Post by Constance on Oct 7, 2016 20:50:29 GMT -6
From the Diary of Constance Chapin
It comes as no surprise that I have strong opinions on things most people tend not to have strong feelings towards. Call it a generation thing; with one side being the trendy young sorts who come into the world with social media accounts thanks to parents that nine months ago were wondering how much beer they could chug through a funnel and how much beer they could have when visibly pregnant, and the other side consisting of certain judgmental types who see the reliability of mobile phones and electronic devices as the death of communication and conversation. They might have a point were it not for the very few amount of people that use said devices to stay in touch with family over long distances. Certainly there’s an alarming number of people who use these objects to find ways to NOT talk to people, but culture is a strange thing and I’m sure that by the time I’m on my deathbed the same people I chastise for caring about retweets and numbers will be angry at young adults caring more about...I don’t know...simulated entertainment and pornography.
Loathe as we are to ever admit it, our parents had a point when they cautioned us that one day we’d be yelling at pointless things. My own mum used to tell me all about how I’d say my child’s taste in things was idiotic. The joke remains on her because I’m never having children; not when I’m surrounded by them on a regular basis, and not simply at home, mind. But it’s an ever occurring thing, the mindset that something that happened in someone’s formative years is, by default, superior and anything before that is old and anything AFTER that ranges from not as good to outright shit. The term, I believe, is nostalgia.
Of course only I could raise an issue with simple sentimentality.
Maybe I’m a fringe case, but I’m cognizant of the fact that the things that happened in my formative years were complete garbage and the only memories things from that era conjure up are memories of childhood isolation and regret, which goes against the entire point of nostalgia. But at its essence it is a stupid thing to cling on to, memories that people are too afraid to see without putting on a big production about how such and such reminds them of their vacation or something equally as personal and just as obvious and uninspired. An entire generation of people have convinced themselves that grunge music was incredible because they were going through puberty and could relate to mopey, loud, terrible sounds simply due to the fact that their parents hated it. This same generation then went on to fellate boybands and the entire late nineties culture of raditude.
Now those same people are finding jobs in marketing and people have to question why so many things reek of desperation when they try to appeal to the youth of today.
I’ve often felt that I’m a woman out of time, not in the Billy Pilgrim sense - though I suppose that’s more ‘unstuck’ than ‘out of’, but in the sense that I was always an outcast. It wasn’t because of my views...well not exclusively...but I did take after my grandmother more than my mother. My gran spent a lot of her final days being a right curmudgeon and complaining about Carol Vorderman on Countdown. While mother was listening to Squeeze well past Squeeze’s tenure and being annoyingly chipper, gran was miserable and alone and had been ever since her husband died years before her. Gran Chapin didn’t live with us but I found plenty of excuses to spend time with her if only because she had both an edited and unedited copy of Lady Chatterly’s Lover and I was desperate to find out why mum didn’t want me reading it. Gran didn’t care. She’d have read it to me if her eyes weren’t awful.
Well, it wasn’t just Lady Chatterly. A large part of my literary interest was because of my trips to gran’s house. I often made a weekend of it, taking the train from Manchester Piccadilly Station over to Liverpool Lime Street with just a backpack of clothes and light snacks. I’ve heard stories of grandmothers greeting their grandchildren with cookies and heavy amounts of food but all I ever got when I showed up was a grouchy voice wrecked by smoking and bitterness asking “What’d that harlot do THIS time?”
Of course she didn’t use the word ‘harlot’ but I prefer to keep my diary a bit cleaner. Four letters, starts with a ‘c’ and us Brits are known to use it the way American girls in media use ‘bitch’.
A weekend of stories about my father and grandfather awaited me as I promptly ignored them in favour of finding out if Constance and Oliver would keep up the affair. I once asked my father once if I was named after Lady Chatterly to which he replied “Who the fuck’s Lady Chatterly?” so naturally I tell people that ask that it comes from there or, if I’m feeling particularly saucy, from Constance Lloyd. Usually the latter just so they can look confused and pretend to know who Oscar Wilde was.
What am I even talking about right now?
Right. Nostalgia.
As I would read through various books my gran had collected over her years, I would half-listen to her stories about my dad’s youth and her own youth and both were treated with a sort of...I hesitate to say fondness but...longing. It wasn’t until much later, after she passed on, that I realized she was speaking of those times so fondly because it was the time in her life when she still had a husband. That, to me, is a far more honest sentimentality. Gran wasn’t crowing on and on about how the 30s or 20s or whatever were better because swing was real music and not this crappy bowl cut Beatles shit these kids listen to, but because it was a genuine period of her life when she was happy.
It’s rare, I’ve found, where people of the present day can equate their own nostalgia to actual happy moments. It’s all vague nonsense and explanations that go no further than “Well I was twelve and it was great then”. If people are unwilling to return to something out of fear that it won’t be good anymore then A: they’re not really nostalgic about it, they just have memory of it, and B: it was always shit to begin with and they were just stupid kids. People hold the Harry Potter series in high regard not because they are great works of literature but because they were twelve when it started and didn’t know any better.
The reliance on the internet has given these people a voice. You can’t listen to a song without someone in the comments bitching about how music today sucks - then you go to something from a decade ago and it’s the same complaint how music from a decade before that was superior. And it’s always because the commenter in question was a child at the time of release. There’s no story about how a piece of music was played at a pub where they went on their first date, just a simple, standard “I liked being a child” vague notion.
It might be a bit hypocritical of me, given my love of literature from before my time, but I’m not saying that modern literature is inferior to the stuff from the past - I’ve enjoyed a fair share of novels from the past couple of years - or because of my theme song being a late nineties one hit wonder. Nostalgia isn’t why I went with that, truth be told I’m not all that fond of the song, if I wanted to prey on nostalgia it would be Salt-n-Pepa because I often used the tape of Push It and Whatta Man to drown out the sounds of what went on after hours in the Chapin house when my parents assumed I was asleep and not up late reading.
Memories I’m not exactly itching to recall, but the memories are there nonetheless.
I suppose in a roundabout way I’m saying that people that cling to the past for no true reason are complete assholes. Yes, good things happened in the past. Bad things did too. You’d have to be an idiot to think otherwise. Sadly, there are an overabundance of idiots with access to keyboards and other devices.
Don’t look to the past until you’re well assured that you don’t have much of a future left.
Those were my grandmother’s dying words to me and I took them to heart.
Well, truth be told the last words she said to me was “Thank fuck you don’t have her hair” but I like to pretend my grandmother was a classier, well spoken woman of sophistication rather than a bitter old bitch that hated my mother because my dad went with who would give him a go rather than someone who had important things like a steady career and smarts.
