Post by Constance on May 21, 2016 8:00:48 GMT -6
From the Diary of Constance Chapin
Sometimes I think back on my youth and wonder where everything went wrong. That sounds a bit dramatic, sure, but it’s an accurate portrayal of how I feel any time I’m reminded of my youth. This includes, and is certainly not limited to, hearing from my parents, hearing songs I enjoyed as a young girl, stepping foot into England, or even just thumbing through a novel I hated then but enjoy now, like anything written by Fitzgerald. I don’t know why I decided to read a book about rich asshole Americans pining over love or whatever the hell when the only thing I could relate to was Myrtle getting hit by a car since she was lucky enough to escape the hellhole. I suppose it made me feel cultured and smug. My peers were squealing about killing Piggy and thinking Simon was great while I was in my corner scoffing at them and fooling myself into thinking Gatsby was someone worth emulating.
I wonder how they reacted to Simon’s fate. I hope it involved tears.
Reminiscing on one’s youth is typically reserved for one’s deathbed, or so I’ve been lead to believe from various forms of media - it’s the sign of any given hack author or scriptwriter to use dying memories as a framing device after all - but I’ve been getting a jump on things. It’s no doubt thanks to being hounded damn near daily to call my mum and inform her of the news that someone on this planet can stand to share living space with me. Of course I haven’t told Piper, she’d insist on flying over and staying until the honeymoon was ended. My reasoning is a simple gamble, I’m on record as stating that I’ll call mine as soon as she calls hers. I figure that gives me at least until the week before the ceremony before I have to call home.
But simply being told about my mother stirs thoughts in me that I’d rather not think about. It’s much like when I started thinking about Morgan and how my being a stupid twenty-something that couldn’t read signals made me believe that I was a homewrecker. That wound up working up nicely, even if I still sometimes think about what could have been. I could’ve been a mother. A step mother but a mother all the same. Would I have been happy? Would I still be making no name for myself in gymnasiums and town centers? Would I have left the industry behind to actually pursue my dream? I suppose everyone who has moments like that in life spend time thinking about ‘the road not taken’. I’m certain that’s exactly what Frost wrote about.
I hold with those who favor fire.
Where was I even going with this inane rambling? Oh, right.
Where did it all go wrong?
The Constance Chapin that was sixteen and awkward would look at the Constance Chapin that is staring middle age in the face and telling it to fuck off and Sixteen Constance would assume she was looking at someone that got her ass kicked by drugs and depression. We’d share the same nose, though. I’ve never been a fan of my nose and it was worse as a teenager when people likened me to Pinocchio and thought they were clever.
Teenage Chapin didn’t have a whole lot of friends but she was far more social than I am. Teenage Chapin had soft eyes for a member of the football team but he was more interested in a girl that didn’t find satisfaction in ramming herself into other girls up and down a pitch. But that’s the nature of the sport. I can’t pinpoint exactly where it went wrong, but the more I think on it, which is again the very thing I’ve been discussing in true rambling fashion, the more I realize that I wasn’t happy even then. The youth and teenage years are supposed to be the years that adults look back on and remember most fondly, apart from marriage and children; it’s why people stress in American institutions that ‘high school is the best four years of your life’ right before then saying ‘College is the best four years of your life’.
I’ve been in an American high school. If the best years of a person’s life is there then it’s no surprise the current generation adults are out of touch with how the world works and expects things to listen to them based on retweets and follows over anything else. Years Nine through Twelve for me were awful and I imagine it holds true everywhere else. I think adults hold their teenage years in such high regard because when you’re under the legal age for all the fun things adults can do, like taxes, employment, and healthcare, you can get away with murder.
Not LITERALLY, of course. But I cannot count the number of times I’ve heard my own dad or my dad’s mates proclaim “Boys will be boys” when discussing how one of their kids got into a fight or lifted some jaffa cakes at a petrol station. There’s no sense of responsibility so a lad and his mates run around and create mischief because all that waits for them is a slap on the knuckles and the game becomes ‘what can we get away with’.
But I didn’t have any real friends and not for lack of trying. I had teammates but I intimidated the lot of them since every attempt to do something with the girls wound up not panning out. ‘I have a date’ or ‘I have schoolwork’ were common excuses. There wasn’t much common ground to be had between us. While the locker room was all abuzz with playful arguments over which Gallagher was cuter (with that one girl who was always on about Damon Albarn or Jarvis Cocker, seeming not to understand that the point was that the Gallagher’s were hometown heroes) I was in the corner putting on my shoes and looking for any opportunity to talk about Illmatic to a crowd of people that had no idea what that even was. Clothes, bankrolls, and hoes...they did not know what I was saying.
But just because there was nothing we had in common outside of playing the same sport and being bloody good at it didn’t mean that we couldn’t be friends. Or at least make the attempt. There’s no lie worse than when you tell your parents about your friends at school when in truth those ‘friends’ don’t even know your name. My mum would regale the family with tales about me and Sandra Denton. I still haven’t told her that Sandra Denton is Pepa. It’s hard to know what was more depressing, my youth spent desperately trying to be accepted and fitting in or my adult days where that earlier need for acceptance and friendship morphed into disdain and cynicism.
There might be a correlation between my not having friends in my formative youth days and me losing myself in novels. In novels the weird precocious girl was the protagonist and wound up loved and accepted by the end. I didn’t even have my first date until I was old enough to buy alcohol. In America.
I don’t know where it all went wrong with me, but the more I think about it, almost in spite of myself, the more I start to understand that the seeds were always there and I was watering them with the tears I spilled alone in my room while the people I wanted to be my friends were chattering on the phone and seeing movies together and going on dates. Were I able to I might tell Teenage Constance to buck up and keep at it, then again knowing what I know now and how most people never grow out of that teenage mentality I might tell her that she’s right to forget about them.
I need not look any further than the presence of the internet in every facet of culture. Companies desperately try to sound like they are ‘hip’, ‘emoji’ is a word in dictionaries for some reason, grown adults act like teenagers and assume responsibility is someone else’s. Where did it all go wrong, I wonder, and the answer I don’t have. But I’ve had the right idea all along the more I think about it.
The best years of our lives aren’t the four years of secondary education or whatever because in most cases people never stop repeating those four years even as they approach their thirties and forties. It’s like the person in university that goes to Freshman mixers to flirt with nineteen year olds.
I might not have a circle of friends. But I can take comfort in knowing that the ones I do have didn’t come as a result of me having to change myself for their approval. If I were to speak to Teenage Constance I think I know what I’d tell her.
Don't keep sweating what I do, Cause I'm gonna be just fine - check it out
Sandra Denton told me that once. She was the best friend I ever had.
