Post by Sahara on Jul 13, 2020 12:33:43 GMT -5
June 20th, 2020
Central Park
Highway 2 Hell
The rabid OPW crowd gathered in Central Park for Highway 2 Hell was all abuzz as the fiery blonde known as Sahara grit her teeth and wiped a hand across her lips. The roar of the crowd hovered over the area like something thick and dark was caught in the stratosphere, creating something of a city-wide feel that,“this was the place to be”.
Taking a few moments to catch her breath, she let out a ragged sounding wheeze as she resumed walking past a row of makeshift tents that doubled as dressing rooms for OPW staff and talent. She was in pain, and it was obvious. But as they say in wrestling, the show must go on. She nodded at a few of the various workers and flashed them a quick smile, but hurried her pace. The moment she’d moved past the tents and into a thicket of trees, she collapsed against the trunk of a sprawling oak, holding her ribs with a grimace.
It took a few moments before the pain subsided, but when it did, she reached for the base of her shirt as she glanced around to make sure she was alone. Lifting it to check the damage Blair had inflicted a short while ago, deep shades of purple, blue and crimson were starting to form and covered the left side of her ribs, causing her to hiss at the mere sight of it. The skin was scraped and pin-pricks of blood seeped from the wounds left behind by the bedazzled brass knuckles known as her Bitch Kryptonite.
Well, that’s one gimmick that turned out to be a really bad fucking idea. Sahara cursed herself for being so careless around Blair and the Syndicate. The irony of her own brass knuckles being used against her wasn’t lost on the blonde. If this wasn’t so painful, she’d probably even laugh at herself. She’d let her guard down and Blair took advantage. Strength in numbers with the Syndicate or not, it didn’t matter.
Blair got the best of her.
She suddenly hissed again as the pain returned, shooting through her like every nerve ending in her body was somehow frayed.
“Sahara!” An unfamiliar voice rang out from twenty or thirty paces back. “You’re up soon, make sure you head toward gorilla--”
Pushing herself off the tree she was leaning against, the blonde pulled her shirt down to cover the damage to her ribs. Her breathing remained somewhat ragged, and with her head tilted downward, she turned toward the man that had called for her. She lifted her head just enough to make eye contact with the OPW stagehand, and the look in her sapphire eyes screamed with a bloody rage, almost causing the man to take a step back.
“Tell ‘em I said fuck it!”, she hissed.
The look of confusion was apparent. “Huh?!”
“Tell ‘em I said FUCK IT you FUCKING moron. FUCK. IT. And you tell Blair and the whole goddamned Syndicate I’m coming for them. They won’t know where, they won’t know when, and they won’t know how … but I’m bringin’ hell with me. You tell ‘em I said that, ya hear me?!”
The innocent looking stagehand threw his hands up and slowly backed away.
“You tell ‘em!”, the screech in her demanding voice echoed.
“Hey, I’ll--I’ll tell them w-what you said--” The man didn’t hang around any longer, quickly scurrying away. Though he had no intention whatsoever in relaying her message, as it could wind up with him being the latest victim of the Syndicate, he just as soon told her what she wanted to hear. It was mere moments later that Sahara couldn’t take the pain any longer … letting out a ragged breath, she collapsed, just as someone unexpected caught her by the arm.
“Those are some strong words from a girl that can barely stand…”
Her eyes narrowed as she looked up at the shadowy guise of Damon Riggs. The man she always silently referred to as the Patriarch. She’d heard enough about the Wolfpack throughout the years -- they were well known throughout the wrestling world after all -- but other than a few confrontations with the Preston’s in a life long past, they’d not crossed paths since.
“And what the fuck would you know, old man?!”, she practically spat the words as she struggled to keep herself upright. Ripping her arm free from the grasp of the man attempting to help her, she stumbled down to a kneeling position, her fists held firmly against the grassy floor of Central Park. Taking a breath, she steadfastly clenched her jaw and fought through the pain, pushing herself back to her feet. While it only lasted for a few moments, the girl's tenacity brought a slight smile to Damon’s face.
