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bobbymckenzie · 4 years ago

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runaway

☆ pairing: nicky x mc

☆ word count: 2.3k

☆ tags: @serafinedupont ; @ariendiel ; @venueska ; @bellarxse ; @lasswithumor ; @lucas-koh ; @violinet ; @messofakind

☆ author’s note: ok full disclosure i stopped playing like day 3 of season 3 so i’m purely going off of screenshots i’ve seen of nicky. he’s seriously my favorite and i want him so bad!!! ok anyways here’s a one-shot of nicky and my mc, danielle/dani realizing their feelings for each other ! here it is on ao3 ! comments, kudos, and feedback of any kind is much appreciated !! [this is not my favorite thing i’ve ever written but i could not get this idea out of my head]

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She nudged her way through the crowd, the edge of her dress fisted in her trembling hand, heading towards any exit door she could find. Huge crowds were never her thing, and it never got easier, even after the season ended.

She pushed out onto the balcony, revelling in the crisp, fresh air, breathing so deeply until her chest loosened up a bit.

The edge of the balcony looked out onto the huge lawn, precisely cut and bright as synthetic, store bought grass. Fake looking and expensive, just like half of the patrons at the gala.

She was rubbing elbows with the elite and she hated it. A lot. Humble beginnings to being a sellout.

Valets in steam pressed uniforms maneuvered the expensive luxury vehicles throughout the long, winding driveway, not a single person who made below six figures in sight.

She gripped the cold marble until her hands stung, trying to focus on anything other than her panicked pulse to slow it down. She was never gonna get used to this life, no matter how many high profile events she was invited to.

“Hey, Dani,” a melodic voice called from behind her.

“Oh, Nicky, hey,” she threw him a soft smile, hoping he didn’t hear the way her breath hitched in her throat at her nickname.

“Needed a breather, too?” He slid the glass door behind him, closing it with a click, before coming to join her at the railing.

“Yeah, I just… couldn’t handle the crowd anymore,” she shrugged, taking a shaky breath.

He knew how badly crowds freaked her out. Being on a t.v. show that hinged on hidden cameras and an intimate cast, she never gave off the appearance that she would’ve reacted this way.

But the night of the finale, she found herself hiding in the corner of the Villa bathroom out of the ways of the cameras, trying desperately to catch her breath. Camilo hadn’t come to check on her, like she’d hoped. First person to knock on the door and ask how she was doing was Nicky.

He gently removed their mics, and spoke to her with such kindness and understanding that she couldn’t help but fall for him more than she already had.

God, Camilo was a great partner in the Villa. He was hot, incredibly suave, and practically worshipped the ground she walked on. But it turned out to be exactly what she was afraid of.

All passion, no substance.

It wasn’t a messy break up, but she wouldn’t count on him trying for more than the basic “How are you?” type of filler conversations with her if they ran into each other on the street.

Which they just so happened to do, since the charity gala insisted on trying to get any single islanders to offer up a date in exchange for a hefty donation.

“Sorry about that. I know this isn’t your kind of scene,” he said, leaning his arm against the railing, crossing his legs at the ankles. His body faced her, but he turned his head, surveying the lawn.

Danielle couldn’t help but stare at his defined features, the short, neat stubble parallel to his jawline, full lips pursed in a thoughtful pout.

He looked back at her, brows furrowed, concern knitted between them. “Are you okay with the auction?”

She shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so. The amount of old men here is disconcerting. I don’t know what the hell I’m gonna do if I get bid on by a really ugly guy –”

Nicky cut her off, laughing heartily, the bass of his voice reverberating off of the marble. “Damn, you really don’t wanna be here.”

“What, and you do?” She giggled, his laugh infectious. It was one of her favorite sounds.

He shrugged. “Not really. I was kind of hoping I could auction off a chance to play at somebody’s wedding or something.”

“Yeah, they see a handsome face–” she motioned up and down his body, “–before they see everything else.”

“You say that like you aren’t a catch, too, Dani,” he grinned. She rolled her eyes, trying to be nonchalant when she was freaking out inwardly.

“So does that mean Elladine is okay with you being here?” She asked hesitantly. She knew that they’d reunited after she walked out of the Villa, and from what the tabloids said, they were happy.

He winced, taking a deep breath. “Uh, yeah we broke up a little while ago. We just realized we were better off as friends.”

“She did, or you did?” He couldn’t lie to her – they knew each other too well for that. By the way he fidgeted, she knew she’d hit a nerve.

“You got me. I did. I still love her, don’t get me wrong. It just ended up feeling more like a partnership than a relationship you know?” He shrugged, trying to mask the unsurety in his voice.

“You realized maybe it was better when there were other people around?”

He glanced away, rolling his lips together. “...Yeah.”

She nodded, taking another deep breath, her pulse picking up speed.

Danielle had developed a huge crush on Nicky early on, but he and Elladine had gotten along so well that she just settled for being best friends. From the moment he compared her to his sister, she set her sights elsewhere.

But sometimes Nicky’s lingering looks gave her mixed signals. She never completely gave up hope, but the chances of them coupling up was next to none.

“So… I saw you and Camilo are done. You doing okay? Sorry I didn’t reach out to you sooner –”

“No, it’s okay. Life happens. I don’t blame you at all,” she said, with a sense of finality.

“Dani… how are you holding up? Really?”

He could see right through her, just like she could with him.

She blew out air, her lips flapping together. “It’s weird. I haven’t really seen him since our break up. I mean, not privately at least, you know? He texted me on my birthday, and it was cordial, but it’s still weird.”

“Did you talk to him tonight?”

“I waved, but nothing more than that. I don’t feel like having an obviously fake and super awkward conversation in front of the press,” she shrugged.

“Uh, well he asked for you a little while ago.”

“When?” Her eyebrows shot up, and she pushed away from the railing.

“Yeah, I have a suspicion that he’s here with somebody else,” he said softly, like he was trying to break the news to her without hurting her feelings..

Her eyes widened. “I’m – I don’t –”

“It’ll be okay. Camilo’s friendly enough. I don’t think he’d cause a scene,” Nicky shook his head sympathetically. “Stay next to me. I’ll keep you preoccupied.”

“It’s not that, I just. I don’t… know what to say. Especially in front of everybody like that. I know people will zero in on us and fixate on how we talk to each other and interact,” she shook her head, gripping the railing again.

“God, especially if he’s introducing me to his new girlfriend or whatever. If I raise my eyebrows at the wrong time, they’re gonna think I’m upset –”

“Or if you scrunch your nose up like you always do,” he added.

She stared at him, mouth parted. “Hey, I know you’re not talking, Mister Grimace.”

“Mister Grimace? What the hell are you talking about?”

“You grimace when you hate something, dummy,” she laughed. “Did you really not know you did that?”

He cocked his head to the side. “Most people make faces when they hate something, Dani.”

“Not like you, they don’t!” She shook her head, still grinning. “You couldn’t pretend to like something if your life depended on it.”

He grimaced. That set her off even more, her soft laugh growing into a full blown cackle.

“You just proved my point, dumbass,” she said between gasps of breath, pointing at his crinkled nose, full lips raised into the exact face she’d been poking at him for.

“Hey, who’re you calling a dumbass? The ‘D’ in dumbass stands for Dani, if we’re being real,” he joked, his distasteful expression melting into one of adoration as he watched her laugh at his expense.

“Shut up,” she said, thrusting her arm out to playfully push him. He captured her hand underneath his own, his warm palm rough against her soft skin.

Normally, it would’ve been a light hearted gesture, because they joked with each other all the time in the villa, but in that moment, with no islanders, no cameras, no audience – those feelings they tried so desperately to repress were bubbling to the surface.

Nicky’s eyes flitted to her lips, parted in surprise at his hand covering her own. Her eyes flitted down his chest, fixating on the white button up beneath his blazer that hugged his toned chest just right.

He found his own gaze wandering down her body, the floor length dress accentuating places he normally never found himself looking at.

God, he had a full view of her near naked body every day for weeks and never thought twice about it, but now, seeing her in an elegant gown that was snug around the places that used to be exposed, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her.

She knew she looked good, because the hair, makeup, and wardrobe people wouldn’t leave her alone until she was picture perfect. She wasn’t used to being under that kind of individual microscope, seeking the approval of rich people, like she was supposed to be one of them.

Danielle felt so out of place the entire night – until the moment Nicky stepped outside to comfort her.

“Nicky…” she breathed, the charged air between them sending an electric buzz through her limbs.

“Yeah?” he whispered, eyes half lidded, yet focused on her like she was the only person in the world.

She opened her mouth to say something, but shut it, instead glancing around the balcony and the large glass doors and windows that riddled their side of the mansion.

“Let’s get out of here,” she chewed the inside of her lip, watching his every move, hoping – praying – that he wasn’t going to reject her.

“How?”

God, she could feel the secondhand embarrassment coming on, and she glanced away from his lips, trying to come up with an excuse to explain what came over her. Her cheeks warmed, and she was thankful for the thick foundation that neutralized her blush.

