Post by Sahara on Jun 8, 2020 14:29:25 GMT -5
“It ain’t about winning and losing.”
“It ain’t about winning and losing.”
“It ain’t--”
It didn’t seem to matter how many times Sahara repeated herself, it went in one ear and out the other. And it wasn’t just the students of the Shelter. There were plenty in the OPW who didn't seem to understand the very essence of professional wrestling, either. This wasn’t like other sports. In baseball, football, soccer -- you name it -- if you don’t win, you don’t advance. That’s it. It’s that simple. But that isn’t -- nor has it ever been -- the way professional wrestling works.
Because professional wrestling isn’t that simple.
It’s when you win and how you lose that matters. The biggest names in the history of professional wrestling weren’t very good wrestlers, and some of the all time greats lost more often than they won. Because at the end of the day, it ain’t your win/loss record that determines who’s a star and who’s a wannabe.
It’s the fans.
If they don’t wanna be you, they won’t pay to see you.
It was a lesson I learned early on in my wrestling career, way back when I was just a teeny bopper helpin’ out backstage at my parents two-bit little indy promotion back on the South Side of Chicago. I spent more time helping my older brothers get their act together than I’d care to admit. I learned to sew just so they’d have some colorful ring attire beyond some simple jean shorts, tassels and cheesy wrestling boots like everyone else wore back where we came from. We didn’t have much money, so it wasn’t like we could have it done professionally, and the Internet hadn’t yet really taken off yet, so online shopping wasn’t really an option…so I did what I had to do.
To stand out back then, I figured you had to wear some colorful gear so you looked larger than life -- but more importantly -- you had to win. So I told ‘em to win. Win at all costs. It’ll be the only two things that set you guys apart from everyone else. But as fate would have it, it didn’t take long before everyone else was wearin’ neon colors, so instead of standing out, it looked like they were just fittin’ in. Besides, it’s the winners that take the podium in the olympics, after all.
So fuck it, just keep winnin’.
That’s when I first met Luther Young. He didn’t know it at the time, but he was about to change my life. Of course, back then he wasn’t a wrestling trainer yet, let alone the man that would eventually become the head trainer at the Fallout Shelter. Luther was a talent scout for one of the bigger midwest territories of the era, passing through and checking out random indy shows where he’d pick off standout talent to take on the road. That’s the way the system worked back then.
He asked me to tell him about my brothers. But I knew he was askin’ about one of ‘em in particular. He was the clear standout in the family. So I did what he asked. I sold ‘em like I was sellin’ candy to a kid. It made Luther smile how energetic I was about puttin’ my brother over. Yet, he just looked at me with a sigh, “You sure got the gift of gab, kid, you ever try lacing up the boots yourself?”
“Me?!” I remember askin’, “Are you fucking out of your batshit crazy mind old timer? I’m a girl. Do you know what they do to girls in this business?! They’d sooner call me a rat than take me seriously in the ring.”
While I called him an old timer, he was probably in his mid-thirties at the time. But what the hell did I know, I was a fucking teenager.
“Well, are you a rat?”, he asked.
Yeah, the condescending prick actually straight up asked me that. Was this guy here to scout my brothers or what--
“Fuck no, mister. I ain’t no ring rat. And if any of these neanderthals even thinks about it and I’ll kick ‘em so hard they’ll wind up chokin’ to death on their own balls.”
I remember he let out the loudest laugh when I said that. Glad he found me amusing. So anyway, then he asks why I don’t think they’ll take me seriously in the ring? Honest to God he asked me that.
So I say to him, “Maybe cuz I’m five-seven and a buck thirty soakin’ wet.” Keep in mind, I hadn't fully grown yet, but still, at the time the average big name wrestler was probably six-something two-fifty plus. They didn’t call it the land of the giants for nothin’.
Anyway, all he did was shake his head in a condescending manner and went back to watchin’ my brother win. That’s when he looked at me and pointed to the ring where the referee was holdin’ my brothers arm up in victory.
“Can you hear that?!”
“Hear what?”
“Exactly.”
Huh? Okay. So I didn’t get it yet. I was just a teenager. But Luther was about to open my baby blues.
“Listen, kid, what’s your name?”
“Lauren.” I told him.
