“I gotta tell you, this whole not wrestling in two promotions thing has done wonders for my time. The oven is large enough to let me bake multiple items, so here I have coffee cake, some sweet tarts, blueberry pie, and this delectable Oreo cake.” She shows off the creations, which have clearly taken some time and effort to prepare. Suitable for a magazine photo spread. She looks proud. “Gotta tell you, my luck really has changed now that I’m solely working for 4CW. If I were a moron banking on someone’s match performance relying solely on luck, and disregarding every other possible advantage a person might have, I’d find some new material and fast. And while she’s thinking of it, she can enjoy some of my delicious baked goods, (not saying anyone specifically, mind you, yeah?), but we all know how much that stupid cunt from Britain loves food. *Cough* Devin Hawk *Cough*.”
She finds the tea towel and wipes clean her hands then gestures with her head. “Anyway. Come on. I’ll show you the downstairs. It’s the best part.”
And down we go, Thirteen flips the light switch on the way down and illuminates an unexpectedly spacious, finished basement. It’s easily the largest room in the house, and an incredibly well populated gym. Thirteen steps onto a set of mats near the heavy bag and swing an errant punch.
“Isn’t this great? There’s a treadmill and an excercycle for my cardio, a heavy bag and speed bags over on the far wall, room for jump rope, space for yoga, check out the mook yan jong, there’s one of those multi-workout training benches for just about any weight training I’d need, and there’s also a fully stocked shelf of free weights, and… check this out.” She leads the camera over to a ceiling window where she leans up on the tips of her toes, the camera peeks out to see the metal railing of a set of stairs leading into what must be a pool.
“Can you see it?” She whispers giddily. The camera focuses on the fenced-in backyard, where refracted light on the red wooden fence proves there’s moving water in the ground. The camera shifts focus back to our hostess as Thirteen steps back into onto the mats and rolls her neck, letting her fist errantly smack into the heavy bag as she pays her attention to the viewers.
“I don’t even have to leave the house. It’s like a dream come true. Without having to devote so much time like I was previously to travelling back and forth from England to Canada, I’ve had nothing but time to train for this upcoming match. I make sure the house is taken care of; I bake then come down here. Pure match focus! Isn’t it great? This house has something for everyone. I’m sure you wouldn’t find those other two bitches in the Chivalry Championship match anywhere near this or any gym anytime ever, but there’s baked goods upstairs, and we gotta get some meat on them somehow that doesn’t come attached to a cock if they’re hoping to stand any prolonged, realistic, chance with a wrestling career, and Devin Hawk can workout and dwell and mourn the individual, simplistic reasons he hits things in seclusion in the basement. Shall we promo now?”
She smiles and looks down at the blue mats covering the concrete floor, stalking along them before looking at a space where a wall has lately been removed.
“You can set up there, if you want? I think there was a fourth wall there. But some dumbass broke it. Usually awkward when that happens, but we can work with it, right?”
The camera moves rather quickly and sets up where the aforementioned wall was removed, framing Thirteen front and center. She takes a breath.
“All right?”
She must get a thumbs up. Thirteen contemplates a moment before looking into the camera.
“They talk about selling. It’s a part of the industry. You do your work, you put each other over, it helps the industry, it helps the promotion, and it helps you. This is not a business that thrives when self-serving assholes are walking the locker room looking out for number one. Sometimes it can work out in the short term, but not usually for long, and that bullshit tends to catch up. I’ve been around long enough to know that, and I’ve never been innocent of it. In my modest amount of time in this business I’ve learned that problems always arise out of selfishness in this industry. That’s a fact. And, these days, in the wrestling business, they say nostalgically, that no one sells anymore.
Sad day.
I’ve been thinking about how I would package this match at Panic at Capital City for the Chivalry Championship. Were I in Paul Knight’s shoes and trying to promote the main event, if it needed to be sold, how would I sell it?
Let’s see on paper…
It’s Jason Cashe’s Girlfriend
versus
Delusional Vampire Biker
versus
Rich Groupie Daddy’s Girl
squaring off against
A number.
I guess I could try and conflate where I’m at in life a little, and tack onto the rider that “the unluckiest person alive” is currently enjoying a sudden, and quite unpredictable branch of amazing good luck, but that might be overselling it. And to hear my opponents sell this match, that would be a lucky break for me.