“Forget it,” she said, tugging away from him.

“I didn’t say no,” he murmured, firmly holding her hand in place. “I asked ‘how?’ Do we have a plan?”

She blinked, trying to process his words.

After all those months of pretending like she’d been rid of her feelings, he’d just affirmed that he wanted her just like she wanted him.

“You’re serious?”

He nodded. “Very.”

Minutes later, after devising a quick plan to slip out the back, they were sprinting across the dewy lawn, breathless but free, sliding into the limo as soon as the driver opened the door for them.

They panted, smiles wide and skin glistening. As she watched a bead of sweat slip down his temple, the atmosphere changed, dripping with the sexual tension they never acknowledged.

Nicky was thankful the driver had already rolled the divider up, because as soon as his foot was on the gas, they were sliding closer to each other, folding under the pressure.

God, it was like the logical and emotional sides of his brain that’d been playing tug of war for so long finally snapped the rope, and everything he pretended not to notice flooded out.

There were so many things about her that he paid attention to that he figured was because they were close friends. He cursed himself for being such an idiot, because there’s no way he should’ve thought about her lips, the dimple on her left cheek, the curls that framed her face perfectly, the curve at the small of her back… a “friend” would’ve never thought about how gorgeous she was every single day.

He never betrayed Elladine, because he really did love her – but he mixed his feelings for both Elladine and Dani up. What he felt for Elladine was friendly love, like a family member or a best friend. The gravitational pull he had towards Dani should’ve never been mistaken for just friendship.

He had been falling for her day by day, but chalking it up to finding his life long best friend.

And as he searched her eyes, hand cupping her cheek, he knew he’d lucked out. He’d found both things in Dani: a partner and a best friend.

He spent weeks in a villa full of eligible women, but he demoted her before he could give her a true chance. He kicked himself in the ass for not realizing it sooner.

So when his lips met Dani’s for the first time, everything clicked into place.

They’d deal with the backlash of leaving the charity gala early. They’d deal with the press swarming them asking why he’d insisted on their friendship from the beginning. They’d deal with the onslaught of texts from the other islanders teasing them about finally getting together. They’d even deal with Elladine and Camilo later.

But in that moment, neither of them cared, focusing on the sweet bliss that was their first kiss.

And when he pulled back to see how she was feeling, he was met with the same serene expression he knew was on his own features – they were finally on the same page.

#litg #litg s3 #litg season 3 #litg nicky #nicky horne #litg fanfic #my fic #if u dont feel like reblogging/liking i'd appreciate a kudos !! <3

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kanyniablue · 5 years ago

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fic writer tag meme

i was almost finished when i lost this post TWICE!!! TWICE

tagged by america-oreosandkitkats, which tumblr is not letting me @ ! i love new updated tumblr! it’s my favorite!

AO3 name: kat_blue, however i haven’t actually uploaded anything. it was #newyearsresolution2020 to start uploading some writing, just to say “i’m D O N E im not going to touch it again” but...2020 got in the way

Fandoms: overwhelmingly hetalia where i set up camp back in 2010-2011 and never moved on, harry potter but only in headcanons/crossovers, Discworld but don’t test me, uh, The Outsiders, yes that book we read in middle school, Coco (2017) because im a corporate sellout

Tropes: 30 AU Pileup, Historical AU, 20 Minutes into the Past/Future, Gen, Enemies-to-Lovers, Friends-to-Lovers, Hookup-to-Something-More, Enemies-to-Lovers-But-They’re-Still Enemies, Unhealthy/Codependent Relationship (romantic, platonic, familial...), Breakup Fic, For Want of a Nail, Everyone’s Dead Dave/Tragic End, Postcredits Scene/whatever you’d call it when you write what would happen after canon says “the end,” Character Study (not sure if that’s a trope but it’s mostly what I write)

Number of fics: ...a bunch. i write in several documents, some of which are inaccessable to me because of a computer crash. i honestly have no idea

Fic I spent the most time on: considering it’s not even finished, Sun Down (WWI Prussia that was supposed to be PruHun but turned into an extended character study/war novel/just torturing the guy but he kind of deserves it) has been limping along for 2+ years...although mostly nowadays I just poke at it occasionally

Fic I spent the least time on: i have no idea, i’ve got a bad habit of coming back to a “finished” fic months or even years later and messing with it. Maybe The Witch Dreaming, a weird little Nyo!EnglandxGreece fic that needed more notes explaining what it was about than it had actual words. it was one of those *sudden inspiration* *scribble scribble scribble* “wait, what the fuck is this?” fics

Longest fic: Brother, Can You Spare a Dime (RusAme domestic fluff & death threats in the Great Depression/Stalinist USSR, burns so slow they barely manage to kiss right before WWII breaks out, ends badly) clocks in at roughly 21K and it’s not even half finished. technically my main WIP but i don’t focus

Shortest fic: The World in the Palm of Your Hand, a tiny little Revolution!America character study, 147 words including its entire title? i know i used to write drabbles & flashfics but that document is...problematic right now

Most hits/Most kudos/Most comment threads/Most bookmarks: yeaaaah, about that...see “haven’t uploaded anything.” i think i uploaded a couple of fics to tumblr, possibly an old account, but if i did nobody ever read ‘em

Total word count: eeesh, probably at least 150K if we’re counting everything

Favorite fic I wrote: it changes but im still fond of Skin, a bunch of little spamano...vignettes? that i started back around 2014 and still enjoy, which isn’t something i say about a lot of my old writing

Fic you want to rewrite/expand on: ...all of them. if i have to choose probably Take the Long Way Home, a partially-finished NorwayxSouth Italy Human!ExchangeStudent!AU that i used to love back in its day of ~2012-2014 but now is very...dusty. writing style changed a lot from what it was back then, lots of “new to the fandom” tropes, lots of “real humans don’t act like this it’s just more dramatic” plot holes...i could do a lot with rewriting it, i just generally work on more recent things and i leave it fossilized and occasionally say “but what if”

Share a bit of a WIP or a story idea you’re planning on:

Brother, Can You Spare a Dime: What was supposed to happen was that they’d be met by the secret police at the train station, and U.S. Personification Alfred Jones would be arrested as a foreign spy.

What actually happened was that after giving up at the train station, one of Ivan’s bosses’ secretaries met them at the front of Ivan’s office building, where he waited and kicked his heel against the wall because he couldn’t light a cigarette without dropping America’s wrist and no amount of exasperated sighs from America was going to convince him it was safe to do so, and when the human secretary did get out there all he said was, “The police aren’t coming.”

Ivan closed his eyes. “Why are the police not coming?”

“They say you seem like you’ve got it handled, Comrade Braginsky,” said the secretary.

“How am I supposed to handle him?” Ivan said through his teeth, waving America’s arm, “Keep a grip on him like he’s a child until they feel fit to interrogate him?”

<<Hi,>> said America sardonically.

The secretary pressed his lips thin. “I don’t know, comrade.”

“He’s an American spy!”

“I am not being spy!” America said. “Not!”

The human looked between them, then said to Russia, “I don’t know what else to tell you, Comrade Braginsky. I don’t have the authority to override the chief of police.”

Slowly, Russia rubbed his eyes. “...I know, comrade. Very well. Take down a message for me, will you?”

Russia’s bosses received a note, in lieu of Russia returning to work as he’d planned: Have in custody suspected American spy, name of ALFRED JONES (note English spelling). Contact American consulate as soon as possible.

Meanwhile, Russia would take America to the only place he knew he could keep an eye on the foreign nation.

[and then they were roommates. I don’t know nearly enough about Soviet Russia to depict it with any amount of accuracy but I’m writing gay country anime boys, this isn’t the place to look for a documentary.]

i know a lot of people who follow me write fanfiction so if you do and you see this, you’re tagged! let’s try to tag people who i know write: @gothicmagpie @knowledgequeenabc @convenientalias uhh I don’t know how many of my other followers are both active & writers

#tag meme #fanfic meme #quaranmeme #even right now im like 'no DONT POST THAT SECTION I PLAN ON CHANGING IT' which is why it's important to work on your new year's resolutions

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2beautiful2burn-blog · 7 years ago

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WWE: Wrestlemania 34 - Not feelin it

With Wrestlemania 34 this Sunday in New Orleans, it's one of the most exciting times of the year for lots of people. For me personally, it's just another weekend. I hate to say that, but it's just an undeniable feeling for me. This is coming from someone who watched WWF/E from the time he was 5 until the time he was 26. It got to the point that I was just waiting around for things to change for the better - or at least, the way I remembered them being when I became a fan. Only they never did. That was likely impossible, as what I was remembering is undoubtedly through the rose tinted filter of nostalgia. Add in 3 hour long slogs of Raw every Monday night, and a lifelong fan was lost.

Not that any of this really matters. WWE is more profitable than they have ever been. Even the people that complain about the product still feed the machine with monthly $10 WWE Network subscriptions. Some of those people will even be in attendance Sunday night, just to voice their displeasure when Roman Reigns inevitably beats Brock Lesnar to become WWE champion. As somebody who was in attendance at Wrestlemania 30 (also in the New Orleans Superdome), I can attest, even the nosebleeds ain't cheap. So that's a lotta coin to drop on something you're unhappy with.

