Post by Constance on Jan 28, 2016 22:16:38 GMT -6
From the Diary of Constance Chapin
I used to have a recurring nightmare when I was younger and more willing to give strangers a fair shot at being associates of mine. In this nightmare I’m one of the lucky few to appear on the only aspect of my home country that I wish was available in America: Countdown. Countdown is like Jeopardy but instead of useless general trivia about things no one cares about it uses perhaps the two most important elements of humanity: letters and numbers. My mother always told me that I had to be an old woman pretending to be a child because I would always want to watch Countdown whenever I could; she didn’t understand the appeal and my father only perked up whenever the camera showed a glimpse of Carol Vorderman.
I never asked him if he preferred her to Rachel Riley and I don’t think I ever will. The less known about my dad’s private life the better. I was always a fan of Susie Dent, myself. But that’s neither here nor there.
The nightmare isn’t that I’m ON Countdown as my simple minded family would have me believe, the nightmare is that for as well versed as I am in the day to day, suddenly my mind goes blank and I can’t even string together a three letter word even if by happenstance there’s a word in the random jumble of letters. Always the nightmare would be near enough to the final letters round and I declare a nine letter word in an act of desperation and futility - even with the double points awarded for nine letters it would’ve been like putting a bandage on a gaping wound.
When it came time to reveal my word the only thing that came out of my mouth was a noise that insofar as I know doesn’t have a definition or a place in the Oxford English Dictionary but might well be a nine letter sound of absolute failure. The nightmare ends, without fail, with the crowd laughing at my abysmal display. Even Susie, who I would say is the only other living person I’d share a drink, joins in with the mocking derisive tone, asking me if I teach actual children and if so how did I ever get approved.
Mercifully I wake up before the conundrum, which given my luck would be ‘CONNIESUX’.
Obviously I’ve not shared this nightmare with anyone, largely because rather than being hounded by some maniac or something equally as idiotic like zombies, my nightmares involve the most boring thing possible. I haven’t had the nightmare in ages, but the feeling the nightmare instilled in me constantly returns to ruin my already bitter moods.
That feeling, of course, is utter humiliation and defeat and just my luck it always seems to rear its head whenever I’ve got something important in my future.
History and experts on the matter would probably tell me it’s just nerves working their foul magic as each time I’ve felt as if I’m having the Countdown Dream it’s turned out that I was afraid over nothing - given that the last time I had these feelings was right around the time I was thrust into a match with three women, two of whom had good reason to want me knocked out cold. Why is it, then, that I always seem to find myself wrestling with doubt and fear whenever something major is on the line?
When I first made the switch to VoW I stumbled the landing considerably, making myself look like some kind of fluke. I’d like to say that I’ve spent that time rebuilding my image but that just brings me to the point of wondering why I care so much about my image when I’ve made several points of showing and saying how I absolutely DON’T care what people think of me.
These fears of mine are a lot more deep seeded than I assume.
It’s why I make a point of not instigating. Or at least very rarely. Because that puts me out there, on the radar, and suddenly the words I use become gospel. If I say I’m going to do this, everyone’s going to believe it and if I don’t they’ll point, laugh, and I’ll never have that drink with Susie Dent.
My greatest kept secret is that for as much as I say I’m not bothered by what people say or think about me...some part of me does. It’s the part of me that hasn’t fully succumbed to a life of being a bitter misanthrope who stays indoors all day until snotty brats ring my doorbell and run away with a laugh. It’s that part of me that makes it so difficult for me to accept the compliments the select few send my way. I just naturally assume they’re talking nonsense, trying to butter me up into not trying so hard so they can just walk over me and ask derisively how I ever made it as a champion.
When I decided to throw my hat in the ring against perennial prepubescent Ryder Blade I realized that I had more than just my own pride and feelings on my shoulders. I can’t see many people in Ryder’s corner and I’m certain that many more want nothing more than to see him finally humble in defeat. And the thing is...I know that I can make a proper go of it. I know that when I responded to his childish antics at Breakthrough that I wasn’t just blowing hot air.
Yet why am I already expecting the worst?
Because that’s who I am. That’s what I do. Whether on instinct or some other emotion, I get bogged down in my own circle of self doubt that in the event of a loss I chalk it up under the defeatist attitude of ‘well of course that happened, why bother trying?’ Maybe this move that’s going nowhere can come with a list of local psychiatrists. How can I expect to not just win but be a champion worthy to be called such if at the first sign of trouble I run under the umbrella and proclaim that there’s no point in even trying because the next person in line is much better and much more deserving. No one want to root for someone who can’t even root for themselves.
I’m fine, really. I’ve been down this road before and come out no worse for wear. It helps, having someone I trust there to tell me that at the end of the day I’m still the same person, that no one’s going to think less of me for dropping the ball.
Well, no one except for people like Blade but who honestly takes anything those sorts of people say seriously?
I can’t afford to get hung up on old nightmares and older feelings anyway. Not with far more important things going on both professionally and privately.
And the current reality of my living situation is far more nightmarish than stumbling around with word jumbles.
How is it that even with my childish emotions that I’ve found myself being the only adult amongst a group including someone older than me. The real fear I have is that I’ll miss my goddamn match because the children force me to turn the car around.
I’d sooner embarrass myself on British television than deal with those two for yet another day.
So of course I’m moving in with them. Because I make poor life decisions.
Why else would I be worrying about a match against someone with literally the most punchable face I’ve ever seen?
~
Of two things Constance Chapin was absolutely certain, the first was that she found that her days ended with her being far more angry than usual and that that probably had something to do with the second thing. The second was far more obvious. Constance Chapin had made a terrible mistake. This was nothing new, of course, terrible mistakes followed Constance around like bees follow honey, but typically the mistakes Constance made only ever impacted her, save that one time in Chicago but that had been made right, whereas this time the mistakes involved another person. If any silver lining was to be had it was that the other person didn’t think of it as a mistake at all, it had been their idea and not even Constance’s foul attitude and lack of care could dampen those spirits.
The idea came from former student, current videographer, and future roommate Caitlyn Caulfield who, after buying her passage onto the Chapin train, wasted little time in shaking up the general dynamics of the normally sedentary, misanthropic lifestyle. As mistakes often go, this particular one started in response to what was a seemingly innocuous question.
“Why don’t you guys have a television?” Caitlyn assumed the answer would be some pretentious rhetoric but couldn’t help herself anyway; there was a noticeable nothingness where a television would sit in a normal household. As she sat on the couch, hearing the remaining arguments from Constance and Emily in the other room (despite the decision being made, Emily continued to stress how opposed she was to the idea), since there was no television to distract her from supposed adults bickering and gossiping worse than her classmates, Caitlyn had nothing to do but stare at the blank off-white wall above the mantle.
“Because nothing that mattered in history ever came from television,” Constance’s response came after a lull in the argument - odds were that Emily had just sighed and stomped off to be bitter and drown out her negativity with music equally as whiny and bitter and pointless - and the response drew an eyeroll from Caitlyn. “And besides that,” Constance now returned to the living room, or what was left of it (couch, coffee table, abstract paintings of cats that Constance would’ve tossed out had Emily not caught her in the act of doing so), crossed over into the attached kitchen, and pulled a bottle of water from the refrigerator, ”There’s no point in owning a television. It’s all garbage for people that think eighteen minute chunks is the best way to convey a narrative.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous, Ms Chapin. There’s loads of good-” Caitlyn was cut off before she could begin to argue her point, she had a feeling it was a losing battle anyway but when boredom strikes even the bad ideas are worth pursuing to the end.
“Don’t. You’re just going to list every awful bit of pointless dreck that young people think is the height of entertainment and writing because there’s blood and the CONCEPT of grey morality. It says loads for the state of entertainment that people fawn over things based on written words. It’s like watching Bridget Jones’ Diary instead of reading Pride and Prejudice.”
“How long have you been sitting on that?”
“Every time someone asks me what I think of Game of Thrones.” Constance sat herself on the couch, water bottle already half finished, while drooping the back of her arm over her forehead in exasperation.
“...Well, what DO yo-”
“It’s shit.”
The silence that followed was borne from neither of the couch dwellers having the energy or the will to indulge in conversation. Constance bounced between non-answers and her own type of, often uninformed, ranting and while Caitlyn always enjoyed poking that particular bee’s nest, she WAS trying to make a decent impression - which was made all the more difficult given that the impression she’d already left had been a rather negative one. It took the distorted mumblings of a Nirvana song - mercifully separated by walls so as to not suffer hearing it full on, for the women on the couch to break that wonderful silence.
“So...I get you hate television but even you have to like...at least one movie, right?”
“I HAVE to? I must’ve missed that part of the citizenship test. Life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, and you must like a movie.” Constance punctuated her little aside with a sip from the bottle and a sneer; the sneer, however, could quite easily have been from having to suffer through more distorted noise passing itself off as music. She sneered often whenever it was that time of the week.