I guess I’m just nostalgic that way.
~
There came a roar and with it a heavy rumble that seemed to shake the very foundation upon which people were standing. Excitement, it seemed, was in the air. It wasn’t that farfetched, the stadium had been damn near filled to capacity and when a bunch of people of various sizes and sobriety got together, rowdiness and thunderous, raucous noise was bound to happen. There was a worry, small though it was, that the stomping of feet and rocking of concrete would cause bits and pieces of overhead debris to come sprinkling down like an earthy drizzle; considering hands were full of items meant for consumption, any contamination was worrisome. Fortunately, the only thing that came down from above was the sound of people coming and going, shuffling along back to their uncomfortable seats.
Constance had rarely made it out to live sporting events of the professional variety and it was doubtful if she’d make it a normal habit. After all, if a game could be viewed comfortably in one’s home why spend the exorbitant prices and suffer through the heat made worse by close capacity of people who decided that a day spent under the sun was the perfect day not to worry about body odor. At least on the other side, that is down on the field and participating, the only concern was not making a total ass of herself in front of a crowd. Mercifully the crowds that came out to support youth women’s rugby barely reached triple digits. Unlike today where the line for the bathroom was probably triple the amount of people that ever showed up to a rugby match.
It might not have been all that dissimilar to a crowd at any given VoW show, though Constance barely paid them any mind and hadn’t since damn near her arrival. It wasn’t a case of potential performance anxiety, like a child stammering their way through an oral report, just a lack of interest. From the time her theme song played to the approval, or lack thereof, of the crowd to the time she was backstage and ready to change into civilian attire Constance didn’t know if there was one person cheering and watching or one hundred thousand. Numbers weren’t her concern. Though the train of thought brought to mind questions. Did staff members of the various arenas hosting an event stop to observe the rumbling roar of a crowd as they cheered and ranted and raved as their favorites dropped their hated rivals to the mat? Was there dust and debris falling to the ground as people nursing their third overpriced, watered down beer hissed at an unwanted result? Questions that might never get answered; questions that lingered in the back of her mind all the same.
The questions, rhetorical of course, floated out of Constance’s head as soon as she was finished standing around and waiting. Waiting had been the activity of the day. Waiting in a line of cars to even get to the parking lot. Waiting to have their tickets verified. Waiting for the agonizing length of time as the teams had warm ups one after the other instead of both at the same time. Waiting inbetween innings as the sides switched and commercials played for those watching at home. Waiting in line to fulfill a promise made about six months ago, which is when her eyes rolled upwards at the sound of footsteps only to roll back downward to observe the rumbling of the stadium in general. At least while waiting during swaps and warm ups she had the pleasure of sitting down and light, somewhat enjoyable conversation. Here all she had were her thoughts and as had been proven time and time again, Constance alone with her thoughts was a terribly dull place for her to be.
After waiting yet again, finally she was handed three items wrapped in foil and shuffled along so the next person could get their order. There were drinks ordered, but as she only had two hands she enlisted the aid of one of her guests for the day’s outing; no doubt she’d be back at their seats getting a head start on quenching her parched throat. How lucky she was, luckier still that she wasn’t footing the bill. Such was the cost of keeping a promise. The foil wrapping had an opening along the top made for ease of prying open either side, which Constance did in order to squeeze out red paste along the inside of two of three. Ketchup wasn’t her thing, but then those weren’t for her to begin with.
Her Herculean task complete, now she began the slow, deliberate march towards the noise still rumbling along amongst the surface dwellers, uncaring about the echoed nature of the celebrations to those unfortunate souls who had business inside. When Constance left their seating area it was the top of the fifth inning. When she returned to the light of the low autumn sun and to the unfiltered sounds of applause and revelry, it was the bottom of the sixth and by all accounts it had been for quite a healthy length of time. Surely she hadn’t missed much, but she couldn’t see the scoreboard from her current position and judging by the amount of ‘W’ flags flapping in the hands of the similarly attired sorts the home team was dominating.
Paying little mind to the game, Constance followed the steps back to where her party was gathered, often having to step around inconsiderate sorts who were taking up the entire staircase in their descent - sometimes thanks to girth but mostly thanks to general rudeness. She was spotted and beckoned as she approached which encouraged her quickened ascent. Turning herself sideways so as to not step over the people in her row, Constance returned to the vacant seat that was flanked on either side by wildly different persona.
To her right as she sat was the frowning face of Emily Darcy who clearly didn’t want to be here but invited herself along anyway in an effort to take more of an interest in Constance’s hobbies - of which this certainly was not. To her left was the excited young face of Jacob Winters, adorned in a pinstripe jersey with the team colors and waving his little flag along with every other fan. Next to him, nursing her second beer of the game, was his mother Morgan whom Constance suspected was the real reason Emily invited herself along. It had been a secret to Emily of the nature of Morgan and Constance’s relationship and even with bells and new tax forms on the horizon, part of Emily surely thought the worst: that Constance still felt something for the older woman that had been Constance’s greatest and only true mentor.
As she plopped herself on her chair with a heavy sigh, she handed the two ketchup-coated hot dogs to Jacob while keeping the last for herself. Morgan reached over and handed Constance the untouched amber cup. Though not typically a fan, she was truly thirsty after all the waiting and baking in the sun and even a simple sip was like heaven at this point. Jacob stopped his enthusiastic waving to unwrap and bite into the first of his hot dogs, ketchup splattering onto the side of his face. Morgan didn’t notice, focused on her beer and the game unfolding below them so Constance set her hot dog in her lap and wiped the ketchup from Jacob’s mouth with an already crinkled napkin.
”No tofu dogs I take it?” Emily asked as Constance unwrapped her plain one.
”Yes, because a baseball game is the place to go for all your vegetarian dietary needs. The tofu section was right next to the rotating sushi bar.” Constance retorted while biting into the hot dog and remembering almost immediately why she avoided them so often.
”You know, sometimes you’re not as clever as you want to be. You should leave it to the professionals.”
”Caitlyn’s not here.”
That remark drew a bit of a sneer from Emily who was only wounded in spirit despite it being quite the low blowing barb.
”What’d I miss?” Constance let the question hang but wasn’t truly interested in knowing the answer anyway.
”The guys with the white pants threw the ball towards guys in gray pants and now the gray pants are throwing balls at white pants. White pants are doing better at hitting the ball.” Emily’s answer was caked in the boredom she was feeling from her attendance. Constance did warn her that it was not an overly exciting or fast paced sort of game but the lady insisted.
