Nobody Puts Becky In A Corner

Hello there! Oh, you’re not aware of who I am? I’m not surprised. I do what I can to remain outside the spotlight. It’s not my place, anyhow.

My name is Thaddeus Blaine van der Rohe III. That’s the third, for you paltry parasites who can’t comprehend class. You may have witnessed me in the corner of The Bellis Street Socialites from time-to-time -- that’s correct! I am referring to the remarkable, spectacular, awe-inspiring role model known as Rebecca Saint. Oh, yes, and that grungy, slimey, disheveled little shrew, Kelsey Spencer.

I fail to assimilate what Miss Saint sees in that ogress, or why she insists on coaching her, but that’s not what I’m paid for. I’m paid to ensure Miss Saint’s security and amenity. I tolerate Spencer to the height of my capabilities.

Thankfully, she isn’t with us here today. I am chaperoning Miss Saint as we prepare for her inauguration on a Visionaries of Wrestling pay-per-view event. A lot of labour and exertion goes into looking impeccable… Something I’m convinced all of you know nothing about.

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“Miss Saint, is there anything I can get you?” I softly ask her whilst she scrutinizes her attire options. Nothing but unadulterated excellence shall be bestowed upon her delicate skin, as she will not permit herself to be seen by the filthy eyes of common folk in any other fashion. Her gracious mane falls delicately on her tailor-made jacket as she inspects it in the mirror.

“Tell me… What do you think of this, Thaddeus?” she questions, her head tilting slightly in my direction as to hear my opinion.

“I believe it suits you flawlessly, madam,” I acknowledge, verbalizing my perspective. “Perfect for a woman of your stature.”

“I thought you’d say something like that,” she replies, gazing once more into the cheval glass.

As her phone sounds, I fear the worst: Kelsey. Just speaking her regular, unappealing, low society name is repulsive. If I never have to lay eyes upon that wench, it will be far too soon.

“It’s Kelsey,” she dismisses the text, flipping her hair back and forth, presumably pondering how she will wear it to match the attire. “She wanted to go to a club, with me!” She laughs uncontrollably for a nano-second, in what I can only assume is her way of conveying contempt. “Can you believe that girl?”

“It is rather preposterous, Miss Saint.”

“Actually… Maybe I’ve been a little too hard on the nerd,” she discerns. “She did take out that troll Valerie, and did it without getting a scratch. I may take her up on that offer…”

“Surely you’re not serious, madam,” I scowl, disinterested in having absolutely anything to do with her puppet right now. Miss Saint simply adjusts her shades, instructs me to pay the man for her attire, and heads directly for the exit.

“This is nothing more than a bone, dear Thaddeus,” she announces, pivoting on the spot to face me. She lowers her sunglasses to cover her eyes, displays a chary grin and concludes her thought. “Sometimes, when you’re training a dog, you need to throw it a treat every now and then. You’re dismissed.”

Those final three syllables are like Mozart to my ears -- I’m free to trek to my abode, and more importantly do not have to soil my retinas by exposing them to that wench. Miss Saint and I have unfinished business to attend to, however, as her upcoming promotional package for the pay-per-view must be filmed.

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I’m standing prepared as Miss Saint enters hurriedly, lobbing her sunglasses onto the nearest surface in a huff. She’s agitated, it’s so obvious that even you simpletons with your inferior, enfeeble encephalons could be capable of grasping it.

“I’m at my wits end with that woman!” she bitterly spits. “I can’t stand pretending to be her friend much longer. I just hope this pays off and I’m not wasting all this time.”

“Your plans always succeed, Miss Saint,” I feel it’s my role to reminder her of such things when she begins to falter.

“I know, Thaddeus. Are we ready for this?”

“The cameraman just stepped out to shove a pastry down his gullet.”

“Blegh! Pig!” she remarks, echoing my sentiments exactly. In due course, the cameraman returns, with a mouth covered in powdered sugar and jelly filling -- and gets a tongue-lashing from Miss Saint for his tardiness. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting?! Do you even know who I am, little man? I’m Rebecca Saint! And I should be treated like the goddamn princess that I am! Got it?!”

The gluttonous man is nothing but apologetic, as he wastes no more time setting up, in fear of being verbally lacerated by Miss Saint once more. It’s not long before the cameras are rolling, and Miss Saint can work her magic.

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“Honestly, how rude are you people? You have the nerve and the audacity to boo me when I step out onto that stage? I don’t think you comprehend the type of person that I am! I could break each and every single one of you! In fact, the only reason I don’t jump that rail and beat your skulls in is because they won’t let me… It’s unethical, they tell me.

But like a lot of things in life, this isn’t actually about you people; this is about me, and me winning in my pay-per-view debut at Double Jeopardy this Sunday! I have to step in there with seven nobodies!”

A gentleman with a headset -- perhaps someone of productional importance -- strides over and whispers something into Miss Saint’s ear.

“What!?” Miss Saint bellows, contorting her face in disgust at the message delivered. “The match I'm having isn't even on the stinkin’ pay-per-view?!” She commences a temper tantrum, but halts herself with a calming inhale-exhale technique. “You know what? This is unbelieveable. Not only do I have to face people that aren't even anywhere near my level, but it's on the pre-show!?”

The messenger scurries away like the frightened rodent he is, and I watch on with pride as Miss Saint turns once more to the camera fixated on her.

“I am the best wrestler on this roster! Yet these people put me -- me -- on the pre-show?! You know how that makes your company look, morons? Are you so daft that you don't even know what you have?!”

Miss Saint isn't one to take disrespect from any individual. She's a naturally gifted athlete, a superior being -- a born leader, she exudes a confidence many can only dream of. She commands respect anywhere she goes.

As she’s handed a rundown of Double Jeopardy, the colour once occupying her face drains, replaced by a darkened shade of Crimson.

“You have got to be kidding me with this thing!” she spits, screwing the paper up and tossing it aside like refuse. “You've got Kelsey booked on the actual pay-per-view, yet I'm on the goddamn pre-show?!

This is what's wrong with this company! Nobody has a damn clue what they're doing when it comes to booking a show. I’m a main attraction, not some pre-show circus act!

But, you know what? It's fine. I forgive you, for no reason other than what's at stake in this match. When I win -- not if, but when I win -- I'll earn a Zero Gravity Championship shot. And then I can rescue that poor, defenseless little strap from around the waist of that Disney princess reject!”

When she's fired up, there's simply no-one superior to Miss Saint. If she believes in something passionately enough, she will push every fibre of her being into her work. She's phenomenal both in the ring, and with her words. It's an inspiring sight to witness in person.

“But that's still a way’s away yet. I don't like having to get my hands dirty, but when duty calls, there's no-one better… I'm going to take each of those scruffy, slimy, repulsive delinquents and toss them over the top rope -- one by one by one -- until all seven of them collapse on the outside. Because that's what needs to be done with garbage occupying my ring!