“Come on, Ms. Chapin, what’s the last movie you saw? Doesn’t have to be in theaters. Though given your lack of television…” Caitlyn, on the other hand. was staring towards her former teacher with a look of pure incredulity. The blonde knew that Constance was a bit weird (and suspected that much of the weirdness stemmed from a plain of psuedo-intellectualism rather than actual intellectualism, but that remained solely in her headcanon) but she was starting to suspect that Ms. Chapin was either a woman out of time or else an alien.
Neither one would surprise her at this point.
“Straight Outta Compton.” The reply came instantly and was somewhat of a shock to the younger girl on the couch. “Other than the music it was a bit shit.”
“Okay, well, uhm...what was the last movie you saw that wasn’t shit?”
That took careful consideration and Constance’s face froze in a bit of a puzzled expression, eyes slightly narrowed, mouth tilted upwards at the corners...she looked like some sort of robotics experiment that was currently struggling to make a passable human expression.
“Lemme clarify. Other than Compton what was the most recent movie you’d seen...shit or otherwise?”
Still, that served only to get Constance to close her mouth and appear as if she was actually giving it some thought; though in truth she was just trying to think back that far.
“...I think it was Shakespeare in Love. Nothing to love about that other than that it ended.”
As Caitlyn was not in the midst of drinking anything she could not partake in a spit take, instead her incredulity was made physical by her nearly jumping off the couch. Her feet stomped to the ground as they fell from having been propped up on the coffee table. She now gave a wide-eyed stare towards the former teacher, as if Constance had just admitted to a heinous crime.
“How are you a person? Do you just...come home after a match and shut down? You sit on your couch and stare at the wall?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Caitlyn,” Constance still incorrectly pronounced Caitlyn’s name. She adamantly refused to admit that the name could be pronounced with ‘Kite’ instead of ‘Cait’, and that Caitlyn no longer brought it up was as close as Caitlyn would ever come to giving Constance the satisfaction of a victory between them. “I sit on my couch and stare at a novel. No film exists in the world that is better than a novel. Novels are stimulating to the brain. Movies are novocaine.”
“Movies and...and the media arts are-”
“Media isn’t art. Art is art. Drawings and photographs and music. Sculptures. Paintings. Pieces in a museum. The Mona Lisa is art. The...Morning Show….With Lisa...isn’t.”
“The Morning Show...With Lisa?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do, and you’re wrong. Completely.” For Caitlyn the dismissal of media and film specifically were particularly egregious and taken quite personally as she had decided from a very young age that she wanted to pursue a career in film or media in general. She could handle Constnace’s obstinance, but not when it came to something she gave a shit about.
“Am I? Let’s ask the ARTIST.” Constance adjusted her position on the couch, tilting her neck back towards the location of ‘Drain You’ and shouted. “Hon, is Curtis Corbin an artist?”
“Kurt Cobain,” Caitlyn corrected in a hushed aside.
“That’s what I said.”
It took another call of ‘Hon’ from Constance before the music dimmed just low enough for a response to be shouted back.
“One of the greatest that ever lived, honey.”
“Caitlyn, who’s your favourite actor?”
“Michael Fassbender.”
”Hon,” Constance again shouted towards the sounds of music, “What about Michael Fassbender? Is he an artist?”
“I don’t know who that is. But no.”
Constance turned back to sit properly on the couch, a look of smug satisfaction plastered all about her face. “Case closed. Media and film isn’t art.”
“You can’t say that, you don’t even KNOW anything about it.”
“I can’t possibly see how that matters.”
“Okay, well, it’s like this. What would you tell someone if they said that...what’s your favorite type of music?”
“Hardcore gangster rap and nineties hip hop.” The only thing that made the admission seem weirder was how deadpan Constance responded. Constance wasn’t joking but her delivery made it seem as if she was.
“Okay...well, what would you tell someone if they said that...rap wasn’t music?”
“I’d say they were an idiot and probably listen to Nirvana.” Constance spoke the end of her response loudly, a not-so-subtle jab at Emily. The immediate response from the artist was to turn her music up even louder.
“And what if they had no knowledge on the genre and made the claim?”
“I’d say that they don’t even KNOW any…” Constance had to stop herself because her eyes saw the beaming satisfaction in Caitlyn’s face. “I can’t believe I almost fell for that.”
“I can. It’s not the first time you’ve done it.”
“So what’s your point? That my opinion on movies and media being shit doesn’t count?”
“My point is you’re ignoring an entire artform because you’re stubborn. I bet if you started watching movies you’d find at least….five that you like. We’ll make a thing out of it, even. I’ll show you a movie every weekend, new, old, whatever, and if by the end of the year you haven’t liked ANY of them...I’ll...I’ll...I dunno...move out or something.”
“ACCEPT, ACCEPT, ACCEPT!” Emily was now shouting over the music, which was a rather impressive feat all things considered. “JUST WATCH THE DAMN MOVIES, HONEY. WE’LL BE RID OF HER!”
“We can start right now, even. Let’s go see a movie, Ms. Chapin. You’re paying. Or we can stare at the wall some more.”
Constance considered every option, her eyes closed and her head thinking of every possible way that this would end in disaster; each scenario ended with her getting angry and violent over something so utterly pointless. And yet, even though she new it was a fool’s errand and the worst idea this side of attempting to surf that one time…
“You can buy your own damn ticket...well come on, then. What’s two hours of my life other than closer to my inevitable death?”
“That’s the spirit, Ms. Chapin. You want to bring your child-fiance along?”
“I’m not going anywhere NEAR her room with that garbage playing. Mention her on Twitter or something, that’s how she likes to communicate now.”
Constance Chapin and Caitlyn Caulfield (joined by Emily Darcy just as they reached the car) made haste towards the closest movie theater. One of them was excited and the other was absolutely certain of two things. The first was that she knew she was going to hate this with every fibre of her bitter being. The second was that if this was a serious gamble she had found herself participating in...then she had made a terrible mistake.
And so it was how Constance Chapin found herself in her current predicament. The lights were off and the only illumination was in the form of a laptop monitor currently running through a film that Constance had already forgotten the name of. Next to her, a wide smile both at the film in question and the fact that she was making someone quite miserable, was Caitlyn. Emily wasn’t watching the movie despite being in the same room, she was busying herself laughing at the simple absurdity of the situation and would soon enough whisper to Constance via text message to ’remeber to say that you hate it’ as if Constance needed any reminder.
Their first impromptu excursion ended much as Constance feared, a miserable waste of two hours. She was fortunate that the showing was devoid of people - given that it was a weekday and a two month old showing at that - simply because once the pre-film trailers began to roll Constance found umbrage with each and every single one. “Does that movie exist in a world where law enforcement thinks bumbling incompetent people should be allowed near firearms?” was mentioned rather loudly after one ended only to be met by a groan as another rolled, ”Isn’t he in that stupid cop one we just saw? Is the joke that the tall man is bungling about and he’s the straight man now? What a wonderful role reversal, it’s not pointless at all. Why do you all think ‘adults being bumbling idiots’ is the definition of comedy?”
It was at that point that Caitlyn stopped trying to defend her favored past time and simply repeated ‘it’s just a commercial’ over and over. She had hoped that Constance would remain quiet once the movie started but that belief had been wonderfully naive. By the time the movie ended and the three were back in the car, Caitlyn was pulling a Chapin in that she had assumed a major mistake had been made on her part. No word was gotten in edgewise as Constance filled the drive home with a long winded rant about the film and how utterly pointless it was, and right around the time Constance repeated herself about the characters being ’complete and utterly underwritten nothings’ Caitlyn was grinning, not because she agreed, but because even the bad ideas can often be salvaged.
Where Constance saw a year full of misery ahead of her, Caitlyn saw an opportunity.
True to both of their words, Constance did at least make an attempt to get interested, she wasn’t even talking through this one, though that was mainly due to the fact that watching it on a laptop made it more imperative to listen. As the credits rolled and another night of torture came to a close, Caitlyn hurriedly switched on a camera, cleverly hidden from view of Constance.
“I suppose that one wasn’t awful,” Constance sighed out, as close to admitting something was good without actually saying as such. The response was a surprise not just to Constance but to Emily and Caitlyn as well, albeit it for wildly different reasons. “I don’t ever want to watch it again but all that time I was thinking it was going to be some stupid, senseless ending where the Rocko Bologna person wins. That would’ve ruined it completely.”
“So you...liked it?”
“No, it was boring and trite but it was at least honest with its ending. I hate stories about underdogs because they always have to have them win in the end and that’s not how it works.”
“Honey, weren’t you-”
“No, I wasn’t, that was a contest between four people of similar stature and ability.”
“What about your match with Ryder? Are you saying you’re going to lose that? All things considered, given the stats aren’t you kinda the underdog in that scenario? I mean, I always hope you lose because that gets me way more footage but...you know.”
