Post by Constance on Jul 29, 2016 14:43:11 GMT -6
From the Diary of Constance Chapin
In what is hopefully not a recurring event, I find myself utterly devoid of anything at all to rave about like the bitter realist-slash-luddite I’ve become in my maturity. I’m sure if I thought long enough about it I’d be able to come up with something. Perhaps I could start diving deep into the world of politics, but doing so would only prove how far I had truly fallen. I’m hardly an American despite technically being eligible for citizenship so what do I care about the election in this country? And I already make excuses not to go back home so as far as I’m concerned that whole matter is on them and not me; though I anticipate a call from mummy dearest any day now. I wonder how long I can fool her into thinking I’m speaking of breakfast whenever she happens to mention Bre…
I’m doing it. I’m dripping down into political commentary like I’m a first year political science student at university.
Honestly, it surprises me that I’ve got nothing on my mind and it worries me. Normally I can hide behind the frown and the grumpy attitude when I don’t want to participate in something that is sure to be asinine, but when there’s no frown to be found all bets are off. I hesitate to say that I’ve softened, because I’ve already admitted to that and if I soften any further I’ll have the consistency of jam, but in light of recent events I’d say it’s absolutely possible that I’m feeling what some might consider to be...joy.
I shudder to even think of such a thing...but things have seemingly been on a bit of an upswing for the first time in my life. Is this what normal people go through? Positivity? Being bored? Accepting things without question? Just the other day I engaged in what could be considered ‘banter’ via the outlet I do so loathe: Twitter. I don’t banter with strangers. I don’t banter at all, and yet rather than simply brush aside and roll my eyes - as you do when speaking with the hypocrites that frequent social media - I spoke lightly and with a heavy dosage of witticism and snark. I banted. I needed a long bath after the fact, but the fact is I did it.
I’m not sure how to feel about that, about slowly becoming more...normal, apart from the obvious negative, of course. Because when I really give it an ounce of thought, nothing is really normal about my situation and it never has been. I don’t follow trends but I know enough of the modern world to know that I hate it and yet I’m seen as odd because I dare to take a different stance. It used to be people like me were left to their own devices, ignored and forgotten about and mentioned only vaguely in passing a decade later, punctuated by the supposably more mature drones assuming my kind must be dead.
This is a rather roundabout way to say absolutely nothing at all. I was hoping that simply putting my thoughts to paper that I would find something to complain about but it didn’t pan out. I suppose then that, rather than doubling back onto politics, the best course of action is to simply treat the diary as an actual diary and record the happenings of my day.
Dear Diary,
Today I woke up, put the kettle on, and decided that I would read all of The Bone Clocks before the sun set. I made it eighty pages in before being forced out of the comfort of my reading lounger in order to observe the cats having a tussle. I couldn’t even feign interest. I managed another forty pages before I was told to ‘check Twitter’ whereupon unsolicited images of me taken by the would-be Annie Leibovitz were posted because the day happened to be Wednesday. I gave up on my goal right around that point because it’s futile to even plan twenty minutes of silence in a household full of children.
Fortunately I’d already read through The Bone Clocks two days after it was released.
It’s just not the same. I find I’m less willing to pour ink onto the page when I have nothing negative going on. But honestly, not to sound like some sort of arrogant tart, what could I possibly have to be negative about right now? I’m slightly wary, yes, that I seem to have new sorts breathing down my neck, offering me friendly tidings with knives behind their back - at least when it was Zahara I knew the only foul play was between her and her lover - but being wary comes with the championship still fastened to my waist and it’s not nearly enough to get me freaking out and panicking. Yet.
But despite that, everything else is rather...good. Of course I’ve still got to deal with my mother and her telling tales to Emily - I think it’s because I still haven’t called her to tell her about this stupid ‘getting married’ thing - but even Piper Chapin isn’t enough to bring down what just might be the first actual positive vibe I’ve had in literal decades.
This must be what it feels like to be ‘human’.
Not that I’m some sort of unfeeling automaton, but when you shun good feelings and embrace the cold reality of cynicism eventually those fleeting moments of genuine joy feel more like unpleasant jolts through the spine, like when a parent steps on a LEGO barefoot or accidentally kicks their toe against the coffee table. A momentary annoyance and then back to brooding and loathing the world around you.
I suppose when I get right down to it...a lot of my views lean a bit more to the realm of petty than anything else. I firmly believe in them, I would gladly die on those hills defending them, but it’s a wonder I managed to capture happiness at all with such a petty outlook on things that, ultimately, don’t even matter. It’s like yelling at a cloud. Sure it might feel good, but it accomplishes nothing and makes people think you’re a bit off in the head.
That’s not to say I wish to start embracing the things I’ve since written off, I’ve already allowed myself to be part of ‘movie night’ and all the horrors that entails and that’s already too much outside of my comfort zone. At this point, simply accepting these petty things I complain about would feel too much like letting ‘them’ win, and considering I’ve gotten used to winning I’d prefer to keep it that way.
It’s hard to really be complaining after the sort of year I’ve had thus far. Of course with the year being half over it’s probably some cosmic fate that says the remaining half of the year will be one pitfall after another. We call it the Icarus Principle. Well, we don’t but I enjoy making allusions. How long can Constance Chapin be happy? How much can I take before I’m looking in the mirror through the camera of a cellphone, doing my makeup and hair in an effort to post a ‘this is what I look like when I get out of bed selfie’ like all the other ‘normal’ people of the world.
I hope I never find that answer.
But I really, really hope that something incredibly stupid happens soon so I can go back to being normal again. Too much happiness is liable to kill me.
~
For the fifth time that day the dial tone rang loudly in her ear. Under any other circumstances such a sound would bring about feelings of joy and packaged with the knowledge of knowing that merely saying “Well, I tried” would be both the truth and reason enough to not bother for another month. All the dial tone meant in this case was a heavy sigh and the dread of having to dial the number yet again, hoping for a different result this time. It was hardly how Constance had planned on spending the day, especially given that the day in question was perfect for opening the curtains to let in the right amount of sunshine in order to not waste electric bills while laying in bed with a novel in hand.
It was far too warm to bother going outside, plus that’s where the people were and people were never on the list of things Constance wanted to deal with. Obviously her plan had its flaws, namely that every single instance of planning some alone time never truly resulted in having alone time, but it was far better than the present alternative of deeply sighing and hitting the redial button over and over again.
That the soul crushing boredom of calling someone who obviously wasn’t there was the lesser of two evils spoke volumes on how Constance viewed the outside world.