“Nice to meet you, Lauren. Now listen to me. It isn’t winning that’s gonna get you into the territories or the big time.” I remember him lookin’ me up and down, but it wasn’t in a creepy ass way most men looked at me back then or even now. “It’s your personality,” he says. “Win or lose, they’ll pay to watch you. And that’s wrestling.”
“What?”
“You aren't there yet, but in a few years, women are going to want to be you. They won’t admit it, but they’ll be wishing they looked like you. And they’ll likely hate your guts for it, and gladly pay the price of admission hoping to see you get your pretty little ass kicked. As for their boyfriends? Their husbands? They’ll all want to fuck you--”
“Excuse me?!” I remember bein’ furious that he actually had the gall to say that straight to my face. I mean, what a rude fucking comment--
“Don’t get sand in your vag, Lauren. That isn’t a bad thing. That’s the thing that’ll make you a star.”
Don’t get sand in my fucking vagina?! Did he really?! What the fuck was this idiot talkin’ about?! Whatever, dude! It doesn’t even matter. Now, about my brothers…
That’s when he looked straight at me and said, “Sorry, Lauren, he doesn't get it. He’s a great amateur wrestler. But it takes more than winning to really make it in the pros. I'm not interested in the next flash in the pan that can go out there and do some wrestling moves. After the fourth or fifth time they see a match like that, they’ve already seen everything. Same moves, over and over, recycled brand of boredom. No. I’m looking for someone that can catch up and keep up. And he isn't it.”
I’d never been so confused in my life. Excuse me?! He ain’t got what? My eldest brother was undefeated in the region. He was an Illinois state division one champion. What the hell more is there to have?
But it didn’t matter how much I begged him to give my brothers a second look, he said he’d already found the only star in that territory, and it was a shame she wouldn’t lace up the boots.
This dude was either deaf, dumb or blind.
It took me years to understand what the fuck that crazy fucker was talkin’ about.
Hell, my ring name even came out of that conversation.
That’s the crazy thing about wrestling.
“I told you it wasn’t about winning and losing, and if you don’t get that by now, I don’t know what’s gonna convince ya. Oh, I know, how about this?! I joined the OPW on May 6th, 2020. It’s been a month, and I’ve yet to win a single match...yet on the very first PPV I’m scheduled to appear, I was given a title shot at the OPW Pureblood Championship.”
“Ironic, don’t ya think?!”
“Yeah, I really do think.”
Sporting her own officially branded OPW shirt tied off at the side to show off her well-toned midriff, Sahara paced around her namesake model midnight black Jeep Wrangler, which she had outfitted with oversized tires, a winch and other goodies that she felt made it look rather ‘badass’. She’d parked out a bit on the sprawling gravel lot of the Fallout Shelter, as she didn’t like people parking next to her baby. With the weather warming up, she’d usually leave the top down, so she also avoided the perimeter where trees lined the property -- which meant there were birds that’d just love to shit all over it.
The tight fitting Yoga pants she wore were rounded out by classic style Doc Martens with the yellow stitching, lazily laced only half way up. She’d absently kick at rocks from time to time as she passed by her reflection in one of the Jeep’s windows. She took a moment to sweep her platinum hair back and adjust her Maui Jim’s. She had AirPod Pros firmly planted into her ears as she seemed to be in the midst of an animated conversation, celebrating some good news.
No, not the news of somehow getting a shot at the OPW Pureblood Title on Highway 2 Hell despite winning exactly zero matches so far in her OPW career, but something far more important.
“Hell yeah I’ll audition for the next Sandler flick on Netflix! Are you kidding me?! Goddamn his movies suck royal ass these days but people still seem to watch ‘em. Yeah, not that recent one where he’s all Jewey and thieving shit, but I mean his comedies--” Sahara let out a deep sigh, “Yeah, yeah, I know I’m not supposed to talk like that these days. It was just a joke. Besides, it’s not like anyone cares. Yeah, you know what I mean. Yeah, that’s the one. It was a great movie! But this audition is for one of those made for Netflix comedies he’s been shittin’ out, right?!”
She shrugged.
“Whatever, if it pays that much hell yeah I’ll do it. Set that up for me and grease the skids. Who? Blair?! Buchanan?! What about her?”
The blonde rolled her eyes as she continued pacing around her Jeep, enjoying a bit of the morning sun. “Don’t worry about that stuff, it’s going great. Hey, you worry about the Netflix stuff, and I’ll worry about the wrestling stuff. I know what I’m doin’.”