A rolled up newspaper flew towards Caitlyn’s head after her remark, but fell woefully short due to it being a newspaper; Emily simply scoffed as she watched her thrown paper drift harmlessly to the floor. She, that is Emily, would hear no bad mouthing the fiance at such a crucial point.
“That’s highly inaccurate. Mine is a match where I’ve set the terms. He can’t weasel his way out of it and I seem to thrive in high pressure, extended bouts. But I don’t talk about that in my private life, Caitlyn.”
“Yes, apparently Connie thinks that people that can’t keep work and home separate are...what was it you called them? Idiots, fools, imbeciles...or some other synonym?”
“But it has to be on your mind, right?” Caitlyn ignored Emily’s little jab as easily as Constance did, though Constance at least had the courtesy quickly sneer towards Emily before promptly ignoring the rhetorical. “You can’t just...not think about the match. I mean, you could be the one to end a reign like...like...Charlemagne.”
“I think you need to brush up on your history.”
“Do you think they’ll call it the Constantinian Renaissance?”
“She’ll be Queen of the frank”
“The Holy Mopin’ Empire.”
“Are you finished or should I leave now?” And there was Constance to put a stopper on any bit of fun at her expense. The only time Caitlyn and Emily weren’t at each other’s throats was when they came together in those rare moments to share in their obsession of insulting, or poking fun as Emily would call it, Constance. It was a simple task on most days, but there was something infinitely more appealing about doing it directly to Constance’s face. Like sticking your arm in a beehive rather than simply poking it with a stick and running away.
“Yes, I’m thinking about the match. Yes, I’m concerned that I’ll be seen as a fraud after my boasting. Yes, shocking, I’m a person that feels things and has doubts. Sorry to ruin my animatronic disguise. Now either you put on another of your pointless, godawful movies or I’m going to bed - and no, not THAT sort of bedding, Emily.” It was a rare thing, getting a rise out of Constance, and that silence followed was a reaffirmation that neither Emily nor Caitlyn expected this or knew how best to react.
Emily looked quickly over to Caitlyn, blaming the blonde for starting them down the path; Caitlyn stared right back at Emily, blaming the childish artist for going along with it.
“Oh, wonderful, us all living together is going to be such a wonderful time, isn’t it?”
“Well...I told you it was a bad idea…” Emily tried her hardest not to sound as if she was saying ‘I told you so’ even though that was exactly what she WAS saying. She spoke softly, slowly, afraid to touch a nerve, worried that the wrong word or tone would set off the bomb she was trying to defuse.
“So...Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?”
“I am. Have you READ Mrs. Dalloway? I’m only a handful years and an unsatisfying marriage away from being Clarissa Dalloway.”
“Unsatisfying?”
“I wouldn’t worry, Emily. Clarissa didn’t marry Sally. That was unheard of at the time.”
“Stop comparing your life to novels, honey. It’s unhealthy.”
“Your family name is Darcy.”
“Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam got married, though.”
Both Constance and Emily turned to look at Caitlyn, who didn’t think she had said anything out of line - and she hadn’t, she had merely stepped in on the dance Constance and Emily indulged in every so often - jabs and bants shared solely by them and born due to their mutual dislike of involving others in their affairs.
“What? I can read old books too.”
“I blame you for this, honey. And I don’t know if I’ll ever let you live it down. Although...if you did put on that one song...you know the one...you played it at your parent’s house…”
“We have company.”
“She’s not our roommate yet. Maybe this will get her to leave.”
Caitlyn didn’t even have time to explain that her Virginia Woolf comment was, in fact, the title of the next movie she had intended to show Constance. She had hoped the title would at least garner interest, but such was her misunderstanding about the rules of the Chapin household that now she found herself being talked about as if she wasn’t even there. A subtle hint if there was any that the door was waiting for her.
Whether or not Caitlyn received the hint properly, Emily and Constance found a far more entertaining way to spend the night than watching movies neither of them cared about. They retreated to their bedroom while a dejected Caitlyn was left to her own devices, or device as the case was - she fiddled about on her laptop, inserted headphones into the proper port, and flicked through Netflix’s documentary section.
She had the Netflix part down pat; Constance and Emily were handling the chill.
“I’m rooting for Ryder…” Emily mumbled under her breath as she turned the volume up and started watching a movie. It slipped her mind that her camera was still on, though what it had picked up and was continuing to wasn’t anything fit for her own little documentary experiment.
~
In an immediate difference to the usual spartan style of cinematography, the most recent production from Camp Chapin opens not with a close up or an off-camera quip to lead-in from the fade; rather it opens with stock. Stock footage and stock, royalty free music. The footage seems to have been hit with an Instagram filter as it’s presented in monochrome but done so in the most ease of use way possible. There’s no dialog, just generic inspirational music as footage of Constance in her midwest days plays, showing off her radically different hair style (it was blonde) while she’s simply shrugging her shoulders in front of a small audience that is clearly not enjoying the Brit. The footage fades as text replaces it, a simple tagline offering ‘AN UNPRECEDENTED LOOK’ though at what, exactly, the look is, well, looking into remains unsaid. As the text fades the music reaches a crescendo and is slowly replaced by the sounds of people clapping, of bodies hitting the mat, of the familiar ding of the bell, and the always appreciated cheers of ‘HO-LY SHIT!’. The sounds linger just as there’s a zoom on present day Chapin, standing in a corner staring down an unseen opponent. The look of steeled determination by way of apathy is held on and all goes silent as the image cuts to black.
‘CLASSROOM CHAMPION’ the title card in large font fades in with the sound of a match ending and a ring announcer calling ‘HERE’S YOUR WINNER…’
“When I’m on my deathbed the only thing I want is my favourite book and the satisfaction of knowing that I didn’t completely hate whatever it was I did to occupy the time between waking up and falling asleep. If I can say that it was worth it in the end...then that’s all I need. Was it worth it? Well…”
The voice sample plays as the title gives way to the trailer credits, signaling that it’s a Caitlyn Caulfield picture with a tentative release date of ‘2016’.
It is only after that particular clip ends that the realization that a trailer was played settles in.
~
After the trailer ends there’s nothing but a black, silent screen. And suddenly where there was black there is a smash cut to nothing. A plain white image, a wall, perhaps, with only the ambient sounds of urban living creeping in acting as the knife through silence. The camera pans to the right, finding its subject sitting with her legs crossed as if she’s meditating. The zoom captures the subtle motions of her chest as she breathes normally. What follows is one long take, starting from when Constance Chapin rises to her feet, opens her eyes, and walks towards a lone window, camera closing. When she speaks, she does so wistfully, and the camera pans around, catching a glimpse at the outside world Chapin appears to be yearning for. When she speaks, it isn’t exactly to the camera, and the filtering makes it apparent that what people hear is the wonders of ADR - Automated Dialog Replacement.
Production values are such a boon.
“I often wonder how many other people can claim to be the first of something and the last of something and mean it. Anyone can make such claim but it’s only the ones who make it into the record books that get to boast about it. I’ve never made any record books, nor have I ever really wanted to - at some point world records just become a new version of circus freak shows. Congratulations on being the longest living person never to take a bath, now do your town a favour and jump in a tub. Though you’ll not find me in any record books, I can make the claim that I was the first of something and the last of something and have that actually have merit.”
“Perhaps looking to the past is frowned upon by some, but if you’ll stay with me I assure you I’m going somewhere with this navel gazing. While VoW is currently burdened with my negative outlook on life in general, it used to be that I was really only known to people that focused on a small-ish Firehouse in Malibu. Oh, sure, they got out of Malibu eventually, but respect the roots. It was there that I became an inaugural, which is a fancy way of saying first, champion. At the time I was slumming it, and the title victory, though well earned, was remarkably short lived. I didn’t care. Well, I said I didn’t. But I did. No one wants to be known as a Two Week Champion, it’s the reign length people care about, not the fact that you HELD one at all. I was the first person to ever hold that particular belt. The first of something.”
“It’s common knowledge by many that do even the faintest bit of tape watching that my actual claim to fame was when I won the big one, toppling giantesses and nihilists and sycophants, getting a hat trick in a field not normally associated with hat tricks, and proving once and for all that sometimes it’s the long shots that hit the target dead on. I can count on one hand the times in my life where I have truly felt joy, and that night was one of those times. Of course, the story doesn’t have a happy ending, as my VoW peers well know, given how vocal I was about it at first...but with the doors closing in Malibu for good...I became the last of something. The last world champion of a company with staunch supporters.”
“It’s come to my mind that I am poised to once again be the first and last of something, albeit for different circumstances. If all goes as I intend...I’ll be the last person that has to deal with Ryder Blade’s pathetic antics.”
“Because I’ll be the first person to break his stupid little streak.”
Constance turns away from the window and walks off camera; the camera, however, lingers on its current shot, gazing out the window at life below, a shadowy figure is captured in the lens.. Without cutting, it pans to the left, just in time to catch Constance, now wearing a hooded jacket over her flannel shirt and washed out jeans, make a line for the door, feet guiding her towards the yard outside the window. The voice of Chapin continues as she is followed on her unusually lengthy trek down the stairs towards the green fields across from the complex parking lot.