She wasn’t quite sure when it started, but after a package arrived from Manchester with a return address that was her old home, Constance knew something was very, very wrong. For one thing it meant that her parents knew Constance’s address, something Constance had made sure they didn’t know so Christmas cards and random letters wouldn’t show up. And if her parents, or specifically Piper - since her father barely knew the address of his own home - knew that then it stood to reason that someone was maintaining contact with the Chapins. Someone that wasn’t Constance.
But like any rational adult, Constance simply pretended that she hadn’t seen anything, that the box from Manchester was just a funny coincidence, that maybe there was a Manchester in the United States and someone ordered something from Ebay or something, anything to hide from the reality of the situation. But as more and more showed up, each time growing in size, it became harder and harder to simply engage in the ostrich method of problem handling.
By the time an old rugby jersey was being worn in the house by someone who both never played rugby and whose name wasn’t on it, the only sensible thing to do was to start asking relevant questions.
”What the hell are you wearing?” Constance didn’t bother asking in a nice tone, jumping straight to annoyed or aggravated, it was too hard to tell. The question was pegged to Emily, who was seemingly counting in her head how long it would take Constance to notice the fact that she was presently wearing a jersey with the number ‘8’ on it. Above the number was Constance’s last name, and considering the incredibly snug fit, it didn’t take a genius to piece together what it was.
Emily had practically been putting on a fashion show with how she was sauntering back and forth, making up excuses as to why she was entering and re-entering Constance’s field of view.
”Clothes.” came Emily’s response with a very wide smirk that practically shouted ‘yes, I am really doing this’. At present, Constance was sat on the living room couch thumbing through the pages in the newspaper while Emily had been doing laps and currently had a mug of coffee in her hands to sip on when she needed to hide her smile.
”We’re not doing this.” Constance rarely had time for games, only sometimes letting herself get swept along Emily’s current. This was not one of those times and the slowly pacing Emily wearing Constance’s old jersey was like a bull being taunted by the matador.
”Doing what? Talking?” Emily continued to feign ignorance, clearly wanting and getting exactly the reaction she had hoped for.
”Take it off.” Never before had those three words sounded less enticing.
”It’s not even noon yet, Connie. I swear, you’re incorrigible.” Regardless, Emily managed to run with it, taking the innuendo high road as she so often did.
”I’m serious, Emily.” An odd thing for Constance to say considering she was serious ninety seven percent of the time, but her frown and her glare was how she sold how serious this particular exchange was.
”I thought you were Constance. Have you been lying to me all this time?” Emily raised the mug in her hands up to her lips and took a single, brief sip. Constance said nothing in response, but her scowl only grew more prominent and if her fingers weren’t clutching the sides of the newspaper, chances are they would have been squeezing against her palm. ”Oh lighten up, honey, it’s just a joke.”
”Why do you have that?” Constance already knew the answer before Emily said it. There was really only one possible answer.
”Piper gave it to me.” Piper. Emily was on a first name basis with Constance’s mother, the simple thought of which annoyed Constance even further. Even to Constance, her mother was just ‘P.J.’ or, if she was feeling particularly distant, ‘mum’, and here was Emily referring to her as Piper.
It wasn’t the same way that Emily referred to her OWN mother, either. Whenever Emily referred to Kitty it was with a deriding sort of sneer, the kind of tone that felt incomplete without exaggerated hand gestures and vocal changes. Here Emily was speaking as if Piper was a close personal friend, or a child trying to beg their divorced parent into bending the rules because “mom lets me do it”.
Needless to say, that simple familiar utterance of the name Piper did nothing to wipe the frown from Constance’s face. It might’ve even made it more prominent.
”Why would you want that?” Constance was still coming to terms with the simple fact that Emily was in collusion with Piper - it was almost like an act of betrayal. Constance wasn’t having secret conversations with Emily’s mother, she expected the same courtesy from Emily; but that clearly had been too much to ask.
”Why wouldn’t I want it? I love tugby.” Emily was still playing the casually oblivious part - a role she had become quite proficient at. It was starting to seem less like an act.
”Sure you do. You’ve had your fun, now take it off and burn it.” Constance’s tone was hovering the range of tired by way of annoyed; it was clear she was not having any of this tomfoolery from her lack of correcting Emily’s incorrect pronunciation of rugby. The Mancunian had assumed, correctly, that the utterance of ‘tugby’ was perfectly dangled bait. Constance was not so easily caught anymore.
”But this thing is like a corset. It’s doing wonders for my figure. Don’t you want me to have a killer figure?”
”Yes, I’ve always wanted to marry a wobbly eight.” Said through a deep sigh as the realization that her demands would be met with playful dodging crept in.
”An eight? I’m an eleven, bonus points for taking the bullet and dating you. So like a fifteen, really.” Emily seemed genuinely annoyed at the numerical rating, though the outburst was the first thing that afternoon to draw a small grin from Constance. But like all rare sightings, it was a true ‘blink and miss it’ moment.
”Once again, Emily, the point is so far above your head that it requires an air traffic controller.”
”The point is you think I’m hideous. AnEIGHT? Me?”
”Well, think whatever you like, there’s no getting through to you when you’re like this.” In truth, Constance was just tired of dealing with this, she had been as soon as she realized where the old jersey had come from. If it meant accidentally wounding Emily’s pride, or her mood, then that would be the price Constance paid. Moods fluctuated all the time in the home, with the only constant being ‘Caitlyn is annoying’.
”Piper is going to hear about this,” Emily threatened, only half-joking in her intent, ”You know she’s been asking questions. You should call your mother, honey.”
”I can think of thousands of things I would rather do than subject myself to that sort of torture.”
”You’re exaggerating, don’t you think? She’s wonderful, your mom. I see where you get your humor.”
”Then I see you get your personality from your mother.” A little jab in line with the jabs being thrown about at Constance’s expense broke Emily out of her teasing ways, at least for a moment.
”Take that back. I’m nothing like her.” In all the hubbub Constance forgot the most important rule when talking with Emily: leave the parents out of the picture. Funny how that rule didn’t work both ways despite both women curling their noses at the simple mention of ‘mother’. The difference is that Constance would be the one to apologize for the transgression.
”But look, you’re both so completely humourless. The comparisons are slapping me in the face.”
”Slapped in the face? I’ll show you slapping in the face.” Not a threat from the jersey-clad American; a promise, but delivered in as flirty a way she could through gritted teeth.
”If that’s what it takes to get you to get rid of that embarrassing old thing,” Everything was coming around to the jersey for Constance; the jersey and the knowledge that her mother was trying to involve herself in her daughter’s affairs. Constance was truly starting to regret that unannounced visit all those months ago. It gave Piper the wrong idea. The idea that Constance wanted to see more of dear sweet mother.