I wanted to talk about the champ first. No sell for no sell. Fair being whatever it is at this point. You know her—”
Thirteen suddenly breaks into gut- busting laughter.
“Wait. Wasn’t it hilarious when Jason Cashe went ‘time-travelling’ on Twitter and in the end we found out it was just some bad weed? And! Remember when Jason Cashe later got arrested for it before he was supposed to meet some bitch for the first time on Adrenaline?!”
She shakes her head, laughter mixed with amazement before it dies slowly, Thirteen wipes a tear from her eye.
“Ahhh, Jason Cashe. So funny. And, of course, Psyche Devyne is the one who… uhhh…. Well… she dated Bryan Williams…”
Her finger taps against her thigh, eyes searching with a frown. Her eyes brighten once more.
“And damn, remember when Jason Cashe lost the XTV title to Bryan Laughlin?! That was like, EDGE OF YOUR SEAT entertainment. WOW. Or the time he went on that tirade against Boardwalk wrestling on Twitter and even confessed to running that phony Boardwalk Twitter account even though he didn’t do it?”
It’s enough to almost make her lose her breath. She shakes her head inexplicably.
“That Jason Cashe is such a character, isn’t he? And then, you can’t forget about Psyche Devyne! The time she…”
Thirteen mulls it over in silence.
“Well, that thing with the...”
More frowning contemplation.
“Uhm... Well, I know she likes food…? And dogs. That's something, right?”
The contemplation continues in drawn out silence before the eureka:
“She likes having the Chivalry title! She’s clearly defined THAT much. It’s her first title she ever won, I think, in spite of being around for a long time to have all those issues side line her and take some sort of hiatus from the ‘grind’.”
She fiddles with a lock of hair with her frown
“Either way, to hear an old pro like Psyche Devyne ‘psyche’ up this match, you’d hope you got some transactional awesomeness. You work off me, I work off you, right?
You would be flat-out wrong.
What you do get is a definition of chivalry she probably googled on one of her road-trips with Jason Cashe…”
Thirteen thinks a second.
“How did she put that again?”
She speaks in her fake British accent.
“Chivalry is Bravery, skill, loyalty, courtesy… all things that would define a proper knight. All the things I try to portray on my own.”
The accent falls as Thirteen frowns.
“I guess this would be accurate if Psyche Devyne weren’t umbilically attached to that pothead presumably in order to fill the meaningless void she embodies. But surely, I’m just being petty, right? Let’s see if I can remember the rest…”
She thinks for a second, clears her throat and returns to the British accent.
“Bravery to go up against even the most difficult opponents in the ring. Skill to win my matches and prove my worth. Loyalty to those who have helped me through the years and to my friends. And courtesy towards those who I come across.”
The frown returns.
“Okay. If this were true of our currently celebrated Chivalry Champ, then why is Persephone Marquis issuing the grand ‘fuck you’ to the woman she showed courtesy to only to feel it slapped right back ungratefully in her face? The same person who wasn’t actually herself pranking people at Uprising 10, Jason Cashe did most of that, and illustrated her bravery by running from the blame and calling someone a rat when the finger of blame was finally pointed at her... All for a prank.
How courteous and brave of you. Psyche.
Frankly, no offense, whatever guy you do end up with better be happy with someone as dumb as a fucking post the way you are.
‘But she’s finally getting into her gimmick’ They’ll exclaim!
Too easy, right?
The underestimation you expect from others to call you on being too skinny to wrestle let alone to be struck by a handful of corn after it’s thrown?
Being measured by the man you accompany the same way you measured Ashley Lynn by her man is a cheap shot, right?
Well, unless you're the one doing it.
So let’s try this then:
The shit you talk now, directly contradicts, and ignores the shit you talked at your opponents weeks prior.
You become your own criticism, Psyche Devyne.
You can’t claim to be perennially underestimated and then turn around and underestimate me solely on account of a name, and a gimmick, you dumb stick figure.
Literally, you sit there and apply rock – paper – scissor logic to my place in this match?
‘I beat you in the battle royal. You weren’t lucky then. You won’t be lucky now. I’ll win.’
I oversimplify where you oversimplify.
Are you for real, or are you on that time-traveling weed Jason found?
