Post by Erin Gordon on Oct 9, 2016 22:00:04 GMT -6
Common wisdom said that 'Dirty hands lead to a clean mind.'
It was a right shame that Erin Gordon knew that particular colloquialism (Not that she knew what that word meant off the top of her head!) was out-and-out bullshit when it came down to brass tacks, but it didn't stop her from trying.
It wasn't like she really had a choice in the matter when it came to her hands being dirty, not considering the farm's upkeep and how she didn't have the money to hire help. Sure, she had her son to help her out--and now Steven Kingsley, though that was a very recent development--but two adults and a thirteen-year-old who needed to have free time to go to school and do homework and do all those things a boy turning into a man needed to do? That wasn't the same thing as the dozen dedicated full-timers that the Byers had out on Route 198, and her own outfit wasn't all that much smaller than that. Her herd of Angus was about the same size, she had roughly the same amount of chickens... about all she was missing was the pigs, though that wasn't a venture she was keen on taking on, not even if she had all the helpers in the world. Swine, as a whole, were far too clever for her liking. It was something in the eyes, that sort of uncanny intelligence that made watching their slaughter--a reality of rural life she had long since grown accustomed to--uncomfortable for her, even moreso considering how Si had passed a few years ago. She could call up the exact words of the coroner's report that Tyler Best, tone-deaf and clueless bastard that he was, had been fool enough to show her without even a second's effort--
Knock it off, Erin Elizabeth.
Her grip tightened on the handle of the implement as a low sigh, weary and heavy, left her lips. She needed to get a move on again, get the biological machinery moving. But even as the pitchfork sank into the veritable mountain of straw before her and the memory of her husband's death pierced her heart for the billionth time? Her failure at Breakdown was never far from her mind. Benson had done his best to put on a brave front for his mother's benefit, of course--he'd told her that he was proud of her, that she hadn't let him down--but he wasn't quite as good at hiding his feelings as she was, and the disappointment in his eyes had threatened to break her clean in half. A goodly-sized hunk of straw flew through the air to land in one of the freshly-mucked cattle stalls, a grunt leaving her as she forced herself to repeat the motion even beneath the weight of what was on her mind. She had ultimately cracked in the shower, well away from prying eyes from that feeling of not being good enough to prove to her son that dreams didn't have expiration dates... an unfortunate habit rearing its head anew, even if she now had someone to theoretically share the weight of the world she insisted on having on her shoulders. But how could she expect Stevie to understand? As different as he was from any other man she had ever met, those differences made the idea of having common ground laughable--
"Your posture's all wrong for lifting!" Steven's chest was against her back before she could even so much as think of pulling away, his arms looping overtop hers to take hold of the pitchfork's handles where her hands weren't gripping it. Despite herself, she couldn't help but chuckle at how he tried to make her move the tool's tines--her arms tensing rather effectively stopping him from hurting either one of them or, God forbid, one of the heifers Si had spent a few grand on when they had first started out. He was larger than she was, sure... but decades of farm work had given her the kind of strength that regimented weight-lifting just couldn't recreate proper, not with that particular motion. That didn't stop him from trying, though, a few yanks only serving to throw off their combined balance.
"Shit--!" It took all of her strength to shove the pitchfork out to one side, pointed away from anything made of flesh and bones as they fell... and that motion served to twist herself around in his grip without meaning to so that when they landed amidst that straw that still somehow made sepia tinge the edges of everything with its smell, she was the one on top. For a moment, being atop another man--even in a context as innocent as that--shocked all of the other emotion out of her, the vague familiarity of the sensation even despite how so much was different jarring her square out of her mind and into something she rarely encountered.
The present.
It took her a moment to realize that Steven's lips were moving while somehow holding onto that cheeky sort of grin that she'd come to be fond of, that he was speaking--though what she heard when her mind did shake off enough of the haze to catch his words didn't surprise her much. "--I don't mind hay pokin' me in the ass if that's what you really want, but Benson'll be back home soon, won't he?"