She stumbled forward, pressing on, but got tripped up on some protruding tree roots. She never saw the ground coming, but she also never hit it. With all the cunning and swiftness of a cat, Damon Riggs caught the ferocious blonde before she would have face planted.
“I got ya…”
Damon sighed as he held the blonde, saving her from her own stubbornness. She grimaced as she favored the side where Blair Buchannan had injured her ribs, but seemed to finally give in to Damon’s assistance.
“I’m guessing you got a cracked rib or two. Probably feeling deep piercing pain with every breath. I’ve been doing this a long time, and I know what a couple of well placed brass knuckle shots can do to a person…”
“Why are the hell are you helpin’ me?!” Her words were riddled with confusion, and her face etched with pain.
Damon shakes his head as he replies, “Because like you, I was too damned headstrong to accept help, let alone seek it.” Then it got quiet, aside from the pain screaming through her body, and for a moment it was blissfully silent. Until Damon had to open his big mouth again, “Lauren, can I call you Lauren?” With a low growl, she nodded as he continued, “I’m talking to the real you right now, we need to get you to a hospital.”
But she shook her head, just as Damon anticipated she would. “No way! I ain’t going to the hospital. If I show up there, the story leaks to TMZ guaranteed, and I ain’t giving that bitch the satisfaction. I just need to get the hell outta here and lick my wounds, start planning some retaliation. If the Syndicate wanna pile on enemies, well … they just added another one. I’ll get Blair at the next Showcase, just help me to my damn Jeep for now.” She looked up at Damon as he helped her stand upright, “I know you ain’t got a reason in the world to trust me, but they’re gonna pay, and it starts with that plastic barbie bitch Blair Buchannan…”
Damon simply nodded, knowing he’d never get the stubborn blonde to agree to a much needed hospital visit. “If you insist. You sure you’re going to be okay?” She nodded, “I’ve had worse. I’ve done worse.” Damon smiled. “I know you have. Listen to me now, Lauren. If you ever need an ally, you now got yourself a whole family of ‘em. You sure as hell won’t be able to take on the Syndicate alone.”
She shook her head as he helped her down the path toward the parking lot. “Maybe not, but I can sure as hell die tryin’...”
~~~~~
Present Day
The Fallout Shelter
Sahara lifted her right arm and made a slight twisting motion. She then repeated the same movement while lifting the opposite arm. There was still a bit of tenderness in her ribs as a result of Blair’s initial attack at Highway 2 Hell, and then slightly tweaking it at Showcase during her moment of revenge. But it was well worth the added pain.
Luther -- the resident head trainer of the Shelter -- had told her to steer clear of any in-ring action following the initial injury, which she refused to get treated in fear the story would somehow leak. She’d sooner die than see Blair get any additional satisfaction off what she’d done to her. Of course, the stubborn blonde refused to listen and got involved with Blair Buchannan’s match on Showcase despite repeated warnings from her trainer. He did what he could to treat the injury on his own, mostly taping it to add some stability and trying to get her to take it easy and rest, but he understood the speed at which the business ran these days.
There was no rest for the weary, and now that the Syndicate had essentially declared war, Sahara was going to get down into the trenches come hell or high water.
“Thanks Luther”, she nodded as she pulled her shirt down over the fresh tape job on her left lower rib cage.
“You’re lucky you didn’t get messed up out there on Showcase, that was reckless. This is the kinda injury that can haunt you for a while, and if you keep tweaking it, it’s going to get worse--”
The blonde let out a rather loud sigh, “I get it, Luther, okay?! Can you just--”, she paused a moment, her tone growing more exasperated. “Let it go. I ain’t backing down now. This started off as a joke, we took a few shots at one another, but then she crossed a line the likes of which there ain’t no coming back. Bitch cost me a shot at the Pureblood title -- which I would have won, by the way -- and then put me on the shelf for weeks using my own goddamned brass knuckles--”
“You wanna know what I think?!”
Sahara rolled her eyes, “No, but you’re gonna tell me anyway, aren’t ya?!”