”Just for that, I’m getting more stuff from her,” Emily fired back, frowning at both the passing comparisons and the cold way Connie had brushed aside the flirtation, ”Call your mother, honey. You can stop this.”
As Emily walked off to surely take out her annoyances on their unfortunate room mate, Constance re-settled herself on the couch. She had been interrupted from her plan of losing herself in a story and was not about to let anything else prevent her from making up for lost time. It had been a bluff, surely. What else could Emily get from Piper?
It was a week later when Constance returned home from running errands and another ‘care package’ had arrived from overseas. When Constance entered the living room, she was met with a furiously giggling Emily. ”Let me guess, more cat videos?” Constance didn’t share the appreciation for those supposed viral videos involving animals. Or people, really. The name had been appropriate, she mentioned, since like a virus the videos make her sick.
”Why didn’t you tell me you used to have blonde hair? You look like British Barbie.”
In Emily’s lap was a small binder of photos of young Constance - Emily was working her way through the teenage years. She had settled on a rather unflattering photo of Constance with stringy blonde hair and a shirt displaying her apparent love of Blondie. The shirt had been her mother's, but the hair had been all Constance. It was a strange couple of years.
”You’ve seen me with blonde hair.” Constance was not going to fall into the trap, instead making the attempt to get in front of it - in order to nip the situation in the bud.
”Maybe, but this look gives you a real heart of glass.” Emily was snickering at the joke which was, in her mind, absolutely clever. ”I can’t wait to post this on the internet.”
”Do it at your own peril.” The threat from Emily was real enough - there had been precedence for Emily doing it after all, but Constance’s warning was just as real.
”Oh, honey, it’s nothing to worry about. People are going to love your old hair. Is this a smile I see?” Emily had flipped the page to a picture of Constance engaged in what looked like laughter but could have very well been mid-sneeze or something. ”I almost didn’t make it through the baby photos. I’m glad Piper had the sense to take a picture of you with those marker caps in your nose before rushing to take them out.”
”Nothing in that album leaves this room.”
”Oh it’s fine, I can use Twitter from my phone, which is in this room. In my pocket, even.” To complete the little threat, Emily removed the phone from her pocket, flashed it about, and made out like she was taking pictures of the pictures in the album.
”What else is my mother sending you?”
”Well, there’s an easy way to find out, isn’t it?”
Constance sighed and shook her head, stomping off to avoid dealing with this nonsense again. Again, she was calling Emily’s bluff; that the threats of embarrassment would remain just that, for a time.
It was after Constance was cleared from the hospital following her match with Bickerton that the topic of her mother was brought up again. There was a look of genuine concern on Emily’s face as Constance was released, the look that said horror, that hoped a concussion wasn’t the diagnosis.
Even Constance was looking shaken; head trauma was no laughing matter. She had sustained injuries over the course of her career, but nothing on the level of potential permanent head damage - the thought alone petrified Constance, for perhaps different reasons than most. Constance just didn’t want to lose her brain activity, it was the one part of her she liked. Her ‘best feature’ as it were.
After the embrace that happens only after someone goes through a treatment or operation successfully, Constance had to ask a simple question. ”Did you call my mum?” It might not have been the most appropriate venue, but leave it to trauma to shift priorities.
She waited a day, which was her mistake as the day in question turned out to be perfect for lounging; she was medically cleared and all but a few weeks away for leave came around only so often - what better time to unwind and come back swinging? She had made a promise, however, and she was always only as good as her word. In truth, she wanted to call just to put a stop to Piper sending ‘care packages’ to Emily - after noting how willing Emily was to post embarrassing photos taken candidly all bets were off - but now there was a genuine reason.
‘Hello, mum, I almost had a concussion’ would not be a good open, but it would have to be stated. Better to hear it from the horse’s mouth.
The first ring went unanswered. As did the second. After the third she took a small break to fetch a glass of water. Emily was out in the living room or the kitchen...somewhere, and Caitlyn no one really knew how she spent the day. And here Constance was dialing the number she wanted to forget for the fourth time. Just a ring.
”I know you’re not out of the hose, mum, answer the damn phone.” Constance was getting more annoyed with each return dial. Here she was being a good daughter and the nerve of her mother to not respond to the outreach.
She gave it to ten, giving up after the tenth dial came back with the answerphone message. With a sigh, Constance tossed her phone to the side. Oh well. She gave it the old college try - what an odd expression that - and that was what counted. Nothing left to do but continue reading about Robert Frobisher’s adventures in Edinburgh.
As if on cue, as soon as Constance opened the book, the familiar tones of ‘Six Foot Seven Foot’ sounded. A phone call, how unexpected but how utterly perfect. With a sigh, Constance flipped her phone on; the number was unfamiliar but it didn’t seem like a telemarkerter from a glance.
”Hello?”
”CONNIE!” came the excited, screaming voice of Piper Chapin.
”...Mum? When did you get a mobile number? Why aren’t you at home?”
”Home? What? Didn’t Em-Em tell you?” Constance wasn’t sure how she felt about the nickname ‘Em-Em’. But she was hovering somewhere around the ‘strong dislike’ range.
”...Tell me what?” Constance turned her head towards the living room, wondering if Emily could hear this conversation and if so if she was running away.
”I can’t believe she didn’t tell you. We’ve been talking about it forever! Look, honey, I need you to come down to lax for me and your father.”
”Come down to lax? What? Are you drinking again?”
”I did have a little sip or two on the way over. Don’t be daft, honey, it makes you ugly. Be a good child and pick us up. We’re at lax! I can see the letters.”
It took longer than she wanted for Constance to put the pieces together. ”Mother...are you...are you at LAX...the airport?”
”Yes, of course I am. Didn’t Emily tell you? We’re here to visit you since you never call. Now come pick us up, the taxi drivers here look like they haven’t bathed since the Gulf War.”
Constance dropped her phone - at the moment her hands seemed like they had been greased with butter. Her parents. In the state. For a visit. Slowly her head turned towards the doorway. EMILY, WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN TELLING MY PARENTS?”
~
”I suppose people are expecting me to address the elephant in the room - such an archaic term and an even more ridiculous expression, but such are idioms I suppose - namely regarding the last time most people saw me...which was on a stretcher after what should have been a rather sporting exchange between champions. At least, that’s how I imagined it going down; seems my imagination is failing me in my old age. But in regards to that match with Bickerton there’s not much to say. I took a few bad hits. They put me in a porcelain tube, told me not to move, and of course I moved because my nose itched like you wouldn’t believe so they started over.”
