Post by Lissie Hope on Apr 24, 2022 1:15:19 GMT
EVER WISH YOU HAD ANOTHER LIFE?
The last time I was in New York, I was visiting Emma Langdon.
I know this city well - I spent the better part of 2021 traveling to 44 Union for business retreats while I was sponsored by Philidor Holdings. And since, when I defected in an effort to salvage my independence and integrity, when I challenged myself to correct my mistakes, rehabilitate the image I nearly damaged irreparably, New York ceased being a cesspool of inconsiderate, bourgeoisie, corporate yuppies - I didn't feel isolated and invisible in plain sight anymore. No longer a stranger - no longer a ghost - I felt more like a girl under a bedsheet.
Emma’s apartment became my sanctuary. Nestled under the shade of red maple trees lining the walkway, we awakened when the bells tolled from the nearby church. She invited my sour breath onto her neck when she’d move her warm flesh into my own, and we’d savor that momentary euphoria - those few minutes before the beginning of a new day. We were the only people alive in a mindless, thoughtless populace who were merely going through the motions.
But that bliss is fleeting. I’m back in New York now in early preparations for Monday Night Clash in Action Wrestling, just days before I travel to Guyana - and I’m no longer invited to that quaint studio apartment. I can’t retreat to the sanctuary I idealized, the shared life I wanted to create - because Emma Langdon is no longer my fiancee. Codependency is a hell of a drug - and after hearing the prognosis from my therapist, even though his words were gentle and empathetic, I realized my faith and my sobriety was in peril if I continued to mask it with her devotion. And that wasn’t fair to her. I couldn’t be addicted to Emma Langdon anymore.
Because I’m addicted to success.
I’m addicted to wrestling.
I’m addicted to being Lissie fuckin’ Hope.
I want that smoke, CU:LT.
I’m not afraid to drown. I’m not afraid to ignite. I’m not afraid to ingest what could be poisonous to my body and my soul, because my heart couldn’t blacken any more than it already is.
I want everything you have to offer. All the danger I’ve walked into? I welcome it. I’ll take it on the chin, and I’ll smile through blood-stained teeth.
J.D. Driftwood?
Owen Gonsalvez?
Jaka?
Line ‘em all up and I’ll knock ‘em all down - because I’ve got Donnie Hopkins, and that New World Championship - in my fucking sight. I’m not interested in just existing under this banner. I’ve made enough money to be set for life - I didn’t jump in like a cannonball for a paycheck. I want to carry CU:LT on my back, and be the cornerstone, the name on the marquee, the face on the posters - the tickets you sell? I want them autographed with my blood.
I want that smoke.
And where there’s smoke, there’s a fucking inferno.
I’m not here to indulge the dreams and aspirations of an American Nightmare. I’m a generational talent, and I won't be cast-aside by a second-generation tool who followed his girl here. I won’t allow myself to be your backbone - the legacies you’re attempting to craft won’t be built at the expense of mine.
Blake, you’ve already established you’re willing to latch on to a fragile and emotionally-damaged woman who’s afraid to be alone. That big-ass mouth of yours leeches on to her throat like a viper, and she’s not strong enough - yet - to kick your ass to the curb. I see through your motivations - I know you’re banking on your last name, on the legacy you were born into - but you’re transparent, Blake. And that’s not commentary on your pale ass, either.
I don’t think you even conceive who it is you’re stepping into this ring with. I’m sure Iggy’s giving you some intel as she diddles your taint, but she saw first-hand just how tough a bitch I am. And right now? When I ain’t got shit to lose?
I have demonstrated that I’m everything you can only say you are. You ain’t proven shit. A cup of coffee in Mainstream - winning their rookie of the year? A tag team title? Been there, done that. In my first twelve-months in this industry, I was a two-time World Champion in one of the biggest companies on planet-fucking-Earth.
I’m Lissie Hope. It’s a name that means something now - not because it was given to me, but because I created it. Hope is synonymous with the fight. Hope exemplifies hunger and determination. Hope is tantamount to the drive and the spirit and the fucking honor to do the hard shit. To put in the work. To not be satisfied with the fucking handout that’s indebted to your father. I won’t accept that foot-in-the-door - you depend on it. And it’s fucking sickening.
And you, Alison?
I believe that you’re hungry. You are very convincing, the way you’ve shaped and molded the sacred temple God gave you, and I know you crave perfection. It’s admirable - it’s a quality I know. And it secured you a victory last month, which is more than what I can say for the waste-of-breath that Casanova English felt needed to be fed to the wolves.
But this industry - wrestling between four ropes, performing for the excited faces, leaving a lasting memory for those impressionable souls who crave an outlet; a sanctuary; an escape from their own cruel worlds - this is my livelihood.
I can’t love anything - or anyone - more than I love raising my hand in victory after a war that could tear every limb from my body. There’s risk when you add burning tables into the equation, and that risk is exhilarating. And it’s a living Nightmare - the adrenaline masks the fear in the pit of your stomach. You know it’s there, creeping in the back of your throat. But if wrestling was perfectly safe - if there was no risk - no fear of being scarred and maimed for life - would it be as exciting?