~
There was one immediate thought that overtook all others to serve as a much needed distraction and it was quite simple at that. Whatever happened to muzak? The utterly forgettable background music in elevators and public locations had seemingly vanished only to replaced by terrestrial radio being piped in through the speaker systems which meant the formerly forgettable and easily ignored muzak was now annoying, grating pop songs. At present the crowd of people going about their various businesses, be it the old people power walking around in circles, the tired parents having to sit in the food court because the benches were all taken, everyone was being serenaded by post processed voices confusing working from home with having sex.
And it was absolutely driving Constance Chapin insane.
To Constance, having no choice but to listen to a type of song that was done better twenty years ago was just the cherry on top of an absolutely melted sundae. Under normal circumstances the Mancunian would never have been caught dead in the monument to consumerism and bad taste that is a shopping mall, but when were her circumstances ever normal? Especially these days, what with constant meetings with incompetent wedding planners and furniture shopping, two things that somehow were more tiring and dull than Constance’s normal routine of waking up and reading some novel over a cup of tea. Or coffee. But scaring away wedding planners and rolling her eyes at the alarming amount of leather furniture on sale at least had the thin guise of being meaningful and responsible. This unwanted and unwelcome trip to the mall? Utterly irresponsible and quite possibly completely pointless.
Naturally it wasn’t at all her idea.
”Honey! Honey! Guess what?” Whenever Emily rushed into the room there was a fifty fifty chance that it would be something important. Constance erred on the side of it never being important every time and this was no exception. For one thing it was before noon and nothing important ever happened before noon; or at least nothing important SHOULD happen before noon. Constance had been sitting in bed, fingers gripped to the bindings of novel that had managed to actually grip her - a rarity considering the recent publication date and Constance’s views on most modern pulp fiction. Constance didn’t even process Emily’s call, having long since built up a mental blocker to her fiance’s interruptions.
”HONEY!” Emily increased her voice though her tone didn’t change. If this were an emergency then Emily would have sounded shocked, exasperated, worried, some sort of negative feeling, but this sounded like Emily was excited. Whenever Emily was excited it was never due to anything important; Constance assumed that this interruption was because Sartre and Snowy were playing with yarn or something equally banal. But of course that couldn’t be the case because Sartre was curled up and sleeping on Constance’s lap and inbetween turns of the pages, Constance brushed her fingers along Sartre’s furry little back.
”Guess what?” Emily was nothing if not persistent. There was probably part of her that realized Constance’s indifference and saw it as a little game. A challenge. This little back and forth was their day-to-day interactions, with Emily taking a bit of pride in getting Constance’s attention for the most innocuous things possible. Emily had nothing but time and she always found a way to waste Constance’s. ”Honey? Are you listening to me?”
”I’m hearing you. I’m not listening.” Another turn of the page as Constance’s gaze never broke from the book in her hands. ”You’d like this book. It’s about vegetarians.” The way to deflect Emily was to distract Emily. Hopefully changing the subject would be enough.
”It is? That’s not like your usual...is it non fiction?” So far the plan was working.
”Oh no, it’s fiction. I wasn’t sure what to make of it at first but there’s a real Kafkaesque feeling to it.”
”When did Kafka write anything about vegetarians?”
That little question was enough to have Constance turn her gaze to Emily, but only just long enough for Constance to shoot her fiance a skeptical look; a look that was equal parts incredulous and annoyed. ”It doesn’t mean it’s by Kafka. This plain woman, and that’s her husband talking, just throws away all the meat in their house one night and you would not believe how angry the husband gets.” During her minor summary Constance had returned her eyes to the novel.
”That doesn’t sound at all like Kafka. How is that even a plot?” Emily seemed genuinely interested, enough so that she was stepping closer to the bed with each passing remark.
”Well the vegetarianism is just a gateway. This is set in Korea so it’s all...cultural and different than here. But there’s also this nameless brother-in-law character who wants to be with Yeong-he, that being the titular vegetarian, and it’s really, really unsettling. Caitlyn told me about the film adaptation but I can’t imagine it being half as gripping as-”
”Holden!” Emily interjected as soon as Caitlyn was mentioned. ”That’s what I’m here about! You tricked me!”
”I didn’t. I started talking about something much more entertaining than whatever is going on with you and Caitlyn.”
”Forget your dumb book, honey. We have to go. Now!” Emily had practically jumped the remaining distance between her and the bed in order to pull at Constance’s legs. The sudden movement caused Sartre to stir awake, yawn, and relocate himself to the comfort of the bed proper.
”Go? I don’t have to go anywhere.” Constance tried to hide the annoyance she was feeling but her poker face was practically nonexistant.
”If we don’t hurry we’ll never catch her!” Emily was not slowing down in her desire to yank Constance out of bed.
”Catch her? You’re talking about Caitlyn? What, is she robbing a bank or something?” There was a brief moment of interest and concern in Constance’s tone; despite Caitlyn being just a rent paying room mate and an annoying gnat that just didn’t seem to go away, there was a small trace of something resembling concern. Constance still saw Caitlyn as the misguided girl that the brave and foolish teacher rescued from the clutches of uncaring, wealthy, drug abusing parents. It was doubtful that Caitlyn felt the same way.
”Maybe not that extreme, but she is sneaking off and getting into cars with strangers. Aren’t you worried?”
”Strangers to us doesn’t mean strangers to her. She’s probably going off with friends.”
”Without telling us?” Emily was not backing down and had even managed to get Constance to set her book aside and sit on the edge of the bed with her feet firm on the floor.
”We’re not her parents, she doesn’t have to-”
”We’re her GUARDIANS. It’s in the law somewhere. She has to-”
”We’re her roommates. She pays us to live here.” Constance was rapidly growing tired of these antics. Emily would never admit it (neither would Constance) but for all the teasing and passive aggressive remarks Emily leveled at Caitlyn, part of her surely saw the young girl as family. Or at the very least a friend. That had to be the reason why Emily was so concerned about the blonde’s whereabouts.
Or maybe she was just looking for any excuse to find some dirt. With Emily it could honestly be either one.
”And as responsible landladies-” ”We’re not that either.” ”AS RESPONSIBLE LANDLADIES….it is our duty to make sure that our tenant isn’t bringing in drugs or alcohol.”
”Why would she have to bring in alcohol? You’ve got wine in the cupboards.”
Emily sighed. Clearly playing the hypothetical game would get her nowhere, not with Miss Literal Can’t Take A Hint sandbagging her at every turn. In truth this was something that Emily could’ve handled on her own, but with Constance along for the ride...well it was nice to have a scapegoat. Or at least someone to corroborate an excuse with.
With Constance clearly not concerned there was really only one card to play, and it was one Emily wanted to play at the top but gave her spouse the benefit of the doubt in assuming bribery wouldn’t be the key to concern.
”If you come with me I’ll go to the next wedding planner meeting by myself.”
”...You’re driving.”