Unable to help but to chuckle, the Oncoming Storm shook her head as a hand moved to ruffle his hair. She knew that the clouds would sweep over the sun soon enough, but she wasn't about to stop herself from enjoying it while it lasted. The affection in her tone was clear even past the cuss-word that left her lips, a new entry in the dictionary chronicling their own private language--perhaps the third or the fourth word to pick up that distinction, but she knew there would be others. "Ass."
The way he chuckled made it clear that there'd be hundreds upon thousands more, if he had his way.
"Maybe I'm pointin' out the obvious, but my debut didn't go like I wanted it to." That admission comes out of the Oncoming Storm's lips on a faint cloud of condensation, the weather cold enough in the early morning to cross the line from brisk to actually being cold. Add on how the sun's not even above the horizon and it's no wonder that it feels chilly, though the blond that stands beneath the harsh glow of the light that's attached to the front of the barn doesn't seem to be too bothered with it. Considering how many winters she's survived in the Snow Belt, such isn't truly a surprise... though the tan Carhartt jacket she's got on sure as shit doesn't hurt matters. The harsh light directly overhead shows that she's got that coat open to reveal a simple white thermal top and that she's wearing old jeans, but beyond that is lost to the shadows. A faint upward tilt of her head is what keeps her features from being swallowed by that same darkness, though the reason winds up being more practical than anything else when a reusable stainless steel coffee mug comes into view. She takes a long pull of its contents, warming herself from the inside out before she continues to speak. "Nobody in this industry wants to be the loser in their first match in the company, but sometimes? That's just how it goes--and that's how things went for me at Breakdown."
Silence reigns for a moment as she takes another swig of that coffee--perhaps wishing that there was something stronger than her morning Joe in there on account of what she's finding herself having to address. Mama Humes sure as shit didn't raise no coward, though, so she's taking a deep breath and facing the music head-on. That flat-as-a-prairie tone doesn't pick up much inflection beyond the norm, though that does nothing to dull the sincerity of her words.
"I ain't gonna stand here and blow excuses out my ass 'cuz really, what's that gonna accomplish? How, exactly, is claimin' that Dazi got lucky or pointin' the finger at this or that gonna do anythin' for me but make me look like a sore-ass loser? I held my own 'til she literally tripped me up and capitalized on it--it's that simple, and I ain't gonna try to muddy the waters to try to make myself look better. And yeah, I ain't gonna lie... losin' my first match in VoW pissed me off, but I ain't mad at nobody but myself. Maybe I shoulda' watched even more of Dazi's tapes, or maybe I focused too much on'em. Maybe my inexperience caught up to me, or maybe the luck that a couple bitter folks in SCW accused me of havin' ran out on me finally. Hell, for all I know, maybe her manager-guy does have some sort of mystical mumbo-jumbo goin' on, though I will say this much. I ever find myself sharin' a ring with Father Stevenson, then I'm gonna knock each and every last one of his teeth out his mouth and into the front row for even tryin' to steal from me. That'd be a Helluva souvenir for those front-row fans, huh?" The scoff that leaves Erin's lips is tinged with amusement, though it does nothing to stop how she shakes her head. "But I can't be hung up on what happened 'cuz not only won't it change nothin'... but it'll get right square in the way of me bein' able to get back up on the proverbial horse. If I learned anything from my first match here, after all, it's that I can't afford to be distracted, not for a single second. And y'know what that means? Jacob Cass and Jessica Mathis, both of y'ins got my full, undivided attention. Sure, that might sound a little... weird considerin' how there's two of you, but that don't make it no less true. I'm greener'n at least one of you in the grand scheme of things, but this ain't the first time I'm gettin' in the ring with more'n one opponent--and trust me, it's possible for me to take both of you behind the woodshed. And you know where I'm gonna start? With you, Jacob."
Nodding to herself, the Oncoming Storm levels her gaze with the camera proper--not paying any mind at all to the stark contrast that her features are suddenly given. She's got something more important to worry about than appearances, after all--though that's hardly abnormal.