“They used a lot more medical jargon but the long and short is that I’m here and the only lasting damage they could detect was the wound to my pride.”
“But in a strange way I’m rather glad...well, glad is a strong word, I’m...fine with what happened. There was a lesson in there, though it could just as well be me trying to apply one to a situation that was simply...heated. As I lay there in the machine, trying not to go absolutely mental as they scanned my head, I realized that it was a good thing to get bested in such a way. Odd thing to hear, no? But it’s true. Whereas more recent opponents, say, a certain magical maiden, took her losses rather hard - I saw my recent loss, a non title match even - as a means of keeping me...well...honest.”
“There’s a certain feeling of superiority that many a champion has. Don’t believe me? Remember who it was that held the Xcel Championship before I did. Look no further than your current World Visionary Champion. I’m sure Bickerton has an ego larger than his shirt size. And I’m not immune to such a thing. It would be so easy for me to just...slip into the role of an absolute arrogant tosser, but that’s never been what I’ve been about. I’m not some untouchable entity. I’ve not deluded myself into thinking my holding a championship makes me any better than anyone else. The further away from the recent legacy of the Xcel Championship I can take it, the better I’ll be.”
“What I’m getting at, in a roundabout way, is not a word of thanks - that would be insane - but rather a silent acknowledgement that being knocked about on my head turned out to be a good thing in the end. The last thing I needed was for me to run the risk of my knickers being too big for me all of a sudden.”
“But that, of course, is the past. Was the past. And now I must look towards the future, specifically towards my next opponent with whom I have a small bit of concern.”
“For clarification I’ve nothing against her personally, I’ve barely met the girl and know her mainly by reputation and simple word of mouth. I do, however, take issue with anyone who fancies themselves as some sort of mad hatter, insane asylum reject. I’m sure I’ve been down this road once before, what with that girl that chirped for the regurgitated worms that is, was, are, were the nuggets of rhetoric from Carlisle. So I’ll keep my thoughts on the whole...Lady Joker brief-ish.”
“Gwen, can I call you Gwen? I’m calling you Gwen. Gwen, I don’t have enough hours in a day or care in my head to verify but from what I’ve seen you fashion yourself as a very...devil may care sort when it comes to the whole ‘social media’ thing and I’m sure that extends to the ring as well - after all what self respecting ‘warden’ or ‘joker’ or ‘harlequin’ or any other term that means the same thing wouldn’t enjoy a bit of messing around with people who take this sort of thing seriously. Too seriously, at times. And believe me, I almost believe that you’re as irreverent as you say you are - you’d have to be to stick around with someone that communicates in emotional icons because words are too difficult.”
“Thing is, though, I’ve dealt with crazy. I’ve dealt with the insane - be it playful or criminally - and I’ve dealt with the unpredictable sorts that enjoy playing with their prey. It wasn’t all that long ago that I was baring my soul and admitting I feared a damn mannequin fan for being, quote, unpredictable. Yours is a different sort of psychosis, yours is, and feel free to correct me, but yours seems like you’re in on the joke. That you’re holding up a mirror to the normally cool and serious types - such as yours truly - in order to expose them.”
“Sounds like something out of a children’s comic if you ask me.”
“Naturally I’m sure I make quite the ideal target for you, then, and not just because of the belt I’ve gotten quite accustomed to wearing around my waist. I’ve seen you work. I’ve had a bit of time to do some revising and I know you like to play your games, get inside the heads, but you shouldn’t bother trying to go down that road with me. You’re a smart girl, Gwen, and that’s not a compliment I throw around easily, so you should know full well that I don’t play games of any kind. When that bell sounds, I’m not having a go and bouncing in a bounce house, I’m there to do the only thing in this world that I’ve been able to do with consistency and ability. Well, unless you count being cynical and honestly who does.”
“On that regard I think we’re more alike than we know. Sure, there’s probably a time for fun and games, but it’s not when boots are on mats. For you this match could really take you places within VoW. You’ve got people watching, people wondering if you can go toe-to-toe with a champion. A champion coming back from a little leave but a champion all the same. But knowing you...that doesn’t phase you. You’ve been down that road. Beaten champions at their own game. Turned a former one into your odd little helper monkey. No...I was wrong. This match isn’t all that meaningful to you, not in the way I’ve been saying. That would be too typical, too unfitting for the Lady Joker.”
“For you, it’s a Thursday.”
“What have you got to lose from this bout? You’re well on your way to potentially finding some prize in a box, sorry, a case, that this little bout is more of a measuring stick for the both of us. We have not entirely dissimilar methods of squaring off, you’re coming in hot and I’m hovering in the lukewarm area on a good day, which, when brought together, creates what’s known as a spark.”
“Don’t let my words fool you, Gwen, I like you as a person - probably because I don’t really know you - but from what I’ve seen and heard there’s nothing about you that brings up red flags. You’ve been around some blocks and come out better because of it. There’s nothing but respect for something like that, even if I question some of your methods and uses of free time. You’re no Lady Joker to me and I’m not going to be a participant in your parlour games. You’re Gwendolyn Massey and I’m Constance Chapin, two women who have made some splashes in their careers coming together to form what could well be considered a tidal wave.”
“Me, I’ve got my own reputation to uphold - a reputation built by others but one I’m quite keen on living up to - and that’s what’s going to propel me ever forward. I’ve reached the point in my life, professional and otherwise, where I can find a reason to give a shit where before I would see my opponent and scoff. In that way I’ve matured - who says it stops at adulthood - and it’s because of that, that though this match is for nothing other than bragging rights - ‘I beat the champion’ or ‘I survived the Lady Joker’s asylum’ - I can bring no less than the same raw determination and finesse that’s carried me through my title defences thus far.”
“You deserve nothing less, from one experienced woman to another.”
“From me, win or lose there will be no excuses. None of that ‘I’m not at one hundred percent’ that you’d get from my predecessor or any number of folks who have nothing in life other than a number in a column. From you I can only ask the same, that you leave the pretense in the locker room and take something seriously for a change. I’m too old for games and you’re too well spoken for it to work on me anyway.”
“Don’t give me a reason to dislike you, Gwen, because you’ve seen how I am with my friends - such as Zahara - now imagine that but with someone I have a vendetta against.”
“And that, Gwen, is not me making some sort of thinly veiled empty threat. That is me making a promise. I’m a woman of my words and I’m a woman of action. We’ll just have to see what kind of woman this supposed Lady Joker truly is, won’t we. I know I’m eager to see for myself.”