I’m excited, Alison. This is the shit I was born for. I’ve engraved my name in the foundation of this business, while you’re using it as a consolation for your failed combat career. A way to keep your head-above-water after determining that you couldn’t cut it elsewhere.
But listen closely, you naive, delusional little girl. Wrestling isn’t safe. CU:LT isn’t safe. This industry isn’t a safe-space for you to rehabilitate your body and your soul. Being in the ring with me?
I’m your fucking Nightmare.
This is fun for me. It’s like riding a roller-coaster - cruising like lightning, stalling at the peak, and free-falling until once again, you climb-and-climb until you see how big the world is beneath your feet. How many people are below your level.
I didn’t come here to bury your career before it begins, Alison. And I didn’t come here to jumpstart yours, Blake. I came here to win championships, and set my sights on the big targets. Beating me would do everything for you, but beating you doesn’t do anything for me - you’re not the ones standing in my way.
I can’t say the same for you, Chris.
I needed to see what Chris Page sees in the mirror.
No, as fun as it could be, I didn’t purchase a pleathered fat-suit - I didn’t push on my stomach, making waves like a waterbed - instead, I stepped into the narrow, darkened hallway of the Velvet Rabbit until the thumping bass reverberated through my bones. Under the strobing disco-lights, the topless woman orbited around the metal bar, pirouetting like a debaucherous, intoxicated ballerina.
EVER WISH YOU HAD ANOTHER LIFE?
I felt the walls closing in - my heart racing - my feet sinking into quicksand as I felt tethered to the bartop - a strap cinched around my waist - reeling me in like the biggest catch. The music faded into a haze - the heartbeat of the club pulsed with each morphing light - and I got light-headed as I paced towards the empty stool - the wood burned my fingers to the touch - and the neighboring patron grinned like a cat - baring fangs from the corners of his mouth.
“Anything I can get ‘ya, pretty girl?”
My vision fogged and my world blurred. I was overcome with emotion, feeling the four-month sobriety chip burning a hole in my back-pocket. I ignored the man and my eyes met those of the bartender.
“What does Chris Page usually order?”
Some people in my camp worry when I get too invested into a match. When I get tunnel vision, when I set my focus entirely on those who’ve wronged me. Cypher is a perfect example - he’s someone who’s followed me everywhere I’ve gone, and to use one of your favorite sayings, Chris - he pokes the bear, until that bear extends her claws and aims for the fucking throat.
And that’s what you thrive off of, Chris. You try to act like the bigger man, the one with a plan of Action, checking items off a list until you ride off into the sunset, your cottage-cheese thighs breaking that poor horse’s spine in the process.
It’s why Action Wrestling was a white whale, wasn’t it? It’s easy for you to dismiss the company now - after you tried to parachute in but sputtered like a wet-farting-balloon.
You’re literally the only person I’ve ever seen who thinks - that after you talked the biggest game, after you invited hired help - you actually think it’s a flex to record a single elimination and barely crack the halfway point of a Havoc Rumble, a stage where I’ve recorded elimination records and a runner-up and three top-10 finishes. Your porous performance reminded me of the last time I saw such a disappointing, deflating venture - when Graham Baker sold his soul, broke his body, and took years off of his career, only to go 0-3 in the backyard house of horrors.
But here’s the thing, Crisco Page - I know you exist to for two things - clogging your arteries with greasy, square-cut, Ragu-topped pizza, and satiating your bruised ego. So when the self-fellatio doesn’t satisfy you, you need your opponents to . . . acknowledge you.
So I do, Chris. I see you. I know what you’ve done. I know what you’re capable of. We’re putting our livelihoods on the line against a pair of inconsequential rookies who are already nearing their expiration date, who don’t understand the magnitude of standing across a ring from Chris Page and Lissie Hope.
But this is just a detour for you. I’m not here for appearance fees. I don’t write bounced checks to coattail jockeys.
I don’t need to run an enterprise -
- because I own this fucking industry.
The warm Crown Apple melted the ice as I twirled the glass in my fingers, staring at my soul in the reflection. I wondered how the taste would feel on my lips, the burn in the back of my throat - would it be an inferno of sensation? That corruptive familiarity?
I placed the glass at the end of the bar and stood up, the bartender glancing with a watchful eye. I tried to scoot back, but my hands felt glued to the bartop.
“Anything else?”
Feeling my heart pulse, I cried out, almost instinctively.
“Wild Turkey 101 - on the rocks.”
Like I had no other choice. As if I was being summoned to indulge. Like I was standing at the base of a pulpit, hearing the sermon echo in my brain.
Like this was my Jonestown Reunion.
But when the ice clanked against the glass, my world wasn’t blurry anymore.
DID SHE FINALLY COME TO LIFE?