Bribery was the key to concern.
While it wasn’t her idea to come to the mall, she wasn’t entirely without fault. All Constance had to do was say no, but the promise of not having to spend two hours with someone who couldn’t cut it in a legitimate profession was too good to turn down.
The mall wasn’t even the first stop on what was turning into an all day affair. Constance noticed there weren’t any clocks hanging around the mall, perhaps so as not to remind the single minded shoppers just how long they’d been inside, wasting their paychecks and lives, but it was well past noon by the time they caught back up with Caitlyn and her tell-tale red cap. The trail had gone cold when Caitlyn ducked into a movie theater and Constance absolutely refused to go inside. She and Emily had no way of knowing what Caitlyn was seeing which meant the two of them had to do nothing but wait around for two hours finding ways to amuse themselves.
And as it turns out, watching out for someone is hard to do when one is distracted by lips connecting with lips.
When Caitlyn emerged from the theater with a taller, sandy haired boy at her side, Emily pulled away just long enough to let out a celebratory fist thrust. It was around this time that Constance was aware that they were essentially following a girl on a date, which was a new level of weird that Constance was not sure she was prepared for. In for a penny, in for a pound.
But the mall was almost enough to make her turn back and just suffer through the wedding planner. There was nothing Constance liked and everything she hated. People walking with their heads glued to their phones, rude people shoving others aside on their quest to shop at stores with inferior products at exorbitant prices, a food court with ‘multicultural’ foods for people who think Taco Bell is an authentic Mexican cuisine...and the godawful generic radio music. She was now more than ever acutely aware of why so many people were willing to write off entire genres of music without batting an eye.
”I’ve never felt more out of touch than this very moment.” Constance mused as her eyes glanced upwards at one of the many speakers currently blaring out one man’s quest to say ‘Black X6, Phantom, White X6 look like a panda’ as many times in one inane song as possible.
”What?” Emily turned to look at Constance for a brief second before returning her gaze down towards Caitlyn and her read cap and the mysterious male next to her.
Constance and Emily were leaning on a railing overlooking the floor beneath them, looking and acting as casual as they possibly could. Caitlyn was on the same floor as them but down near a clothing store aimed at adolescents. Constance and Emily had followed their roommate around the mall for what seemed like hours now. Constance knew that they had enough ‘evidence’ or whatever it was they were here for but for some reason Emily wanted to keep observing like they were cops on a stakeout. With boredom and annoyance reaching critical mass, Constance took to hating on the radio music as a way to keep herself from lashing out.
”This song. I feel like it’s undoing my appreciation for the genre.”
”Who cares about a song, honey? Any minute now…”
”I care. I care about a song. More than I care about whatever the hell we’re doing here.”
”I’ve been saying for weeks that Holden is secretly dating someone, and now I have proof.” Emily began walking further up the mall, noticing that Caitlyn was doing the same.
”Right, I’ve picked that up. But why do you care?” Constance was dragging her feet like a child throwing a tantrum because he didn’t get a toy at the store.
”If Holden is dating someone it is our right to know so that we can give her a hard time.”
”That doesn’t...that’s stupid. I couldn’t care less who she sees. Do I need to stress again how we’re not her parents?”
Constance’s uncaring attitude drew Emily’s full attention as the future Mrs. turned on her heels to address Constance, taking her eyes off Caitlyn’s head for the immediate moment.
”How can you not care? Why would she be hiding his identity from us if there wasn’t something going on? They’re clearly up to something!”
”What they’re ‘up to’ is having a date. She’s..what...seventeen? Eightteen? That’s what kids do.”
”Then why hasn’t she told us about him?” Emily returned to that point as if it was some sort of smoking gun, but Constance was there to shrug her shoulders as hard as she possibly could.
”Who cares? I didn’t tell my parents about my dates as a teen.” She chose to leave out the part where she had a total of zero dates as a teen. ”Are you going to put an ear to the wall if they get intimate at our place? Because then it gets weird.”
”Oh it’s already pretty weird.” A younger voice snapped both Emily and Constance to attention, turning to the source. Caitlyn Caulfield, looking smug, standing in front of the pair. Next to her the mysterious tall boy had his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Clean cut looking sort, though Constance had to wonder what sort of person wore a trilby both in this day and age and indoors. ”Isn’t eavesdropping a crime?”
”We’re not eavesdropping. We happened to be shopping here and noticed you. Small town, isn’t it?” Emily really wanted to jab Constance’s side with an elbow but there was no way to do it without arousing even more suspicion.
”We’re not shopping here. We’re following you.”
”CONSTANCE!” The elbow met Constance’s side for a completley different reason.
”Please. She’s not stupid, she knows I’d never be here by choice.”
”Martin, this is Ms. Chapin and her daughter Emily. They’re my landladies.” Caitlyn explained the the thoroughly confused trilby wearing lad. ”Do me a favor and get a Coke?” Caitlyn nudged Martin away, and he seemed glad to get away from what was sure to be an awkward situation.
”Soooo….who’s Martin?” Emily asked, smirking as if she had cracked some difficult case. ”He certainly looks like your type. What is it with you and hats?”
”Oh my god I told you I’m not seeing him.”
”A movie, shopping around the mall, standing near enough to be holding hands? That’s a date if I ever saw one.”
”I believe her.” Constance chimed in, looking from Caitlyn over to the back of Martin down by a vending machine.
”His name is Martin and his uncle is a producer.”
”Oh, Holden, you naive child…” As Emily spoke, openly mocking the girl, Caitlyn pulled out her phone, hit a few buttons with her thumb, and showed an image of Martin, Caitlyn, and a bearded, portly gentleman.
”His name is Martin Hacker. That’s his uncle Jerry Hacker. And this was taken after he expressed an interest in my little project. What you should be saying is ‘Congratulations on selling your documentary, Caitlyn.’”
”Wait...the documentary about me?” Constance was visibly taken aback, having forgotten that that was a large part of what brought this odd trio together. At some point, Caitlyn evolved from ‘strange documentarian’ to ‘the girl that lives with us and films my work related videos’. Eventually, Constance stopped noticing the cameras.
”Once it’s edited he’s going to take it around to some festivals. Your life story is going to be screened for captivated audiences and I’ve got my way into the industry. I’m not dating Martin. I’m using his connections. If I have to spend time with him...well that’s the price of business.” Caitlyn put her phone away with a grin.
”Why haven’t you shown us the final product? We’re the stars!”
”You’re hardly in it. But Jerry does want to meet you, Ms. Chapin...so expect that call soonish.”
”I...I didn’t expect it to ever...actually come out.”
”Well, it’s not out yet. But it’s closer to completion than ever. Who needs film school, right?” Caitlyn’s positivity was bright enough for the three of them. Emily remained unconvinced that it was just ‘for business’ as Caitlyn was saying while Constance was speechless. Moreso than usual.