Do you review your own matches or just skip to the end to see who wins?
Do you even watch the events at Uprising?
You talk up Devin Hawk like he’s the greatest threat you’ll have to face, completely negating the fact that Devin Hawk was the second last competitor to be eliminated from that same battle royal you’ve used to elevate yourself above me like it meant something more than, by your own admission, a lucky break.
Thanks for the no-sell, bitch.
The same guy you’re claiming to be a little scared of is the same guy that’s only in this match on account of a DRAW in a match he had against me.
By your own foolish rock – paper –scissors logic, if he’s scary as all get out, and a legitimate threat to you, then so, the hell, am I.
Rock beats Scissors.
But, nah.
That would indicate respect.
Respect for me, for your fellow opponents, and for the match you’re walking into, and the title that’s on the line of which ‘respect, as you’ve described, is built-in to the name of the title.
I sincerely hope you’re going to change all this up for round two, otherwise…
apparently the locker room in Psyche Devyne’s world exists to service her.
That belt’s not for the greedy.
You said that.
Not to worry, I’ll bake you a cake.
It’s not even a condolence cake, though you might deserve it after this main event.
Are you ready?
Here comes the sell.
You did win that belt. I did get eliminated. I do look forward to facing you at Panic at Capital City, and I do think you’re be a worthy competitor.
For all that it’s worth, I do hope your relationships prove fruitful and fulfilling, and I hope the current man, and, god forbid any future men, cherish you for the woman you truly are when the cameras disappear.
Trust me, sadness is less sad with company.”
She blinks thoughtfully.
“I’ll be honest. I lost my Monarchy Title belt two weeks ago. It’s at once a humbling and liberating experience to feel like you’re carrying a federation, and then lose it entirely.
Maybe you need that? A jolt of loss really makes you notice what you had.
Maybe you don’t need that, maybe you’ve had enough of that lesson?
Who am I to say?
I will say for certain that I won’t hesitate to give you that feeling of losing something so you can realize what you had.
Just as I will refuse to hesitate to congratulate you if you retain that belt.
Good luck to you, Psyche Devyne, and I sincerely, also hope that’s not your real name cause it’s absolutely as retarded as mine.”
Thirteen nods confidently, like she was placing a period at the end of her sentence. She heaves a heavy sigh after a few moments, and then once again returns her gaze to the camera.
“History, few realize, is mainly the study of significance. Who attributes it and why? Sure, they remember horrific events like the holocaust, but there are those who dispute the name, or that it even happened.
Significance. Such a heavy event can be used for all sorts of reasons, usually political.
A good example is Pearl Harbor.
A Day which will live in infamy.
Remember?
Or do you?
Think about it: stabbed in the back.
It’s the greatest American narrative.
Does it change your thinking if you realized they knew that attack was coming hours ahead of time but never signaled their ships?
Is it relevant now that the Japanese let it be known in advance they were attacking but were ignored?
Does it alter the narrative any to know that the Foreign Relations documents that have been declassified reveal the situation in the Pacific rim becoming noticeably worse as the United States embargoed Japan’s economic interests to the extent that the U.S. diplomatic liaison to Japan issued grave warnings to Roosevelt and his cabinet years before about what was going on in Japan, and what turn this would all take?
But nothing incites more than the other narrative, the stabbed in the back, the sneak attack narrative, which isn’t any less true, right?
For those Americans during the attack at Pearl Harbor, that was one hell of a surprise.
Just as it was for countless millions who agreed that it was time to go to war.
Significance, in this case, was interpreted through a very particular lens.
It still is. It depends on who’s speaking, and it depends on who’s listening.
Different people attach different meaning to the same thing, see?
It seems you can’t sit through a Devin Hawk promo without eventually getting to that dead horse of a match he keeps beating against Cyrus Riddle a few months ago.
Admittedly, I wasn’t there. I never saw this thing, and the only person I have to interpret it’s significance for me is a decidedly biased account from Devin Hawk himself.
At this point it’s like hearing the elderly prattle on about the good old days.
You’re STILL selling this match, Devin.
It’s been months.
What have you done lately?
One win, One loss, and One draw.
All against women.
No matter how you sell it, I can see why you might hearken everyone’s attention to your favorite exploit when the others don’t seem quite so spiffy.
