Post by Noelle Rivers on Jun 7, 2021 19:53:47 GMT -5
When I was a little girl I used to get hit a lot. Yeah, whatever, don’t make it a bigger dick than it is. As I’ve grown up it seems like there is always someone around the corner just waiting for the right moment to throw that next punch. Junkies and bad boyfriends abound and suddenly I’m the world's foremost crash test dummy. The only difference between getting hit now and getting hit then is that at least now I’ll get paid for it. You know what they say, if you’re good at something you should never do it for free.
I knew Fishfuck Folsom or whatever his name was wanted to make an example out of me before I walked in the building at Showcase. He, like everyone else in my life, looked at me as a way to make some sort of point, or hell, maybe he just needed someone to take his irritation at irrelevance out on. Don’t know, don’t care. He overplayed his hand when he thought literally anyone in this company gives two shits about me and whether some two-bit mid card hack wants to use me as a human Dammit Doll. If I had any sort of ego maybe I’d be embarrassed about a little bit of public humiliation but thankfully the ego was beaten out of me a long time ago. Truth be told, I thought after one match that would be that and I’d be on the first bus back to Grams but since my life is a magical mystery tour of fuckmupperty, no such luck. No one gave a fuck that I went out there and tried to throw the match, in fact, the big emo guy seemed to expect it. Asked me if I learned my lesson like I was some second grader who had touched a hot stove to see what happened to my meat noodles when they met a hot burner coil. Thought he would at least be a little bit mad but he seemed to have his hands full juggling his many wives, girlfriends and children. Big love like a motherfucker in this bitch. Anyway, he gave me his little after match spiel and told me I was due up for training.
Let’s establish something else about me up front, I fuckin’ hate training. Up until now I’ve stayed under the radar on the whole thing since Dumb and Dumber had three other idiots in training to focus.. oh, sorry, bad word... three other idiots in training to obsess over. But with the announcement that the powers that be (who is that now, anyway?) had booked the Yeti, the Conman and myself to take on the human personification of irritable bowel syndrome in a three on one match it seemed my number was called. The odds would be good if literally just one of us wasn’t an incompetent test tube baby. Tough breaks, man.
The floor below me was cold as Pixie’s tits as I sat there watching Alvin and the Chipmunk running through the paces in the ring under the watchful eyes of Coach Choochie. I call him that on account of he reminds me of a man who knows a thing or two about trains, and believe me, I know the type. My counterparts and I, while we didn’t get along per say, had settled into a comfortable routine with one another. Asher antagonized me, I antagonized Asher, JJ sang Barney songs and we all antagonized him – minus the sea nymph who was so pathetically and hopelessly in love with him she couldn’t see the forest for the trees with that one. Interestingly enough, she wasn’t the only one barking up Sandpaper’s tree these days. New bird, Drew Carrey had been all up on our boy backstage at the show and then later on sending some gag inducing tweets on twitter. But the kicker? The kicker was that ninety nine cents a minute voicemail she left for the big lug. As for me? I had feelings about it. Most of them were of wanting to vomit, some of them were excitement to see how it played out with his pintsized stalker and the rest were irritability that the big dumb idiot was in over his head and would bring this headache to our door and I’d have to listen to him cry when she moved on to greener pastures. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not Rosie O’Donnell or anything and I don’t speak A League of Their Own. Fully cockcasian, over here. Despite what Trashy Ashy thinks, my interest falls somewhere between Adonis and Gilbert Gottfried. Watching them run moves in the ring, sweat slicked bodies slapping into the mat as they tried to stick the landing of this move or the next, I could see the potential of my two housemates. I’m not fucking blind, it’s not like they’re totally unfortunate looking. But if you’re going to sign for a damaged package you sure as snake shit better want what’s inside. Asher was a proper cunt but that I could appreciate based on the fact I knew what I was getting when it came to Asher. There was a certain psychological safety there in knowing he was a little shit and constantly out to fuck me over. But JJ made me uncomfortable. He’s never been anything but goody-two-shoes nice as fuck to me since the moment he arrived. I goddamn hated it. Every time he looked at me I felt on edge waiting for the real motive to peak out but so far, bumfucknothin. The guy didn’t seem to have the slightest clue what to do with a woman and I suspected he was full blown Dungeons and Dragons. You know what I mean, V-carded. I didn’t like any of these people but I really didn’t like the idea of Drew Carrey cashing in her bingo chips on this kid and then rolling her pulsating pink tumbleweed onto the next Jolly Roger. None of this mattered, mind you, just look at the circus clown and the emo guy and ask yourself, are those the kind of troubles I really want to sign myself up for? No fuckin thanks, mate.