”You’ve got a future in sports commentary like that,” Morgan Winters chimed in as her fingers curled around the half-empty plastic cup emblazoned with the Cubs logo. ”A real Harry Caray in the making.”
”Isn’t he the guy that hosts The Price is Right?” Even Constance managed a grunting sort of chuckle at that. It being a serious question had everything to do with why. ”Oh come on, like you know who he is either, honey.” Emily’s honeys had been emphasized much harder ever since the little detour to Chicago.
Emily had wondered why Constance had insisted they stop off in the midwest on their trip to the nation’s capital but stopped prying after the only response was “Because I made a promise”. Constance had insisted that there would be more to do in Chicago than there is in D.C. but sitting under the sun in the birthing days of autumn pretending to care about grown men swinging sticks around was not Emily’s idea of ‘more to do’.
”Do I know who Harry Caray is? No. But I at least know he’s not the host of a stupid game show, Em.”
”It’s an American institution.”
”So is obesity; that doesn’t make it GOOD.”
Constance seemed to be rather self satisfied with her little barb and took a celebratory sip of her beer. Though it was hardly palatable it was still preferable to a sugary soda and, oddly enough, cheaper as well. It was doubtful she would finish it but something cold-ish felt nice to hold.
Of the four present it was really only Jacob Winters that was focusing on the game, enthralled with every pitch and jumping to his feet every time a player hit the ball deep into the outfield. At times Constance’s attention wasn’t on the field below but rather on the expressions on Jacob’s face, the way his eyes lit up, the enthusiasm in his waving of the flag, his cheering getting drowned out by the increasingly drunken adults. It was for his benefit that Constance had even came here.
”I still don’t understand why we have to stop here of all places,” Emily had asked for what was possibly the hundredth time on their journey over. It bothered her, but Emily was good at hiding it; not good enough that it went unnoticed by Constance but good all the same.
”I made a promise,” was always Constance’s reply which was never satisfying but would have to do. It wasn’t until Constance and Emily were in the living room of Morgan Winters that Emily learned the extent of the promise.
”A Cubs game? But I’m a Sox fan.” Morgan was, in a word, incredulous. Not only was Constance showing up unannounced but she was showing up with the offer of attending what was sure to be a very crowded baseball game.
”Well, you don’t have to come along if you don’t want to, Morgan, and that goes for you as well, Emily. I made the promise to Jacob after all.”
”You made a promise? With my son? Dare I ask?”
”Two hot dogs!” Jacob sat up, eyes bright, as the memory of playing catch with Constance from March came rushing back. ”Can I go, mom? Please?” Jacob hadn’t been to a real live major league game so that, along with the promise of two hot dogs, made for an attractive and exciting proposition.
”You know, I don’t think anyone would’ve kept that promise, Connie. You’re an odd woman, you know that?” Morgan sighed but as she looked at the pleading, excited face of Jacob she just couldn’t say no. ”What the hell, you’re paying, right? You’ve gotta be getting some kinda champion bonus, a baseball game is chump change.”
Constance didn’t care to correct Morgan on her presently outdated information; the last time they had spoken it was when Constance had held the Xcel Championship after all. She and her little entourage had come to Morgan’s house then for a rather similar reason: Constance once promised Morgan to show Jacob an actual championship.
”She’s not a champion anymore.” Emily, on the other hand, saw no reason to keep quiet on that account. ”Some wannabe Joker took it and wants Connie to fight for it again. Which she SHOULD be preparing for instead of going to baseball games.” Emily’s remark was punctuated by an increase in inflection and a not-so-subtle jab to Constance’s midsection. In a weird way it was like having the angel and devil on either shoulder - which really only helped with potential Halloween plans.
”You shouldn’t worry about Gwendolyn.”
”And you SHOULD. She’s not your friend. Whatever the hell that...Arkham Horror Asylum Whatever match is...clearly she wants to hurt you.”
”You doing hardcore matches now, Connie?” Morgan raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued, ”I wouldn’t if I were you. I still can’t fully turn my head.”
”It’s not like one of your matches, Miss Masochist Morgan, nothing’s getting stapled to my head or bashed and broken over my body.”
”No one looked as good covered in blood as me. Some of it was even mine. Most of it, really.”
”It had me enraptured,” Connie admitted while Emily scoffed. Constance had to salvage the scoff by throwing an arm around Emily in a side-hug. ”Let ME worry about Gwen, alright? I’ve gone through worse, probably. And do you think I’d let someone ruin my face so close to our wedding? I’m not walking down the aisle in crutches and a sling.” Emily wasn’t fully convinced, but the follow-up peck on the lips did a number for her acceptance.
”Congratulations, by the way. Your save-the-dates arrived before you did.”
”Mooooooooom,” Jacob spoke up again, begging to go. Morgan looked at her son then over towards her friend, back to Jacob, and then over to Emily.
”So, will you be joining us, Mrs. Connie?”
”Sure, I love basisball.”
Jacob’s approving cheers echoed through the house and served as the background noise all the way to Wrigley.
”Do you think I can catch a ball?” Jacob asked the adults without so much as turning his head away from the current at-bat.
”Well we’re on the first baseline so it’s not super lik-”
”Of course you can, Jacob.”
Morgan offered a shrug while Constance just offered a knowing nod. Emily, meanwhile, remained in surprise at how easily Constance dealt with children, well, A child, but held her tongue.
”You know, you could be training right now.” Emily spoke just low enough so that only Constance could hear.
”I am training. Training for the most important match of my career.” Constance shot back, leaning over to whisper to Emily. ”There’s something we should talk about on the way to Washington.”
”Why can’t we talk about it now?” Emily was worried, concerned, but Constance simply gave her fiance a kiss and rested her head on Emily’s shoulder.
”Because we’ll have all the time in the world to talk about us. But today? Right now?” Her eyes darted towards Jacob who was on his feet, waving his mitt in the air as a foul ball was popped towards the first baseline seats, only to fall short of where the foursome were sitting; sitll Jacob’s smile never vanished. ”Right now it’s about him.”
Even Emily couldn’t argue with that.
~
”I’ve come to understand two things lately after exposure to the current Xcel Champion and opponent for what...the third time? Truth be told I’ve come to understand a great many things about her...about you...but it’s the two major ones that have stuck with me. The first, simply, is that there’s no point in asking questions of you. I have a great many questions, most importantly being what the hell is the fascination with caricatures and iconography of people famed for being dumb and goofy for the amusement of fat unqualified kings. But in an effort to pretend that there’s methods to your oh-so-unique brand of madness and/or intentional shit-stirring you prance around and laugh or avoid things or be intentionally vague because vague is mystique and mystique is what you do. But when you strip away the supposed jester, the fool as it were, the answer to every single question I might’ve raised is made perfectly clear. You’re just like every other person who expects special treatment based on something as asinine as name recognition.