Luther let out a bit of a laugh, “Damn right I am. That’s my job. It’s always been my job to look out for you girls. I try my damndest to put you in the best position to win, and to keep you healthy because I don’t wanna see you old and broken down someday like this business does to so many others. But this?!” He jabbed lightly at her ribs, causing her to pull away defensively. “This isn’t keeping you healthy. This is suicide. Yeah, you got one up on Blair this past week, but what do you think is gonna happen now?! You think she’s gonna let this go? They’re gonna come for you, and they’re gonna come hard. So that match you got this week?! If you even make it out there, I’d keep that head of yours on a swivel because you got the whole damned Syndicate just waiting for an opportunity. You’re one person, Lauren, but you’re at war with an army…”
Sahara nodded, fully understanding the dire warning Luther was giving her. It wasn’t often he called her by her real name, and the fact that he just did sent the message loud and clear.
“I know that, Luther.” There was a slight pause as the silence lingered. It took a few moments, but she finally broke the silence, “I got some things in motion in that regard, so trust me when i say I’m workin’ on that.”
“Oh yeah?!”, Luther raised an eyebrow.
She nodded, “Yeah.”
~~~~~
It’s not Brandon Moore.
It’s not Kip “Don’t call me Jay” Kutler.
It’s the Syndicate, and in particular, Blair Buchannan.
So all due disrespect to Brandon Moore and Kip Kutler … as wrestlers, competitors, or whatever the fuck you two claim to be. I’m sure you guys are some wonderful dickheads, but you ain’t that walkin’, talkin’, lab created science experiment they call Blair Buchannan. I wish I could focus more on this match, but let’s just say I’m just a bit distracted.
And when I say just a bit distracted, I mean FUCKING distracted!
I can’t think.
I can’t eat.
I can barely fucking sleep.
Because all I’m thinkin’ about is goin’ to war with the Syndicate.
So know this, when I’m out there for this Menage-a-Stairway match, you can bet your asses I’m gonna be lookin’ over both of my shoulders, because that’s what you gotta do when you cross paths with the Syndicate. But make no mistake, I ain’t goin’ out there to lose, and I ain’t runnin’ scared because of what “might” happen. If anything, I’ll use this opportunity to send a message to my good gal-pal Netflix buddy, Blair-Buchannan Stylez.
That being said, lemme take a moment to address a few “Kutler Comments” from the badass extraordinaire that’s somehow convinced himself that his brand of violence is somehow new to the world of wrestling. Listen, Mr. Kip Kutler the “Canadian Destroyer” … you got the tools, but you also got the kind of ego that sunk the Titanic. Do me a favor, drop the “title” in your name. If you wanna be known as the Canadian Destroyer, then let your reputation in the ring give you a name, not some marketing department tryin’ to sell shirts nobody wants. Until then, you come across like the Cedric Entertainer of wrestling. Huh?! Yah. It’s kinda like that. When you gotta put what you are in your name or nobody would know, maybe you ain’t so much into destroying as you are into wishing. Canadian Destroyer? Whatever dude. I don’t have to go callin’ myself “Sahara the Wrestler and Star of the cult Netflix show American Vampire!”, for people to know who the fuck I am or where I’m from. If all I am in a hurdle in your quest to the top of the ladder, you’d better get set to get tripped up because ain’t no way you can jump this damn high.
And speakin’ of titles, the same goes for you “Lord King” Brandon Moore. If you guys spent a little more time letting yer reputations speak for ya, you could probably do a little less flappin’ of yer gums, tryin’ to convince us all how violent and badass you are. So yeah, the same goes for you. Show me, don’t tell me. Because come Showcase, I ain’t here to play games with either of ya. But most of all, I’m goin’ out there to show Blair that this platinum blonde was the sleeping dragon she shouldn’t have woken up. But now I’m wide awake and lookin’ to burn someone down, so why not start with you two?!
And since you two like titles so much, come showcase, you can call me the Enola Gay. I’ll be the one carryin’ fists called Fat Man and Little Boy, and you two are my primary targets.
See ya’ soon, “Lord King Canadian Destroyer.”
~~~~~