In what is hopefully not a recurring event, I find myself utterly devoid of anything at all to rave about like the bitter realist-slash-luddite I’ve become in my maturity. I’m sure if I thought long enough about it I’d be able to come up with something. Perhaps I could start diving deep into the world of politics, but doing so would only prove how far I had truly fallen. I’m hardly an American despite technically being eligible for citizenship so what do I care about the election in this country? And I already make excuses not to go back home so as far as I’m concerned that whole matter is on them and not me; though I anticipate a call from mummy dearest any day now. I wonder how long I can fool her into thinking I’m speaking of breakfast whenever she happens to mention Bre…
I’m doing it. I’m dripping down into political commentary like I’m a first year political science student at university.
Honestly, it surprises me that I’ve got nothing on my mind and it worries me. Normally I can hide behind the frown and the grumpy attitude when I don’t want to participate in something that is sure to be asinine, but when there’s no frown to be found all bets are off. I hesitate to say that I’ve softened, because I’ve already admitted to that and if I soften any further I’ll have the consistency of jam, but in light of recent events I’d say it’s absolutely possible that I’m feeling what some might consider to be...joy.
I shudder to even think of such a thing...but things have seemingly been on a bit of an upswing for the first time in my life. Is this what normal people go through? Positivity? Being bored? Accepting things without question? Just the other day I engaged in what could be considered ‘banter’ via the outlet I do so loathe: Twitter. I don’t banter with strangers. I don’t banter at all, and yet rather than simply brush aside and roll my eyes - as you do when speaking with the hypocrites that frequent social media - I spoke lightly and with a heavy dosage of witticism and snark. I banted. I needed a long bath after the fact, but the fact is I did it.
I’m not sure how to feel about that, about slowly becoming more...normal, apart from the obvious negative, of course. Because when I really give it an ounce of thought, nothing is really normal about my situation and it never has been. I don’t follow trends but I know enough of the modern world to know that I hate it and yet I’m seen as odd because I dare to take a different stance. It used to be people like me were left to their own devices, ignored and forgotten about and mentioned only vaguely in passing a decade later, punctuated by the supposably more mature drones assuming my kind must be dead.
This is a rather roundabout way to say absolutely nothing at all. I was hoping that simply putting my thoughts to paper that I would find something to complain about but it didn’t pan out. I suppose then that, rather than doubling back onto politics, the best course of action is to simply treat the diary as an actual diary and record the happenings of my day.
Dear Diary,
Today I woke up, put the kettle on, and decided that I would read all of The Bone Clocks before the sun set. I made it eighty pages in before being forced out of the comfort of my reading lounger in order to observe the cats having a tussle. I couldn’t even feign interest. I managed another forty pages before I was told to ‘check Twitter’ whereupon unsolicited images of me taken by the would-be Annie Leibovitz were posted because the day happened to be Wednesday. I gave up on my goal right around that point because it’s futile to even plan twenty minutes of silence in a household full of children.
Fortunately I’d already read through The Bone Clocks two days after it was released.
It’s just not the same. I find I’m less willing to pour ink onto the page when I have nothing negative going on. But honestly, not to sound like some sort of arrogant tart, what could I possibly have to be negative about right now? I’m slightly wary, yes, that I seem to have new sorts breathing down my neck, offering me friendly tidings with knives behind their back - at least when it was Zahara I knew the only foul play was between her and her lover - but being wary comes with the championship still fastened to my waist and it’s not nearly enough to get me freaking out and panicking. Yet.
But despite that, everything else is rather...good. Of course I’ve still got to deal with my mother and her telling tales to Emily - I think it’s because I still haven’t called her to tell her about this stupid ‘getting married’ thing - but even Piper Chapin isn’t enough to bring down what just might be the first actual positive vibe I’ve had in literal decades.
This must be what it feels like to be ‘human’.
Not that I’m some sort of unfeeling automaton, but when you shun good feelings and embrace the cold reality of cynicism eventually those fleeting moments of genuine joy feel more like unpleasant jolts through the spine, like when a parent steps on a LEGO barefoot or accidentally kicks their toe against the coffee table. A momentary annoyance and then back to brooding and loathing the world around you.
I suppose when I get right down to it...a lot of my views lean a bit more to the realm of petty than anything else. I firmly believe in them, I would gladly die on those hills defending them, but it’s a wonder I managed to capture happiness at all with such a petty outlook on things that, ultimately, don’t even matter. It’s like yelling at a cloud. Sure it might feel good, but it accomplishes nothing and makes people think you’re a bit off in the head.
That’s not to say I wish to start embracing the things I’ve since written off, I’ve already allowed myself to be part of ‘movie night’ and all the horrors that entails and that’s already too much outside of my comfort zone. At this point, simply accepting these petty things I complain about would feel too much like letting ‘them’ win, and considering I’ve gotten used to winning I’d prefer to keep it that way.
It’s hard to really be complaining after the sort of year I’ve had thus far. Of course with the year being half over it’s probably some cosmic fate that says the remaining half of the year will be one pitfall after another. We call it the Icarus Principle. Well, we don’t but I enjoy making allusions. How long can Constance Chapin be happy? How much can I take before I’m looking in the mirror through the camera of a cellphone, doing my makeup and hair in an effort to post a ‘this is what I look like when I get out of bed selfie’ like all the other ‘normal’ people of the world.
I hope I never find that answer.
But I really, really hope that something incredibly stupid happens soon so I can go back to being normal again. Too much happiness is liable to kill me.
~
For the fifth time that day the dial tone rang loudly in her ear. Under any other circumstances such a sound would bring about feelings of joy and packaged with the knowledge of knowing that merely saying “Well, I tried” would be both the truth and reason enough to not bother for another month. All the dial tone meant in this case was a heavy sigh and the dread of having to dial the number yet again, hoping for a different result this time. It was hardly how Constance had planned on spending the day, especially given that the day in question was perfect for opening the curtains to let in the right amount of sunshine in order to not waste electric bills while laying in bed with a novel in hand.
It was far too warm to bother going outside, plus that’s where the people were and people were never on the list of things Constance wanted to deal with. Obviously her plan had its flaws, namely that every single instance of planning some alone time never truly resulted in having alone time, but it was far better than the present alternative of deeply sighing and hitting the redial button over and over again.
That the soul crushing boredom of calling someone who obviously wasn’t there was the lesser of two evils spoke volumes on how Constance viewed the outside world.