As luck would have it it didn’t seem like I’d be roped into this Ringling Brothers buttfuckery much long since the owner of this shitbag got himself shitbagged by the laws. Throwing the match may not have worked but the writing was on the wall and this joint was Branch Davidian levels of donezo. All that was left for me now was to hang back, let Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum take the beating from Custard and cash the pittance they called a check before it bounced back for insufficient funds. With a loud metal clang, Hurricane Clownshoes hit the door like a woman on a mission and as I didn’t see emo guy’s ex-wife handy for giving handies I imagined she must have been headed towards me. A suspicion that was confirmed when she stopped next to me and whistled for Choochie’s attention.
❝ Vhodka Marie ❞
Why isn’t she in the ring? No, don’t answer, doesn’t matter.
Before I could even react to her mood Vhodka’s hand was on my arm, yanking me up to my feet and using my momentum to send me tit to tit with her, Dorito breath and all. My mouth was opened and I had about twelve secondhand smart assed remarks to make before I looked into her eyes and knew that the woman digging her nails into my arm today was not the same woman I had been irritating for the last few months. This was a woman on the edge and just looking for an excuse. She reminded me a bit of all those that had come before her, people who had used me to work out their own internal issues. It pissed me off.
❝ Vhodka Marie ❞
You are not going to speak, Noelle. You are going to listen to me very carefully. Have you ever stopped to question why you’re here?
I didn’t even have the first syllable out of my mouth before she shook me a little, bringing her face closer to my own. Whatever bee was in this bitches bonnet had stung her and left a piece broken off. If I had to guess, the bee was currently porking the red headed bog wench on a beach somewhere. See, what I mean? Not worth it in the slightest.
❝ Vhodka Marie ❞
That was a rhetorical question. And yes, I do know what the word rhetorical means. You’re here because I saw fit to bring you here. You’re here because I see something in you that reminds me of myself. A much less pleasant version of myself, but myself nonetheless. What doesn’t remind me of myself is going out in front of all those people and laying yourself down at the feet of a man who is lesser than everyone in this room but especially lesser than you, Noelle. You’ve got a bad attitude and a chip on your shoulder, that’s fine, I can work with that. What I cannot work with is someone with no sense of pride in herself. The three of you are going to have to work and work hard but you are going to have to work ten times harder than either of them. And guess what, Noelle? No one will ever notice. They’ll automatically place you into some sub category simply because you’re a woman. Even if you all wind up to be the greatest things that have ever happened in this business you will be an addendum to their greatness. Doesn’t that piss you off? Rhetorical. So, here is what we’re going to do - you are going to get your scrawny Tinkerbell ass in that ring and work. You are going to work until you trow up, trow up more than Asher trows up every time he has to go into the bathroom after you. You will do what Coach says, you will meet his expectations and then you will surpass them. Not because I said so but because you are a woman and that is what we do. You think that I am an idiot, or that I’m crazy, that’s fine – a lot of people think that about me. But I see you Noelle, I feel the way you stiffen every time I catch you off guard and I watch your eyes as you go away from yourself while waiting for the other shoe to drop. You are no longer a victim, not anymore, not unless you choose to be. You may not win this match with Clauson, he might very well snap you like a kit-kat bar, but you will show up and you will stare that motherfucker down eye to eye until he takes your sight. When he knocks you down, you will stand back up and get right back in his face until you cannot physically stand anymore. Take a look around, every man in this room thinks you’re a joke, Noelle. Are you a joke?
The men in the ring were watching the diva cup Discovery Channel happening before them with some sort of strange fascination. Asher looked smug at seeing me taken down, JJ looked deeply uncomfortable with the conflict in general and Coach, well, Coach was looking like he didn’t exactly know what to do with either of us. It wasn’t all that unusual when it had seemed very evident he didn’t know what to do with me from the moment that I walked in the door. He’d put the Bobsey Twins through their paces and never paid me so much as a second glance. Never called me in, called me up, even when Asher was vomiting for what seemed like the hundredth fucking time today he never rested him and called me in to work with JJ Starfucker. My head involuntarily cocked to the side as I looked at Short-Shorts McCoochie, wheels turning until they clicked into place. I knew what Vhodka had meant now. My voice sounded different as I spoke, never taking my eyes away from the paling man in the ring.
❝ Noelle Rivers ❞
Anything else?
❝ Vhodka Marie ❞
Yeah, don’t date.
With that parting remark my arm was released and Vhodka Marie stepped back to survey her work. After a moment of eye contact, she nodded her head and muttered “that’ll do pig” under her breath. She turned to leave, taking a few steps towards the door before she stopped as if she had forgotten something. She looked back over her shoulder at Coochie Choochie, raising an eyebrow in his direction. She looked away from him and back at me with a steady scowl as she spoke to the man in the ring behind her.
❝ Vhodka Marie ❞
Her failure is your failure. If you don’t know what to do with her you sure as hell won’t know what to do with me. Don’t fail me, Ernold.
Seems Clownshoes knew the score better than I thought. For the first time since we met, we were both in perfect agreement. Halle-fuckin-lujah.