I remember WM 30 being the first time that a Wrestlemania was taking place at a location within driving distance. Still, I wasn’t sold. I remember feeling like I should be excited, but just couldn’t muster the energy. After all, initially, the original main event was set to be Randy Orton defending the WWE title against Batista, fresh from an underwhelming return made even worse by the fact that he was not Daniel Bryan. Daniel Bryan was the underdog who was undermined by the WWE powers that be (both in real life and in storyline) over and over again. Time and time again. Over and over and over.

...he got screwed over and beaten a lot.

Then, without any satisfying conclusion (or any conclusion at all really), he was pushed to the side in favor of the oversized, larger than life returning former champion and current movie star. It didn’t go over well. Luckily, the fans clamoring for Daniel Bryan to be in the Wrestlemania main event became so undeniable that WWE canceled their Orton vs. Batista plans, and made Bryan the focal point.

With this change, I was in. I’d been watching Bryan wrestle since I was in middle school. I had the rare opportunity to follow him from the very beginning of his career, every step of the way, all the way to the main event of WWE’s biggest show of the year. I really doubt I’ll ever experience anything quite like that as a wrestling fan ever again. Win Bryan won the WWE title, I damn near shed a tear, even from my $200 nosebleed seat (I’m serious - it was as high up as you could possibly be in that building). I reminisce on all of this to say - WWE MADE me go to this show. There was no way I was gonna miss it, and it will undoubtedly go down as my favorite experience as a wrestling fan.

Of course, this was also the night that Undertaker’s 20+ year Wrestlemania winning streak came to an end. That’s right, I can say I was there. It was honestly the most surreal thing I have ever seen. My best friend and I looked at each other mouth agape (yeah, like that one guy they showed in the front row). Surely there was a mistake? The ref miscounted. The ring bell rang itself on accident. But, no, we had witnessed history (of a predetermined sport, but still). That, plus seeing Daniel Bryan, who was unequivocally my GUY for 10 years, win the WWE title, I kinda consider WM 30 my series finale as a WWE fan. All those years as a fan had been leading to it, and it blew my freaking mind.

Things also went pretty downhill after that. 3 hour Raws became more commonplace. The Shield broke up and went from being revolutionary performers to pretty run of the mill guys. Bryan got injured and had to retire. CM Punk was gone and not coming back. I went from never missing a Raw or Smackdown, to only sometimes reading results. WM 31 followed a year later, and wasn’t bad, but couldn’t match the year before in my mind. WM 32 followed, and was pretty rough. Royal Rumble leading into WM33 was extremely disappointing, and at that point, I vowed to not be let down anymore. Years of overall general disinterest as a fan mounted, and I gave WWE the deuces. WM 33 was the first Wrestlemania I ever missed. And I haven’t watched a Raw, Smackdown, or PPV since.

WM 34 will be the 2nd Wrestlemania that I’ve ever missed. Not only that, but I could easily be there (hopefully in better seats). I won’t be. Here’s why:

1) Daniel Bryan is back. Now, I’m not totally abject to this. I just personally feel that he accomplished all there was to accomplish. He’s married, and his wife just recently gave birth to their first child. I don’t think pushing his body is the best idea when considering all of these circumstances. Then again, it’s his body, and ultimately, his decision. Of course, I’m (selfishly) elated to see him back. He’s an all time favorite of mine, and he’s still relatively young. I know he can still deliver. Here’s the problem. WWE are not positioning his return as the colossal event that it is. We have been led to believe that he would never wrestle (for WWE at least) again. They buck these expectations by having him tweet out the news that he’s returning. Then they have him get beat up and hospitalized on TV the same night. Sure, it makes you hate the guys that jumped him, and makes you want to see him get even. After all, now that he’s cleared to wrestle again, he CAN get even. But, unfortunately, this is not the point here. The point of Daniel Bryan’s return is so he can team with Vince McMahon’s middle aged, non-wrestler son, Shane. Shane is a Wrestlemania staple, only this year, they didn’t have much planned for him. It’s quite a coincidence that WWE goes from being so against Daniel Bryan’s in ring return UNTIL they need something for Vince’s son to do at Wrestlemania. I hope I’m wrong, but it doesn’t look very good regardless. Bryan’s return (in New Orleans nonetheless) is worthy of a main event position. Instead, we’re getting a lukewarm tag match in the middle of the show. A huge moment totally squandered by WWE. Any long term fan will tell you - this isn’t a rare occasion.

2) The main event is lame and predictable. Roman Reigns and Brock Lesnar already wrestled for the WWE title at WM 31. It was actually pretty bad ass. It didn’t end with a legitimate finish (Seth Rollins won the match even though he wasn’t in it, because wresting is bizarre), so it makes sense that they would need to wrestle again to settle the score once and for all. The only problem is, Brock is leaving for a UFC return, and the fans that pay big money to attend WWE events, like Wrestlemania, hate Roman Reigns. This ain’t a good mix. The last time Brock left WWE, he got booed out of Madison Square Garden (at WM 20) and called a sellout - and that wasn’t even the main event. This cannot, and will not end well. Apparently, a lot of people think, “Surely, Vince McMahon won’t send the fans home unhappy from one of the biggest shows of the year?” Only he does - over and over. I’m sure Frank the Clown, Mick Foley, Honky Tonk Man, Jim Cornette, Disco Inferno, Juventud, The Midnight Rambler, Just Joe, plus everyone else and their mama will blog/podcast about how disappointed they are. But nothing will change. So long as WWE fans pay big money to boo, they’ll keep being served the same product they claim to hate.

3) I’ve already seen AJ vs Nakamura. These two already wrestled a few years ago at New Japan Pro Wrestling’s biggest show of the year, WrestleKingdom. And it was pretty awesome. Now, if anything would get me to watch this year, or even get me in a seat in New Orleans, its this match. I’m sure it will be an awesome match. But I just don’t care. I’ve already seen it. More importantly, the build has been practically non-existent. Nakamura’s Rumble win reeks of just throwing internet fans a bone. It’s not the main event, but it will appease fans while they boo Lesnar vs. Reigns. I don’t want to root against either guy, and that’s a problem. I like them both equally, and don’t want to see either lose. In turn, I can’t really get excited. This is a case where I would have preferred a hard heel turn from one of them. Either of them. I mean, give us something. I would have honestly preferred to have seen AJ face someone like Orton, a known awesome heel performer, and, in a perfect world, seen Nakamura face Brock (whether for the title or not). Then, I would’ve been there. I’m sure it will be an amazing match. I’m sure fans watching live and at home will love it. I’ll be sure to catch it somewhere down the line. But I won’t be paying to see it live.

In conclusion, I realize that as a 20 + year wrestling fan, I kinda feel like I’ve seen it all. I’m not very easy to please in that regard. I just refuse to continually consume and be displeased with a product just because I grew up with it. Plus, I can honestly say that in the year and a half that I’ve been watching New Japan Pro Wrestling regularly (via their monthly paid New Japan World service), I’m enjoying it as much as I enjoyed the Attitude Era when I was a kid. Sometimes, maybe even more. It’s important to let go of nostalgia, and move on if you don’t enjoy something. The WWE is not the same company, in any way, that I once enjoyed. They themselves acknowledge that they’re not a wrestling company anymore. And, hey, like I said, they’re more profitable and powerful than they’ve ever been. They certainly don’t need me. And if you’re unhappy with their product, they clearly don’t need you.

#WWE #Wrestlemania #NOLA #Lesnar #RomanReigns #Cena #AJStyles #Nakamura #DanielBryan #wrestling

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mysdrymmumbles · 7 years ago

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Andraste’s Witch - Chapter 72 - SFW

Pairings: Slowburn Cullen x F!Witch!Inquisitor

Rating: M for later chapters which will include violence, PTSD, withdrawal, angst, body horror (think red templars), and possibly other stuff that I will be sure to tag. This is not actually a grimdark story, but I just wanna give people a heads up for stuff that will happen. There will also be fluff and friendship and magic (though to be fair, this is Thedas, so magic will not always be positive and very rarely as adorable as that last statement implied).

Genre: Action/Adventure with elements of romance

Summary: Back at Skyhold, Vivienne is let in on a rather unpleasant secret.

I realized it’s been over a month since I updated this fic, so I thought I would go ahead and put up the next chapter today, to take a bit of a break from my book.

Thank you to everyone who reads and puts up with the long stretches between chapters <3 Ya’ll are great!

Andraste’s Witch

Chapter 72 - Complications

Vivienne’s day started with a note slipped under her door as she applied her eyeshadow in the mirror she’d managed to procure. It was smaller than she would have liked, but it was just about the only piece of glass in Skyhold that hadn’t been cracked, and so she’d accepted it, most graciously.

Already, she’d sent for better furniture, for the main hall, the inquisitor’s chambers, and her own, of course. After all, it was hardly selfish to take care of herself while she handled other matters around the castle.