Martin returned and handed a Coke to Caitlyn and offered them to Emily and Constance; Emily took it, Constance refused. ”Things aren’t ever going to be normal, are they?”
”With you, Ms. Chapin, normal skipped town years ago. If I were you, I’d embrace it. Who knows? You might actually stand to gain something from this.”
”Yes, a headache.”
”If its any consolation, no one really watches documentaries anymore. Anyway, if you’re both done stalking me, I’m going to go back to my date now.” Caitlyn shrugged her shoulders and took a sip from her can of Coke.
”I KNEW IT!” Emily called, taking it as a victory and not an instance of Caitlyn telling the artist exactly what she wanted to hear.
Satisfied, Emily was ready to leave the mall behind, though Constance was rooted to the floor, still shocked by the sudden news. Ideally this sort of thing would’ve been delivered in a more official capacity, but such were the consequences of stalking. It took a considerable amount of Emily poking, prodding and threatening PDA to get Constance to even focus enough to return to the comfort zone that was the car, but even upon returning home it was clear that Constance was still stuck processing the information. It was coming at the absolute worst time, between the early stages of the wedding and her stock being higher than ever in her career. She wasn’t quite sure she was ready for her name to be known to a different sort of person, she only just came to terms with her being known amongst a niche audience as is.
As if the poor choice in music wasn’t reason enough, now Constance had yet another reason to think poorly of malls.
Nothing good in the world ever happened at a fucking mall.
~
”Honestly this seemed inevitable. Although in my head I pictured vastly different circumstances, mainly that one of us wouldn’t be holding a title - in the most likely scenario it would be me sans title given my previous history of being just so unreliable when it came to defences. But I suppose I can’t exactly claim that anymore. Point is, I assumed that I’d be staring down Casanova English sooner or later, it just seemed a given that I’d be thrust against the supposed cream of the crop. And so here we are, Champion against Champion with nothing on the line except for massive egos.”
“If anyone has a right to be a bit egotistical I suppose it’s you, English, considering you’re the man at the top despite the bumps you’ve taken to get there...and to stay there. I know you mainly through reputation as I’ve always had my own...things to focus on, namely in keeping as low a profile as possible before my hand was forced. But that reputation of yours is hardly flattering, and I’m not just talking about the ego thing, though you must know what they say about people who think the world of themselves. I won’t bore you with the details but it’s not exactly flattering.”
“But thing is, English, I don’t care. Maybe it’s the English in me - and that’s how you do some fancy wordplay...because I’m from England and we’re notoriously polite - or maybe it’s because I’ve just come down from a match with one of the strangest VoW has to offer and I’m looking for something...normal, whatever it is I’m not going to do a deep dive into my problems with you as a person. Believe me, there’s enough on the surface for me to give my favourite Horsewoman a break in the ‘you’re a misguided idiot’ game. But honestly? A man in your position, a man with your reputation...you’ve no doubt heard it all before. And why retread worn territory?”
“I don’t know you as a person, Casanova, but anyone who calls themselves ‘Casanova’ is not someone I see myself enjoying spending time with. I suspect you don’t even know where the name got its start, but this is no time for etymology. It was Giacomo Casanova, by the way. Never say I don’t teach people things. I don’t know you as a person, but I know that, and this is me being honest, I likely would not like you. Fortunately my opinion on you won’t have any effect to our little exhibition.”
“In my quest for normalcy following the whole...Elskerinne thing I’m appealing to you as VoW’s World Visionary Champion and I’m doing it as VoW’s Xcel Champion. The both of us are at the top of our respective games, which is why we’re squaring off like this, and these titles carry a weight that I’m sure you’re intimately familiar with. It’s not just some status symbol which I often suspect is how you saw it on your rocky road to claiming it back - a symbol to hide behind questionable deeds because it’s easy to justify unsavoury methods if one uses their title and position to do so. Richard Nixon was proof of that, surely. Margaret Thatcher as well. The titles we hold are not free passes; we should be seen as examples to follow, something for the rest of the roster to aspire towards. At least that’s how I’m trying to go about it, even if only to leave my own mark on the thing now that I’ve pretty much wiped off the Blade Residue from it.”
“I need look no further than Zahara Matisse. Surely I count her amongst my few...associates but before that even came to pass, before we even met, blew up the ring, and shared the deep respect that can only come after such a trial, even before all of that Zahara had me on something resembling a pedestal...even when I thought the lowest of myself in spite of everything. But before I go off on a tangent I’m saving for our little magician friend...my point, English, is that I am trying to make my tenure as Xcel Champion be inspiring. I know, I can’t believe it myself, me, the one who doesn’t care about people suddenly wanting others to be inspired like some hack motivational speaker. Seems farfetched, doesn’t it?”
“But...I left Nothing Else Matters a different woman than the one I came into it. Well...a...two percent different woman. But for me, the usually unflinching Constance Chapin? Two percent is massive.”
“That’s the mindset I’m coming into this match with. I know I’ve got another defence against my friend on the horizon, and I really hope she watches our match, because while this clash of titans won’t have titles on the line, if any of what I’m saying reaches your soul or your heart or wherever, English, then it will be a match that shows everyone what happens when two people at the top of their game and the top of their respective ladders leave such things like ‘pride’ and ‘ego’ at the ramp.”
“You’re the World Visionary Champion and I want you to see this match as if I’m out to take that away from you. If it helps, imagine I said some negative things about The Orphanage or insulted your views and stances or something. Because had my heart not grown three sizes that day that might’ve been exactly the type of thing that I’d be spouting.”
“It’s different from how I approached my match with Matt Slater. There I appealed to him as a fellow ring veteran amidst younger sorts. I’m appealing to you as a fellow champion, and I realize it might not take, I realize you might simply brush it aside or laugh or whatever, but that’s fine. I’m used to that. I’ve built a career out of dealing with people who retreat to insults and mockery when faced with someone acting like a decent human being for a change.”
“You recently mentioned to a mutual...acquaintance of ours that you are ‘reality’, that you don’t look or act like you belong here before going on to say you’re the one who knocks or whatever it was. What does that make me, I wonder? You’re not the only odd one out in this company. I was a damn high school teacher, that’s not the kind of person you’d expect to be a champion. But here I am. And here you are. Champion against Champion. You’ll be hard pressed to find anyone in this whole industry that is more ‘real’ than I am.”
“But again I have to stress, this isn’t a battle of ideology or anything, I’m not out to prove you’re a fraud or a hypocrite or any of that nonsense. I just want to remind everyone in VoW why the two of us are Champions. We’ve both got our futures to consider, surely, and despite which of us leaves Breakthrough with the victory our match needs to show not just our next challengers but EVERYONE why we proudly have these belts around our waist.”