“How pissed are you, Ryder? How pissed are you that your pathetic attempts to get in my head, to upset and unnerve, to play your mind games, have failed almost as hard as your generic, no doubt self appointed, nickname. I assume you went with ‘The X’ because even you realize that referring to yourself in the third person is a whole new level in douche...but that might be giving you too much credit; maybe you went with The X and not third person because you just can’t remember your name. Too many syllables.”
“But you’ve done a poor job at trying to one up me. I still remember the way you looked as if you were going to cry because my ring side advisor had the wherewithal to do what I assume every girl you attempt to chat up at a bar did. You should be thanking her, Blade. Really, the world should. Because with any luck that will prevent any little Blades, daggers or dirks or something - blade joke, that - from polluting an already tainted gene pool. But it wasn’t just that, no, how humiliated were you when you showed up to cost me the match against Matt...only to have that backfire on you as well? You think too highly of yourself, Blade - no doubt because if not you then who WOULD think highly of you at all - if you think anything you can do to me would get me angry and sloppy.”
“In some ways it’s been good that I’ve been up against people I’ve had generally good things to say about, because I’m absolutely backed up in dishing out against those wonderful fake-ass broads I’m utterly bored with. And yes, Ryder, you fall well under the umbrella of a fake ass broad because, well, you’re a ponce. You think you’re untouchable because your record is *near* flawless - we all know you like to sweep that Valquist thing under the rug, right there next to your shame. Everyone is well aware that your little streak isn’t fully indicative of skill. Tell me, Ryder, did you really earn a victory against Owen Gonsalves? Against Tyler Storm? Come on, Ryder, at Darkest Hour you looked like you were being tortured from a simple armdrag.”
“And as someone who knows a thing or two about holds...an arm drag is child’s play.”
“As far as I’m concerned, anything that happens to you as a result of our match is just karma. I don’t even believe in karma but in your case I’ll make an exception. I get it, Ryder, I do, you’ve got nothing else but your belt. You’ve got, what, no friends? People you put on a payroll don’t count. No one in VoW seems able to stand you except for that Ruby broad who thinks innuendo is another word for laying it on thicker than make-up on women on a hen-do. I wonder, then, what will you have after Double Jeopardy? Not your streak. Not your title. Maybe some pocket money so you can pay someone to lick your wounds.”
“I don’t expect it to be a walk in the park, mind, like it or not there have been those rare moments where Ryder showed that he could be more than an insufferable prick. At Heatstroke against Reya Serra...he managed to turn a bungled attempt at the champion’s advantage into an actual defence. Armed and Dangerous, excepting the cheap tactic, had him defending his keep with something near to aplomb. In a way that is not at all meant as a compliment, Ryder seems to share something in common with me, in that when we really have something to prove, we will risk pride, body, mind, and soul to prove it.”
“Where we differ, however, is Ryder can’t deal with attacks to his pride. You get so defensive over every little thing, because you realize that the words people use against you can’t be ignored because they’re true. If you were so confident in your own abilities, you wouldn’t have felt the need to try and demoralize me - which only served to galvanize - because you’d have nothing to worry about. But you ARE worried, Ryder. Worried that you’ve peaked. Worried that some old woman is going to take your everything and effectively make Ryder Blade an unfortunate footnote in the year twenty sixteen. And you know what? You damn well ought to be worried, Ryder.”
As Constance talked, the video continued to document her dream-like walk to the grassy field viewed from her window. The path through the parking lot was fraught with peril, people pointing and laughing at her, people barring her way and forcing her to go around, people standing to the side and applauding. The camera takes a moment to pan over these extras, these apparitions, and they each wear similar attire to Constance. The biggest obstacle is that of a mother holding hands with a young boy, who slaps Constance and turns her around, sending her further away from reaching her destination.
Again she resumes her walk, back through the wave of pedestrians laughing, pointing, mocking, clapping, cheering. But though she’s been turned around, forced on a detour, she spies an opening, a new path to reach her destination and her steps quicken along towards it.
“It’s time to wise up to the reality, Ryder, that your time in the limelight is over. Do you remember what your response was to my challenge? You laughed at me. Right at me. No doubt you thought that there was no way someone so uncool could win against...what were you Mixed Martial Ryder at that point? You change your name more than Sean Combs and you both stopped being relevant in the nineties. Well, your vernacular. You’ve only ever been relevant in your distorted mind’s eyes.”
“You know why I chose a two out of three falls match, Ryder? Because you can’t cheat your way to a cheap win. Your little tricks aren’t going to work when you can’t rely on just one simple pinfall. I chose this stipulation because when have you truly been run through the wringer? I chose this stipulation because I see in you the same thing I see in every young person that steps between those ropes. Overconfidence. The belief that because you’ve made it that far that you’re already the best thing since silced bread. In most cases a simple kick in the ass puts a stop to that, but you’ve let your head swell - and I don’t mean THAT head. But tell me, Ryder, what happens to that ego, that bloated head of yours, when you can’t fall back on easy tactics, when the crowd, long since fed up with your antics, drowns out the sound of your own masturbatory words?”
“It’s rare when I get my own ass motivated enough to come into a match ready to actually show why people say I’m a damn fierce competitor. The last time was when I was staring down three people, two of whom had humiliated me in the past, and this time it’s just because I’m tired of hearing you talk. I’m tired of act like you run this town because you have a long title reign; I’m still technically a reigning world champion, Ryder, you want to compare sizes? I’m just...tired of you, Ryder.”
“VoW has welcomed me and I’ve found my stride. It’s about time I give back to the place that I’m growing to not mind. And the least I can do is give the Excel Championship a better home, around the waist of a champion that people DON’T want to punch in the face before they even open their mouth. You might get lucky. You might get one over me. But knowing your incredulity every time someone bounces back from your pathetic onslaughts means the odds remain ever in my favour. Because if there’s one thing I’ve done incredibly well in my career it’s take a beating and come back harder than ever. The only difference is that I don’t usually get the chance to come back immediately after the fact.”
“I don’t want many things. Give me a great novel, a cup of coffee, maybe an episode or two of Countdown, and I’m content. I want even less when it comes to what happens in the ring - nine times out of ten I just want to go out and not make an utter fool of myself. But I want you, Ryder, I want you to feel what it’s like to lose everything because just maybe it might help you become a better person. When you’re coming to, the smooth sounds of Lady Pen wafting into your ears, your championship around my waist - MY championship - I want you to understand that it wasn’t deception or cheap tricks that won in the end...but someone who just wanted it more.”
“After Double Jeopardy, no one will remember Ryder Blade as anything other than that annoying guy that thinks college doesn’t have to end after graduation - oh sorry, I’m assuming things...that annoying guy that thinks HIGH SCHOOL doesn’t have to end after graduation. Because honestly, Ryder, unlike you I understand the merits of an education, and I’ve studied up. Your barebones-ass camel clutch against Stacy barely qualified as a submission. You were wincing from Patrick’s armbar. You were willing to get yourself counted out after Reya gave you a Silent Night. After Valquist dissected your limbs out came the foreign objects. Do you see where I’m going with this, Ryder? Do you see now why the advantage is mine? Do you see why this match is two out of three falls?”
“Have your bro team on standby, because you’ll need shoulders to support you as you limp up the ramp no longer a champion. You’ll still be The X, of course, just with an ‘E’ propped on to the front.”
“I’ve already worked out how I’m going to celebrate, too. I’ll have a bottle or a can or whatever of Sprintex and I’ll pour one out for their fallen idol...right into the toilet where that piss juice belongs. And then I’ll remember how my ringside associate hurt your bollocks and I’ll enjoy a laugh. I’ll go to bed, and I’ll wake up smiling and happy knowing that I did exactly what we both said would happen, Ryder.”
“A nobody beat you.”
Constance arrives at the green field and the shadowy figure steps out from behind a tree. The figure, wearing a shoddy mask of Constance’s face, embraces the moody Mancunian as the people that formerly barred her way clap before disappearing in a flash of light, leaving Constance alone and looking skyward, determined, as the visual thematic metaphor of her working through her own crippling self doubts and self imposed blocks reaches its cinematic conclusion.
“And by the way, VoW, or whoever’s in charge of championships, I wasn’t kidding about what I said on Twitter. When I win the belt, I’m putting an ‘E’ in front of it. I’m not wearing a belt that is spelled incorrectly. You may as well have that waiting for me in Puerto Rico. I have a good feeling about this; I’m going to excel at being the Excel.”
“Twenty Sixteen will mark the end of the pound sign Neverending Streak. Just like the Neverending Story it’s gone on far too long and wasn’t even all that entertaining...and all things come to an end anyway.”
“Goodbye, Ryder Blade. No one will miss you when you’re gone from the spotlight.”
No other fanfare is needed, just the instrumental track of a certain familiar entrance theme as the film, such as it was, cuts to black. To silence.