A few of her seamstresses had already made the trip out, though none of them seemed to enjoy working with Herald Finley. It was a problem that would need to be dealt with, though now was hardly the time, seeing as Finley was off trying to form an allegiance with the least influential country in Thedas.

It would be an important stepping stone, but Vivienne still wished they could have found a way to start with Orlais or even a few cities in the Free Marches.

While Ferelden itself wasn’t so terrible a country to ally with, the fact that their king was rumored to be so against magic was…tricky.

Vivienne would have liked to go with Finley, but seeing as she was the Orlesian Court’s enchantress, she was two things that King Cousland couldn’t stand, and Josephine had been such a dear in navigating how to tell that without using any of the king’s words for her.

In truth, she’d already known she wouldn’t be going.

Solas, Dorian, Grand Enchanter Fiona, all of them had been left behind in an attempt to minimize the influence mages might have in the inquisition. It was cheap and felt more like a sellout than anything else, but Vivienne recognized that with the recent chaos that her fellow mages had been wreaking, it was probably best to give the illusion that the Inquisition had a few less mages than they did, if only to put the public at ease.

Especially considering that word was spreading that mages were most welcome there, to be treated as equals instead of locked away as the general public wished.

She also wondered if they hadn’t done this—minimized the mages present in their party—because of the fact that sometimes help was required from unsavory individuals, and if that meant playing up to their comforts to make sure they could be of use, well. It would hardly be the first time she’d had to deal with that.

Most of the time she put said individuals in their place, but even she had to admit that she’d never been up against a king.

Regardless, she’d continued to do her part, sending letters to the appropriate people in a country that mattered, requesting aid and an audience in the court.

Every letter had the same response, even if the flowery words were clumped in different phrases:

With the civil war, it is impossible to sit down with any foreign organizations.

That was the response from both her people on the empress’ and grand duke’s sides.

She understood it well enough. Even if they did gain an audience with one side, they would have to deal with the fallout from the other.

And so she’d turned to trying to find a way to move things along, feeling for where people stood on the civil war, where weaknesses might be in the sides and how she might be able to sway either side into a way that could benefit her.

And the inquisition of course.

Still, it had been years since someone had slipped a letter under her door—in fact, it hadn’t been since she was a young girl in the Circles, working her way up to make sure that no one ever held her back or down.

And so, with no one there to witness, she set aside her makeup and wandered over quietly, picking up the paper to see it wasn’t even in an envelope.

The letter was written in Tevene.

Brow pinching together for but a second, Vivienne finished preparing her face and then slipped out of the room, going about her day as usual, though she kept an eye out for anyone who might be watching her, checking to see what she might do with what she’d been given.

She found the time to go to the library, though to her disappointment, the Tevinter mage had apparently left to rid the world of bandits or some such heroism that sounded more like an excuse to get away from the tranquil than anything else. The man was so wholly unnerved by them.

Vivienne pitied them more than anything.

However, regardless of how she felt, when she turned to find one of the tranquil standing directly behind her, blank gaze focused so completely upon her, she couldn’t help but stand a little taller.

“Do you need something, my dear?”

“You are Lady Vivienne.”

She tilted her head slightly, appraising the woman and pushing aside her desire to react to that eerie monotone. “I am.”

“I can translate your letter.”

At that, Vivienne’s brow arched. “What makes you think I have need for your skills?”

“This morning I found a letter where I work. It said you would need assistance.” The tranquil’s voice was so dead, her expression so lifeless. “I had tasks to complete, of course, but I intended to come find you when they were finished.”

Vivienne stared at the tranquil for what couldn’t have been more than a second, though it felt far too long for her as she gathered herself and made sure that her mask never slipped. Someone had given her a message they knew she couldn’t read and then set one of the tranquil up to translate for her?

Who would do this?

It felt more like a trap of some sort than anything else, and so Vivienne gave the tranquil a pointed smile and shook her head. “I’m afraid whoever left you that note was mistaken. I’m in no need of services.”

Before the tranquil could ask any further questions, she slipped away.

The next day, another note found its way under her door.

Vivienne didn’t bother to go to it until she was ready to leave the room this time, leaning down to pick it up in one quick motion and then frowning as she noticed that this note was similar to the last.

Maker preserve her, it was the same note.

How had someone gotten it out of her room?

After finding no clues about what was going on in her room, she settled for finally inspecting the note itself.

A translation had already been written at the bottom.

Maker help them, but if the words scrawled across the page were true, then the venatori were already in Skyhold, working their way in with the rebel mages as they awaited orders. To do what, it didn’t say, though she could easily imagine.

Even if there were only a few of them, if they started a riot with magic, the templars would lash out and the mages who weren’t involved would fight back. The entire valley would erupt in fighting.

Of course this would be happening when the heads of the organization were away.

Opening the door, she cut her stride short as she found the same tranquil from before waiting for her.

“I translated your note.”

“It is not mine if you need to slip it under the door.”

“The instructions said I was to do so.”

Vivienne frowned. “What instructions?”

The tranquil reached into her sleeve and pulled out a small piece of paper, her motion so smooth, not a single bit of energy wasted.

Were it not for the years she’d spent learning not to let signs of discomfort or unease into her body language, she might have snatched the little paper. Instead, she took it as though she were receiving any other letter, allowing herself to read over the paper without any sign of worry on her face.

Translate this and slip it under Lady Vivienne de Fer’s door. She will need this.

The handwriting was simple, yet clear.

“Who gave this to you?”

“It was at my work station.”

“So you’ve no idea who might want me to read this? Templar? Mage? Other?”

“Do you need anything else of me?” The woman asked in that pitiful monotone, expression blank as ever. “I was told to bring the note, but not what to do after.”

Taking in a slow breath, Vivienne gave the tranquil a practiced smile. “No, my dear. You may go.”

“Goodbye.”

And with that, the tranquil turned on her heels and headed off to whatever part of the library she worked in.

Vivienne stood outside her door a moment longer, glancing down to compare the notes. None of the handwritings matched, which made sense, if the first note really was intercepted from some plot afoot.

But what if it wasn’t?

Who would benefit from a witch hunt, so to speak, now of all times?

Could the templars be behind this? Were they coming to her because they knew she would be loyal to the Chantry and they thought she would easily toss her fellow mages to the wolves?

No sooner had her door closed, she was en route to see someone she’d dearly hoped she could avoid for the rest of her days.

Grand Enchanter Fiona.

#dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #andraste's witch #vivienne #vivienne de fer #action/adventure #suspense #i guess

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storiesbybrian · 8 years ago

Text

Buddy’s Buddies, February, 2002

I kick Sam Zane in the belly. Then I grab him by the hair and sling him to the ground. These new lights are giving us a heavy sweat. Sam stinks. If I was a certain type of jerk, I could have him fined for not wearing deodorant. But he’s just a kid and everybody makes their mistakes. So I drop an elbow on his solar plexus and say, “Sam. They can smell your ass in the mezzanine, man.”

“I know,” says. “They lost my luggage in Richmond. ‘Sgot my Speed Stick in-”

I cut Sam off before he can finish, picking him up and whipping him into the ropes. When he bounces off, I’ll set him up for my big finishing move. The Olive Press. While he’s bounding tape to tape I have a second to think. It’s amazing how much thinking you can cram into a short period of time. I’ll be seeing Buddy today for the first time in three weeks. Things got pretty bad for me while he was away and I know he’ll be a sight for sore eyes.

Sam comes back from the ropes, kicking up tiny clouds of powder with every stomp on the mat, and I bend forward and toss him over my back. Sam flips through the air and lands near the middle of the ring. When somebody lands hard on the mat, the apron around the ring’s supposed to ripple from the impact. But Sam, though he’s got potential, is a long way from being a great faller. He hardly even bounces.

The small crowd boos, knowing that Sam was beat long ago and I’m just being sadistic. But that’s the way the American Wrestling League, and every other major professional wrestling body operates. In a non-marquee matchup, the bad guy drags out his match as a time filler, and he gets the crowd involved, taunting them, kicking his opponent while he’s down. One thing rednecks claim they can’t stomach is seeing a beaten man get abused further. Whether that’s true in real life, I’m not too sure. But their deepest moral indignations always come howling out at wrestling matches. I’ve gotten over 100 death threats for what I “done” to Buddy last month.

With Sam writhing around on the mat, the stray boos from the half-empty arena get louder. I taunt the folks in the stands, trying to give them their money’s worth. I start bellowing fake opera: “Oooooohhhh, Dio Mio!!!” Then I strut over to Sam and kick him a few times. My red, green and white patent leather boots catch the glare of the ring lights. The crowd noise picks up a little bit more. I cross my right leg in the air and tip over onto Sam, elbow first again. I say, “45 more seconds, kid.”