"After all, you're the one with the temper that's bound to go off if I don't start off talkin' about you, though trust me--I ain't scared of a sore loser. I also sure as Hell wasn't born yesterday, so I know the polite interest in me that you showed on Twitter wasn't the real deal... not when you figured out that I ain't exactly on the market. But what you send people in private don't matter much to me, not when I got to focus on how you carry on like a five-year-old when things don't go your way. Cussin' out the ref, kickin' the rope, chasin' after the man that beat you like it's gonna somehow erase how he rolled you up neat as can be for that three-- how's that supposed to do anythin' but make you look like an immature asshole? There ain't nothin' to respect or to fear from that, no matter how you try to spin it. My son hasn't thrown a tantrum like that since he was about that age, and that was almost nine years ago!" A snort, all but dripping in disgust, leaves her as her tone turns downright derisive. "Now I get that your dander was up after your debut didn't go the way you wanted to, but that ain't no excuse for showin' your ass like that--but you ain't gonna see it that way, now are you? Nah, you're gonna strut about like your shit don't stink and I ain't got a reason in the world to want to put your lights out moreso'n usual. I know you thought it was cute, how I was watchin' tape on Dazi... but you really shoulda' done your research on me before you pulled that shit, 'cuz there ain't nothin' I can't stand more in this business than an entitled brat that can't handle when shit don't go their way. And believe you me, Jake... I know how to put a boy over my knee when I need to, and how big they are don't matter a lick. Don't believe me? Try me at Armed And Dangerous and see. I'll lay money you ain't gonna like how things end if you're dumb enough to try that shit with me."
There's a long pause as the Oncoming Storm drains the rest of her coffee, needing that morning comfort to cool her heels a little since the other opponent she has left to address doesn't deserve the rough side of her tongue. Not so far as she can tell, anyway.
"I ain't gonna insult your intelligence, Jessica, by lumpin' you in with Jake there. I don't see a reason to do it, not when you have your feet on the ground instead of up in the clouds. You and I seem like we're cut from the same kind of cloth, deep down. Sure you're from the city and I'm from Bumfuck, Nowhere... but you don't flinch away from anything, just the same as I do. As hard as the truth is to swallow sometimes, you face it and deal with it--and that? That's somethin' I can respect since it's not near as common as it ought to be." A nod, as if she were tipping a hat that likely lives in a closet somewhere for use during those days when the sun is high and merciless in the sky above. "That respect, though, don't extend to me pullin' punches or lettin' you slide right on by without bein' put through the ringer. You'd probably be pissed off at me if I even considered the idea--and there's another thing in common, come to think about it. I almost wish we didn't have to deal with the Walkin' Tantrum since it's been a good long while since I had a match that was about what professional wrestlin's supposed to be about. Just two wrestlers, gettin' in the ring to see who's better. No bullshit, no ego... just let the bell ring and let'em rip to see who deserves to get their first win in VoW."
Erin's head cocks to the side, a point hitting her square between the eyes that has her blinking a bit. A faint, rueful smile tugs at wind-chapped lips as a singular chuckle leaves her, the blond shaking her head.
"And you know what? I just realized somethin'--and it's somethin' I shoulda' seen before this. All three of us in this here match are all after the same thing, when you boil it down. There's not a one of us that has had our hand raised in victory in the confines of a VoW ring... and that's only gonna change for one of us." Her free hand rises, holding up its index finger. "I ain't gonna stand here and say that I want it more'n both of you, but I do know that neither of y'ins have an idea of just what in the blue Hell you're gettin' into when that bell rings. I ain't just gettin' in that ring to win, or to stroke my ego or to break a dry spell that ought to have found its end before this. I'm goin' out there to get those couple hundreds dollars I wouldn't be able to spare otherwise for my boy's college fund. I'm goin' out there to prove that it ain't ever too late to lace up your boots for the first time... and above all else? I'm goin' out there to prove, once and for all, that a single loss ain't enough to derail me. So while I ain't gonna claim that I'm gonna win no matter what happens, I will leave y'ins with the simplest truth you'll ever hear."
The Oncoming Storm leans in just a hair, the light shifting to illuminate those blue-gray eyes with the kind of brightness that lends them the appearance of a storm cloud barely containing electric activity. Even after she's said her piece and fallen silent, they remain intent on the lens... the way the video fades making them the last thing to be seen.
"You'll know that you were in a Hell of a fight after I'm done."