Which of course leads to the second thing I’ve come to understand about you.
You’re a sore winner.
Sure, everyone’s heard of the sore loser and everyone laughs at and hates the sore loser because it’s fun to laugh at the misfortune of others; they made a song and dance number about the concept even. But a sore winner? Normally that’s reserved for the people who flub and fluke their way to some measure of success and won’t stop rubbing it in and being an absolute tool about it. That’s not you, though. No. You’re a different kind of winner. The jealous kind.
For some reason you just can’t accept the fact that you won the title. Maybe it’s because you never expected to win. Maybe it’s because so many others have put me on this pedestal that you were disappointed in the end result - and if that’s the case then that’s not on me; I’ve always been up front about my own self. Maybe you just aren’t willing to let things go - a draw in our first contest got you messed up. Perhaps you just can’t understand why I wasn’t chomping at the proverbial bit for a rematch and that angered you. Who did I think I was? Were you not good enough? That whole spiel.
Or maybe, and this is the one I think is the most likely...maybe you couldn’t fathom that I was being pointed towards our resident and also newly crowned world champion. I mean, it WAS you who barged into what was supposed to be a closed door meeting demanding a re-match, puffing your chest, putting me down because you’re so self conscious about a damn victory. It has to be jealousy. Jealousy that while I lost to you I was getting an opportunity that you so desperately craved.
You’ve been around the block, Gwen. You should know that this sort of long con game doesn’t work in reverse. Do you know what happens if I go through your little asylum and come out with the Xcel Championship once again? You don’t get tossed towards Carlisle and you wind up with egg on your face with what might very well be the shortest Xcel Championship reign in VoW history. Is that what you want to be? Is that the stamp you want on your VoW career? You’ve got the plotting genius of Cersei Lannister.
Let me make one thing abundantly clear, and I should’ve done this earlier and for that I apologize to everyone: The reason I wasn’t itching for a rematch is because I was EXCITED for the future of the division. Yes, Gwen, the DIVISION, not the TITLE, which is all you seem to care about. You don’t give one shit about the Xcel Division and I’m like ninety percent sure you stopped caring about the TITLE as soon as you heard that I was going to say hello to one of my old and best friends in the company.
When I lost the title I did so with hope for the future of the brand. For the better part of a year I’ve done what I could to make the Xcel championship mean something again, to clean up the dirt left behind by its previous owner. I may not have had a crazy amount of defences but the ones I had were defining moments in more than just the participants careers. If I could inspire people to step up to the challenge, to stop fucking around and give it their goddamned best...then I was content in my position as Xcel Champion. Go ask Zahara if I accomplished that. Go ask any former Xcel champion. Go ask anyone you like.
I offered you a handshake, a gesture of good faith, a symbolic passing of the torch, and you essentially spat in my face. So I grinned and I beared it out of professionalism when we were partnered up and I bit my tongue and agreed to your demands, putting my own potential future on the backburner even though all I wanted to do was just...deny you the satisfaction. Deny you the pleasure and worry about Emma and the looming threat of the world championship match. I’ve always been the consummate professional so allow me a moment to be unprofessional.
Gwen, you don’t deserve the Xcel Championship.
When your little ears caught wind of my meeting, you turned your victory into little more than a consolation prize. You don’t give a damn about the Xcel Championship or its future and legacy, because all you care about is being the proverbial number one...all you want is for us to swap spaces, for me to have been the one barging in as Omega pointed you towards Carlisle. You have the wrong mindset because to you all that matters is the World Visionary Championship. The belt you hold is just a stepping stone, something to be tossed aside and forgotten. It’s a silver medal to you when to every single person that wants a chance to prove their worth sees it for what it truly is: a recognition of their ability and effort.
I was wrong about you. I was wrong when I said I had nothing to take issue with in regards to you. I was wrong in assuming that the Xcel Division would be stronger now with new blood who could carry on from my efforts and the efforts of all my opponents during my tenure. I assumed the worst thing that could happen would be losing to another Ryder but no, the worst thing that could happen DID happen. I lost to someone who doesn’t care. And I need to fix that.
You said that I hadn’t earned anything in the midst of your ranting and raving but what about you, Gwen? You earned the Xcel Title and you’re ungrateful. If you had knowledge apart from how to copy and paste images and use outdated slang like ‘fleek’ you’d know that all I’ve done since arriving in VoW is earn my keep. I never once made demands of people. I never once tried to shortcut my way up a ladder. Some might consider me boring for that, because I take what I’m given and believe that with effort comes reward. And I proved that. I came into VoW being a bit of an arrogant disrespectful tosser, thinking that I was too good because I had come down off the mountain with songs of victory in my ears. And I got what I deserved because of it. From the ashes I rose up and turned myself into someone worth caring about. Never taking the easy path. Never demanding anything. I put forth the effort and good things came my way. The reward.
That concept is lost on you, Gwen. You’re like the me that assumed I would be hot shit in VoW from the jump. You can’t rest on your laurels and assume that that’ll be enough to put you in consideration for bigger leagues. What have YOU done, Gwen, to get so damn angry at my success? What have you done here that should make you a contender for the World Visionary title? What have you done to show you want the Xcel Championship that you earned?
Stop acting like this is because of a need to settle a score. There’s no score to settle. There never was. I was never ducking you because I was never going to request a rematch until you practically forced my hand. This isn’t the way you ‘legitimize’ yourself as a champion. The only one out there asking ‘who is better’ is you. You won. You said yourself that you hate losing and yet here you are hating the fact that you fucking won. You fucking beat me. And you can’t stand that you won and I still came out smelling like a rose.
Admit it. Or don’t and just do some weird mental gymnastics on me.
I don’t care if this puts my potential future prospects on hold, I cannot abide you, an unwanting champion, be the holder of the Xcel championship. You made this rematch happen and you’re going to reap exactly what you have sown here. I don’t care if I have to spill more blood than I knew I had in me. I don’t care if I break my body. I don’t care if I have to be carried out on a goddamn stretcher, I’m not leaving Armed and Dangerous with you as the Xcel Champion. I’m taking back what I and so many others have made matter and I’ll hold onto it until someone who truly earns it wins it through the shedding of blood, sweat, and tears.
When I come crawling out of your asylum and rise to my feet, once again the Xcel Champion, you’ll truly understand exactly what it is I’ve done for this company and everyone inside of it. After this match, Gwen, we’re done. I don’t wanna hear you making demands of me or anything else. Take your defeat with dignity and save what face you can.
