Sisters Are Doin' It For Themselves

Life really comes at you fast, doesn’t it? Some days you’re Paul Walker, some days you’re the tree. What? Don’t make that face at me, he dated a bunch of underage girls. Tragic death doesn’t absolve you from being a weird predatory dude who used his fame to take advantage of sixteen-year-old girls. Anyway, the point I was trying to make is that sometimes life and my life in particular has a habit of throwing me curve balls out of nowhere that I am unequipped to deal with. At the present, my focus should be on The Excellence Invitational only a few short days away. That’s my moment. My chance to clear the field of the extras and place my foot directly on the neck of one Damian Ayla. 

Damian who does his best to ignore me in hopes that I’ll lose interest and fade away before I take every last shred of relevancy that he has garnered for himself on what is, at best, a mediocre world title run. Damian who is the most nobody world champion a person could hope to find. Damian who is not even as good as other companies second or third best ranked non-title holders. Damian who would get bent over a knee and spanked if any of the tried-and-true household names decided they wanted to make this their home. A man who drank his own Kool-Aid and whose downfall will now be delivered courtesy of his own ego. A paper champion who got in early on the ground floor when there was very little legitimate competition and hasn’t ever had to rise to the occasion. Until now. 

But all things in due time. At the moment, after nipple hair of a win over LC Pinkston (see my previous statements regarding Ayla’s mediocrity) Damian Ayla has been granted a reprieve to live out the last days of his fifteen minutes. It all goes back to what I was talking about before: curveballs. Pinkston threw our “champion” a curveball no one expected and Ayla only narrowly kept his ship upright. But there is a big difference between myself and Pinkston and it’s not just the quality of our tattoo artists. 

Vhodka Black is a curveball that Ayla isn’t equipped to deal with much like the new responsibilities of motherhood are quite honestly, not something that I am equipped to deal with. It’s not for lack of desire, mind you. How do I explain this? It’s like if motherhood was a microchip people were born with someone forgot to shove mine in my back before they put in the batteries. 

If it had been left in my hands, I am not entirely sure that I would have ever told Ripley the truth about Alexis, Vincent and myself. The front part of my brain understands that she had a right to know but the back part still can’t help but feel somewhat betrayed that the decision had been taken out of my hands by Vincent. I wasn’t ready to be a mother. Not to Ripley, not to three other children that I had not given birth to but now found myself partially responsible for. It wasn’t that I didn’t love them, I did. It’s just, I don’t have my shit together; I barely even know who I am from day to day and now out of nowhere it was my job to guide these four innocent impressionable children through life and help to grow them into the people they will eventually become. 

Look at me. Seriously. Does anything about me say “good decisions”? The things I am good at are limited to wrestling and deep frying. Not exactly the kind of person you want shaping the next generation unless you’re just aiming for super high cholesterol and an inability to spell the word necessary. But after everything these kids have gone through, everything that Ripley has gone through, I cannot fail them in this task. I will not. I refuse to. 

And that refusal for failure was what had brought me to the office of one Deanne Pringle, or Mrs. Pringle if you’re nasty. No, seriously, really nasty. She has to be pushing late seventies and her face had all the desirability of a JC Penney store mannequin that had been caught in an unfortunate fire. She was like the elderly female version of Rocky Dennis in Mask with the authoritarian vibe of an old school catholic nun who has just found a copy of the 1995 Peter Steele edition of Playgirl underneath one of the sister’s mattresses. 

I could feel my thigh peeling away from the fake imitation leather of her guest chair as I subconsciously assumed the ladylike posture that I had been trained to take in this very office many years ago when I found myself a student here. Though I was a grown woman now I still couldn’t help but squirm under the weight of Mrs. Pringle’s heavy gaze as she stared down at Vincent and I with all the warmth of Brendan Fraser being thawed out in Encino Man. She reminded me vaguely of Nathaniel Dixon in that she had this undeserved condescending superiority about her. Seemed unfair that I had to deal with two of them this week. 

« Principal Pringle »
Mr. And Mrs. Black, am I correct in assuming that you take this issue as seriously as the rest of us here at Bent Fork Middle School do?

« Vhodka Black » 
Oh, yeah, totally. Super sers. 

My mouth was suddenly dry and I couldn't seem to stop my head from nodding up at the diminutive woman sitting behind the desk that was almost as old as she was. Vincent’s hand found my own from the chair beside me, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. It was nice to have him here but it would have been better if Alexis hadn’t been running late. Vin and I are a lot of things, but we were not the sort of people who thrived in a world that included parent teacher conferences. That was Alexis' strength. Mrs. Pringle stared at me, sucking on her teeth as she inspected the two heavily tattooed societal outcasts before her trying to use her laser pigeon vision to see just exactly what we were made of. 