It was a right shame that Erin Gordon knew that particular colloquialism (Not that she knew what that word meant off the top of her head!) was out-and-out bullshit when it came down to brass tacks, but it didn't stop her from trying.
It wasn't like she really had a choice in the matter when it came to her hands being dirty, not considering the farm's upkeep and how she didn't have the money to hire help. Sure, she had her son to help her out--and now Steven Kingsley, though that was a very recent development--but two adults and a thirteen-year-old who needed to have free time to go to school and do homework and do all those things a boy turning into a man needed to do? That wasn't the same thing as the dozen dedicated full-timers that the Byers had out on Route 198, and her own outfit wasn't all that much smaller than that. Her herd of Angus was about the same size, she had roughly the same amount of chickens... about all she was missing was the pigs, though that wasn't a venture she was keen on taking on, not even if she had all the helpers in the world. Swine, as a whole, were far too clever for her liking. It was something in the eyes, that sort of uncanny intelligence that made watching their slaughter--a reality of rural life she had long since grown accustomed to--uncomfortable for her, even moreso considering how Si had passed a few years ago. She could call up the exact words of the coroner's report that Tyler Best, tone-deaf and clueless bastard that he was, had been fool enough to show her without even a second's effort--
Knock it off, Erin Elizabeth.
Her grip tightened on the handle of the implement as a low sigh, weary and heavy, left her lips. She needed to get a move on again, get the biological machinery moving. But even as the pitchfork sank into the veritable mountain of straw before her and the memory of her husband's death pierced her heart for the billionth time? Her failure at Breakdown was never far from her mind. Benson had done his best to put on a brave front for his mother's benefit, of course--he'd told her that he was proud of her, that she hadn't let him down--but he wasn't quite as good at hiding his feelings as she was, and the disappointment in his eyes had threatened to break her clean in half. A goodly-sized hunk of straw flew through the air to land in one of the freshly-mucked cattle stalls, a grunt leaving her as she forced herself to repeat the motion even beneath the weight of what was on her mind. She had ultimately cracked in the shower, well away from prying eyes from that feeling of not being good enough to prove to her son that dreams didn't have expiration dates... an unfortunate habit rearing its head anew, even if she now had someone to theoretically share the weight of the world she insisted on having on her shoulders. But how could she expect Stevie to understand? As different as he was from any other man she had ever met, those differences made the idea of having common ground laughable--
"Your posture's all wrong for lifting!" Steven's chest was against her back before she could even so much as think of pulling away, his arms looping overtop hers to take hold of the pitchfork's handles where her hands weren't gripping it. Despite herself, she couldn't help but chuckle at how he tried to make her move the tool's tines--her arms tensing rather effectively stopping him from hurting either one of them or, God forbid, one of the heifers Si had spent a few grand on when they had first started out. He was larger than she was, sure... but decades of farm work had given her the kind of strength that regimented weight-lifting just couldn't recreate proper, not with that particular motion. That didn't stop him from trying, though, a few yanks only serving to throw off their combined balance.
"Shit--!" It took all of her strength to shove the pitchfork out to one side, pointed away from anything made of flesh and bones as they fell... and that motion served to twist herself around in his grip without meaning to so that when they landed amidst that straw that still somehow made sepia tinge the edges of everything with its smell, she was the one on top. For a moment, being atop another man--even in a context as innocent as that--shocked all of the other emotion out of her, the vague familiarity of the sensation even despite how so much was different jarring her square out of her mind and into something she rarely encountered.
The present.
It took her a moment to realize that Steven's lips were moving while somehow holding onto that cheeky sort of grin that she'd come to be fond of, that he was speaking--though what she heard when her mind did shake off enough of the haze to catch his words didn't surprise her much. "--I don't mind hay pokin' me in the ass if that's what you really want, but Benson'll be back home soon, won't he?"
Unable to help but to chuckle, the Oncoming Storm shook her head as a hand moved to ruffle his hair. She knew that the clouds would sweep over the sun soon enough, but she wasn't about to stop herself from enjoying it while it lasted. The affection in her tone was clear even past the cuss-word that left her lips, a new entry in the dictionary chronicling their own private language--perhaps the third or the fourth word to pick up that distinction, but she knew there would be others. "Ass."