“Yeah,” she laughed rather loudly. “They actually put me in a title match already thus proving my point! Yeah, exactly, and when the wrestling smarks tune into the next episode of Breakin’ All the Rules and the ratings go up, I’ll take credit for the spike and they’ll see I’m bringin’ a whole new audience to the product because the marks are gonna wanna see what happens when I upstage that bitch on her own show. I shoulda done this a while ago.”
“No, I don’t care. All she had to do was say hi to me and she couldn’t, so now I’m gonna make her life a living hell.” Sahara laughed, “Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about it. This is like takin’ candy from a baby…hey, hey, I gotta get goin’, it’s startin’ to get hot out here in the parking lot and I still gotta go thank the guys and gals of the Shelter for all their help this past week.”
“Alright, toodles!”
“Ahhh, my absolute favorite part of the week!” Sahara heaved a sigh, “This is where I get to work with OPW production so they can set up some random scene that has absolutely nothing to do with anything other than looking cool! I don’t know, maybe I’ll have them set up a room full of eerie candles and I’ll sit in the middle of it all Indian style, brooding about how my opponents don’t stand a chance for whatever random reasons that pop into my head. Oh, I know, maybe I’ll do it at a football stadium and brag about how I coulda’, shoulda’, or woulda’ been the greatest football player ever if I had chosen to do so, because obviously I’m the best at everything!”
She let out a long drawn out yawn, gently patting her mouth for added effect.
“Or maybe I’ll just skip all that grabass set design bullshit and tell it like it is. In case you’ve been livin’ under a rock and somehow missed Showcase, in one show I did more with the Pequeno Dinosauro gimmick than he has since steppin’ into that ring, cryin’ about finding his way out of daddy’s shadow. Blah, blah, blah, I need to live up my fathers name! We get it, El Dinosaurio, you got daddy issues. Well, Pequeno, don’t dwell on it. In our first match I knocked you so loopy you literally thought you were takin’ a tour through Jurassic Park with Jeff Goldblum, so if that’s living up to the Dinosaur name, way to go, brother! At Highway 2 Hell, I’ll take you on another tour in the sequel to your first showing.”
“As for mister I’m the greatest wrestler in the solarverse, Aleister Davidson ... tell me, if you’re so damn good, why’d ya up join the Syndicate like a sellout bitch?! Because unlike Sahara -- that’d be me -- you knew you couldn’t get the job done on your own. I mean, if you could, you would have, but ya didn’t. As they say, actions speak louder than words. And your actions pretty clearly show you ain’t got the guts or confidence in your own bullshit, so you went and sold out to the lowest bidder on your quest to ‘dominate the wrestling world’. It’s a shame, really, because you were so damn convincing. Way to go, Aleister. Unfortunately, the only thing you’ll ever be dominating in the Syndicate is cleaning up after Johnny when he gets done makin’ a mess of Blair’s plastic face. Have fun bein’ a Syndicate fluffer when you shoulda’ been so much more than a stepping stone for the Johnny and Blair show.”
The blonde laughs a bit at her own words as she removes a heavy linked brass chain from under her shirt. With a smile, Sahara lifts up the chain, where a pair of bejeweled brass knuckles dangles in front of the camera.
“Check these out. My latest wrestling creation. It's a little gimmick I like to call my Bitch Kryptonite. Ya know, because it keeps the bitches at bay?!”
She slowly swings the knuckles back and forth on the brass chain like a pendulum.
“Check out the intricate jewel work, inlaid with emeralds cuz it’s the color Kryptonite for all you comic lovers. Ya see, I told ya when I came into the OPW that it wasn’t about winning, and I think I’ve proven that point by gettin’ a shot at the Pureblood title from all that losing. Now, we move onto phase two of Operation OPW. Now it’s about marking my territory with my new favorite toy. Branding my opponents with what they really are. Well, that and takin’ what’s soon to be mine; that Pureblood Championship! On Showcase, Mama Dinosaur got to dent both of your stupid faces with that Pureblood title and after touchin’ it? I decided I wanna keep it. Just feeling that silky smooth gold in my hands?! It’s like Chocolate and Peanut Butter. Some things are just better together...and Sahara and Gold just happen to be two of ‘em.”