I used to have a recurring nightmare when I was younger and more willing to give strangers a fair shot at being associates of mine. In this nightmare I’m one of the lucky few to appear on the only aspect of my home country that I wish was available in America: Countdown. Countdown is like Jeopardy but instead of useless general trivia about things no one cares about it uses perhaps the two most important elements of humanity: letters and numbers. My mother always told me that I had to be an old woman pretending to be a child because I would always want to watch Countdown whenever I could; she didn’t understand the appeal and my father only perked up whenever the camera showed a glimpse of Carol Vorderman.
I never asked him if he preferred her to Rachel Riley and I don’t think I ever will. The less known about my dad’s private life the better. I was always a fan of Susie Dent, myself. But that’s neither here nor there.
The nightmare isn’t that I’m ON Countdown as my simple minded family would have me believe, the nightmare is that for as well versed as I am in the day to day, suddenly my mind goes blank and I can’t even string together a three letter word even if by happenstance there’s a word in the random jumble of letters. Always the nightmare would be near enough to the final letters round and I declare a nine letter word in an act of desperation and futility - even with the double points awarded for nine letters it would’ve been like putting a bandage on a gaping wound.
When it came time to reveal my word the only thing that came out of my mouth was a noise that insofar as I know doesn’t have a definition or a place in the Oxford English Dictionary but might well be a nine letter sound of absolute failure. The nightmare ends, without fail, with the crowd laughing at my abysmal display. Even Susie, who I would say is the only other living person I’d share a drink, joins in with the mocking derisive tone, asking me if I teach actual children and if so how did I ever get approved.
Mercifully I wake up before the conundrum, which given my luck would be ‘CONNIESUX’.
Obviously I’ve not shared this nightmare with anyone, largely because rather than being hounded by some maniac or something equally as idiotic like zombies, my nightmares involve the most boring thing possible. I haven’t had the nightmare in ages, but the feeling the nightmare instilled in me constantly returns to ruin my already bitter moods.
That feeling, of course, is utter humiliation and defeat and just my luck it always seems to rear its head whenever I’ve got something important in my future.
History and experts on the matter would probably tell me it’s just nerves working their foul magic as each time I’ve felt as if I’m having the Countdown Dream it’s turned out that I was afraid over nothing - given that the last time I had these feelings was right around the time I was thrust into a match with three women, two of whom had good reason to want me knocked out cold. Why is it, then, that I always seem to find myself wrestling with doubt and fear whenever something major is on the line?
When I first made the switch to VoW I stumbled the landing considerably, making myself look like some kind of fluke. I’d like to say that I’ve spent that time rebuilding my image but that just brings me to the point of wondering why I care so much about my image when I’ve made several points of showing and saying how I absolutely DON’T care what people think of me.
These fears of mine are a lot more deep seeded than I assume.
It’s why I make a point of not instigating. Or at least very rarely. Because that puts me out there, on the radar, and suddenly the words I use become gospel. If I say I’m going to do this, everyone’s going to believe it and if I don’t they’ll point, laugh, and I’ll never have that drink with Susie Dent.
My greatest kept secret is that for as much as I say I’m not bothered by what people say or think about me...some part of me does. It’s the part of me that hasn’t fully succumbed to a life of being a bitter misanthrope who stays indoors all day until snotty brats ring my doorbell and run away with a laugh. It’s that part of me that makes it so difficult for me to accept the compliments the select few send my way. I just naturally assume they’re talking nonsense, trying to butter me up into not trying so hard so they can just walk over me and ask derisively how I ever made it as a champion.
When I decided to throw my hat in the ring against perennial prepubescent Ryder Blade I realized that I had more than just my own pride and feelings on my shoulders. I can’t see many people in Ryder’s corner and I’m certain that many more want nothing more than to see him finally humble in defeat. And the thing is...I know that I can make a proper go of it. I know that when I responded to his childish antics at Breakthrough that I wasn’t just blowing hot air.
Yet why am I already expecting the worst?
Because that’s who I am. That’s what I do. Whether on instinct or some other emotion, I get bogged down in my own circle of self doubt that in the event of a loss I chalk it up under the defeatist attitude of ‘well of course that happened, why bother trying?’ Maybe this move that’s going nowhere can come with a list of local psychiatrists. How can I expect to not just win but be a champion worthy to be called such if at the first sign of trouble I run under the umbrella and proclaim that there’s no point in even trying because the next person in line is much better and much more deserving. No one want to root for someone who can’t even root for themselves.
I’m fine, really. I’ve been down this road before and come out no worse for wear. It helps, having someone I trust there to tell me that at the end of the day I’m still the same person, that no one’s going to think less of me for dropping the ball.
Well, no one except for people like Blade but who honestly takes anything those sorts of people say seriously?
I can’t afford to get hung up on old nightmares and older feelings anyway. Not with far more important things going on both professionally and privately.
And the current reality of my living situation is far more nightmarish than stumbling around with word jumbles.
How is it that even with my childish emotions that I’ve found myself being the only adult amongst a group including someone older than me. The real fear I have is that I’ll miss my goddamn match because the children force me to turn the car around.
I’d sooner embarrass myself on British television than deal with those two for yet another day.
So of course I’m moving in with them. Because I make poor life decisions.
Why else would I be worrying about a match against someone with literally the most punchable face I’ve ever seen?
~
Of two things Constance Chapin was absolutely certain, the first was that she found that her days ended with her being far more angry than usual and that that probably had something to do with the second thing. The second was far more obvious. Constance Chapin had made a terrible mistake. This was nothing new, of course, terrible mistakes followed Constance around like bees follow honey, but typically the mistakes Constance made only ever impacted her, save that one time in Chicago but that had been made right, whereas this time the mistakes involved another person. If any silver lining was to be had it was that the other person didn’t think of it as a mistake at all, it had been their idea and not even Constance’s foul attitude and lack of care could dampen those spirits.
The idea came from former student, current videographer, and future roommate Caitlyn Caulfield who, after buying her passage onto the Chapin train, wasted little time in shaking up the general dynamics of the normally sedentary, misanthropic lifestyle. As mistakes often go, this particular one started in response to what was a seemingly innocuous question.
“Why don’t you guys have a television?” Caitlyn assumed the answer would be some pretentious rhetoric but couldn’t help herself anyway; there was a noticeable nothingness where a television would sit in a normal household. As she sat on the couch, hearing the remaining arguments from Constance and Emily in the other room (despite the decision being made, Emily continued to stress how opposed she was to the idea), since there was no television to distract her from supposed adults bickering and gossiping worse than her classmates, Caitlyn had nothing to do but stare at the blank off-white wall above the mantle.
“Because nothing that mattered in history ever came from television,” Constance’s response came after a lull in the argument - odds were that Emily had just sighed and stomped off to be bitter and drown out her negativity with music equally as whiny and bitter and pointless - and the response drew an eyeroll from Caitlyn. “And besides that,” Constance now returned to the living room, or what was left of it (couch, coffee table, abstract paintings of cats that Constance would’ve tossed out had Emily not caught her in the act of doing so), crossed over into the attached kitchen, and pulled a bottle of water from the refrigerator, ”There’s no point in owning a television. It’s all garbage for people that think eighteen minute chunks is the best way to convey a narrative.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous, Ms Chapin. There’s loads of good-” Caitlyn was cut off before she could begin to argue her point, she had a feeling it was a losing battle anyway but when boredom strikes even the bad ideas are worth pursuing to the end.
“Don’t. You’re just going to list every awful bit of pointless dreck that young people think is the height of entertainment and writing because there’s blood and the CONCEPT of grey morality. It says loads for the state of entertainment that people fawn over things based on written words. It’s like watching Bridget Jones’ Diary instead of reading Pride and Prejudice.”
“How long have you been sitting on that?”
“Every time someone asks me what I think of Game of Thrones.” Constance sat herself on the couch, water bottle already half finished, while drooping the back of her arm over her forehead in exasperation.
“...Well, what DO yo-”
“It’s shit.”
The silence that followed was borne from neither of the couch dwellers having the energy or the will to indulge in conversation. Constance bounced between non-answers and her own type of, often uninformed, ranting and while Caitlyn always enjoyed poking that particular bee’s nest, she WAS trying to make a decent impression - which was made all the more difficult given that the impression she’d already left had been a rather negative one. It took the distorted mumblings of a Nirvana song - mercifully separated by walls so as to not suffer hearing it full on, for the women on the couch to break that wonderful silence.
“So...I get you hate television but even you have to like...at least one movie, right?”
“I HAVE to? I must’ve missed that part of the citizenship test. Life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, and you must like a movie.” Constance punctuated her little aside with a sip from the bottle and a sneer; the sneer, however, could quite easily have been from having to suffer through more distorted noise passing itself off as music. She sneered often whenever it was that time of the week.