She wasn’t quite sure when it started, but after a package arrived from Manchester with a return address that was her old home, Constance knew something was very, very wrong. For one thing it meant that her parents knew Constance’s address, something Constance had made sure they didn’t know so Christmas cards and random letters wouldn’t show up. And if her parents, or specifically Piper - since her father barely knew the address of his own home - knew that then it stood to reason that someone was maintaining contact with the Chapins. Someone that wasn’t Constance.
But like any rational adult, Constance simply pretended that she hadn’t seen anything, that the box from Manchester was just a funny coincidence, that maybe there was a Manchester in the United States and someone ordered something from Ebay or something, anything to hide from the reality of the situation. But as more and more showed up, each time growing in size, it became harder and harder to simply engage in the ostrich method of problem handling.
By the time an old rugby jersey was being worn in the house by someone who both never played rugby and whose name wasn’t on it, the only sensible thing to do was to start asking relevant questions.
”What the hell are you wearing?” Constance didn’t bother asking in a nice tone, jumping straight to annoyed or aggravated, it was too hard to tell. The question was pegged to Emily, who was seemingly counting in her head how long it would take Constance to notice the fact that she was presently wearing a jersey with the number ‘8’ on it. Above the number was Constance’s last name, and considering the incredibly snug fit, it didn’t take a genius to piece together what it was.
Emily had practically been putting on a fashion show with how she was sauntering back and forth, making up excuses as to why she was entering and re-entering Constance’s field of view.
”Clothes.” came Emily’s response with a very wide smirk that practically shouted ‘yes, I am really doing this’. At present, Constance was sat on the living room couch thumbing through the pages in the newspaper while Emily had been doing laps and currently had a mug of coffee in her hands to sip on when she needed to hide her smile.
”We’re not doing this.” Constance rarely had time for games, only sometimes letting herself get swept along Emily’s current. This was not one of those times and the slowly pacing Emily wearing Constance’s old jersey was like a bull being taunted by the matador.
”Doing what? Talking?” Emily continued to feign ignorance, clearly wanting and getting exactly the reaction she had hoped for.
”Take it off.” Never before had those three words sounded less enticing.
”It’s not even noon yet, Connie. I swear, you’re incorrigible.” Regardless, Emily managed to run with it, taking the innuendo high road as she so often did.
”I’m serious, Emily.” An odd thing for Constance to say considering she was serious ninety seven percent of the time, but her frown and her glare was how she sold how serious this particular exchange was.
”I thought you were Constance. Have you been lying to me all this time?” Emily raised the mug in her hands up to her lips and took a single, brief sip. Constance said nothing in response, but her scowl only grew more prominent and if her fingers weren’t clutching the sides of the newspaper, chances are they would have been squeezing against her palm. ”Oh lighten up, honey, it’s just a joke.”
”Why do you have that?” Constance already knew the answer before Emily said it. There was really only one possible answer.
”Piper gave it to me.” Piper. Emily was on a first name basis with Constance’s mother, the simple thought of which annoyed Constance even further. Even to Constance, her mother was just ‘P.J.’ or, if she was feeling particularly distant, ‘mum’, and here was Emily referring to her as Piper.
It wasn’t the same way that Emily referred to her OWN mother, either. Whenever Emily referred to Kitty it was with a deriding sort of sneer, the kind of tone that felt incomplete without exaggerated hand gestures and vocal changes. Here Emily was speaking as if Piper was a close personal friend, or a child trying to beg their divorced parent into bending the rules because “mom lets me do it”.
Needless to say, that simple familiar utterance of the name Piper did nothing to wipe the frown from Constance’s face. It might’ve even made it more prominent.
”Why would you want that?” Constance was still coming to terms with the simple fact that Emily was in collusion with Piper - it was almost like an act of betrayal. Constance wasn’t having secret conversations with Emily’s mother, she expected the same courtesy from Emily; but that clearly had been too much to ask.
”Why wouldn’t I want it? I love tugby.” Emily was still playing the casually oblivious part - a role she had become quite proficient at. It was starting to seem less like an act.
”Sure you do. You’ve had your fun, now take it off and burn it.” Constance’s tone was hovering the range of tired by way of annoyed; it was clear she was not having any of this tomfoolery from her lack of correcting Emily’s incorrect pronunciation of rugby. The Mancunian had assumed, correctly, that the utterance of ‘tugby’ was perfectly dangled bait. Constance was not so easily caught anymore.
”But this thing is like a corset. It’s doing wonders for my figure. Don’t you want me to have a killer figure?”
”Yes, I’ve always wanted to marry a wobbly eight.” Said through a deep sigh as the realization that her demands would be met with playful dodging crept in.
”An eight? I’m an eleven, bonus points for taking the bullet and dating you. So like a fifteen, really.” Emily seemed genuinely annoyed at the numerical rating, though the outburst was the first thing that afternoon to draw a small grin from Constance. But like all rare sightings, it was a true ‘blink and miss it’ moment.
”Once again, Emily, the point is so far above your head that it requires an air traffic controller.”
”The point is you think I’m hideous. AnEIGHT? Me?”
”Well, think whatever you like, there’s no getting through to you when you’re like this.” In truth, Constance was just tired of dealing with this, she had been as soon as she realized where the old jersey had come from. If it meant accidentally wounding Emily’s pride, or her mood, then that would be the price Constance paid. Moods fluctuated all the time in the home, with the only constant being ‘Caitlyn is annoying’.
”Piper is going to hear about this,” Emily threatened, only half-joking in her intent, ”You know she’s been asking questions. You should call your mother, honey.”
”I can think of thousands of things I would rather do than subject myself to that sort of torture.”
”You’re exaggerating, don’t you think? She’s wonderful, your mom. I see where you get your humor.”
”Then I see you get your personality from your mother.” A little jab in line with the jabs being thrown about at Constance’s expense broke Emily out of her teasing ways, at least for a moment.
”Take that back. I’m nothing like her.” In all the hubbub Constance forgot the most important rule when talking with Emily: leave the parents out of the picture. Funny how that rule didn’t work both ways despite both women curling their noses at the simple mention of ‘mother’. The difference is that Constance would be the one to apologize for the transgression.
”But look, you’re both so completely humourless. The comparisons are slapping me in the face.”
”Slapped in the face? I’ll show you slapping in the face.” Not a threat from the jersey-clad American; a promise, but delivered in as flirty a way she could through gritted teeth.
”If that’s what it takes to get you to get rid of that embarrassing old thing,” Everything was coming around to the jersey for Constance; the jersey and the knowledge that her mother was trying to involve herself in her daughter’s affairs. Constance was truly starting to regret that unannounced visit all those months ago. It gave Piper the wrong idea. The idea that Constance wanted to see more of dear sweet mother.