“From one Champion to another, Casanova, bring it on. I’m not going to hold back.”
Sometimes I think back on my youth and wonder where everything went wrong. That sounds a bit dramatic, sure, but it’s an accurate portrayal of how I feel any time I’m reminded of my youth. This includes, and is certainly not limited to, hearing from my parents, hearing songs I enjoyed as a young girl, stepping foot into England, or even just thumbing through a novel I hated then but enjoy now, like anything written by Fitzgerald. I don’t know why I decided to read a book about rich asshole Americans pining over love or whatever the hell when the only thing I could relate to was Myrtle getting hit by a car since she was lucky enough to escape the hellhole. I suppose it made me feel cultured and smug. My peers were squealing about killing Piggy and thinking Simon was great while I was in my corner scoffing at them and fooling myself into thinking Gatsby was someone worth emulating.
I wonder how they reacted to Simon’s fate. I hope it involved tears.
Reminiscing on one’s youth is typically reserved for one’s deathbed, or so I’ve been lead to believe from various forms of media - it’s the sign of any given hack author or scriptwriter to use dying memories as a framing device after all - but I’ve been getting a jump on things. It’s no doubt thanks to being hounded damn near daily to call my mum and inform her of the news that someone on this planet can stand to share living space with me. Of course I haven’t told Piper, she’d insist on flying over and staying until the honeymoon was ended. My reasoning is a simple gamble, I’m on record as stating that I’ll call mine as soon as she calls hers. I figure that gives me at least until the week before the ceremony before I have to call home.
But simply being told about my mother stirs thoughts in me that I’d rather not think about. It’s much like when I started thinking about Morgan and how my being a stupid twenty-something that couldn’t read signals made me believe that I was a homewrecker. That wound up working up nicely, even if I still sometimes think about what could have been. I could’ve been a mother. A step mother but a mother all the same. Would I have been happy? Would I still be making no name for myself in gymnasiums and town centers? Would I have left the industry behind to actually pursue my dream? I suppose everyone who has moments like that in life spend time thinking about ‘the road not taken’. I’m certain that’s exactly what Frost wrote about.
I hold with those who favor fire.
Where was I even going with this inane rambling? Oh, right.
Where did it all go wrong?
The Constance Chapin that was sixteen and awkward would look at the Constance Chapin that is staring middle age in the face and telling it to fuck off and Sixteen Constance would assume she was looking at someone that got her ass kicked by drugs and depression. We’d share the same nose, though. I’ve never been a fan of my nose and it was worse as a teenager when people likened me to Pinocchio and thought they were clever.
Teenage Chapin didn’t have a whole lot of friends but she was far more social than I am. Teenage Chapin had soft eyes for a member of the football team but he was more interested in a girl that didn’t find satisfaction in ramming herself into other girls up and down a pitch. But that’s the nature of the sport. I can’t pinpoint exactly where it went wrong, but the more I think on it, which is again the very thing I’ve been discussing in true rambling fashion, the more I realize that I wasn’t happy even then. The youth and teenage years are supposed to be the years that adults look back on and remember most fondly, apart from marriage and children; it’s why people stress in American institutions that ‘high school is the best four years of your life’ right before then saying ‘College is the best four years of your life’.
I’ve been in an American high school. If the best years of a person’s life is there then it’s no surprise the current generation adults are out of touch with how the world works and expects things to listen to them based on retweets and follows over anything else. Years Nine through Twelve for me were awful and I imagine it holds true everywhere else. I think adults hold their teenage years in such high regard because when you’re under the legal age for all the fun things adults can do, like taxes, employment, and healthcare, you can get away with murder.
Not LITERALLY, of course. But I cannot count the number of times I’ve heard my own dad or my dad’s mates proclaim “Boys will be boys” when discussing how one of their kids got into a fight or lifted some jaffa cakes at a petrol station. There’s no sense of responsibility so a lad and his mates run around and create mischief because all that waits for them is a slap on the knuckles and the game becomes ‘what can we get away with’.
But I didn’t have any real friends and not for lack of trying. I had teammates but I intimidated the lot of them since every attempt to do something with the girls wound up not panning out. ‘I have a date’ or ‘I have schoolwork’ were common excuses. There wasn’t much common ground to be had between us. While the locker room was all abuzz with playful arguments over which Gallagher was cuter (with that one girl who was always on about Damon Albarn or Jarvis Cocker, seeming not to understand that the point was that the Gallagher’s were hometown heroes) I was in the corner putting on my shoes and looking for any opportunity to talk about Illmatic to a crowd of people that had no idea what that even was. Clothes, bankrolls, and hoes...they did not know what I was saying.
But just because there was nothing we had in common outside of playing the same sport and being bloody good at it didn’t mean that we couldn’t be friends. Or at least make the attempt. There’s no lie worse than when you tell your parents about your friends at school when in truth those ‘friends’ don’t even know your name. My mum would regale the family with tales about me and Sandra Denton. I still haven’t told her that Sandra Denton is Pepa. It’s hard to know what was more depressing, my youth spent desperately trying to be accepted and fitting in or my adult days where that earlier need for acceptance and friendship morphed into disdain and cynicism.
There might be a correlation between my not having friends in my formative youth days and me losing myself in novels. In novels the weird precocious girl was the protagonist and wound up loved and accepted by the end. I didn’t even have my first date until I was old enough to buy alcohol. In America.
I don’t know where it all went wrong with me, but the more I think about it, almost in spite of myself, the more I start to understand that the seeds were always there and I was watering them with the tears I spilled alone in my room while the people I wanted to be my friends were chattering on the phone and seeing movies together and going on dates. Were I able to I might tell Teenage Constance to buck up and keep at it, then again knowing what I know now and how most people never grow out of that teenage mentality I might tell her that she’s right to forget about them.
I need not look any further than the presence of the internet in every facet of culture. Companies desperately try to sound like they are ‘hip’, ‘emoji’ is a word in dictionaries for some reason, grown adults act like teenagers and assume responsibility is someone else’s. Where did it all go wrong, I wonder, and the answer I don’t have. But I’ve had the right idea all along the more I think about it.
The best years of our lives aren’t the four years of secondary education or whatever because in most cases people never stop repeating those four years even as they approach their thirties and forties. It’s like the person in university that goes to Freshman mixers to flirt with nineteen year olds.
I might not have a circle of friends. But I can take comfort in knowing that the ones I do have didn’t come as a result of me having to change myself for their approval. If I were to speak to Teenage Constance I think I know what I’d tell her.
Don't keep sweating what I do, Cause I'm gonna be just fine - check it out
Sandra Denton told me that once. She was the best friend I ever had.