I pull Sam up to his feet and smack him in the chest. He falls right back down and I strut around some more under the hot lights, trying to wring more life out of the crowd. A few half-empty soda cups fly past the ropes and into the ring. I kick them at Sam and fling my fingers from under my chin at the crowd. The front rows start screaming at me, telling me I suck, that I’m a dead man. I wag my tongue at them and press both of my hands downward, the sign for the Olive Press. Somebody tries to start a chant of “Grease-ball! Grease-ball!” but it doesn’t catch on.

I grab Sam by the hair and drag him over to one of the corners and sit him up on the top turnbuckle. He smells and it’s genuinely pissing me off. If I had a shot at the national syndicate at his age, the last thing I’d do is act unprofessionally. As Sam sits there in a tortured heap, I preen around the ring one last time, slicking my hair back and kissing the tips of my fingers like a proud chef. Then I stomp over to Sam and give him the Olive Press. The Olive Press is half Super-plex, half Gorilla Slam. I hoist Sam off the turnbuckle and then windmill him to the ground so hard we both bounce a few times before the referee comes over and counts him out. More powder gasps up from the mat.

“That’s how you fall, son,” I say to Sam.

The bell rings and the referee comes over to raise my arm. But we’ve got more in store for this small crowd. We want them to tell their friends that they really missed something today. So I growl and stick my thumb behind my front teeth and flick it at the referee. I shove him to the mat and kick him with my shining Italian boots. Then I pick Sam up and give him some more slaps across the chest. As I draw him close to throw him into the ropes for a clothesline, I say, “Hey asshole! Next time they lose your luggage, go out and buy some more goddamn Speed Stick!” And then I whip him bouncing into the ropes at the east end of the ring.

Buddy. He’s everybody’s port in the storm, the only man the rest of us can love openly without seeming like homos. “Hell,” he’d say. “Only difference between us and movie stars is we do our own damn stunts!” And that’s how he makes us feel.

And I’m his best friend. He appreciates my insights. After all, it was my idea how he could go to the Bahamas with his wife in the first place. I know it sounds selfish now, but if I thought that me “turning” on Buddy’d mean the kind of sacrifices I’ve had to make, I’m not sure I would’ve gone for it in the first place. But Buddy is my friend and his marriage was in trouble and maybe if I’d covered for him a few of those nights when he didn’t come home, he wouldn’t have needed to take Donna on vacation in the first place. So I guess it all evens out in the wash.

I hold Sam in a headlock and gouge him in the eye. Suddenly the angry shouting from the stands turns into excited cheers. Buddy! Fans are running, stomping towards the southeast aisle of the arena. And there he is with Solomon Grande and Chief Mustang, charging towards the ring. I can see his ice blond locks shimmering, even in the darkness of the aisles. He’s even faster on his crutches than they are on foot, the fat goons. The crowd starts yelling, “Buh-Dee! Buh-Dee! Buh-Dee! Buh-Dee!” And like nobody else can, with his body swinging on those crutches, he acknowledges the love of his fans. “Whoo-Weeee!” he calls. “Whoo-Weeee!” the crowd answers. And now they sound like a sellout at the Omni.

I get terrified, like I’m supposed to. I cast about for the referee to save me but he’s long gone. Then I act like me and Sam Zane are good friends, helping him up and draping an arm around him, trying to revive him. But he stays limp. Chief Mustang and Solomon Grande torpedo into the ring and tear Sam’s flaccid body away from my false embrace. The Chief prods a huge finger into my chest and I cower to the other side of the ring, pleading, “Oh no, signori, no mi piace, signori! NO MI PIACE!” Then I hear Buddy clear his throat into the ringside microphone.

“Hey!” he says. The crowd, who’s missed him almost as much as I have, goes even wilder. They chant his name, like they’re witnessing the second coming, which, in a way, I guess they are. “Hey, Don Palermo!” He points one of his crutches at me. I shake my head wildly, trying to pretend this isn’t happening and that I’m somewhere far away and safe. That’s one of the tricks of the bad guy trade. We’re fakers. We’ll incur the wrath of the good guys, but rather than own up to it, we’ll try to hide, say that it can’t be. The good guy knows that it is and imbues his every action with the belief in the here and now. You can call it existential if you want. But that’s why the good guys are beloved and the bad guys reviled, even though we all wrestle, we all use the same violent moves. Our audience doesn’t want to retreat. They want to face the music. And the music is Buh-Dee.

“Hey, Don Palermo! Why don’t you try kickin’ somebody who ain’t already been put down? What kinda man are you, anyway? Twirlin’ your mustach-ee-o, singin’ that opera crap! Whatsa matta? You ‘fraid of a little Rock ‘n Roll?!”

The frantic screams from the crowd get organized. “ROCK AND ROLL! ROCK AND ROLL!”

I drop to my knees and lace my fingers in supplication, pleading, “No, Buddy, no!”

“Yeah, boy, yeah! You used to be my friend. And then you sneak attacked me! You stabbed me in the back! Made me sorry I ever trusted you in the first place! Now I ain’t ashamed to tell you good people, that hurt me. It hurts to lose a friend. But brother, Buddy Flash is instant karma! Somebody hurts Buddy Flash, ohhhh, they gon’ get theirs, baby. So you! You, Don Palermo, I wanna show you somethin’!”

Buddy raises one open hand and the crowd pitches down to a low rumble, craning to see Buddy’s visual aid. He grabs a couple of enlarged X-rays from the ringside table where they’d been waiting for him. Only Buddy Flash could get scientific with this crowd. He holds up one of the X-rays and says, “Yeah, people! Doctor Jorgenson says Buddy Flash is on the mend. The good doctor says I’ll be back in the ring come Thanksgiving! And Don Palermo? Brother, you are cordially invited.”

And Buddy hurls the X-ray into the ring and skips on his crutches back up the aisle and through the tunnel to the locker room. Man he moves fast on those crutches. Solomon Grande and Chief Mustang shove me off my knees and wave bye bye to me. I curl up in the fetal position and tremble for a good two or three minutes. I put my thumb in my mouth and try to show the crowd that this babyish action is even more pathetic because it actually soothes me. They buy it, razzing me with a new sense of purpose.

A few weeks earlier, we’d been in our locker room, showering after a tag team match. The floors were cream colored tile and we each had our own glass door and chrome dials with latches to control the water pressure and temperature. Not like back in Florida, but Buddy was still forlorn.

“I dunno, brother!” he said. “I think Donna might be serious this time. Maybe she’s just been waitin’ until her half of the nut was more to her likin’.”

“Well, Buddy,” I said. “One thing I know about married women. Their favorite anniversary present probably ain’t special shampoo.”

“Well, she wasn’t the only one sufferin’ there, boy! Why you think I started shavin’ all over?”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Hey,” Buddy said. “You remember how dirty them showers down in Florida used to be?”

Buddy was always making me laugh. “Yeah man! You were like to be dirtier after ‘n before. Huh huh huh huh!”

“Those were some days, boy, I tell you!” Buddy hollered. “Back then, me ‘n Donna were inseparable. I hardly messed around at all down there.”

I turned off the water and walked over to Buddy’s stall. I was still sweating from the match and the steam in the locker room. “Hey Buddy,” I said through the spray.

“Ymmm?” he said.

“Why don’t you take her off to the Bahamas? You remember what a good time I told you Tammy’s sister had with her husband down there?”

He finished rinsing and turned off the water. He went and grabbed one of his ochre towels with the silver initials BF on it. His head was furled up in the towel so his voice was muffled but I could still hear him ask, “Huh?”

“MaryAnne. My sister-in-law. Don’t you remember?”

“Oh yeah,” Buddy said, wiping the ash blond hair out of his face and smiling at me. I could see the grid of scars he had on his forehead. Buddy cut himself plenty in the early days. The promoters loved to see his light hair get soaked with blood. “Nassau, right?”

“How can Donna be mad at you in a tropical paradise? Making love under waterfalls…”

“Spl-spl-spl-splt! Great idea, son,” Buddy said. He flicked on his blow dryer. “How the hell am I gonna take my goddamn wife down to the Bahamas and still do promos and matches five days a week?”

“Well!” I shouted over the echoing blow dryer. “You never let me stay upset for this long! So gimme a little time and I’ll figure something out! OK?”

“Whatever.”

I watched “Circle in the Square” yesterday. “Circle in the Square” is a weekly talk show about wrestling developments hosted by Mad Mike McDonough and Sir Algernon Crawford, two of the most respected commentators in the business. Buddy’s and my grudge match was the lead story. They played the statements that we’d pre-taped a few days earlier. In Buddy’s it was all about what a dirty yellow dog I was, betraying him like ‘at and all. And mine was about how now everybody can see who the real man behind our operation’d always been and it’s about time to see the great Buddy Flash get knocked off his high horse. Oh, it was gonna be some match, alright.

I had mixed feelings about the segment where they interviewed fans. They asked a bunch of Flashbulbs (Buddy’s hardcore fans who travel to see him wrestle) what they thought about our feud. Boys and girls alike, they all had their hair dyed white-blonde. And they all said that it was obvious that I was jealous of the spotlight and not humble enough to play a supporting role to Buddy. I had to laugh because what could be further from the truth? In my role as the foe, I’m more supportive of Buddy than ever. But I’m also proud of the job Buddy and I are doing with this feud. We’re like shining examples to the other wrestlers out there, showing ‘em how you really galvanize the public. Our ratings are up past FCCW and are fast gaining on the IWA. So what if the fans get carried away and forget it’s fake? That’s the whole point.