To be sure, that Cyrus match probably would look pretty damn significant when compared to everything that’s come afterward.
So here stands Devin Hawk after that ‘bloodbath’ that seemingly is the last great match of Devin’s… whatever you call something someone does for no legitimate reason other than a lust for blood.
How is Devin selling the match upcoming?
‘Don't read too far into this. I'm not a misogynist. I'm a realist. And no matter how talented, how well built, or how well defined these women are - they're still women. Women playing a very, very dangerous game.’”
Thirteen blinks.
“The problem here is, of all three of the women slated to appear in this match, Devin hasn’t defeated ANY of them.
Seriously.
So what the fuck do you call a man who completely erases a loss to Persephone Marquis, plays off an inability to outlast both myself and Psyche Devyne in a battle royal, AND completely fails to follow through on ANY of the threats made against me two weeks ago in a match he could not win, then turns around and considers himself genetically superior to all three of us as though it were a statement of fact on account of our gender?
Way to no-sell, you misogynistic asshole.
And that’s the first of many such instances, isn’t it?
So, now it’s my turn.”
She moves in close to the camera, shows her unmarred face, rolls her arms, stretches one leg up to her head with ease then blows a kiss to the camera before cupping her hands to her mouth like a megaphone.
“EARTH TO DEVIN HAWK:
YOU DID NOT MUTILATE ME,
YOU DID NOT SCAR ME,
YOU DID NOT INJURE ME,
YOU DID NOT EVEN BEAT ME.
THERE WAS NO BLOOD,
THERE WERE NO BROKEN BONES.
THERE WAS NO SLAUGHTER.
Like EVERYTIME, you pop your head out to cut a promo you spew the same rhetoric like you were throwing shit against a wall and hoping some of it sticks so you don’t have to face the fact that you’re lucky most of the time if you turn out to be who you say you are.
You, you ignorant, deluded little fuck, have the prognosticatory accuracy of a groundhog predicting the weather.”
She imitates Devin’s gruff voice, playing her hands firmly on her hips assuming a real ‘intimidating’ Devin persona.
“s’gonna be blood! Or… not. Depends on a variety of factors. I’m a badass. Got a 50-50 shot of being right, though.”
She rolls her eyes and reverts back to her previous state of ease.
“It’s depressing is what you call it. Going up against me the first time you showed an inch of respect. Sure, you hit the automated response unit, or whatever that is, and threatened a hail of fury and all the rest of it and walked out… with a draw.
One would at least HOPE you’d appreciate that much.
You?
Hell to the no.
How did he put that?”
She reaches down for a remote and clicks play on a screen up till now hidden from view. The camera pans to frame it. Devin Hawk’s face is upon the screen.
“You gave me everything that you had, Thirteen. You looked me in the eye after you vowed to kill me - and you couldn't get the job done. But with that said, due to the referees decision to call the match a draw, you could say the same thing about me. .. They say that things happen for a reason, right? The reason our match was declared a draw and we were both thrown into this match, is for me to put the final nail in a few coffins at the same time.”
Thirteen pauses the screen and ensures the camera has her in the frame to give a sidelong, smirking look. She starts laughing.
“Riiiiiight. That’s why that happened. It has nothing to do with the fact you gave me all you had and, also, couldn’t get the job done. Again. Significance, and interpretation of events. If that’s how you want to look at thisI won’t stop you.
Or, wait, maybe it was because Paul felt so bad your genetic and gender superiority failed to assert itself in that match he wanted to give you a fifth, sixth, or however many-eth try to validate your seemingly bulletproof, yet decidedly unfounded, ego. Let’s continue with the bullshit, shall we?”
She hits play once more, and Devin’s promo resumes.
“Maybe I didn't put you out of your misery like I wanted to a couple of weeks ago, but I opened your eyes. The last time we stepped into the ring, you may have walked into the battle field with some doubts about me. Doubting my prowess, my abilities. But I opened your eyes. I showed you just a little glimpse of what could have happened.”
Thirteen pauses and glances with boredom in her eyes at the camera.
“And I still doubt you, Devin. I doubt you now. I’ll doubt you after Panic at Capital City, and I’ll doubt you in ten years. Because that’s what no-selling is all about, right?
You know how it works.
I gave you your props last time.