No one likes a sore loser.
It comes as no surprise that I have strong opinions on things most people tend not to have strong feelings towards. Call it a generation thing; with one side being the trendy young sorts who come into the world with social media accounts thanks to parents that nine months ago were wondering how much beer they could chug through a funnel and how much beer they could have when visibly pregnant, and the other side consisting of certain judgmental types who see the reliability of mobile phones and electronic devices as the death of communication and conversation. They might have a point were it not for the very few amount of people that use said devices to stay in touch with family over long distances. Certainly there’s an alarming number of people who use these objects to find ways to NOT talk to people, but culture is a strange thing and I’m sure that by the time I’m on my deathbed the same people I chastise for caring about retweets and numbers will be angry at young adults caring more about...I don’t know...simulated entertainment and pornography.
Loathe as we are to ever admit it, our parents had a point when they cautioned us that one day we’d be yelling at pointless things. My own mum used to tell me all about how I’d say my child’s taste in things was idiotic. The joke remains on her because I’m never having children; not when I’m surrounded by them on a regular basis, and not simply at home, mind. But it’s an ever occurring thing, the mindset that something that happened in someone’s formative years is, by default, superior and anything before that is old and anything AFTER that ranges from not as good to outright shit. The term, I believe, is nostalgia.
Of course only I could raise an issue with simple sentimentality.
Maybe I’m a fringe case, but I’m cognizant of the fact that the things that happened in my formative years were complete garbage and the only memories things from that era conjure up are memories of childhood isolation and regret, which goes against the entire point of nostalgia. But at its essence it is a stupid thing to cling on to, memories that people are too afraid to see without putting on a big production about how such and such reminds them of their vacation or something equally as personal and just as obvious and uninspired. An entire generation of people have convinced themselves that grunge music was incredible because they were going through puberty and could relate to mopey, loud, terrible sounds simply due to the fact that their parents hated it. This same generation then went on to fellate boybands and the entire late nineties culture of raditude.
Now those same people are finding jobs in marketing and people have to question why so many things reek of desperation when they try to appeal to the youth of today.
I’ve often felt that I’m a woman out of time, not in the Billy Pilgrim sense - though I suppose that’s more ‘unstuck’ than ‘out of’, but in the sense that I was always an outcast. It wasn’t because of my views...well not exclusively...but I did take after my grandmother more than my mother. My gran spent a lot of her final days being a right curmudgeon and complaining about Carol Vorderman on Countdown. While mother was listening to Squeeze well past Squeeze’s tenure and being annoyingly chipper, gran was miserable and alone and had been ever since her husband died years before her. Gran Chapin didn’t live with us but I found plenty of excuses to spend time with her if only because she had both an edited and unedited copy of Lady Chatterly’s Lover and I was desperate to find out why mum didn’t want me reading it. Gran didn’t care. She’d have read it to me if her eyes weren’t awful.
Well, it wasn’t just Lady Chatterly. A large part of my literary interest was because of my trips to gran’s house. I often made a weekend of it, taking the train from Manchester Piccadilly Station over to Liverpool Lime Street with just a backpack of clothes and light snacks. I’ve heard stories of grandmothers greeting their grandchildren with cookies and heavy amounts of food but all I ever got when I showed up was a grouchy voice wrecked by smoking and bitterness asking “What’d that harlot do THIS time?”
Of course she didn’t use the word ‘harlot’ but I prefer to keep my diary a bit cleaner. Four letters, starts with a ‘c’ and us Brits are known to use it the way American girls in media use ‘bitch’.
A weekend of stories about my father and grandfather awaited me as I promptly ignored them in favour of finding out if Constance and Oliver would keep up the affair. I once asked my father once if I was named after Lady Chatterly to which he replied “Who the fuck’s Lady Chatterly?” so naturally I tell people that ask that it comes from there or, if I’m feeling particularly saucy, from Constance Lloyd. Usually the latter just so they can look confused and pretend to know who Oscar Wilde was.
What am I even talking about right now?
Right. Nostalgia.
As I would read through various books my gran had collected over her years, I would half-listen to her stories about my dad’s youth and her own youth and both were treated with a sort of...I hesitate to say fondness but...longing. It wasn’t until much later, after she passed on, that I realized she was speaking of those times so fondly because it was the time in her life when she still had a husband. That, to me, is a far more honest sentimentality. Gran wasn’t crowing on and on about how the 30s or 20s or whatever were better because swing was real music and not this crappy bowl cut Beatles shit these kids listen to, but because it was a genuine period of her life when she was happy.
It’s rare, I’ve found, where people of the present day can equate their own nostalgia to actual happy moments. It’s all vague nonsense and explanations that go no further than “Well I was twelve and it was great then”. If people are unwilling to return to something out of fear that it won’t be good anymore then A: they’re not really nostalgic about it, they just have memory of it, and B: it was always shit to begin with and they were just stupid kids. People hold the Harry Potter series in high regard not because they are great works of literature but because they were twelve when it started and didn’t know any better.
The reliance on the internet has given these people a voice. You can’t listen to a song without someone in the comments bitching about how music today sucks - then you go to something from a decade ago and it’s the same complaint how music from a decade before that was superior. And it’s always because the commenter in question was a child at the time of release. There’s no story about how a piece of music was played at a pub where they went on their first date, just a simple, standard “I liked being a child” vague notion.
It might be a bit hypocritical of me, given my love of literature from before my time, but I’m not saying that modern literature is inferior to the stuff from the past - I’ve enjoyed a fair share of novels from the past couple of years - or because of my theme song being a late nineties one hit wonder. Nostalgia isn’t why I went with that, truth be told I’m not all that fond of the song, if I wanted to prey on nostalgia it would be Salt-n-Pepa because I often used the tape of Push It and Whatta Man to drown out the sounds of what went on after hours in the Chapin house when my parents assumed I was asleep and not up late reading.
Memories I’m not exactly itching to recall, but the memories are there nonetheless.
I suppose in a roundabout way I’m saying that people that cling to the past for no true reason are complete assholes. Yes, good things happened in the past. Bad things did too. You’d have to be an idiot to think otherwise. Sadly, there are an overabundance of idiots with access to keyboards and other devices.
Don’t look to the past until you’re well assured that you don’t have much of a future left.
Those were my grandmother’s dying words to me and I took them to heart.
Well, truth be told the last words she said to me was “Thank fuck you don’t have her hair” but I like to pretend my grandmother was a classier, well spoken woman of sophistication rather than a bitter old bitch that hated my mother because my dad went with who would give him a go rather than someone who had important things like a steady career and smarts.