”Just for that, I’m getting more stuff from her,” Emily fired back, frowning at both the passing comparisons and the cold way Connie had brushed aside the flirtation, ”Call your mother, honey. You can stop this.”
As Emily walked off to surely take out her annoyances on their unfortunate room mate, Constance re-settled herself on the couch. She had been interrupted from her plan of losing herself in a story and was not about to let anything else prevent her from making up for lost time. It had been a bluff, surely. What else could Emily get from Piper?
It was a week later when Constance returned home from running errands and another ‘care package’ had arrived from overseas. When Constance entered the living room, she was met with a furiously giggling Emily. ”Let me guess, more cat videos?” Constance didn’t share the appreciation for those supposed viral videos involving animals. Or people, really. The name had been appropriate, she mentioned, since like a virus the videos make her sick.
”Why didn’t you tell me you used to have blonde hair? You look like British Barbie.”
In Emily’s lap was a small binder of photos of young Constance - Emily was working her way through the teenage years. She had settled on a rather unflattering photo of Constance with stringy blonde hair and a shirt displaying her apparent love of Blondie. The shirt had been her mother's, but the hair had been all Constance. It was a strange couple of years.
”You’ve seen me with blonde hair.” Constance was not going to fall into the trap, instead making the attempt to get in front of it - in order to nip the situation in the bud.
”Maybe, but this look gives you a real heart of glass.” Emily was snickering at the joke which was, in her mind, absolutely clever. ”I can’t wait to post this on the internet.”
”Do it at your own peril.” The threat from Emily was real enough - there had been precedence for Emily doing it after all, but Constance’s warning was just as real.
”Oh, honey, it’s nothing to worry about. People are going to love your old hair. Is this a smile I see?” Emily had flipped the page to a picture of Constance engaged in what looked like laughter but could have very well been mid-sneeze or something. ”I almost didn’t make it through the baby photos. I’m glad Piper had the sense to take a picture of you with those marker caps in your nose before rushing to take them out.”
”Nothing in that album leaves this room.”
”Oh it’s fine, I can use Twitter from my phone, which is in this room. In my pocket, even.” To complete the little threat, Emily removed the phone from her pocket, flashed it about, and made out like she was taking pictures of the pictures in the album.
”What else is my mother sending you?”
”Well, there’s an easy way to find out, isn’t it?”
Constance sighed and shook her head, stomping off to avoid dealing with this nonsense again. Again, she was calling Emily’s bluff; that the threats of embarrassment would remain just that, for a time.
It was after Constance was cleared from the hospital following her match with Bickerton that the topic of her mother was brought up again. There was a look of genuine concern on Emily’s face as Constance was released, the look that said horror, that hoped a concussion wasn’t the diagnosis.
Even Constance was looking shaken; head trauma was no laughing matter. She had sustained injuries over the course of her career, but nothing on the level of potential permanent head damage - the thought alone petrified Constance, for perhaps different reasons than most. Constance just didn’t want to lose her brain activity, it was the one part of her she liked. Her ‘best feature’ as it were.
After the embrace that happens only after someone goes through a treatment or operation successfully, Constance had to ask a simple question. ”Did you call my mum?” It might not have been the most appropriate venue, but leave it to trauma to shift priorities.
She waited a day, which was her mistake as the day in question turned out to be perfect for lounging; she was medically cleared and all but a few weeks away for leave came around only so often - what better time to unwind and come back swinging? She had made a promise, however, and she was always only as good as her word. In truth, she wanted to call just to put a stop to Piper sending ‘care packages’ to Emily - after noting how willing Emily was to post embarrassing photos taken candidly all bets were off - but now there was a genuine reason.
‘Hello, mum, I almost had a concussion’ would not be a good open, but it would have to be stated. Better to hear it from the horse’s mouth.
The first ring went unanswered. As did the second. After the third she took a small break to fetch a glass of water. Emily was out in the living room or the kitchen...somewhere, and Caitlyn no one really knew how she spent the day. And here Constance was dialing the number she wanted to forget for the fourth time. Just a ring.
”I know you’re not out of the hose, mum, answer the damn phone.” Constance was getting more annoyed with each return dial. Here she was being a good daughter and the nerve of her mother to not respond to the outreach.
She gave it to ten, giving up after the tenth dial came back with the answerphone message. With a sigh, Constance tossed her phone to the side. Oh well. She gave it the old college try - what an odd expression that - and that was what counted. Nothing left to do but continue reading about Robert Frobisher’s adventures in Edinburgh.
As if on cue, as soon as Constance opened the book, the familiar tones of ‘Six Foot Seven Foot’ sounded. A phone call, how unexpected but how utterly perfect. With a sigh, Constance flipped her phone on; the number was unfamiliar but it didn’t seem like a telemarkerter from a glance.
”Hello?”
”CONNIE!” came the excited, screaming voice of Piper Chapin.
”...Mum? When did you get a mobile number? Why aren’t you at home?”
”Home? What? Didn’t Em-Em tell you?” Constance wasn’t sure how she felt about the nickname ‘Em-Em’. But she was hovering somewhere around the ‘strong dislike’ range.
”...Tell me what?” Constance turned her head towards the living room, wondering if Emily could hear this conversation and if so if she was running away.
”I can’t believe she didn’t tell you. We’ve been talking about it forever! Look, honey, I need you to come down to lax for me and your father.”
”Come down to lax? What? Are you drinking again?”
”I did have a little sip or two on the way over. Don’t be daft, honey, it makes you ugly. Be a good child and pick us up. We’re at lax! I can see the letters.”
It took longer than she wanted for Constance to put the pieces together. ”Mother...are you...are you at LAX...the airport?”
”Yes, of course I am. Didn’t Emily tell you? We’re here to visit you since you never call. Now come pick us up, the taxi drivers here look like they haven’t bathed since the Gulf War.”
Constance dropped her phone - at the moment her hands seemed like they had been greased with butter. Her parents. In the state. For a visit. Slowly her head turned towards the doorway. EMILY, WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN TELLING MY PARENTS?”
~
”I suppose people are expecting me to address the elephant in the room - such an archaic term and an even more ridiculous expression, but such are idioms I suppose - namely regarding the last time most people saw me...which was on a stretcher after what should have been a rather sporting exchange between champions. At least, that’s how I imagined it going down; seems my imagination is failing me in my old age. But in regards to that match with Bickerton there’s not much to say. I took a few bad hits. They put me in a porcelain tube, told me not to move, and of course I moved because my nose itched like you wouldn’t believe so they started over.”