~
There was one immediate thought that overtook all others to serve as a much needed distraction and it was quite simple at that. Whatever happened to muzak? The utterly forgettable background music in elevators and public locations had seemingly vanished only to replaced by terrestrial radio being piped in through the speaker systems which meant the formerly forgettable and easily ignored muzak was now annoying, grating pop songs. At present the crowd of people going about their various businesses, be it the old people power walking around in circles, the tired parents having to sit in the food court because the benches were all taken, everyone was being serenaded by post processed voices confusing working from home with having sex.
And it was absolutely driving Constance Chapin insane.
To Constance, having no choice but to listen to a type of song that was done better twenty years ago was just the cherry on top of an absolutely melted sundae. Under normal circumstances the Mancunian would never have been caught dead in the monument to consumerism and bad taste that is a shopping mall, but when were her circumstances ever normal? Especially these days, what with constant meetings with incompetent wedding planners and furniture shopping, two things that somehow were more tiring and dull than Constance’s normal routine of waking up and reading some novel over a cup of tea. Or coffee. But scaring away wedding planners and rolling her eyes at the alarming amount of leather furniture on sale at least had the thin guise of being meaningful and responsible. This unwanted and unwelcome trip to the mall? Utterly irresponsible and quite possibly completely pointless.
Naturally it wasn’t at all her idea.
”Honey! Honey! Guess what?” Whenever Emily rushed into the room there was a fifty fifty chance that it would be something important. Constance erred on the side of it never being important every time and this was no exception. For one thing it was before noon and nothing important ever happened before noon; or at least nothing important SHOULD happen before noon. Constance had been sitting in bed, fingers gripped to the bindings of novel that had managed to actually grip her - a rarity considering the recent publication date and Constance’s views on most modern pulp fiction. Constance didn’t even process Emily’s call, having long since built up a mental blocker to her fiance’s interruptions.
”HONEY!” Emily increased her voice though her tone didn’t change. If this were an emergency then Emily would have sounded shocked, exasperated, worried, some sort of negative feeling, but this sounded like Emily was excited. Whenever Emily was excited it was never due to anything important; Constance assumed that this interruption was because Sartre and Snowy were playing with yarn or something equally banal. But of course that couldn’t be the case because Sartre was curled up and sleeping on Constance’s lap and inbetween turns of the pages, Constance brushed her fingers along Sartre’s furry little back.
”Guess what?” Emily was nothing if not persistent. There was probably part of her that realized Constance’s indifference and saw it as a little game. A challenge. This little back and forth was their day-to-day interactions, with Emily taking a bit of pride in getting Constance’s attention for the most innocuous things possible. Emily had nothing but time and she always found a way to waste Constance’s. ”Honey? Are you listening to me?”
”I’m hearing you. I’m not listening.” Another turn of the page as Constance’s gaze never broke from the book in her hands. ”You’d like this book. It’s about vegetarians.” The way to deflect Emily was to distract Emily. Hopefully changing the subject would be enough.
”It is? That’s not like your usual...is it non fiction?” So far the plan was working.
”Oh no, it’s fiction. I wasn’t sure what to make of it at first but there’s a real Kafkaesque feeling to it.”
”When did Kafka write anything about vegetarians?”
That little question was enough to have Constance turn her gaze to Emily, but only just long enough for Constance to shoot her fiance a skeptical look; a look that was equal parts incredulous and annoyed. ”It doesn’t mean it’s by Kafka. This plain woman, and that’s her husband talking, just throws away all the meat in their house one night and you would not believe how angry the husband gets.” During her minor summary Constance had returned her eyes to the novel.
”That doesn’t sound at all like Kafka. How is that even a plot?” Emily seemed genuinely interested, enough so that she was stepping closer to the bed with each passing remark.
”Well the vegetarianism is just a gateway. This is set in Korea so it’s all...cultural and different than here. But there’s also this nameless brother-in-law character who wants to be with Yeong-he, that being the titular vegetarian, and it’s really, really unsettling. Caitlyn told me about the film adaptation but I can’t imagine it being half as gripping as-”
”Holden!” Emily interjected as soon as Caitlyn was mentioned. ”That’s what I’m here about! You tricked me!”
”I didn’t. I started talking about something much more entertaining than whatever is going on with you and Caitlyn.”
”Forget your dumb book, honey. We have to go. Now!” Emily had practically jumped the remaining distance between her and the bed in order to pull at Constance’s legs. The sudden movement caused Sartre to stir awake, yawn, and relocate himself to the comfort of the bed proper.
”Go? I don’t have to go anywhere.” Constance tried to hide the annoyance she was feeling but her poker face was practically nonexistant.
”If we don’t hurry we’ll never catch her!” Emily was not slowing down in her desire to yank Constance out of bed.
”Catch her? You’re talking about Caitlyn? What, is she robbing a bank or something?” There was a brief moment of interest and concern in Constance’s tone; despite Caitlyn being just a rent paying room mate and an annoying gnat that just didn’t seem to go away, there was a small trace of something resembling concern. Constance still saw Caitlyn as the misguided girl that the brave and foolish teacher rescued from the clutches of uncaring, wealthy, drug abusing parents. It was doubtful that Caitlyn felt the same way.
”Maybe not that extreme, but she is sneaking off and getting into cars with strangers. Aren’t you worried?”
”Strangers to us doesn’t mean strangers to her. She’s probably going off with friends.”
”Without telling us?” Emily was not backing down and had even managed to get Constance to set her book aside and sit on the edge of the bed with her feet firm on the floor.
”We’re not her parents, she doesn’t have to-”
”We’re her GUARDIANS. It’s in the law somewhere. She has to-”
”We’re her roommates. She pays us to live here.” Constance was rapidly growing tired of these antics. Emily would never admit it (neither would Constance) but for all the teasing and passive aggressive remarks Emily leveled at Caitlyn, part of her surely saw the young girl as family. Or at the very least a friend. That had to be the reason why Emily was so concerned about the blonde’s whereabouts.
Or maybe she was just looking for any excuse to find some dirt. With Emily it could honestly be either one.
”And as responsible landladies-” ”We’re not that either.” ”AS RESPONSIBLE LANDLADIES….it is our duty to make sure that our tenant isn’t bringing in drugs or alcohol.”
”Why would she have to bring in alcohol? You’ve got wine in the cupboards.”
Emily sighed. Clearly playing the hypothetical game would get her nowhere, not with Miss Literal Can’t Take A Hint sandbagging her at every turn. In truth this was something that Emily could’ve handled on her own, but with Constance along for the ride...well it was nice to have a scapegoat. Or at least someone to corroborate an excuse with.
With Constance clearly not concerned there was really only one card to play, and it was one Emily wanted to play at the top but gave her spouse the benefit of the doubt in assuming bribery wouldn’t be the key to concern.
”If you come with me I’ll go to the next wedding planner meeting by myself.”
”...You’re driving.”
Bribery was the key to concern.