I guess I’m just nostalgic that way.
~
There came a roar and with it a heavy rumble that seemed to shake the very foundation upon which people were standing. Excitement, it seemed, was in the air. It wasn’t that farfetched, the stadium had been damn near filled to capacity and when a bunch of people of various sizes and sobriety got together, rowdiness and thunderous, raucous noise was bound to happen. There was a worry, small though it was, that the stomping of feet and rocking of concrete would cause bits and pieces of overhead debris to come sprinkling down like an earthy drizzle; considering hands were full of items meant for consumption, any contamination was worrisome. Fortunately, the only thing that came down from above was the sound of people coming and going, shuffling along back to their uncomfortable seats.
Constance had rarely made it out to live sporting events of the professional variety and it was doubtful if she’d make it a normal habit. After all, if a game could be viewed comfortably in one’s home why spend the exorbitant prices and suffer through the heat made worse by close capacity of people who decided that a day spent under the sun was the perfect day not to worry about body odor. At least on the other side, that is down on the field and participating, the only concern was not making a total ass of herself in front of a crowd. Mercifully the crowds that came out to support youth women’s rugby barely reached triple digits. Unlike today where the line for the bathroom was probably triple the amount of people that ever showed up to a rugby match.
It might not have been all that dissimilar to a crowd at any given VoW show, though Constance barely paid them any mind and hadn’t since damn near her arrival. It wasn’t a case of potential performance anxiety, like a child stammering their way through an oral report, just a lack of interest. From the time her theme song played to the approval, or lack thereof, of the crowd to the time she was backstage and ready to change into civilian attire Constance didn’t know if there was one person cheering and watching or one hundred thousand. Numbers weren’t her concern. Though the train of thought brought to mind questions. Did staff members of the various arenas hosting an event stop to observe the rumbling roar of a crowd as they cheered and ranted and raved as their favorites dropped their hated rivals to the mat? Was there dust and debris falling to the ground as people nursing their third overpriced, watered down beer hissed at an unwanted result? Questions that might never get answered; questions that lingered in the back of her mind all the same.
The questions, rhetorical of course, floated out of Constance’s head as soon as she was finished standing around and waiting. Waiting had been the activity of the day. Waiting in a line of cars to even get to the parking lot. Waiting to have their tickets verified. Waiting for the agonizing length of time as the teams had warm ups one after the other instead of both at the same time. Waiting inbetween innings as the sides switched and commercials played for those watching at home. Waiting in line to fulfill a promise made about six months ago, which is when her eyes rolled upwards at the sound of footsteps only to roll back downward to observe the rumbling of the stadium in general. At least while waiting during swaps and warm ups she had the pleasure of sitting down and light, somewhat enjoyable conversation. Here all she had were her thoughts and as had been proven time and time again, Constance alone with her thoughts was a terribly dull place for her to be.
After waiting yet again, finally she was handed three items wrapped in foil and shuffled along so the next person could get their order. There were drinks ordered, but as she only had two hands she enlisted the aid of one of her guests for the day’s outing; no doubt she’d be back at their seats getting a head start on quenching her parched throat. How lucky she was, luckier still that she wasn’t footing the bill. Such was the cost of keeping a promise. The foil wrapping had an opening along the top made for ease of prying open either side, which Constance did in order to squeeze out red paste along the inside of two of three. Ketchup wasn’t her thing, but then those weren’t for her to begin with.
Her Herculean task complete, now she began the slow, deliberate march towards the noise still rumbling along amongst the surface dwellers, uncaring about the echoed nature of the celebrations to those unfortunate souls who had business inside. When Constance left their seating area it was the top of the fifth inning. When she returned to the light of the low autumn sun and to the unfiltered sounds of applause and revelry, it was the bottom of the sixth and by all accounts it had been for quite a healthy length of time. Surely she hadn’t missed much, but she couldn’t see the scoreboard from her current position and judging by the amount of ‘W’ flags flapping in the hands of the similarly attired sorts the home team was dominating.
Paying little mind to the game, Constance followed the steps back to where her party was gathered, often having to step around inconsiderate sorts who were taking up the entire staircase in their descent - sometimes thanks to girth but mostly thanks to general rudeness. She was spotted and beckoned as she approached which encouraged her quickened ascent. Turning herself sideways so as to not step over the people in her row, Constance returned to the vacant seat that was flanked on either side by wildly different persona.
To her right as she sat was the frowning face of Emily Darcy who clearly didn’t want to be here but invited herself along anyway in an effort to take more of an interest in Constance’s hobbies - of which this certainly was not. To her left was the excited young face of Jacob Winters, adorned in a pinstripe jersey with the team colors and waving his little flag along with every other fan. Next to him, nursing her second beer of the game, was his mother Morgan whom Constance suspected was the real reason Emily invited herself along. It had been a secret to Emily of the nature of Morgan and Constance’s relationship and even with bells and new tax forms on the horizon, part of Emily surely thought the worst: that Constance still felt something for the older woman that had been Constance’s greatest and only true mentor.
As she plopped herself on her chair with a heavy sigh, she handed the two ketchup-coated hot dogs to Jacob while keeping the last for herself. Morgan reached over and handed Constance the untouched amber cup. Though not typically a fan, she was truly thirsty after all the waiting and baking in the sun and even a simple sip was like heaven at this point. Jacob stopped his enthusiastic waving to unwrap and bite into the first of his hot dogs, ketchup splattering onto the side of his face. Morgan didn’t notice, focused on her beer and the game unfolding below them so Constance set her hot dog in her lap and wiped the ketchup from Jacob’s mouth with an already crinkled napkin.
”No tofu dogs I take it?” Emily asked as Constance unwrapped her plain one.
”Yes, because a baseball game is the place to go for all your vegetarian dietary needs. The tofu section was right next to the rotating sushi bar.” Constance retorted while biting into the hot dog and remembering almost immediately why she avoided them so often.
”You know, sometimes you’re not as clever as you want to be. You should leave it to the professionals.”
”Caitlyn’s not here.”
That remark drew a bit of a sneer from Emily who was only wounded in spirit despite it being quite the low blowing barb.
”What’d I miss?” Constance let the question hang but wasn’t truly interested in knowing the answer anyway.
”The guys with the white pants threw the ball towards guys in gray pants and now the gray pants are throwing balls at white pants. White pants are doing better at hitting the ball.” Emily’s answer was caked in the boredom she was feeling from her attendance. Constance did warn her that it was not an overly exciting or fast paced sort of game but the lady insisted.
”You’ve got a future in sports commentary like that,” Morgan Winters chimed in as her fingers curled around the half-empty plastic cup emblazoned with the Cubs logo. ”A real Harry Caray in the making.”