I sold. Stupid in hindsight, but I did.
Because, again, that’s what we do. I tried to put you over.
You could argue a draw indicates we both went over in that match.
But not according to Devin Hawk, who alone holds the knowledge gleaned from past failures. There’s just no way Persephone Marquis could have new tricks up her sleeves, that, alone, is the skill of DEVIN HAWK. There’s no way Thirteen’s better prepared for this match than she was the last time. That type of mastery is relegated to the beast that is… DEVIN HAWK.
Fuck selling you, dude.
Why?
Because I went to the Devin Hawk school of no-selling, where only I seem to have an advantage.
Most strong people don’t go around perpetually telling everyone how strong they are, Devin.
They just know it.
There’s no need to constantly reiterate a fact, Devin.
The fact you literally used an entire promo to tell me how much I didn’t hurt you illustrates the opposite point, dumbass.
Who are you trying to convince?
And what’s really sad? If you listen to the other two women who can each count some form of victory over you already who are slated to participate in this match, whom in spite of your bluster and threats to the contrary, still live, they, also, doubt you.
Oh, sure, you’ll no-sell that doubt and claim it as fear.
You might even ask the Human Centipede-like chain of hangers-on attached and permanently sniffing at your ass to confirm for you that your shit doesn’t stink, that you are badass and then speak the secret code that ensures Devin rises to haunt the living for one more match: bloodgutsskullsbrainsargggggh.
Trust the three woman who already have something on you, Devin: Your. Shit. Stinks.
If all three of us are calling you on the utter bullshit intrinsic to your one-dimensional, oft-repeated, spiel, you might want to, at least, give it a consideration to put up or shut up, ‘yeah’?
A convicted murderer serving back-to-back life sentences has credibility when he claims to be the dark angel of death.
You?
You’re Jerry Seinfeld repeating, ‘I CHOOSE… not to run’.
Not because you’re the fastest kid in school, or the most violent kid on the playground.
Because, actually, you’re not.
You’re a wrestler who gets paid to fight people and tell them that’s not actually what you’re doing.
Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, and sometimes when you face those lesser opponents who don’t pose enough of a challenge, according to you, you draw.
The blood’s optional, by the way; it comes in ketchup packets or bags dished out on the sly at ringside by those in the know.
KAYFABE be damned.
The injuries are real but usually come in the form of a person who doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing in the ring.
Inspired as I am, and the fact my camera’s shooting from the previously busted fourth wall thanks to someone else in this match…
Consider that bubble burst, fucknut.
No. Sold.
It infuriates me that you play the same card over, and over, and over, and over, and over again.
Others sell for you, and you give nothing back in the transaction.
Selfish prat.
So there I am flying over the ocean from a match I won, but shortly thereafter got sideswiped by the woman who would one week later take the Monarchy Championship from me, boohoo, being forced to submit to her submission hold that night, lately enduring the effects of jet lag, fighting at arguably 50%, managing to take the destroyer of worlds, shatterer of septims, crusher of logic centers himself to his limit, (if you watch the tape, Devin, your shoulders are on the mat too, I can see that’s just because you didn’t want the win, must’ve been biding your time to truly unleash?)
The result?
In spite of the odds stacked against me, in spite of you being the ‘TERROR”, I managed to, at least in the eyes of the fans and everyone watching, give you one hell of a fight.
Did you give me my props, dickweed?
Nah. This is the best I got:”
She clicks the remote for the television with a forceful, angry glare at the camera as Devin’s promo resumes.
“You stayed true to your words, stuck to your guns, and threw everything you had to offer at me.
And I want more.”
We got a real worker here, folks.
The same could, is, and will be said about you.
You gave me everything, douche canoe, and came up short.
You didn’t even come close to breaking skin, let alone a bone.
I’m not backing down from you, either.
Why?
The bears actually toothless, kids.
I’m even less worried than I was the first time we faced, Hawk.
As stated: where’s the blood? Where’s the broken bones?
So, all right.
Yeah, I gave you the one hundred and ten percent of the fifty percent I had after the night I had and came up with a draw.
Panic at Capital City I’ll bring the whole thing with no limitations. No travel issues. Plenty of prep time. Here comes 110 % of 110%, just for you.
Fuck selling Cyrus Assmunch every other match.