“Come on, Ms. Chapin, what’s the last movie you saw? Doesn’t have to be in theaters. Though given your lack of television…” Caitlyn, on the other hand. was staring towards her former teacher with a look of pure incredulity. The blonde knew that Constance was a bit weird (and suspected that much of the weirdness stemmed from a plain of psuedo-intellectualism rather than actual intellectualism, but that remained solely in her headcanon) but she was starting to suspect that Ms. Chapin was either a woman out of time or else an alien.
Neither one would surprise her at this point.
“Straight Outta Compton.” The reply came instantly and was somewhat of a shock to the younger girl on the couch. “Other than the music it was a bit shit.”
“Okay, well, uhm...what was the last movie you saw that wasn’t shit?”
That took careful consideration and Constance’s face froze in a bit of a puzzled expression, eyes slightly narrowed, mouth tilted upwards at the corners...she looked like some sort of robotics experiment that was currently struggling to make a passable human expression.
“Lemme clarify. Other than Compton what was the most recent movie you’d seen...shit or otherwise?”
Still, that served only to get Constance to close her mouth and appear as if she was actually giving it some thought; though in truth she was just trying to think back that far.
“...I think it was Shakespeare in Love. Nothing to love about that other than that it ended.”
As Caitlyn was not in the midst of drinking anything she could not partake in a spit take, instead her incredulity was made physical by her nearly jumping off the couch. Her feet stomped to the ground as they fell from having been propped up on the coffee table. She now gave a wide-eyed stare towards the former teacher, as if Constance had just admitted to a heinous crime.
“How are you a person? Do you just...come home after a match and shut down? You sit on your couch and stare at the wall?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Caitlyn,” Constance still incorrectly pronounced Caitlyn’s name. She adamantly refused to admit that the name could be pronounced with ‘Kite’ instead of ‘Cait’, and that Caitlyn no longer brought it up was as close as Caitlyn would ever come to giving Constance the satisfaction of a victory between them. “I sit on my couch and stare at a novel. No film exists in the world that is better than a novel. Novels are stimulating to the brain. Movies are novocaine.”
“Movies and...and the media arts are-”
“Media isn’t art. Art is art. Drawings and photographs and music. Sculptures. Paintings. Pieces in a museum. The Mona Lisa is art. The...Morning Show….With Lisa...isn’t.”
“The Morning Show...With Lisa?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do, and you’re wrong. Completely.” For Caitlyn the dismissal of media and film specifically were particularly egregious and taken quite personally as she had decided from a very young age that she wanted to pursue a career in film or media in general. She could handle Constnace’s obstinance, but not when it came to something she gave a shit about.
“Am I? Let’s ask the ARTIST.” Constance adjusted her position on the couch, tilting her neck back towards the location of ‘Drain You’ and shouted. “Hon, is Curtis Corbin an artist?”
“Kurt Cobain,” Caitlyn corrected in a hushed aside.
“That’s what I said.”
It took another call of ‘Hon’ from Constance before the music dimmed just low enough for a response to be shouted back.
“One of the greatest that ever lived, honey.”
“Caitlyn, who’s your favourite actor?”
“Michael Fassbender.”
”Hon,” Constance again shouted towards the sounds of music, “What about Michael Fassbender? Is he an artist?”
“I don’t know who that is. But no.”
Constance turned back to sit properly on the couch, a look of smug satisfaction plastered all about her face. “Case closed. Media and film isn’t art.”
“You can’t say that, you don’t even KNOW anything about it.”
“I can’t possibly see how that matters.”
“Okay, well, it’s like this. What would you tell someone if they said that...what’s your favorite type of music?”
“Hardcore gangster rap and nineties hip hop.” The only thing that made the admission seem weirder was how deadpan Constance responded. Constance wasn’t joking but her delivery made it seem as if she was.
“Okay...well, what would you tell someone if they said that...rap wasn’t music?”
“I’d say they were an idiot and probably listen to Nirvana.” Constance spoke the end of her response loudly, a not-so-subtle jab at Emily. The immediate response from the artist was to turn her music up even louder.
“And what if they had no knowledge on the genre and made the claim?”
“I’d say that they don’t even KNOW any…” Constance had to stop herself because her eyes saw the beaming satisfaction in Caitlyn’s face. “I can’t believe I almost fell for that.”
“I can. It’s not the first time you’ve done it.”
“So what’s your point? That my opinion on movies and media being shit doesn’t count?”
“My point is you’re ignoring an entire artform because you’re stubborn. I bet if you started watching movies you’d find at least….five that you like. We’ll make a thing out of it, even. I’ll show you a movie every weekend, new, old, whatever, and if by the end of the year you haven’t liked ANY of them...I’ll...I’ll...I dunno...move out or something.”
“ACCEPT, ACCEPT, ACCEPT!” Emily was now shouting over the music, which was a rather impressive feat all things considered. “JUST WATCH THE DAMN MOVIES, HONEY. WE’LL BE RID OF HER!”
“We can start right now, even. Let’s go see a movie, Ms. Chapin. You’re paying. Or we can stare at the wall some more.”
Constance considered every option, her eyes closed and her head thinking of every possible way that this would end in disaster; each scenario ended with her getting angry and violent over something so utterly pointless. And yet, even though she new it was a fool’s errand and the worst idea this side of attempting to surf that one time…
“You can buy your own damn ticket...well come on, then. What’s two hours of my life other than closer to my inevitable death?”
“That’s the spirit, Ms. Chapin. You want to bring your child-fiance along?”
“I’m not going anywhere NEAR her room with that garbage playing. Mention her on Twitter or something, that’s how she likes to communicate now.”
Constance Chapin and Caitlyn Caulfield (joined by Emily Darcy just as they reached the car) made haste towards the closest movie theater. One of them was excited and the other was absolutely certain of two things. The first was that she knew she was going to hate this with every fibre of her bitter being. The second was that if this was a serious gamble she had found herself participating in...then she had made a terrible mistake.
And so it was how Constance Chapin found herself in her current predicament. The lights were off and the only illumination was in the form of a laptop monitor currently running through a film that Constance had already forgotten the name of. Next to her, a wide smile both at the film in question and the fact that she was making someone quite miserable, was Caitlyn. Emily wasn’t watching the movie despite being in the same room, she was busying herself laughing at the simple absurdity of the situation and would soon enough whisper to Constance via text message to ’remeber to say that you hate it’ as if Constance needed any reminder.
Their first impromptu excursion ended much as Constance feared, a miserable waste of two hours. She was fortunate that the showing was devoid of people - given that it was a weekday and a two month old showing at that - simply because once the pre-film trailers began to roll Constance found umbrage with each and every single one. “Does that movie exist in a world where law enforcement thinks bumbling incompetent people should be allowed near firearms?” was mentioned rather loudly after one ended only to be met by a groan as another rolled, ”Isn’t he in that stupid cop one we just saw? Is the joke that the tall man is bungling about and he’s the straight man now? What a wonderful role reversal, it’s not pointless at all. Why do you all think ‘adults being bumbling idiots’ is the definition of comedy?”
It was at that point that Caitlyn stopped trying to defend her favored past time and simply repeated ‘it’s just a commercial’ over and over. She had hoped that Constance would remain quiet once the movie started but that belief had been wonderfully naive. By the time the movie ended and the three were back in the car, Caitlyn was pulling a Chapin in that she had assumed a major mistake had been made on her part. No word was gotten in edgewise as Constance filled the drive home with a long winded rant about the film and how utterly pointless it was, and right around the time Constance repeated herself about the characters being ’complete and utterly underwritten nothings’ Caitlyn was grinning, not because she agreed, but because even the bad ideas can often be salvaged.
Where Constance saw a year full of misery ahead of her, Caitlyn saw an opportunity.
True to both of their words, Constance did at least make an attempt to get interested, she wasn’t even talking through this one, though that was mainly due to the fact that watching it on a laptop made it more imperative to listen. As the credits rolled and another night of torture came to a close, Caitlyn hurriedly switched on a camera, cleverly hidden from view of Constance.
“I suppose that one wasn’t awful,” Constance sighed out, as close to admitting something was good without actually saying as such. The response was a surprise not just to Constance but to Emily and Caitlyn as well, albeit it for wildly different reasons. “I don’t ever want to watch it again but all that time I was thinking it was going to be some stupid, senseless ending where the Rocko Bologna person wins. That would’ve ruined it completely.”
“So you...liked it?”
“No, it was boring and trite but it was at least honest with its ending. I hate stories about underdogs because they always have to have them win in the end and that’s not how it works.”
“Honey, weren’t you-”
“No, I wasn’t, that was a contest between four people of similar stature and ability.”
“What about your match with Ryder? Are you saying you’re going to lose that? All things considered, given the stats aren’t you kinda the underdog in that scenario? I mean, I always hope you lose because that gets me way more footage but...you know.”
A rolled up newspaper flew towards Caitlyn’s head after her remark, but fell woefully short due to it being a newspaper; Emily simply scoffed as she watched her thrown paper drift harmlessly to the floor. She, that is Emily, would hear no bad mouthing the fiance at such a crucial point.