The way he chuckled made it clear that there'd be hundreds upon thousands more, if he had his way.
i rolled on as the sky grew dark.
i put the pedal down to make some time.
there's somethin' good waitin' down this road.
i'm pickin' up whatever's mine.
i put the pedal down to make some time.
there's somethin' good waitin' down this road.
i'm pickin' up whatever's mine.
"Maybe I'm pointin' out the obvious, but my debut didn't go like I wanted it to." That admission comes out of the Oncoming Storm's lips on a faint cloud of condensation, the weather cold enough in the early morning to cross the line from brisk to actually being cold. Add on how the sun's not even above the horizon and it's no wonder that it feels chilly, though the blond that stands beneath the harsh glow of the light that's attached to the front of the barn doesn't seem to be too bothered with it. Considering how many winters she's survived in the Snow Belt, such isn't truly a surprise... though the tan Carhartt jacket she's got on sure as shit doesn't hurt matters. The harsh light directly overhead shows that she's got that coat open to reveal a simple white thermal top and that she's wearing old jeans, but beyond that is lost to the shadows. A faint upward tilt of her head is what keeps her features from being swallowed by that same darkness, though the reason winds up being more practical than anything else when a reusable stainless steel coffee mug comes into view. She takes a long pull of its contents, warming herself from the inside out before she continues to speak. "Nobody in this industry wants to be the loser in their first match in the company, but sometimes? That's just how it goes--and that's how things went for me at Breakdown."
Silence reigns for a moment as she takes another swig of that coffee--perhaps wishing that there was something stronger than her morning Joe in there on account of what she's finding herself having to address. Mama Humes sure as shit didn't raise no coward, though, so she's taking a deep breath and facing the music head-on. That flat-as-a-prairie tone doesn't pick up much inflection beyond the norm, though that does nothing to dull the sincerity of her words.
"I ain't gonna stand here and blow excuses out my ass 'cuz really, what's that gonna accomplish? How, exactly, is claimin' that Dazi got lucky or pointin' the finger at this or that gonna do anythin' for me but make me look like a sore-ass loser? I held my own 'til she literally tripped me up and capitalized on it--it's that simple, and I ain't gonna try to muddy the waters to try to make myself look better. And yeah, I ain't gonna lie... losin' my first match in VoW pissed me off, but I ain't mad at nobody but myself. Maybe I shoulda' watched even more of Dazi's tapes, or maybe I focused too much on'em. Maybe my inexperience caught up to me, or maybe the luck that a couple bitter folks in SCW accused me of havin' ran out on me finally. Hell, for all I know, maybe her manager-guy does have some sort of mystical mumbo-jumbo goin' on, though I will say this much. I ever find myself sharin' a ring with Father Stevenson, then I'm gonna knock each and every last one of his teeth out his mouth and into the front row for even tryin' to steal from me. That'd be a Helluva souvenir for those front-row fans, huh?" The scoff that leaves Erin's lips is tinged with amusement, though it does nothing to stop how she shakes her head. "But I can't be hung up on what happened 'cuz not only won't it change nothin'... but it'll get right square in the way of me bein' able to get back up on the proverbial horse. If I learned anything from my first match here, after all, it's that I can't afford to be distracted, not for a single second. And y'know what that means? Jacob Cass and Jessica Mathis, both of y'ins got my full, undivided attention. Sure, that might sound a little... weird considerin' how there's two of you, but that don't make it no less true. I'm greener'n at least one of you in the grand scheme of things, but this ain't the first time I'm gettin' in the ring with more'n one opponent--and trust me, it's possible for me to take both of you behind the woodshed. And you know where I'm gonna start? With you, Jacob."
Nodding to herself, the Oncoming Storm levels her gaze with the camera proper--not paying any mind at all to the stark contrast that her features are suddenly given. She's got something more important to worry about than appearances, after all--though that's hardly abnormal.