I’m taking a page from the Devin Hawk playbook of no-sellage.
This match is going to be a massacre, duncecap.
You’re going to be left crying like a little baby because it hurts so bad to be schooled in the center of that ring by not one, not two, but three ‘genetically inferior’ women who all emasculated your weak, puny, tiny, insignificant little set of balls that need perpetual stroking so you don’t feel the slightest hint of weakness in this world cause you’re too much of a PUSSY for that.
Or...?
I could flip the script.”
She rolls her neck, her guard drops a little.
“It was a great match, Devin.
You’re a stellar competitor.
Your shit doesn’t really stink.
And, while I’m not really afraid of you, or what I’m quite sure you CAN do in that ring?
I can see how others might be.
I can see how your presence on the Uprising roster might motivate some to work harder, and completely de-motivate others.
In spite of the complete lack of reciprocity, I will sell you.
You hit hard.
You can take a punch.
You are a beast.
Your kicks come fast and often.
And your endurance and stamina is redoubtable.
Regardless of what else happened that night, you did take me to my limit.
I did give you all I had.
And I didn’t walk out of that match the victor like I said I would.
And I’ve spent an entire 2 weeks dwelling on that failure, and all the ways I plan to rectify it.
I’m looking forward to this second round, even with two others in the ring to make it less likely we’ll square off one-on-one.
Win or lose, blood or not, you always know you’ve been in a fight with Devin Hawk.
And I do respect you.
Frankly?
I think it would be the funniest thing in the world to see you win the Chivalry championship.
Because you don’t want it.
What happens then?
Do you instantly vacate it?
Or do you become even more of a force because of the fact you’re not buoyed by it being in your possession?
Time will tell, huh?”
She looks contemplative once more, her hand pushing the power button on the remote before she sets it down and thinks inwardly while looking into the camera.
“It’s kind of sad, but you can’t follow a formula with Persephone Marquis can you?
It’s kind of sad that I sat through your promo wishing someone were beat boxing out a rhythm to jive to.
Persephone, if this were a battle rap competition you’d win.
It’s not.
But if it were?
Chick, you got this.
And even though you’re the one person in this match who doesn’t deserve to be here, that’s exactly why I’m rooting for you.
Hear that? I’m actually selling you for no other reason than I want you to win.
You’re the underdog Psyche Devyne or I play ourselves up to be.
Why take the time to try “tear you down”, when in the end you already are.
Meanwhile, verbally, you’ve got the jump on all of us.
You got me, at least.
You’re right.
My life is awfully inconsistent.
It doesn’t follow a neat and proper narrative, almost like I were tracking with it by the seat of my pants part of the time, (like I got up from a computer, did other things and came back periodically over the span of days or weeks, and returned only to go ‘where on earth was I with this thing’, but pay no attention to she behind the curtain).
As you so rightly pointed out, it doesn’t make much sense, does it?
While we’re pointing out inconsistencies, do you mean to tell me there’s ALWAYS a fan along the aisle way willing to hold out a wad of cash for you to steal as you make your way to the ring?
Doesn’t he know you’ll just take it?
That does not make sense.
And, again, neither does you being in this match.
You lost your right to challenge for the title LAST time.
Wait… did I just repeat myself?
I’m sure you’ll be the one to draw attention to it.
Significance.
Remember?
If your greatest concern is how boring my promos are…?
Then you’ve already lost, bitch.
Is that what matters in this match, or the fact that one of us is walking out of Ottawa with that belt?
One of us who doesn’t want it, or one of us who wants to keep it, or one of us who wants it to show her dad, or another who wants it to replace the one she recently lost.
That’s what this match boils down to.
Regardless of who gets their way, the significance of it will be decided by everyone watching.
For one of the competitors, perhaps, it’ll become a rallying cry to repeat ad nauseum, ad infinitum in every promo we cut forever after as some signal calling card. You will know us by that one match at Panic at Capital City.
For someone watching, this could be the match that inspires them to pick up their own wrestling boots and try it themselves with the hopes of making it into a 4CW: Uprising ring.
For me?
It’s significant already for my own reasons.
Win or lose.
I get to walk in and out of that ring with my head held high.
Like it or not, Thirteen’s luck is about to change.
See you there.”
The camera cuts.