“That’s highly inaccurate. Mine is a match where I’ve set the terms. He can’t weasel his way out of it and I seem to thrive in high pressure, extended bouts. But I don’t talk about that in my private life, Caitlyn.”
“Yes, apparently Connie thinks that people that can’t keep work and home separate are...what was it you called them? Idiots, fools, imbeciles...or some other synonym?”
“But it has to be on your mind, right?” Caitlyn ignored Emily’s little jab as easily as Constance did, though Constance at least had the courtesy quickly sneer towards Emily before promptly ignoring the rhetorical. “You can’t just...not think about the match. I mean, you could be the one to end a reign like...like...Charlemagne.”
“I think you need to brush up on your history.”
“Do you think they’ll call it the Constantinian Renaissance?”
“She’ll be Queen of the frank”
“The Holy Mopin’ Empire.”
“Are you finished or should I leave now?” And there was Constance to put a stopper on any bit of fun at her expense. The only time Caitlyn and Emily weren’t at each other’s throats was when they came together in those rare moments to share in their obsession of insulting, or poking fun as Emily would call it, Constance. It was a simple task on most days, but there was something infinitely more appealing about doing it directly to Constance’s face. Like sticking your arm in a beehive rather than simply poking it with a stick and running away.
“Yes, I’m thinking about the match. Yes, I’m concerned that I’ll be seen as a fraud after my boasting. Yes, shocking, I’m a person that feels things and has doubts. Sorry to ruin my animatronic disguise. Now either you put on another of your pointless, godawful movies or I’m going to bed - and no, not THAT sort of bedding, Emily.” It was a rare thing, getting a rise out of Constance, and that silence followed was a reaffirmation that neither Emily nor Caitlyn expected this or knew how best to react.
Emily looked quickly over to Caitlyn, blaming the blonde for starting them down the path; Caitlyn stared right back at Emily, blaming the childish artist for going along with it.
“Oh, wonderful, us all living together is going to be such a wonderful time, isn’t it?”
“Well...I told you it was a bad idea…” Emily tried her hardest not to sound as if she was saying ‘I told you so’ even though that was exactly what she WAS saying. She spoke softly, slowly, afraid to touch a nerve, worried that the wrong word or tone would set off the bomb she was trying to defuse.
“So...Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?”
“I am. Have you READ Mrs. Dalloway? I’m only a handful years and an unsatisfying marriage away from being Clarissa Dalloway.”
“Unsatisfying?”
“I wouldn’t worry, Emily. Clarissa didn’t marry Sally. That was unheard of at the time.”
“Stop comparing your life to novels, honey. It’s unhealthy.”
“Your family name is Darcy.”
“Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam got married, though.”
Both Constance and Emily turned to look at Caitlyn, who didn’t think she had said anything out of line - and she hadn’t, she had merely stepped in on the dance Constance and Emily indulged in every so often - jabs and bants shared solely by them and born due to their mutual dislike of involving others in their affairs.
“What? I can read old books too.”
“I blame you for this, honey. And I don’t know if I’ll ever let you live it down. Although...if you did put on that one song...you know the one...you played it at your parent’s house…”
“We have company.”
“She’s not our roommate yet. Maybe this will get her to leave.”
Caitlyn didn’t even have time to explain that her Virginia Woolf comment was, in fact, the title of the next movie she had intended to show Constance. She had hoped the title would at least garner interest, but such was her misunderstanding about the rules of the Chapin household that now she found herself being talked about as if she wasn’t even there. A subtle hint if there was any that the door was waiting for her.
Whether or not Caitlyn received the hint properly, Emily and Constance found a far more entertaining way to spend the night than watching movies neither of them cared about. They retreated to their bedroom while a dejected Caitlyn was left to her own devices, or device as the case was - she fiddled about on her laptop, inserted headphones into the proper port, and flicked through Netflix’s documentary section.
She had the Netflix part down pat; Constance and Emily were handling the chill.
“I’m rooting for Ryder…” Emily mumbled under her breath as she turned the volume up and started watching a movie. It slipped her mind that her camera was still on, though what it had picked up and was continuing to wasn’t anything fit for her own little documentary experiment.
~
In an immediate difference to the usual spartan style of cinematography, the most recent production from Camp Chapin opens not with a close up or an off-camera quip to lead-in from the fade; rather it opens with stock. Stock footage and stock, royalty free music. The footage seems to have been hit with an Instagram filter as it’s presented in monochrome but done so in the most ease of use way possible. There’s no dialog, just generic inspirational music as footage of Constance in her midwest days plays, showing off her radically different hair style (it was blonde) while she’s simply shrugging her shoulders in front of a small audience that is clearly not enjoying the Brit. The footage fades as text replaces it, a simple tagline offering ‘AN UNPRECEDENTED LOOK’ though at what, exactly, the look is, well, looking into remains unsaid. As the text fades the music reaches a crescendo and is slowly replaced by the sounds of people clapping, of bodies hitting the mat, of the familiar ding of the bell, and the always appreciated cheers of ‘HO-LY SHIT!’. The sounds linger just as there’s a zoom on present day Chapin, standing in a corner staring down an unseen opponent. The look of steeled determination by way of apathy is held on and all goes silent as the image cuts to black.
‘CLASSROOM CHAMPION’ the title card in large font fades in with the sound of a match ending and a ring announcer calling ‘HERE’S YOUR WINNER…’
“When I’m on my deathbed the only thing I want is my favourite book and the satisfaction of knowing that I didn’t completely hate whatever it was I did to occupy the time between waking up and falling asleep. If I can say that it was worth it in the end...then that’s all I need. Was it worth it? Well…”
The voice sample plays as the title gives way to the trailer credits, signaling that it’s a Caitlyn Caulfield picture with a tentative release date of ‘2016’.
It is only after that particular clip ends that the realization that a trailer was played settles in.
~
After the trailer ends there’s nothing but a black, silent screen. And suddenly where there was black there is a smash cut to nothing. A plain white image, a wall, perhaps, with only the ambient sounds of urban living creeping in acting as the knife through silence. The camera pans to the right, finding its subject sitting with her legs crossed as if she’s meditating. The zoom captures the subtle motions of her chest as she breathes normally. What follows is one long take, starting from when Constance Chapin rises to her feet, opens her eyes, and walks towards a lone window, camera closing. When she speaks, she does so wistfully, and the camera pans around, catching a glimpse at the outside world Chapin appears to be yearning for. When she speaks, it isn’t exactly to the camera, and the filtering makes it apparent that what people hear is the wonders of ADR - Automated Dialog Replacement.
Production values are such a boon.
“I often wonder how many other people can claim to be the first of something and the last of something and mean it. Anyone can make such claim but it’s only the ones who make it into the record books that get to boast about it. I’ve never made any record books, nor have I ever really wanted to - at some point world records just become a new version of circus freak shows. Congratulations on being the longest living person never to take a bath, now do your town a favour and jump in a tub. Though you’ll not find me in any record books, I can make the claim that I was the first of something and the last of something and have that actually have merit.”
“Perhaps looking to the past is frowned upon by some, but if you’ll stay with me I assure you I’m going somewhere with this navel gazing. While VoW is currently burdened with my negative outlook on life in general, it used to be that I was really only known to people that focused on a small-ish Firehouse in Malibu. Oh, sure, they got out of Malibu eventually, but respect the roots. It was there that I became an inaugural, which is a fancy way of saying first, champion. At the time I was slumming it, and the title victory, though well earned, was remarkably short lived. I didn’t care. Well, I said I didn’t. But I did. No one wants to be known as a Two Week Champion, it’s the reign length people care about, not the fact that you HELD one at all. I was the first person to ever hold that particular belt. The first of something.”
“It’s common knowledge by many that do even the faintest bit of tape watching that my actual claim to fame was when I won the big one, toppling giantesses and nihilists and sycophants, getting a hat trick in a field not normally associated with hat tricks, and proving once and for all that sometimes it’s the long shots that hit the target dead on. I can count on one hand the times in my life where I have truly felt joy, and that night was one of those times. Of course, the story doesn’t have a happy ending, as my VoW peers well know, given how vocal I was about it at first...but with the doors closing in Malibu for good...I became the last of something. The last world champion of a company with staunch supporters.”
“It’s come to my mind that I am poised to once again be the first and last of something, albeit for different circumstances. If all goes as I intend...I’ll be the last person that has to deal with Ryder Blade’s pathetic antics.”
“Because I’ll be the first person to break his stupid little streak.”
Constance turns away from the window and walks off camera; the camera, however, lingers on its current shot, gazing out the window at life below, a shadowy figure is captured in the lens.. Without cutting, it pans to the left, just in time to catch Constance, now wearing a hooded jacket over her flannel shirt and washed out jeans, make a line for the door, feet guiding her towards the yard outside the window. The voice of Chapin continues as she is followed on her unusually lengthy trek down the stairs towards the green fields across from the complex parking lot.