While it wasn’t her idea to come to the mall, she wasn’t entirely without fault. All Constance had to do was say no, but the promise of not having to spend two hours with someone who couldn’t cut it in a legitimate profession was too good to turn down.
The mall wasn’t even the first stop on what was turning into an all day affair. Constance noticed there weren’t any clocks hanging around the mall, perhaps so as not to remind the single minded shoppers just how long they’d been inside, wasting their paychecks and lives, but it was well past noon by the time they caught back up with Caitlyn and her tell-tale red cap. The trail had gone cold when Caitlyn ducked into a movie theater and Constance absolutely refused to go inside. She and Emily had no way of knowing what Caitlyn was seeing which meant the two of them had to do nothing but wait around for two hours finding ways to amuse themselves.
And as it turns out, watching out for someone is hard to do when one is distracted by lips connecting with lips.
When Caitlyn emerged from the theater with a taller, sandy haired boy at her side, Emily pulled away just long enough to let out a celebratory fist thrust. It was around this time that Constance was aware that they were essentially following a girl on a date, which was a new level of weird that Constance was not sure she was prepared for. In for a penny, in for a pound.
But the mall was almost enough to make her turn back and just suffer through the wedding planner. There was nothing Constance liked and everything she hated. People walking with their heads glued to their phones, rude people shoving others aside on their quest to shop at stores with inferior products at exorbitant prices, a food court with ‘multicultural’ foods for people who think Taco Bell is an authentic Mexican cuisine...and the godawful generic radio music. She was now more than ever acutely aware of why so many people were willing to write off entire genres of music without batting an eye.
”I’ve never felt more out of touch than this very moment.” Constance mused as her eyes glanced upwards at one of the many speakers currently blaring out one man’s quest to say ‘Black X6, Phantom, White X6 look like a panda’ as many times in one inane song as possible.
”What?” Emily turned to look at Constance for a brief second before returning her gaze down towards Caitlyn and her read cap and the mysterious male next to her.
Constance and Emily were leaning on a railing overlooking the floor beneath them, looking and acting as casual as they possibly could. Caitlyn was on the same floor as them but down near a clothing store aimed at adolescents. Constance and Emily had followed their roommate around the mall for what seemed like hours now. Constance knew that they had enough ‘evidence’ or whatever it was they were here for but for some reason Emily wanted to keep observing like they were cops on a stakeout. With boredom and annoyance reaching critical mass, Constance took to hating on the radio music as a way to keep herself from lashing out.
”This song. I feel like it’s undoing my appreciation for the genre.”
”Who cares about a song, honey? Any minute now…”
”I care. I care about a song. More than I care about whatever the hell we’re doing here.”
”I’ve been saying for weeks that Holden is secretly dating someone, and now I have proof.” Emily began walking further up the mall, noticing that Caitlyn was doing the same.
”Right, I’ve picked that up. But why do you care?” Constance was dragging her feet like a child throwing a tantrum because he didn’t get a toy at the store.
”If Holden is dating someone it is our right to know so that we can give her a hard time.”
”That doesn’t...that’s stupid. I couldn’t care less who she sees. Do I need to stress again how we’re not her parents?”
Constance’s uncaring attitude drew Emily’s full attention as the future Mrs. turned on her heels to address Constance, taking her eyes off Caitlyn’s head for the immediate moment.
”How can you not care? Why would she be hiding his identity from us if there wasn’t something going on? They’re clearly up to something!”
”What they’re ‘up to’ is having a date. She’s..what...seventeen? Eightteen? That’s what kids do.”
”Then why hasn’t she told us about him?” Emily returned to that point as if it was some sort of smoking gun, but Constance was there to shrug her shoulders as hard as she possibly could.
”Who cares? I didn’t tell my parents about my dates as a teen.” She chose to leave out the part where she had a total of zero dates as a teen. ”Are you going to put an ear to the wall if they get intimate at our place? Because then it gets weird.”
”Oh it’s already pretty weird.” A younger voice snapped both Emily and Constance to attention, turning to the source. Caitlyn Caulfield, looking smug, standing in front of the pair. Next to her the mysterious tall boy had his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Clean cut looking sort, though Constance had to wonder what sort of person wore a trilby both in this day and age and indoors. ”Isn’t eavesdropping a crime?”
”We’re not eavesdropping. We happened to be shopping here and noticed you. Small town, isn’t it?” Emily really wanted to jab Constance’s side with an elbow but there was no way to do it without arousing even more suspicion.
”We’re not shopping here. We’re following you.”
”CONSTANCE!” The elbow met Constance’s side for a completley different reason.
”Please. She’s not stupid, she knows I’d never be here by choice.”
”Martin, this is Ms. Chapin and her daughter Emily. They’re my landladies.” Caitlyn explained the the thoroughly confused trilby wearing lad. ”Do me a favor and get a Coke?” Caitlyn nudged Martin away, and he seemed glad to get away from what was sure to be an awkward situation.
”Soooo….who’s Martin?” Emily asked, smirking as if she had cracked some difficult case. ”He certainly looks like your type. What is it with you and hats?”
”Oh my god I told you I’m not seeing him.”
”A movie, shopping around the mall, standing near enough to be holding hands? That’s a date if I ever saw one.”
”I believe her.” Constance chimed in, looking from Caitlyn over to the back of Martin down by a vending machine.
”His name is Martin and his uncle is a producer.”
”Oh, Holden, you naive child…” As Emily spoke, openly mocking the girl, Caitlyn pulled out her phone, hit a few buttons with her thumb, and showed an image of Martin, Caitlyn, and a bearded, portly gentleman.
”His name is Martin Hacker. That’s his uncle Jerry Hacker. And this was taken after he expressed an interest in my little project. What you should be saying is ‘Congratulations on selling your documentary, Caitlyn.’”
”Wait...the documentary about me?” Constance was visibly taken aback, having forgotten that that was a large part of what brought this odd trio together. At some point, Caitlyn evolved from ‘strange documentarian’ to ‘the girl that lives with us and films my work related videos’. Eventually, Constance stopped noticing the cameras.
”Once it’s edited he’s going to take it around to some festivals. Your life story is going to be screened for captivated audiences and I’ve got my way into the industry. I’m not dating Martin. I’m using his connections. If I have to spend time with him...well that’s the price of business.” Caitlyn put her phone away with a grin.
”Why haven’t you shown us the final product? We’re the stars!”
”You’re hardly in it. But Jerry does want to meet you, Ms. Chapin...so expect that call soonish.”
”I...I didn’t expect it to ever...actually come out.”
”Well, it’s not out yet. But it’s closer to completion than ever. Who needs film school, right?” Caitlyn’s positivity was bright enough for the three of them. Emily remained unconvinced that it was just ‘for business’ as Caitlyn was saying while Constance was speechless. Moreso than usual.