“I suppose I could go on … and on … but as they say, always keep ‘em wanting more.”
Sahara suddenly pauses, and snaps up the brass knuckles by the chain, looking directly at the camera.
“I already got your attention, so no need to waste any more of my time...I’ll see you gentlemen at Highway 2 Hell live on Pay-Per-View!”
She slowly inserts her perfectly manicured fingers through the holes of the 'Bitch Kryptonite' and makes a fist, as a smile curls up the right side of her lips. She holds her fist out to the camera as everything else in the scene blurs away, and the knuckles clearly read in radiant green jewels--
“It ain’t about winning and losing.”
“It ain’t--”
It didn’t seem to matter how many times Sahara repeated herself, it went in one ear and out the other. And it wasn’t just the students of the Shelter. There were plenty in the OPW who didn't seem to understand the very essence of professional wrestling, either. This wasn’t like other sports. In baseball, football, soccer -- you name it -- if you don’t win, you don’t advance. That’s it. It’s that simple. But that isn’t -- nor has it ever been -- the way professional wrestling works.
Because professional wrestling isn’t that simple.
It’s when you win and how you lose that matters. The biggest names in the history of professional wrestling weren’t very good wrestlers, and some of the all time greats lost more often than they won. Because at the end of the day, it ain’t your win/loss record that determines who’s a star and who’s a wannabe.
It’s the fans.
If they don’t wanna be you, they won’t pay to see you.
It was a lesson I learned early on in my wrestling career, way back when I was just a teeny bopper helpin’ out backstage at my parents two-bit little indy promotion back on the South Side of Chicago. I spent more time helping my older brothers get their act together than I’d care to admit. I learned to sew just so they’d have some colorful ring attire beyond some simple jean shorts, tassels and cheesy wrestling boots like everyone else wore back where we came from. We didn’t have much money, so it wasn’t like we could have it done professionally, and the Internet hadn’t yet really taken off yet, so online shopping wasn’t really an option…so I did what I had to do.
To stand out back then, I figured you had to wear some colorful gear so you looked larger than life -- but more importantly -- you had to win. So I told ‘em to win. Win at all costs. It’ll be the only two things that set you guys apart from everyone else. But as fate would have it, it didn’t take long before everyone else was wearin’ neon colors, so instead of standing out, it looked like they were just fittin’ in. Besides, it’s the winners that take the podium in the olympics, after all.
So fuck it, just keep winnin’.
That’s when I first met Luther Young. He didn’t know it at the time, but he was about to change my life. Of course, back then he wasn’t a wrestling trainer yet, let alone the man that would eventually become the head trainer at the Fallout Shelter. Luther was a talent scout for one of the bigger midwest territories of the era, passing through and checking out random indy shows where he’d pick off standout talent to take on the road. That’s the way the system worked back then.
He asked me to tell him about my brothers. But I knew he was askin’ about one of ‘em in particular. He was the clear standout in the family. So I did what he asked. I sold ‘em like I was sellin’ candy to a kid. It made Luther smile how energetic I was about puttin’ my brother over. Yet, he just looked at me with a sigh, “You sure got the gift of gab, kid, you ever try lacing up the boots yourself?”
“Me?!” I remember askin’, “Are you fucking out of your batshit crazy mind old timer? I’m a girl. Do you know what they do to girls in this business?! They’d sooner call me a rat than take me seriously in the ring.”
While I called him an old timer, he was probably in his mid-thirties at the time. But what the hell did I know, I was a fucking teenager.
“Well, are you a rat?”, he asked.
Yeah, the condescending prick actually straight up asked me that. Was this guy here to scout my brothers or what--
“Fuck no, mister. I ain’t no ring rat. And if any of these neanderthals even thinks about it and I’ll kick ‘em so hard they’ll wind up chokin’ to death on their own balls.”
I remember he let out the loudest laugh when I said that. Glad he found me amusing. So anyway, then he asks why I don’t think they’ll take me seriously in the ring? Honest to God he asked me that.
So I say to him, “Maybe cuz I’m five-seven and a buck thirty soakin’ wet.” Keep in mind, I hadn't fully grown yet, but still, at the time the average big name wrestler was probably six-something two-fifty plus. They didn’t call it the land of the giants for nothin’.