“They used a lot more medical jargon but the long and short is that I’m here and the only lasting damage they could detect was the wound to my pride.”
“But in a strange way I’m rather glad...well, glad is a strong word, I’m...fine with what happened. There was a lesson in there, though it could just as well be me trying to apply one to a situation that was simply...heated. As I lay there in the machine, trying not to go absolutely mental as they scanned my head, I realized that it was a good thing to get bested in such a way. Odd thing to hear, no? But it’s true. Whereas more recent opponents, say, a certain magical maiden, took her losses rather hard - I saw my recent loss, a non title match even - as a means of keeping me...well...honest.”
“There’s a certain feeling of superiority that many a champion has. Don’t believe me? Remember who it was that held the Xcel Championship before I did. Look no further than your current World Visionary Champion. I’m sure Bickerton has an ego larger than his shirt size. And I’m not immune to such a thing. It would be so easy for me to just...slip into the role of an absolute arrogant tosser, but that’s never been what I’ve been about. I’m not some untouchable entity. I’ve not deluded myself into thinking my holding a championship makes me any better than anyone else. The further away from the recent legacy of the Xcel Championship I can take it, the better I’ll be.”
“What I’m getting at, in a roundabout way, is not a word of thanks - that would be insane - but rather a silent acknowledgement that being knocked about on my head turned out to be a good thing in the end. The last thing I needed was for me to run the risk of my knickers being too big for me all of a sudden.”
“But that, of course, is the past. Was the past. And now I must look towards the future, specifically towards my next opponent with whom I have a small bit of concern.”
“For clarification I’ve nothing against her personally, I’ve barely met the girl and know her mainly by reputation and simple word of mouth. I do, however, take issue with anyone who fancies themselves as some sort of mad hatter, insane asylum reject. I’m sure I’ve been down this road once before, what with that girl that chirped for the regurgitated worms that is, was, are, were the nuggets of rhetoric from Carlisle. So I’ll keep my thoughts on the whole...Lady Joker brief-ish.”
“Gwen, can I call you Gwen? I’m calling you Gwen. Gwen, I don’t have enough hours in a day or care in my head to verify but from what I’ve seen you fashion yourself as a very...devil may care sort when it comes to the whole ‘social media’ thing and I’m sure that extends to the ring as well - after all what self respecting ‘warden’ or ‘joker’ or ‘harlequin’ or any other term that means the same thing wouldn’t enjoy a bit of messing around with people who take this sort of thing seriously. Too seriously, at times. And believe me, I almost believe that you’re as irreverent as you say you are - you’d have to be to stick around with someone that communicates in emotional icons because words are too difficult.”
“Thing is, though, I’ve dealt with crazy. I’ve dealt with the insane - be it playful or criminally - and I’ve dealt with the unpredictable sorts that enjoy playing with their prey. It wasn’t all that long ago that I was baring my soul and admitting I feared a damn mannequin fan for being, quote, unpredictable. Yours is a different sort of psychosis, yours is, and feel free to correct me, but yours seems like you’re in on the joke. That you’re holding up a mirror to the normally cool and serious types - such as yours truly - in order to expose them.”
“Sounds like something out of a children’s comic if you ask me.”
“Naturally I’m sure I make quite the ideal target for you, then, and not just because of the belt I’ve gotten quite accustomed to wearing around my waist. I’ve seen you work. I’ve had a bit of time to do some revising and I know you like to play your games, get inside the heads, but you shouldn’t bother trying to go down that road with me. You’re a smart girl, Gwen, and that’s not a compliment I throw around easily, so you should know full well that I don’t play games of any kind. When that bell sounds, I’m not having a go and bouncing in a bounce house, I’m there to do the only thing in this world that I’ve been able to do with consistency and ability. Well, unless you count being cynical and honestly who does.”
“On that regard I think we’re more alike than we know. Sure, there’s probably a time for fun and games, but it’s not when boots are on mats. For you this match could really take you places within VoW. You’ve got people watching, people wondering if you can go toe-to-toe with a champion. A champion coming back from a little leave but a champion all the same. But knowing you...that doesn’t phase you. You’ve been down that road. Beaten champions at their own game. Turned a former one into your odd little helper monkey. No...I was wrong. This match isn’t all that meaningful to you, not in the way I’ve been saying. That would be too typical, too unfitting for the Lady Joker.”
“For you, it’s a Thursday.”
“What have you got to lose from this bout? You’re well on your way to potentially finding some prize in a box, sorry, a case, that this little bout is more of a measuring stick for the both of us. We have not entirely dissimilar methods of squaring off, you’re coming in hot and I’m hovering in the lukewarm area on a good day, which, when brought together, creates what’s known as a spark.”
“Don’t let my words fool you, Gwen, I like you as a person - probably because I don’t really know you - but from what I’ve seen and heard there’s nothing about you that brings up red flags. You’ve been around some blocks and come out better because of it. There’s nothing but respect for something like that, even if I question some of your methods and uses of free time. You’re no Lady Joker to me and I’m not going to be a participant in your parlour games. You’re Gwendolyn Massey and I’m Constance Chapin, two women who have made some splashes in their careers coming together to form what could well be considered a tidal wave.”
“Me, I’ve got my own reputation to uphold - a reputation built by others but one I’m quite keen on living up to - and that’s what’s going to propel me ever forward. I’ve reached the point in my life, professional and otherwise, where I can find a reason to give a shit where before I would see my opponent and scoff. In that way I’ve matured - who says it stops at adulthood - and it’s because of that, that though this match is for nothing other than bragging rights - ‘I beat the champion’ or ‘I survived the Lady Joker’s asylum’ - I can bring no less than the same raw determination and finesse that’s carried me through my title defences thus far.”
“You deserve nothing less, from one experienced woman to another.”
“From me, win or lose there will be no excuses. None of that ‘I’m not at one hundred percent’ that you’d get from my predecessor or any number of folks who have nothing in life other than a number in a column. From you I can only ask the same, that you leave the pretense in the locker room and take something seriously for a change. I’m too old for games and you’re too well spoken for it to work on me anyway.”
“Don’t give me a reason to dislike you, Gwen, because you’ve seen how I am with my friends - such as Zahara - now imagine that but with someone I have a vendetta against.”
“And that, Gwen, is not me making some sort of thinly veiled empty threat. That is me making a promise. I’m a woman of my words and I’m a woman of action. We’ll just have to see what kind of woman this supposed Lady Joker truly is, won’t we. I know I’m eager to see for myself.”