The cameras were filming in Roanoke, Virginia. A high school football team said their team Thanksgiving meal was gonna be early so they could watch Buddy stomp me to death. One young lineman said he hoped that Buddy would “torture that no-good, yella-bellied traitor for quite a spell. Quite a spell.”

The way we had it planned thus far, that’s exactly what Buddy was gonna do. We were choreographing a marathon of a match. Standard marquee dynamics. First Buddy would storm into the ring and I’d climb the cage to get away from him. After about five minutes of Buddy inspiring sheer terror in me, he’d get ahold of me and pummel me for a while. But then, just when things seemed to be all Buddy, I’d do something dirty and yank the momentum right out from under him. After a few minutes of me wearing him down, I’d put him in a submission hold. We hadn’t decided between the Boston Crabclaw and the Figure Four, but either way, Buddy’s job was just to grimace and writhe without giving up, a testament to, if not stoicism, then at least the epic pain threshold of a true hero. Just past the 20 minute mark, somebody was supposed to throw a rigged chair into the ring. It’d get busted up and then Buddy and I were supposed to rub wood chips in each other’s faces and gouge each other with splintered chair legs until I was to slip in a pool of my own blood. Then Buddy’d be upon me with his piece of the chair aimed at me like a stake. For a second, his face was supposed to be stamped with the blood lust. But then humanity would creep into his face and his eyes would unbug and his teeth would unbare. And this is where we need to decide what to do next.

This won’t be the first “I Quit” match in the history of the American Wrestling League. But the concept, if it isn’t handled properly, can run counter to the whole point of professional wrestling. The thing about wrestling is that you have us characters with our “genuine” differences, and we settle them violently. A three-slap on the mat should satisfy any grievance the crowd has, whether it’s personal, romantic or political. Even at the height of the Cold War, when the bad guys were bald-headed Russians, evil-eyed Sultans, or those indomitably mean, bland Chinamen that everybody loved to fight, nobody ever wanted to see those guys get killed. Victory is no fun for the fans unless the loser’s around to wallow in humiliation, to concoct fantastic excuses and test the market to see if revenge is in the cards.

But with Buddy’s and my “I Quit” match, we’re toying with death. Neither of us likes the idea. Buddy put it best: “How’m I gonna beat you without killin’ you?” Nobody wants that. But we are definitely wratcheting the violence up several notches. And by all indications, this is only too fine with our audience. “Boy,” Buddy said one day at rehearsal, “they are howlin’ for your blood!”

“No friggin’ way,” Jerry Boone had said.

“Now, Jerry,” Buddy said. “Quit starin’ out that window like General Patton or whoever and take your hands out from behind your back and sit down here at this big ol’desk o’ yours.”

Mr. Boone came back to the desk. “Buddy,” he said. “I know you’re at the top of every poll we run here, but don’t come in here forgetting who’s in charge. Who’re you feuding with right now, Isis the Samurai?”

“That’s right.”

“Well,” Mr. Boone said, trying to sound crafty. He flipped open his cell phone and dangled it over the desk like a butterfly knife. “How’d you like to drop that and get into a thing with Colonel Slocumb?”

“That faggot?!”

Jerry looked calmly across his desk at us. Buddy had mispoken and now Mr. Boone thought he was in charge again.

“Mr. Boone,” I said. “I change my name from Kid Amore to Don Palermo. Look at these sketches. I start acting like a mafioso. We plan a big match, Buddy kicks my ass, and that’s it. We figure the ratings boost’ll be worth the vacay.”

“Come on, Jerry. It’s only three weeks.”

“No.”

Buddy and I looked at one another and smiled. We still had our trump card to play. Buddy nodded for me to break the news to Mr. Boone. “What if we could guarantee that-”

Buddy jumped in, “We’re bringin’ Macon Tolliver in on this one!”

I smiled and Buddy slapped me five. “So waddya say, Jerry?”

Mr. Boone snapped his cell phone shut and took a look at my drawings of my new character.

Buddy and I came up together through the Florida organization. Roughly half of the AWL’s superstars got their seasoning on the Everglade Circuit. The most creative, ambitious and professional of us paid our dues for five or six years and then moved up to the national syndicate. But as far back as anyone can remember, Macon Tolliver’s been the king of Florida wrestling.

He worships Satan. Nobody knows how old he is. He wears a black velvet wizard’s cloak and has a way of gliding down the aisle for his matches while the PA system plays “Sympathy for the Devil” (how he could afford the rights to that song is another mystery). He spits green mist into the eyes of good guys and treats the bad guys as rivals for his own dark power, crippling them with ancient spells. All three major wrestling bodies, the AWL, IWA and FCCW issued invitations that’ve been standing for the last 25 years. But they all stipulated changes to Macon’s act so he stayed in Florida, putting the greatest show in wrestling on in union halls and high school gyms.

Buddy and I got to know Macon real well during Buddy’s four and my five years down in Florida. He said he saw something in us. He said Buddy was the embodiment of all that’s great about professional wrestling. He taught us most of what we know. But, unless you were a hardcore wrestling fan, you’d never have heard of him outside the state of Florida until a week before he and I Pearl-Harbored Buddy.

I was fighting some pushover. It was a quick match because I was a good guy. Buddy was watching from outside the ring, snapping the apron and leading the crowd in cheers. “Kid!” he’d call.

“Ah-Mo-Ray!” the crowd would answer.

“Kid!”

“Ah-Mo-Ray!”

But then, just before the match ended, a small commotion kicked up by the northwest aisle of the arena. I couldn’t see the aisle well from the mat but up on the video screens, sure enough, was Macon Tolliver floating towards the ring, hood pulled over his head like a Gregorian monk. Most of the fans had never seen him before but he had an effect on them anyway.

Macon made it to the corner opposite Buddy and stood there silently, oblivious to any attention he was being paid. He stared hard at me. At first I noticed but then I went back, gave my guy the Olive Press and pinned him. Buddy helped me on with my robe and we left Macon standing there by the side of the ring.

The same thing happened at each of my non-marquee matches for the rest of the week. As the week progressed, Mad Mike McDonough and Sir Algernon Crawford “dug up” the identity of the mysterious stranger who had started showing up at Kid Amore’s matches. They filled the public in on Macon Tolliver’s dark mission in life, inspiring dread like a couple of real pros. If you knew Mike and Al, you could see how excited they were to finally have Macon in the AWL. They seemed to defame him with more vigor than they’d displayed in years.

Meanwhile, Macon built a stable of wrestlers, conjuring loyalty from the most savage characters in the League- Nehru the Cannibal, the Tanzanian Devil, Steppenwolf der Havocmeister and Moustafa the Anatolian Giant. Backstage, there were more wrestlers lined up to work with Macon Tolliver than there are movie stars for a Robert Altman movie.

I acknowledged Macon’s presence at my matches with a statement they’d play before commercials: “Lemme tell you people somethin’! If that Satanic freak wants to watch Kid Amore dismantle a coupla unworthies, he’s more than welcome. But let him buy a ticket like the rest of the Kid’s hard workin’ fans! I don’t know what makes that lilly-livered servant of evil think he’s so special that he deserves a ringside seat, but if he wants one so bad, let’s have him bring one of his non-English-speakin’, unpatriotic goons inside the ring for me to handle. ‘Cause baby, when you’re in the Press, you ain’t nothin’ but mush. ArrivederLa!”

So, in short order, a match was set up with Steppenwolf der Havocmeister, master of the iron claw. Macon was in his corner, staring silently and intently from under his dark hood. Buddy was in my corner, helping the crowd taunt, “Ste-Fa-Nee! Ste-Fa-Nee!” I was winning the match and Steppenwolf der Havocmeister was almost ready to get the Olive Press. Buddy was pounding the outskirt of the ring, leading “Kid!”

“Ah-Mo-Ray!”

Suddenly, Macon started babbling. He had a mike in his cloak so everybody heard him. He was incanting something, “Cumis ego ipse oculis vidi in ampulla pendere. Cumis ego ipse oculis vidi in ampulla pendere.” I’m not sure what that means but it sure did scare the shit out of the crowd. And that was before they’d all noticed Buddy. When they did, he was on his knees, clawing his own throat. His platinum hair was shaking frantically with every gasp for air. I ran over to the corner and reached out my hand to him. “Buddy!” I shouted.

But then Steppenwolf der Havocmeister ran up and kneed me in the back. I fell to the ground and he started to stomp on me with his bulky jackboots. Finally, Macon shed his robe and slithered his fully tattooed body into the ring. The referee had the bell rung, signaling me winner by disqualification. The big roar from the crowd was frightenend and despairing. As soon as Macon kicked me, Buddy broke out of his choking spell. He sat on the concrete outside of the ring, trying to recover. The fans were urging him to run into the ring and help me.