Anyway, all he did was shake his head in a condescending manner and went back to watchin’ my brother win. That’s when he looked at me and pointed to the ring where the referee was holdin’ my brothers arm up in victory.
“Can you hear that?!”
“Hear what?”
“Exactly.”
Huh? Okay. So I didn’t get it yet. I was just a teenager. But Luther was about to open my baby blues.
“Listen, kid, what’s your name?”
“Lauren.” I told him.
“Nice to meet you, Lauren. Now listen to me. It isn’t winning that’s gonna get you into the territories or the big time.” I remember him lookin’ me up and down, but it wasn’t in a creepy ass way most men looked at me back then or even now. “It’s your personality,” he says. “Win or lose, they’ll pay to watch you. And that’s wrestling.”
“What?”
“You aren't there yet, but in a few years, women are going to want to be you. They won’t admit it, but they’ll be wishing they looked like you. And they’ll likely hate your guts for it, and gladly pay the price of admission hoping to see you get your pretty little ass kicked. As for their boyfriends? Their husbands? They’ll all want to fuck you--”
“Excuse me?!” I remember bein’ furious that he actually had the gall to say that straight to my face. I mean, what a rude fucking comment--
“Don’t get sand in your vag, Lauren. That isn’t a bad thing. That’s the thing that’ll make you a star.”
Don’t get sand in my fucking vagina?! Did he really?! What the fuck was this idiot talkin’ about?! Whatever, dude! It doesn’t even matter. Now, about my brothers…
That’s when he looked straight at me and said, “Sorry, Lauren, he doesn't get it. He’s a great amateur wrestler. But it takes more than winning to really make it in the pros. I'm not interested in the next flash in the pan that can go out there and do some wrestling moves. After the fourth or fifth time they see a match like that, they’ve already seen everything. Same moves, over and over, recycled brand of boredom. No. I’m looking for someone that can catch up and keep up. And he isn't it.”
I’d never been so confused in my life. Excuse me?! He ain’t got what? My eldest brother was undefeated in the region. He was an Illinois state division one champion. What the hell more is there to have?
But it didn’t matter how much I begged him to give my brothers a second look, he said he’d already found the only star in that territory, and it was a shame she wouldn’t lace up the boots.
This dude was either deaf, dumb or blind.
It took me years to understand what the fuck that crazy fucker was talkin’ about.
Hell, my ring name even came out of that conversation.
That’s the crazy thing about wrestling.
“I told you it wasn’t about winning and losing, and if you don’t get that by now, I don’t know what’s gonna convince ya. Oh, I know, how about this?! I joined the OPW on May 6th, 2020. It’s been a month, and I’ve yet to win a single match...yet on the very first PPV I’m scheduled to appear, I was given a title shot at the OPW Pureblood Championship.”
“Ironic, don’t ya think?!”
“Yeah, I really do think.”
~~~~~
The tight fitting Yoga pants she wore were rounded out by classic style Doc Martens with the yellow stitching, lazily laced only half way up. She’d absently kick at rocks from time to time as she passed by her reflection in one of the Jeep’s windows. She took a moment to sweep her platinum hair back and adjust her Maui Jim’s. She had AirPod Pros firmly planted into her ears as she seemed to be in the midst of an animated conversation, celebrating some good news.
No, not the news of somehow getting a shot at the OPW Pureblood Title on Highway 2 Hell despite winning exactly zero matches so far in her OPW career, but something far more important.
“Hell yeah I’ll audition for the next Sandler flick on Netflix! Are you kidding me?! Goddamn his movies suck royal ass these days but people still seem to watch ‘em. Yeah, not that recent one where he’s all Jewey and thieving shit, but I mean his comedies--” Sahara let out a deep sigh, “Yeah, yeah, I know I’m not supposed to talk like that these days. It was just a joke. Besides, it’s not like anyone cares. Yeah, you know what I mean. Yeah, that’s the one. It was a great movie! But this audition is for one of those made for Netflix comedies he’s been shittin’ out, right?!”
She shrugged.
“Whatever, if it pays that much hell yeah I’ll do it. Set that up for me and grease the skids. Who? Blair?! Buchanan?! What about her?”
The blonde rolled her eyes as she continued pacing around her Jeep, enjoying a bit of the morning sun. “Don’t worry about that stuff, it’s going great. Hey, you worry about the Netflix stuff, and I’ll worry about the wrestling stuff. I know what I’m doin’.”