”Isn’t he the guy that hosts The Price is Right?” Even Constance managed a grunting sort of chuckle at that. It being a serious question had everything to do with why. ”Oh come on, like you know who he is either, honey.” Emily’s honeys had been emphasized much harder ever since the little detour to Chicago.
Emily had wondered why Constance had insisted they stop off in the midwest on their trip to the nation’s capital but stopped prying after the only response was “Because I made a promise”. Constance had insisted that there would be more to do in Chicago than there is in D.C. but sitting under the sun in the birthing days of autumn pretending to care about grown men swinging sticks around was not Emily’s idea of ‘more to do’.
”Do I know who Harry Caray is? No. But I at least know he’s not the host of a stupid game show, Em.”
”It’s an American institution.”
”So is obesity; that doesn’t make it GOOD.”
Constance seemed to be rather self satisfied with her little barb and took a celebratory sip of her beer. Though it was hardly palatable it was still preferable to a sugary soda and, oddly enough, cheaper as well. It was doubtful she would finish it but something cold-ish felt nice to hold.
Of the four present it was really only Jacob Winters that was focusing on the game, enthralled with every pitch and jumping to his feet every time a player hit the ball deep into the outfield. At times Constance’s attention wasn’t on the field below but rather on the expressions on Jacob’s face, the way his eyes lit up, the enthusiasm in his waving of the flag, his cheering getting drowned out by the increasingly drunken adults. It was for his benefit that Constance had even came here.
”I still don’t understand why we have to stop here of all places,” Emily had asked for what was possibly the hundredth time on their journey over. It bothered her, but Emily was good at hiding it; not good enough that it went unnoticed by Constance but good all the same.
”I made a promise,” was always Constance’s reply which was never satisfying but would have to do. It wasn’t until Constance and Emily were in the living room of Morgan Winters that Emily learned the extent of the promise.
”A Cubs game? But I’m a Sox fan.” Morgan was, in a word, incredulous. Not only was Constance showing up unannounced but she was showing up with the offer of attending what was sure to be a very crowded baseball game.
”Well, you don’t have to come along if you don’t want to, Morgan, and that goes for you as well, Emily. I made the promise to Jacob after all.”
”You made a promise? With my son? Dare I ask?”
”Two hot dogs!” Jacob sat up, eyes bright, as the memory of playing catch with Constance from March came rushing back. ”Can I go, mom? Please?” Jacob hadn’t been to a real live major league game so that, along with the promise of two hot dogs, made for an attractive and exciting proposition.
”You know, I don’t think anyone would’ve kept that promise, Connie. You’re an odd woman, you know that?” Morgan sighed but as she looked at the pleading, excited face of Jacob she just couldn’t say no. ”What the hell, you’re paying, right? You’ve gotta be getting some kinda champion bonus, a baseball game is chump change.”
Constance didn’t care to correct Morgan on her presently outdated information; the last time they had spoken it was when Constance had held the Xcel Championship after all. She and her little entourage had come to Morgan’s house then for a rather similar reason: Constance once promised Morgan to show Jacob an actual championship.
”She’s not a champion anymore.” Emily, on the other hand, saw no reason to keep quiet on that account. ”Some wannabe Joker took it and wants Connie to fight for it again. Which she SHOULD be preparing for instead of going to baseball games.” Emily’s remark was punctuated by an increase in inflection and a not-so-subtle jab to Constance’s midsection. In a weird way it was like having the angel and devil on either shoulder - which really only helped with potential Halloween plans.
”You shouldn’t worry about Gwendolyn.”
”And you SHOULD. She’s not your friend. Whatever the hell that...Arkham Horror Asylum Whatever match is...clearly she wants to hurt you.”
”You doing hardcore matches now, Connie?” Morgan raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued, ”I wouldn’t if I were you. I still can’t fully turn my head.”
”It’s not like one of your matches, Miss Masochist Morgan, nothing’s getting stapled to my head or bashed and broken over my body.”
”No one looked as good covered in blood as me. Some of it was even mine. Most of it, really.”
”It had me enraptured,” Connie admitted while Emily scoffed. Constance had to salvage the scoff by throwing an arm around Emily in a side-hug. ”Let ME worry about Gwen, alright? I’ve gone through worse, probably. And do you think I’d let someone ruin my face so close to our wedding? I’m not walking down the aisle in crutches and a sling.” Emily wasn’t fully convinced, but the follow-up peck on the lips did a number for her acceptance.
”Congratulations, by the way. Your save-the-dates arrived before you did.”
”Mooooooooom,” Jacob spoke up again, begging to go. Morgan looked at her son then over towards her friend, back to Jacob, and then over to Emily.
”So, will you be joining us, Mrs. Connie?”
”Sure, I love basisball.”
Jacob’s approving cheers echoed through the house and served as the background noise all the way to Wrigley.
”Do you think I can catch a ball?” Jacob asked the adults without so much as turning his head away from the current at-bat.
”Well we’re on the first baseline so it’s not super lik-”
”Of course you can, Jacob.”
Morgan offered a shrug while Constance just offered a knowing nod. Emily, meanwhile, remained in surprise at how easily Constance dealt with children, well, A child, but held her tongue.
”You know, you could be training right now.” Emily spoke just low enough so that only Constance could hear.
”I am training. Training for the most important match of my career.” Constance shot back, leaning over to whisper to Emily. ”There’s something we should talk about on the way to Washington.”
”Why can’t we talk about it now?” Emily was worried, concerned, but Constance simply gave her fiance a kiss and rested her head on Emily’s shoulder.
”Because we’ll have all the time in the world to talk about us. But today? Right now?” Her eyes darted towards Jacob who was on his feet, waving his mitt in the air as a foul ball was popped towards the first baseline seats, only to fall short of where the foursome were sitting; sitll Jacob’s smile never vanished. ”Right now it’s about him.”
Even Emily couldn’t argue with that.
~
”I’ve come to understand two things lately after exposure to the current Xcel Champion and opponent for what...the third time? Truth be told I’ve come to understand a great many things about her...about you...but it’s the two major ones that have stuck with me. The first, simply, is that there’s no point in asking questions of you. I have a great many questions, most importantly being what the hell is the fascination with caricatures and iconography of people famed for being dumb and goofy for the amusement of fat unqualified kings. But in an effort to pretend that there’s methods to your oh-so-unique brand of madness and/or intentional shit-stirring you prance around and laugh or avoid things or be intentionally vague because vague is mystique and mystique is what you do. But when you strip away the supposed jester, the fool as it were, the answer to every single question I might’ve raised is made perfectly clear. You’re just like every other person who expects special treatment based on something as asinine as name recognition.