Macon had handcuffed me to the middle rope on the ring’s south end. He and Steppenwolf der Havocmeister methodically continued my beating. I was still conscious but barely. The crowd started chanting “Buh-Dee! Buh-Dee!” to help him get his strength back so he could rescue me.

After a minute of heartbreaking grogginess, Buddy staged a full recovery. He was up and shaking his whole body with fury and juice from the crowd. He leapt up to the top of the apron and flipped over the ropes into the ring. The crowd went wild. Only Buddy could pick people up so quickly and only Macon could knock them back down. Buddy drop kicked Steppenwolf der Havocmeister and then squared off against Macon, light versus dark. Unlike most bad guys, Macon showed no fear. He shot out his fingers and spit his green mist into Buddy’s eyes.

Once again, the great Buddy Flash sank to his knees incapacitated. And then the final blow. Macon unlocked my handcuff and led me to where Buddy was lying blind in the middle of the ring. I was furious. I turned to Macon and the crowd screamed for me to avenge my partner. I knelt down and took one of Buddy’s hands. But, to the audience’s ultimate horror, instead of helping him up, I laced one of my legs over Buddy’s arm and dropped to the mat, crushing my partner’s arm and taking the abrupt leap over to evil.

“I don’t believe what I’m seeing,” Mad Mike McDonough wailed from his ringside broadcasting table. “In all my years as a commentator for the American Wrestling League, I have never seen a betrayal so treacherous, so cowardly, so disgusting. Fans, I am sick to my stomach right now over what has just transpired here in Louisville.”

“‘Don Pulayermoe,’ that’s how it’s spelled” Jerry Boone reads, “‘You are one dead ginnee f***wad. I don’t know who let your ass into my cleen country of hours, but I promise you will never spred your filthy ginnee seed on our soil. See you on Thanksgiving, boy.’’”

Mr. Boone holds the letter out across the desk to me. Buddy is chuckling, shaking his head slowly.

“I don’t want to get my prints on it, Mr. Boone.”

“Frank,” Mr. Boone says, getting up from his desk and turning towards the window. “I’m putting you on 24-hour guard.”

“What?!” I yell.

“Huh?” says Buddy.

“And another thing,” barks Mr. Boone. He turns around and plops both fists down on his desk. “Don’t either of you let me hear another word about your wives being seen together.”

“Now, Mr. Boone…” I begin.

“Now nothin’ boy!” Mr. Boone growls. He sits down. “You think our fans are stupid? How many of ‘em gotta see Donna and Tammy at the nail salon before this whole dang feud is blown? You two are supposed to hate each other, gol’dangit!”

“But Buddy’s my best friend,” I say. “How am I supposed to deal with death threats and the like without-”

“Just a second, Frank,” Buddy says assuredly. He leans across Mr. Boone’s desk and fiddles with the pile of hate mail. “Now, Jerry. I understand what you’re sayin’. And, obviously, Frank’s safety is priority numero uno. But you gotta understand somethin’, my man…”

“Can it, Buddy,” Mr. Boone says. “This is as much your fault as anyone’s. ‘It hurts to lose a friend?’ You think our fans pay to see your softer side? You’re too busy trying to show your range for the Hollywood people and Frank here’s getting blamed for it!”

Mr. Boone pounds on the table with one hand and rubs his forehead with the other. It’s funny to watch him be bossy and worried at the same time. “Look,” he sighs. “From now on, what with Frank’s security detail and the extra precautions we have to have outside the rehearsal gym, this thing is becoming a major pain in the you know what. Now, Frank, you’d be doin’ everybody a big favor if you just checked into a hotel in secret until the match. You know the League’ll reimburse you for it.”

Now I have to walk around the room a little bit. “I dunno, Mr. Boone. I mean, I know this whole feud was my idea in the first place. But a man can only be so professional if he ain’t got the comforts of life outside the workplace. I mean, why do we do any of this in the first place? I didn’t mind losing my soda contract so much. You know the bad guy motto, ‘Better to be hated than doubted.’ But first you cut off all contact between Buddy and me, and now me and my family? I dunno, Mr. Boone. Especially after I did my part to help boost your ratings. Heck, I’m just doing my job.”

Jerry Boone smiles benevolently and says, “Too well.” Then he lights his pipe.

Thanksgiving is the AWL’s biggest night of the year. So ever since we made it big, our families have eaten our traditional Thanksgiving meal on Wednesday night so we don’t cramp up during our matches. We used to eat together. But, this year, they’re being kind enough to let me out of my hotel to eat Thanksgiving dinner with my immediate family on Wednesday at AWL headquarters about 30 miles from our home in Charlotte. Tammy and the kids pick me up from the hotel. They are not pleased.

“Who ever heard of Thanksgiving dinner for five people?” she says in the car on the way over.

“Yeah!” my daughter Marie chimes in from the back seat. “Doesn’t that trailer trash know wrestling’s fake?”

“Marie…”

I hate it when the kids use language like that. Since I first crossed over to the bad guys, Mr. Boone and I have been meeting to draw more lines for me to cross. Out of respect for my professionalism, he’s given me carte blanche but there are certain things I won’t do. I will spit on children. I won’t be racist. I will grab my nuts and stick my tongue out at old ladies. I won’t moon anybody. I will say “redneck.” I won’t say “white trash.” Sometimes I realize what a crazy job I have and it makes me laugh.

“Oh, you think this is funny?!” Tammy says.

“I miss Uncle Buddy!” says Frank Jr.

“Come on now, gang,” I say. “Y’all just need to change the way you’re looking at this. Now who’s hungry?”

My wife and children grunt and look out the windows of the car. I see their scowls in my rearview mirror. I hope the AWL can cook.

We get done late. The kids are all asleep in the car when we pull up to the hotel. There’s a big surprise waiting for me at the desk. It’s a message from “Blanton,” otherwise known as Buddy. The night clerk gives me a dirty look and points me to a courtesy phone.

“Hey, brother. Donna and I just wanted to wish you and Tammy and the kids a happy one. Sorry we’ve been out of touch lately. You know what Jerry ‘Baboone’ says. So I’m just tryin’ to take the outer layers of the reality of our match more seriously. We ain’t getting’ any younger, you know. Anyway, I oughtta get back to all the brothers and sisters and cousins, even though they’re all the same, right? Just kiddin’! Any-hoo, I guess I’ll just see you tomorrow. Hey, after the match, maybe we can get together and I can finally show you the pictures from our trip. Later gator!”

Tammy can tell by my face who it is. She touches my shoulder and gives me a look of understanding.

I put my arms around her and hold her tight. “You know I’d never let anybody hurt you and the kids, Tammy.”

“I know, Frankie. I know.”

She kisses me and goes back to the car and drives the kids home.

The locker room’s a zoo. Security is doubled on my side. I hear Buddy’s pissed because it means less guards to keep the Flashbulb skanks out of his locker room.

Macon’s giving me a rubdown when I hear my theme song. Louis Prima.

“Alright, kiddo,” he says, slapping me in the small of the back. “Let’s get this over with and go home.”

“I hear that!” I shout. I stand up and clap my hands. Two attendants help me into my robe. It’s fashioned after a baggy pinstriped suit. I like the silky kerchief in the breast pocket. A third attendant carefully places the black fedora onto my head. Macon rolls his eyes and ducks his head back into his hood and nods it over his face. How he can see outta that thing, I’ll never know

He pulls me aside for a moment. His voice creeps from under the hood. “Who do you hate?”

“Buddy,” I say.

“Who?” he asks, raising his voice a little.

“Buddy!” I say.

“Buddy who?”

“Buddy Flash!” I stomp my feet a few times and spit on the floor. I’m ready. I’m totally in character.

“Let’s go!”

We see the mess at the end of the tunnel. It’s small at first. Blurry studs of faces, bright snippets of the ring in the ropes in the cage, flashbulbs, press tables. We see bits. Going down the tunnel it gets clearer. The place is crazy. The Coliseum’s locker room tunnels are short so we have a longer path of exposure before the ring. The place is going wild. We exit the tunnel and get swallowed by the visual roar. The sudden switch from a low ceiling to an arena dome is like falling upwards for a second. A rush everytime. The floors are already densely littered, but nobody’s run out of things to throw at Macon and me.

“Out of our way you 8 to 5 losers!” I say.