“Yeah,” she laughed rather loudly. “They actually put me in a title match already thus proving my point! Yeah, exactly, and when the wrestling smarks tune into the next episode of Breakin’ All the Rules and the ratings go up, I’ll take credit for the spike and they’ll see I’m bringin’ a whole new audience to the product because the marks are gonna wanna see what happens when I upstage that bitch on her own show. I shoulda done this a while ago.”
“No, I don’t care. All she had to do was say hi to me and she couldn’t, so now I’m gonna make her life a living hell.” Sahara laughed, “Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about it. This is like takin’ candy from a baby…hey, hey, I gotta get goin’, it’s startin’ to get hot out here in the parking lot and I still gotta go thank the guys and gals of the Shelter for all their help this past week.”
“Alright, toodles!”
~~~~~
She let out a long drawn out yawn, gently patting her mouth for added effect.
“Or maybe I’ll just skip all that grabass set design bullshit and tell it like it is. In case you’ve been livin’ under a rock and somehow missed Showcase, in one show I did more with the Pequeno Dinosauro gimmick than he has since steppin’ into that ring, cryin’ about finding his way out of daddy’s shadow. Blah, blah, blah, I need to live up my fathers name! We get it, El Dinosaurio, you got daddy issues. Well, Pequeno, don’t dwell on it. In our first match I knocked you so loopy you literally thought you were takin’ a tour through Jurassic Park with Jeff Goldblum, so if that’s living up to the Dinosaur name, way to go, brother! At Highway 2 Hell, I’ll take you on another tour in the sequel to your first showing.”
“As for mister I’m the greatest wrestler in the solarverse, Aleister Davidson ... tell me, if you’re so damn good, why’d ya up join the Syndicate like a sellout bitch?! Because unlike Sahara -- that’d be me -- you knew you couldn’t get the job done on your own. I mean, if you could, you would have, but ya didn’t. As they say, actions speak louder than words. And your actions pretty clearly show you ain’t got the guts or confidence in your own bullshit, so you went and sold out to the lowest bidder on your quest to ‘dominate the wrestling world’. It’s a shame, really, because you were so damn convincing. Way to go, Aleister. Unfortunately, the only thing you’ll ever be dominating in the Syndicate is cleaning up after Johnny when he gets done makin’ a mess of Blair’s plastic face. Have fun bein’ a Syndicate fluffer when you shoulda’ been so much more than a stepping stone for the Johnny and Blair show.”
The blonde laughs a bit at her own words as she removes a heavy linked brass chain from under her shirt. With a smile, Sahara lifts up the chain, where a pair of bejeweled brass knuckles dangles in front of the camera.
“Check these out. My latest wrestling creation. It's a little gimmick I like to call my Bitch Kryptonite. Ya know, because it keeps the bitches at bay?!”
She slowly swings the knuckles back and forth on the brass chain like a pendulum.
“Check out the intricate jewel work, inlaid with emeralds cuz it’s the color Kryptonite for all you comic lovers. Ya see, I told ya when I came into the OPW that it wasn’t about winning, and I think I’ve proven that point by gettin’ a shot at the Pureblood title from all that losing. Now, we move onto phase two of Operation OPW. Now it’s about marking my territory with my new favorite toy. Branding my opponents with what they really are. Well, that and takin’ what’s soon to be mine; that Pureblood Championship! On Showcase, Mama Dinosaur got to dent both of your stupid faces with that Pureblood title and after touchin’ it? I decided I wanna keep it. Just feeling that silky smooth gold in my hands?! It’s like Chocolate and Peanut Butter. Some things are just better together...and Sahara and Gold just happen to be two of ‘em.”
“I suppose I could go on … and on … but as they say, always keep ‘em wanting more.”
Sahara suddenly pauses, and snaps up the brass knuckles by the chain, looking directly at the camera.
“I already got your attention, so no need to waste any more of my time...I’ll see you gentlemen at Highway 2 Hell live on Pay-Per-View!”
She slowly inserts her perfectly manicured fingers through the holes of the 'Bitch Kryptonite' and makes a fist, as a smile curls up the right side of her lips. She holds her fist out to the camera as everything else in the scene blurs away, and the knuckles clearly read in radiant green jewels--
BITCH