Martin returned and handed a Coke to Caitlyn and offered them to Emily and Constance; Emily took it, Constance refused. ”Things aren’t ever going to be normal, are they?”
”With you, Ms. Chapin, normal skipped town years ago. If I were you, I’d embrace it. Who knows? You might actually stand to gain something from this.”
”Yes, a headache.”
”If its any consolation, no one really watches documentaries anymore. Anyway, if you’re both done stalking me, I’m going to go back to my date now.” Caitlyn shrugged her shoulders and took a sip from her can of Coke.
”I KNEW IT!” Emily called, taking it as a victory and not an instance of Caitlyn telling the artist exactly what she wanted to hear.
Satisfied, Emily was ready to leave the mall behind, though Constance was rooted to the floor, still shocked by the sudden news. Ideally this sort of thing would’ve been delivered in a more official capacity, but such were the consequences of stalking. It took a considerable amount of Emily poking, prodding and threatening PDA to get Constance to even focus enough to return to the comfort zone that was the car, but even upon returning home it was clear that Constance was still stuck processing the information. It was coming at the absolute worst time, between the early stages of the wedding and her stock being higher than ever in her career. She wasn’t quite sure she was ready for her name to be known to a different sort of person, she only just came to terms with her being known amongst a niche audience as is.
As if the poor choice in music wasn’t reason enough, now Constance had yet another reason to think poorly of malls.
Nothing good in the world ever happened at a fucking mall.
~
”Honestly this seemed inevitable. Although in my head I pictured vastly different circumstances, mainly that one of us wouldn’t be holding a title - in the most likely scenario it would be me sans title given my previous history of being just so unreliable when it came to defences. But I suppose I can’t exactly claim that anymore. Point is, I assumed that I’d be staring down Casanova English sooner or later, it just seemed a given that I’d be thrust against the supposed cream of the crop. And so here we are, Champion against Champion with nothing on the line except for massive egos.”
“If anyone has a right to be a bit egotistical I suppose it’s you, English, considering you’re the man at the top despite the bumps you’ve taken to get there...and to stay there. I know you mainly through reputation as I’ve always had my own...things to focus on, namely in keeping as low a profile as possible before my hand was forced. But that reputation of yours is hardly flattering, and I’m not just talking about the ego thing, though you must know what they say about people who think the world of themselves. I won’t bore you with the details but it’s not exactly flattering.”
“But thing is, English, I don’t care. Maybe it’s the English in me - and that’s how you do some fancy wordplay...because I’m from England and we’re notoriously polite - or maybe it’s because I’ve just come down from a match with one of the strangest VoW has to offer and I’m looking for something...normal, whatever it is I’m not going to do a deep dive into my problems with you as a person. Believe me, there’s enough on the surface for me to give my favourite Horsewoman a break in the ‘you’re a misguided idiot’ game. But honestly? A man in your position, a man with your reputation...you’ve no doubt heard it all before. And why retread worn territory?”
“I don’t know you as a person, Casanova, but anyone who calls themselves ‘Casanova’ is not someone I see myself enjoying spending time with. I suspect you don’t even know where the name got its start, but this is no time for etymology. It was Giacomo Casanova, by the way. Never say I don’t teach people things. I don’t know you as a person, but I know that, and this is me being honest, I likely would not like you. Fortunately my opinion on you won’t have any effect to our little exhibition.”
“In my quest for normalcy following the whole...Elskerinne thing I’m appealing to you as VoW’s World Visionary Champion and I’m doing it as VoW’s Xcel Champion. The both of us are at the top of our respective games, which is why we’re squaring off like this, and these titles carry a weight that I’m sure you’re intimately familiar with. It’s not just some status symbol which I often suspect is how you saw it on your rocky road to claiming it back - a symbol to hide behind questionable deeds because it’s easy to justify unsavoury methods if one uses their title and position to do so. Richard Nixon was proof of that, surely. Margaret Thatcher as well. The titles we hold are not free passes; we should be seen as examples to follow, something for the rest of the roster to aspire towards. At least that’s how I’m trying to go about it, even if only to leave my own mark on the thing now that I’ve pretty much wiped off the Blade Residue from it.”
“I need look no further than Zahara Matisse. Surely I count her amongst my few...associates but before that even came to pass, before we even met, blew up the ring, and shared the deep respect that can only come after such a trial, even before all of that Zahara had me on something resembling a pedestal...even when I thought the lowest of myself in spite of everything. But before I go off on a tangent I’m saving for our little magician friend...my point, English, is that I am trying to make my tenure as Xcel Champion be inspiring. I know, I can’t believe it myself, me, the one who doesn’t care about people suddenly wanting others to be inspired like some hack motivational speaker. Seems farfetched, doesn’t it?”
“But...I left Nothing Else Matters a different woman than the one I came into it. Well...a...two percent different woman. But for me, the usually unflinching Constance Chapin? Two percent is massive.”
“That’s the mindset I’m coming into this match with. I know I’ve got another defence against my friend on the horizon, and I really hope she watches our match, because while this clash of titans won’t have titles on the line, if any of what I’m saying reaches your soul or your heart or wherever, English, then it will be a match that shows everyone what happens when two people at the top of their game and the top of their respective ladders leave such things like ‘pride’ and ‘ego’ at the ramp.”
“You’re the World Visionary Champion and I want you to see this match as if I’m out to take that away from you. If it helps, imagine I said some negative things about The Orphanage or insulted your views and stances or something. Because had my heart not grown three sizes that day that might’ve been exactly the type of thing that I’d be spouting.”
“It’s different from how I approached my match with Matt Slater. There I appealed to him as a fellow ring veteran amidst younger sorts. I’m appealing to you as a fellow champion, and I realize it might not take, I realize you might simply brush it aside or laugh or whatever, but that’s fine. I’m used to that. I’ve built a career out of dealing with people who retreat to insults and mockery when faced with someone acting like a decent human being for a change.”
“You recently mentioned to a mutual...acquaintance of ours that you are ‘reality’, that you don’t look or act like you belong here before going on to say you’re the one who knocks or whatever it was. What does that make me, I wonder? You’re not the only odd one out in this company. I was a damn high school teacher, that’s not the kind of person you’d expect to be a champion. But here I am. And here you are. Champion against Champion. You’ll be hard pressed to find anyone in this whole industry that is more ‘real’ than I am.”
“But again I have to stress, this isn’t a battle of ideology or anything, I’m not out to prove you’re a fraud or a hypocrite or any of that nonsense. I just want to remind everyone in VoW why the two of us are Champions. We’ve both got our futures to consider, surely, and despite which of us leaves Breakthrough with the victory our match needs to show not just our next challengers but EVERYONE why we proudly have these belts around our waist.”
“From one Champion to another, Casanova, bring it on. I’m not going to hold back.”