Which of course leads to the second thing I’ve come to understand about you.
You’re a sore winner.
Sure, everyone’s heard of the sore loser and everyone laughs at and hates the sore loser because it’s fun to laugh at the misfortune of others; they made a song and dance number about the concept even. But a sore winner? Normally that’s reserved for the people who flub and fluke their way to some measure of success and won’t stop rubbing it in and being an absolute tool about it. That’s not you, though. No. You’re a different kind of winner. The jealous kind.
For some reason you just can’t accept the fact that you won the title. Maybe it’s because you never expected to win. Maybe it’s because so many others have put me on this pedestal that you were disappointed in the end result - and if that’s the case then that’s not on me; I’ve always been up front about my own self. Maybe you just aren’t willing to let things go - a draw in our first contest got you messed up. Perhaps you just can’t understand why I wasn’t chomping at the proverbial bit for a rematch and that angered you. Who did I think I was? Were you not good enough? That whole spiel.
Or maybe, and this is the one I think is the most likely...maybe you couldn’t fathom that I was being pointed towards our resident and also newly crowned world champion. I mean, it WAS you who barged into what was supposed to be a closed door meeting demanding a re-match, puffing your chest, putting me down because you’re so self conscious about a damn victory. It has to be jealousy. Jealousy that while I lost to you I was getting an opportunity that you so desperately craved.
You’ve been around the block, Gwen. You should know that this sort of long con game doesn’t work in reverse. Do you know what happens if I go through your little asylum and come out with the Xcel Championship once again? You don’t get tossed towards Carlisle and you wind up with egg on your face with what might very well be the shortest Xcel Championship reign in VoW history. Is that what you want to be? Is that the stamp you want on your VoW career? You’ve got the plotting genius of Cersei Lannister.
Let me make one thing abundantly clear, and I should’ve done this earlier and for that I apologize to everyone: The reason I wasn’t itching for a rematch is because I was EXCITED for the future of the division. Yes, Gwen, the DIVISION, not the TITLE, which is all you seem to care about. You don’t give one shit about the Xcel Division and I’m like ninety percent sure you stopped caring about the TITLE as soon as you heard that I was going to say hello to one of my old and best friends in the company.
When I lost the title I did so with hope for the future of the brand. For the better part of a year I’ve done what I could to make the Xcel championship mean something again, to clean up the dirt left behind by its previous owner. I may not have had a crazy amount of defences but the ones I had were defining moments in more than just the participants careers. If I could inspire people to step up to the challenge, to stop fucking around and give it their goddamned best...then I was content in my position as Xcel Champion. Go ask Zahara if I accomplished that. Go ask any former Xcel champion. Go ask anyone you like.
I offered you a handshake, a gesture of good faith, a symbolic passing of the torch, and you essentially spat in my face. So I grinned and I beared it out of professionalism when we were partnered up and I bit my tongue and agreed to your demands, putting my own potential future on the backburner even though all I wanted to do was just...deny you the satisfaction. Deny you the pleasure and worry about Emma and the looming threat of the world championship match. I’ve always been the consummate professional so allow me a moment to be unprofessional.
Gwen, you don’t deserve the Xcel Championship.
When your little ears caught wind of my meeting, you turned your victory into little more than a consolation prize. You don’t give a damn about the Xcel Championship or its future and legacy, because all you care about is being the proverbial number one...all you want is for us to swap spaces, for me to have been the one barging in as Omega pointed you towards Carlisle. You have the wrong mindset because to you all that matters is the World Visionary Championship. The belt you hold is just a stepping stone, something to be tossed aside and forgotten. It’s a silver medal to you when to every single person that wants a chance to prove their worth sees it for what it truly is: a recognition of their ability and effort.
I was wrong about you. I was wrong when I said I had nothing to take issue with in regards to you. I was wrong in assuming that the Xcel Division would be stronger now with new blood who could carry on from my efforts and the efforts of all my opponents during my tenure. I assumed the worst thing that could happen would be losing to another Ryder but no, the worst thing that could happen DID happen. I lost to someone who doesn’t care. And I need to fix that.
You said that I hadn’t earned anything in the midst of your ranting and raving but what about you, Gwen? You earned the Xcel Title and you’re ungrateful. If you had knowledge apart from how to copy and paste images and use outdated slang like ‘fleek’ you’d know that all I’ve done since arriving in VoW is earn my keep. I never once made demands of people. I never once tried to shortcut my way up a ladder. Some might consider me boring for that, because I take what I’m given and believe that with effort comes reward. And I proved that. I came into VoW being a bit of an arrogant disrespectful tosser, thinking that I was too good because I had come down off the mountain with songs of victory in my ears. And I got what I deserved because of it. From the ashes I rose up and turned myself into someone worth caring about. Never taking the easy path. Never demanding anything. I put forth the effort and good things came my way. The reward.
That concept is lost on you, Gwen. You’re like the me that assumed I would be hot shit in VoW from the jump. You can’t rest on your laurels and assume that that’ll be enough to put you in consideration for bigger leagues. What have YOU done, Gwen, to get so damn angry at my success? What have you done here that should make you a contender for the World Visionary title? What have you done to show you want the Xcel Championship that you earned?
Stop acting like this is because of a need to settle a score. There’s no score to settle. There never was. I was never ducking you because I was never going to request a rematch until you practically forced my hand. This isn’t the way you ‘legitimize’ yourself as a champion. The only one out there asking ‘who is better’ is you. You won. You said yourself that you hate losing and yet here you are hating the fact that you fucking won. You fucking beat me. And you can’t stand that you won and I still came out smelling like a rose.
Admit it. Or don’t and just do some weird mental gymnastics on me.
I don’t care if this puts my potential future prospects on hold, I cannot abide you, an unwanting champion, be the holder of the Xcel championship. You made this rematch happen and you’re going to reap exactly what you have sown here. I don’t care if I have to spill more blood than I knew I had in me. I don’t care if I break my body. I don’t care if I have to be carried out on a goddamn stretcher, I’m not leaving Armed and Dangerous with you as the Xcel Champion. I’m taking back what I and so many others have made matter and I’ll hold onto it until someone who truly earns it wins it through the shedding of blood, sweat, and tears.
When I come crawling out of your asylum and rise to my feet, once again the Xcel Champion, you’ll truly understand exactly what it is I’ve done for this company and everyone inside of it. After this match, Gwen, we’re done. I don’t wanna hear you making demands of me or anything else. Take your defeat with dignity and save what face you can.
No one likes a sore loser.