The security guard in front of me gets hit in the face with the eraser end of a pencil. We try to speed up our pace to the ring. But traffic in the aisle is thick. I’m focused on the wide patch of light in the cage. It’s automatic in there. The microphone dangles in the middle. All 16 ropes are white to highlight the blood. It sure is slow going in the aisle. The hatred is strong. Suddenly a big rockfaced lady jumps out in front of me. Just like Jack Ruby. She hauls off and drives a heavy brogan smack into my nuts. My eyes water. The scene blurs again. I double over. Security shoves the big bitch aside and surrounds me. I feel Macon’s hand on my shoulder. But it gets yanked away and the crowd jumps on my guards’ backs. Too many people are surging. They’re trampling me. My bones are breaking. The noise is changing. I curl up best as I can. My balls are throbbing. Somebody kicks me in the neck. I can still make out the ring. I try to crawl that way, between a guard’s legs. He falls away and I’m unprotected. More fans jump the aisle, raining down the blows. Security’s a memory. I keep crawling. Somebody spills hot coffee onto me. The anger is being satisfied. More big farmer shoes. Stilletos. I crawl a little further. The aisle collapses completely. I can’t see the ring. All I see is trash and spit. Fury. Tears. “Grease-ball! Grease-ball!” Deafening. My $20,000 robe is filthy tatters. Rotten teeth calling me names with lockjawed conviction. A micro-dump of coca-cola, popcorn, tobacco juice and broken airplane bottles. I feel one of my hands down the aisle. I reach it out along the sticky floor. Cheers for my destruction. The hand begs. The hand pleads. My lungs feel shred by busted ribs. I feel the burning holes when I breathe. They’re cheering. I stretch the hand out further. They’re getting their way. I extend. And then I hear his song. “Black Dog.” And it isn’t a snap and it isn’t a click and it doesn’t even feel all that sudden, but I realize that I’ve been reaching for Buddy. Buh-dee. My best friend. Doesn’t even wait for me to make it into the ring. And I don’t care if the PA system had his song set on a timer. I hear the crowd. I feel their joy. And I can’t wait another minute to get in the ring and tear that bullshit motherfucker apart.

I throw my arms around two security guards’ necks and they whisk me the rest of the way down the aisle like a wounded soldier and hoist me into the ring. Not the dramatic entry we had planned but I’m here now. And I see him. He’d never enter the ring before me, so he’s hopping around, shaking hands, kissing babies, telling the camera that he’s number one and those folks know what it’s like to see Buddy Flash in action. At first he’s the same spectacle you see on television. But then he touches you. He points to your section and gives you a serious nod, in the midst of all this hoopla. And you just know he’s gonna fight his ass off for you and that all that shit you’ve been taking from your job and from your family and from your lodge, tonight they’re wrong, you’re right and you are gonna win, baby.

So I get in there and I wait. My body aches but it’s just a few bruises. Nothing I haven’t fought through before. I like these lights. “It’s been so long, but I’ve found out what people mean by down and out!” And then we’re in there together and Jerry Boone himself comes under the microphone. I’m not sure how I can tell but I just can that Mr. Boone’s tux is a rental. But I’m thinking about me. Clearly, finally. Oh, I’ll go by the script at first, but the next time that microphone worms into this cage, what’s Buddy gonna do? Whine to the fans that I’m not being fake enough? Now who’s trapped by the public?

It isn’t like I didn’t do my share of carrousing with Buddy. But, unlike Mr. Flash, I was careful. Tammy never caught me and she never caught anything from me. Buddy, sometimes he acted like he wanted to get caught. He’d have Donna on the phone in the middle of it. He even had ‘em over to his house. And then there were those unwanted pets he gave her just before their anniversary. I covered for him as best as I could and nobody could blame me for his bumpy marriage. But fairness was never Buddy’s strong suit. Without ever saying a word, he was always trying to make me feel guilt commensurate with his own, like if he got caught, it wasn’t fair that I didn’t too. Oh, he never ratted me out, but he always seemed to skew the reciprocity. It seemed like every morning that the kids would ask what Uncle Buddy was doing on the couch, he’d wink at me and say, “Well, since your Daddy didn’t sleep at my house, I had to come all the way over here to see you little buzzards.” And Tammy would kiss me and glare at him and, instead of being glad that one of us made it, Buddy’d stew.

Just before Jerry Boone is finished with his announcement, Buddy invokes good guy privelege and grabs the dangling mike. The crowd noise dims and Buddy takes a deep breath, getting ready for the long haul. “Palermo,” he says. “I don’t know how long it’s gon’ take, but I am gonna kick your fat guido ass!” We aren’t supposed to use profanity but the crowd really loves it.

The bell rings and we charge each other, locking arms and shoulders. Buddy rakes his arms through the tangle and stomps to make it seem like a violent move. I back up and then relock. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Buddy whispers. I was supposed to cower into the corner. I actually had forgotten. “Hey,” Buddy says. “You okay?”

I can’t wait any longer. I loose my right arm from the lock and hammer it down on Buddy’s back. Buddy falls to one knee with a great pounding noise. When he’s down there, I knee him in the face.

“Goddamn, boy!” he says.

I spit on him. Kick him in the ribs. Let him feel a little of the pain he’s caused me. I can’t believe how good it feels. I give him an elbow drop, a fake move.

“What the hell you doin’?”

“Shut up, Buddy!”

And I grab a fistful of his crinkly bleached hair and bang his head into the mat. With my other hand, I punch him in the face. I can’t remember when’s the last time I really hit somebody with a closed fist.

“Wha?” Buddy says.

I keep working on him, slapping him, slamming him. I’ve lost my sense of the crowd. For all I know, they can tell that something’s wrong. But I don’t care. The only way they’re gonna start being fairer is if Buddy lets them down.

“Quit?” garbles Buddy.

I look in his eyes. They’re messed with blood and he’s trying to blink it away. His face is slicked so red I can see my own reflection, haloed by the ring lights. Buddy coughs and I let go of his head so he can turn and spit.

Suddenly, I get a blow to the back of my head and the crowd explodes. It was the toe from Buddy’s boot. It doesn’t hurt so much but it stuns me enough to knock me off of him. And now he’s up and kicking me some more.

“You wanna play like that, huh, boy? Whoo-Weeee!” I have never heard a happier crowd. And it’s my pain that makes them cheer so loud. My pain and Buddy’s triumph. But Buddy doesn’t deserve to triumph. I do, no matter what the crowd believes. They don’t know. But they do. This is professional wrestling. They know. But they don’t care, don’t want to be reminded of my humanity. And that’s why Buddy must be destroyed.

But asshole though he may be, he’s still a stud. He drops an elbow on me and, the way he’s recovering his strength, you’d think he was coming back from a fake beating instead of a real one. Shaking, the whole bit.

There’s Mad Mike and Sir Algernon. They own their tuxes. For tonight they have to wear newer, smaller headphones and wireless microphones instead of their usual bulky ones.

“Here comes Buddy!” Mad Mike announces.

I’m on the mat, looking up at Buddy, at the lights and the faint shadows of the cage they make on the mat, getting darker where they overlap. And now the chair comes sailing over the top of the cage and splinters on impact with the mat. Buddy isn’t sure whether to fetch his weapon or attend to me.

“Don’t you move, Frank!” he says and gives me another kick. He marches over to where the chair legs are. I get up and follow him, jumping on his back and hugging my arms around his neck. He straightens up and starts spinning around. Faster and faster. The red the white the brown the black. The shine and the shadow, they all swirl and I don’t hear a thing. Wrestling’s different from this. We’re slowing. Buddy’s choking. I hop off his back and wheel him around by his shoulder. His head is hanging. I hit him in the stomach. By reflex, I stomp my boot on impact. I’m not used to fighting. I run at him with my arm outstretched, giving him a clothesline. Buddy drops the chair leg.

“It’s a bloody bloodbath in there!” says Sir Algernon.

Buddy writhes on the mat. I give my head a few good shakes but I still feel dizzy. Now I can give the crowd a good look. They’re confused. They aren’t exactly out of hate, but they don’t seem sure that expressing it would effect what they see here. This thing has degenerated from ballet to brawl and, seasoned as Buddy and I are, neither of us have been in a real fight in 20 years. Not knowing what else to do, I raise my hands and roar. Buddy looks up at me. He doesn’t understand what I’m doing. He’s coherent, but it doesn’t make any sense to him, as if this time is a real betrayal, as if he hasn’t betrayed me, the man who loved him best. He’s disgusted with me. And it works. I feel kinda bad. But I fight through that and fall to the mat and begin punching him some more.

Buddy grabs me by the hair and pulls me down. He rolls over and gets on top of me, pinning my arms with his knees. We’re still close to the shards of the busted chair. Buddy grabs a piece and knocks the dull end of it across my head.

“Come on, now Pilgrim,” he says. “Let’s see what you got stuffed with today!”

It comes as a surprise to me that the crowd is not excited about this turn in Buddy’s favor. Buddy continues to batter me with the chair piece. But it’s clear that his real moves don’t capture the crowd’s imagination the way his fake ones do.

“Buddy,” I say. “We’re losin’ ‘em. We gotta go back to the script, man.”

Buddy tosses the wood aside and smacks my face. “What did you say, boy? You wanna quit now? I hear the crowd just fine!”

Buddy rises to his feet. “YOU WANNA QUIT?!”

And now the crowd gets reinvolved. But Buddy’s still intact. And so am I. I roll over onto my belly and my best friend drags me by the wrist over to the announcers’ table. He reaches his free arm out, and they hand him the microphone.

#Pro Wrestling #Short Story #Ric Flair #Buddy Landell #Nature Boy #WCW #WWE #Fiction #Shuman

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