"After all, you're the one with the temper that's bound to go off if I don't start off talkin' about you, though trust me--I ain't scared of a sore loser. I also sure as Hell wasn't born yesterday, so I know the polite interest in me that you showed on Twitter wasn't the real deal... not when you figured out that I ain't exactly on the market. But what you send people in private don't matter much to me, not when I got to focus on how you carry on like a five-year-old when things don't go your way. Cussin' out the ref, kickin' the rope, chasin' after the man that beat you like it's gonna somehow erase how he rolled you up neat as can be for that three-- how's that supposed to do anythin' but make you look like an immature asshole? There ain't nothin' to respect or to fear from that, no matter how you try to spin it. My son hasn't thrown a tantrum like that since he was about that age, and that was almost nine years ago!" A snort, all but dripping in disgust, leaves her as her tone turns downright derisive. "Now I get that your dander was up after your debut didn't go the way you wanted to, but that ain't no excuse for showin' your ass like that--but you ain't gonna see it that way, now are you? Nah, you're gonna strut about like your shit don't stink and I ain't got a reason in the world to want to put your lights out moreso'n usual. I know you thought it was cute, how I was watchin' tape on Dazi... but you really shoulda' done your research on me before you pulled that shit, 'cuz there ain't nothin' I can't stand more in this business than an entitled brat that can't handle when shit don't go their way. And believe you me, Jake... I know how to put a boy over my knee when I need to, and how big they are don't matter a lick. Don't believe me? Try me at Armed And Dangerous and see. I'll lay money you ain't gonna like how things end if you're dumb enough to try that shit with me."
There's a long pause as the Oncoming Storm drains the rest of her coffee, needing that morning comfort to cool her heels a little since the other opponent she has left to address doesn't deserve the rough side of her tongue. Not so far as she can tell, anyway.
"I ain't gonna insult your intelligence, Jessica, by lumpin' you in with Jake there. I don't see a reason to do it, not when you have your feet on the ground instead of up in the clouds. You and I seem like we're cut from the same kind of cloth, deep down. Sure you're from the city and I'm from Bumfuck, Nowhere... but you don't flinch away from anything, just the same as I do. As hard as the truth is to swallow sometimes, you face it and deal with it--and that? That's somethin' I can respect since it's not near as common as it ought to be." A nod, as if she were tipping a hat that likely lives in a closet somewhere for use during those days when the sun is high and merciless in the sky above. "That respect, though, don't extend to me pullin' punches or lettin' you slide right on by without bein' put through the ringer. You'd probably be pissed off at me if I even considered the idea--and there's another thing in common, come to think about it. I almost wish we didn't have to deal with the Walkin' Tantrum since it's been a good long while since I had a match that was about what professional wrestlin's supposed to be about. Just two wrestlers, gettin' in the ring to see who's better. No bullshit, no ego... just let the bell ring and let'em rip to see who deserves to get their first win in VoW."
Erin's head cocks to the side, a point hitting her square between the eyes that has her blinking a bit. A faint, rueful smile tugs at wind-chapped lips as a singular chuckle leaves her, the blond shaking her head.
"And you know what? I just realized somethin'--and it's somethin' I shoulda' seen before this. All three of us in this here match are all after the same thing, when you boil it down. There's not a one of us that has had our hand raised in victory in the confines of a VoW ring... and that's only gonna change for one of us." Her free hand rises, holding up its index finger. "I ain't gonna stand here and say that I want it more'n both of you, but I do know that neither of y'ins have an idea of just what in the blue Hell you're gettin' into when that bell rings. I ain't just gettin' in that ring to win, or to stroke my ego or to break a dry spell that ought to have found its end before this. I'm goin' out there to get those couple hundreds dollars I wouldn't be able to spare otherwise for my boy's college fund. I'm goin' out there to prove that it ain't ever too late to lace up your boots for the first time... and above all else? I'm goin' out there to prove, once and for all, that a single loss ain't enough to derail me. So while I ain't gonna claim that I'm gonna win no matter what happens, I will leave y'ins with the simplest truth you'll ever hear."
The Oncoming Storm leans in just a hair, the light shifting to illuminate those blue-gray eyes with the kind of brightness that lends them the appearance of a storm cloud barely containing electric activity. Even after she's said her piece and fallen silent, they remain intent on the lens... the way the video fades making them the last thing to be seen.
"You'll know that you were in a Hell of a fight after I'm done."