“How pissed are you, Ryder? How pissed are you that your pathetic attempts to get in my head, to upset and unnerve, to play your mind games, have failed almost as hard as your generic, no doubt self appointed, nickname. I assume you went with ‘The X’ because even you realize that referring to yourself in the third person is a whole new level in douche...but that might be giving you too much credit; maybe you went with The X and not third person because you just can’t remember your name. Too many syllables.”
“But you’ve done a poor job at trying to one up me. I still remember the way you looked as if you were going to cry because my ring side advisor had the wherewithal to do what I assume every girl you attempt to chat up at a bar did. You should be thanking her, Blade. Really, the world should. Because with any luck that will prevent any little Blades, daggers or dirks or something - blade joke, that - from polluting an already tainted gene pool. But it wasn’t just that, no, how humiliated were you when you showed up to cost me the match against Matt...only to have that backfire on you as well? You think too highly of yourself, Blade - no doubt because if not you then who WOULD think highly of you at all - if you think anything you can do to me would get me angry and sloppy.”
“In some ways it’s been good that I’ve been up against people I’ve had generally good things to say about, because I’m absolutely backed up in dishing out against those wonderful fake-ass broads I’m utterly bored with. And yes, Ryder, you fall well under the umbrella of a fake ass broad because, well, you’re a ponce. You think you’re untouchable because your record is *near* flawless - we all know you like to sweep that Valquist thing under the rug, right there next to your shame. Everyone is well aware that your little streak isn’t fully indicative of skill. Tell me, Ryder, did you really earn a victory against Owen Gonsalves? Against Tyler Storm? Come on, Ryder, at Darkest Hour you looked like you were being tortured from a simple armdrag.”
“And as someone who knows a thing or two about holds...an arm drag is child’s play.”
“As far as I’m concerned, anything that happens to you as a result of our match is just karma. I don’t even believe in karma but in your case I’ll make an exception. I get it, Ryder, I do, you’ve got nothing else but your belt. You’ve got, what, no friends? People you put on a payroll don’t count. No one in VoW seems able to stand you except for that Ruby broad who thinks innuendo is another word for laying it on thicker than make-up on women on a hen-do. I wonder, then, what will you have after Double Jeopardy? Not your streak. Not your title. Maybe some pocket money so you can pay someone to lick your wounds.”
“I don’t expect it to be a walk in the park, mind, like it or not there have been those rare moments where Ryder showed that he could be more than an insufferable prick. At Heatstroke against Reya Serra...he managed to turn a bungled attempt at the champion’s advantage into an actual defence. Armed and Dangerous, excepting the cheap tactic, had him defending his keep with something near to aplomb. In a way that is not at all meant as a compliment, Ryder seems to share something in common with me, in that when we really have something to prove, we will risk pride, body, mind, and soul to prove it.”
“Where we differ, however, is Ryder can’t deal with attacks to his pride. You get so defensive over every little thing, because you realize that the words people use against you can’t be ignored because they’re true. If you were so confident in your own abilities, you wouldn’t have felt the need to try and demoralize me - which only served to galvanize - because you’d have nothing to worry about. But you ARE worried, Ryder. Worried that you’ve peaked. Worried that some old woman is going to take your everything and effectively make Ryder Blade an unfortunate footnote in the year twenty sixteen. And you know what? You damn well ought to be worried, Ryder.”
As Constance talked, the video continued to document her dream-like walk to the grassy field viewed from her window. The path through the parking lot was fraught with peril, people pointing and laughing at her, people barring her way and forcing her to go around, people standing to the side and applauding. The camera takes a moment to pan over these extras, these apparitions, and they each wear similar attire to Constance. The biggest obstacle is that of a mother holding hands with a young boy, who slaps Constance and turns her around, sending her further away from reaching her destination.
Again she resumes her walk, back through the wave of pedestrians laughing, pointing, mocking, clapping, cheering. But though she’s been turned around, forced on a detour, she spies an opening, a new path to reach her destination and her steps quicken along towards it.
“It’s time to wise up to the reality, Ryder, that your time in the limelight is over. Do you remember what your response was to my challenge? You laughed at me. Right at me. No doubt you thought that there was no way someone so uncool could win against...what were you Mixed Martial Ryder at that point? You change your name more than Sean Combs and you both stopped being relevant in the nineties. Well, your vernacular. You’ve only ever been relevant in your distorted mind’s eyes.”
“You know why I chose a two out of three falls match, Ryder? Because you can’t cheat your way to a cheap win. Your little tricks aren’t going to work when you can’t rely on just one simple pinfall. I chose this stipulation because when have you truly been run through the wringer? I chose this stipulation because I see in you the same thing I see in every young person that steps between those ropes. Overconfidence. The belief that because you’ve made it that far that you’re already the best thing since silced bread. In most cases a simple kick in the ass puts a stop to that, but you’ve let your head swell - and I don’t mean THAT head. But tell me, Ryder, what happens to that ego, that bloated head of yours, when you can’t fall back on easy tactics, when the crowd, long since fed up with your antics, drowns out the sound of your own masturbatory words?”
“It’s rare when I get my own ass motivated enough to come into a match ready to actually show why people say I’m a damn fierce competitor. The last time was when I was staring down three people, two of whom had humiliated me in the past, and this time it’s just because I’m tired of hearing you talk. I’m tired of act like you run this town because you have a long title reign; I’m still technically a reigning world champion, Ryder, you want to compare sizes? I’m just...tired of you, Ryder.”
“VoW has welcomed me and I’ve found my stride. It’s about time I give back to the place that I’m growing to not mind. And the least I can do is give the Excel Championship a better home, around the waist of a champion that people DON’T want to punch in the face before they even open their mouth. You might get lucky. You might get one over me. But knowing your incredulity every time someone bounces back from your pathetic onslaughts means the odds remain ever in my favour. Because if there’s one thing I’ve done incredibly well in my career it’s take a beating and come back harder than ever. The only difference is that I don’t usually get the chance to come back immediately after the fact.”
“I don’t want many things. Give me a great novel, a cup of coffee, maybe an episode or two of Countdown, and I’m content. I want even less when it comes to what happens in the ring - nine times out of ten I just want to go out and not make an utter fool of myself. But I want you, Ryder, I want you to feel what it’s like to lose everything because just maybe it might help you become a better person. When you’re coming to, the smooth sounds of Lady Pen wafting into your ears, your championship around my waist - MY championship - I want you to understand that it wasn’t deception or cheap tricks that won in the end...but someone who just wanted it more.”
“After Double Jeopardy, no one will remember Ryder Blade as anything other than that annoying guy that thinks college doesn’t have to end after graduation - oh sorry, I’m assuming things...that annoying guy that thinks HIGH SCHOOL doesn’t have to end after graduation. Because honestly, Ryder, unlike you I understand the merits of an education, and I’ve studied up. Your barebones-ass camel clutch against Stacy barely qualified as a submission. You were wincing from Patrick’s armbar. You were willing to get yourself counted out after Reya gave you a Silent Night. After Valquist dissected your limbs out came the foreign objects. Do you see where I’m going with this, Ryder? Do you see now why the advantage is mine? Do you see why this match is two out of three falls?”
“Have your bro team on standby, because you’ll need shoulders to support you as you limp up the ramp no longer a champion. You’ll still be The X, of course, just with an ‘E’ propped on to the front.”
“I’ve already worked out how I’m going to celebrate, too. I’ll have a bottle or a can or whatever of Sprintex and I’ll pour one out for their fallen idol...right into the toilet where that piss juice belongs. And then I’ll remember how my ringside associate hurt your bollocks and I’ll enjoy a laugh. I’ll go to bed, and I’ll wake up smiling and happy knowing that I did exactly what we both said would happen, Ryder.”
“A nobody beat you.”
Constance arrives at the green field and the shadowy figure steps out from behind a tree. The figure, wearing a shoddy mask of Constance’s face, embraces the moody Mancunian as the people that formerly barred her way clap before disappearing in a flash of light, leaving Constance alone and looking skyward, determined, as the visual thematic metaphor of her working through her own crippling self doubts and self imposed blocks reaches its cinematic conclusion.
“And by the way, VoW, or whoever’s in charge of championships, I wasn’t kidding about what I said on Twitter. When I win the belt, I’m putting an ‘E’ in front of it. I’m not wearing a belt that is spelled incorrectly. You may as well have that waiting for me in Puerto Rico. I have a good feeling about this; I’m going to excel at being the Excel.”
“Twenty Sixteen will mark the end of the pound sign Neverending Streak. Just like the Neverending Story it’s gone on far too long and wasn’t even all that entertaining...and all things come to an end anyway.”
“Goodbye, Ryder Blade. No one will miss you when you’re gone from the spotlight.”
No other fanfare is needed, just the instrumental track of a certain familiar entrance theme as the film, such as it was, cuts to black. To silence.