As if the thought had conjured her the door to the office swung open and Alexis Austin strode in with a purpose. It’s a long story but basically, biologically, Ripley belongs to Vincent and I but she has been raised by Alexis. For everything that I lacked in maternal instinct Alexis seemed to come by naturally in spades so the arrangement had worked out for the betterment of everyone involved. Vincent quietly stood, moving to lean against the wall behind us as Alexis seamlessly took the seat beside me. Mrs. Pringle looked perturbed and with only the intensity of her eyes ensuring that Alexis understood this fact.  

« Principal Pringle »
I’m going to cut to the chase. We found your daughter trying to sneak out of one of the bathroom windows...

« Vincent Black »
That was her.

Vincent pointed to me.

« Principal Pringle »
After she broke a young man’s nose.

« Vincent Black »
...that one might have been me. 

« Vhodka Black » 
At least it wasn’t an eye. His eyes are fine right?

Mrs. Pringle ignored me but stared at Vincent over our heads with the courage of a menopausal woman with a fleshy dug hole in her garden and a rock solid alibi. I knew without looking that Vincent was meeting the intensity of that stare with one of his own, not because he was challenging this woman but merely because that was who he was. The tension was cut by the sound of “Get Naked” by Methods of Mayhem calling out from Vincent’s pocket. Xavier’s ringtone. Mrs. Pringle looked like she had swallowed a frog as we all sat in silence staring at one another as “come on baby make it hot, ride the cock until you hit the spot” played on repeat at full volume into the quiet of the small room. Finally, Vincent pulled the phone from his pocket and touched the screen to connect the call. Something slid over his face and I knew there was trouble even before he silently turned and left the room. Alexis looked over at me, quirking an eyebrow in my direction which I returned with a shrug of the shoulders. She didn’t know that was Xavier’s ringtone and I didn’t have the time to explain. 

Almost as soon as the door closed behind Vincent it opened again not only to Mrs. Pringle’s surprise but also the surprise of Alexis and myself. As soon as the cloud of White Diamonds by Elizabeth Taylor rolled in, I knew who would follow. My mother rushed into the room with my father Buck hot on her heels, an unmistakable growling noise was coming from Mrs. Pringle who had risen from her seat and was now leaning palms down over the desk to glare at us all. 

« Beulah May Bickett »
We heard from Charity down at the Piggly Wiggly who heard from her cousin Beau who found out from his neighbor Christine who has a sister who works in the cafeteria that Ripley’s being expelled and we came just as fast as we could. 

« Vhodka Black » 
Is Charity the one that Pork Chop used to go with who turned out to have a tail?

« Beulah May Bickett »
It ain’t a tail, it’s what the doctors call an elongated spine.

« Buck Bickett »
Bullshit! You throw a tennis ball within a mile of that girl and it looks like she got a windshield wiper wired to her backside.

« Beulah May Bickett »
Buck Bickett, you bite your tongue! She’s a nice young lady.

« Buck Bickett »
Only girl in town whose Daddy used to have to pack Alpo in her backpack for slumber parties.

« Vhodka Black » 
Heard she’d go to third for a Milk Bone.

« Buck Bickett »
When her husband wants to go out with the fellers he just freezes a ball in a block of ice to keep her busy.

« Beulah May Bickett »
The lord is going to strike you two where you stand, you mark my words. We are ALL his children. Even those of us who have tails.

« Vhodka Black » 
HAH! SO YOU ADMIT IT!

« Principal Pringle »
ENOUGH. 

The slap of the ruler across the desk puckered my butthole. Mrs. Pringle was seething behind the desk. My father casually reached into his inner jacket pocket and produced what I would swear to god was a Natty Light in a red, white, and blue beer koozie that read “these colors don’t, run they reload”. A purple tinted vein suddenly emerged from center of Mrs. Pringle’s forehead. 

« Principal Pringle »
Did you bring alcohol onto school grounds, Mr. Bickett?

« Buck Bickett »
Of course not, Deanne. This here beer identifies as a soda. 

« Principal Pringle »
Get out of my office. 

« Buck Bickett »
You can’t kick me out! This is my emotional support beverage! 

« Principal Pringle »
OUT. 

« Buck Bickett »
I got rights, you know! I’m a veteran! 

« Vhodka Black » 
Come on, Mrs. P. It’s Natty Light, that hardly even qualifies as beer.

« Principal Pringle »
You too. Get out. 

« Vhodka Black » 
I DIDN’T EVEN DO ANYTHING!

« Principal Pringle »
ONE MORE WORD. One more word out of either of you and I’ll throw every single one of you out of this school including Ripley. 

I opened my mouth to speak but before I could even get the words out Mrs. Pringle had shushed me and pointed towards the door. Frigid hag. 

The hallway was empty with the exception of our daughter Ripley who sat on a bench outside of Principal Pringles office. My father’s eyes flicked to Ripley then back to me, clearly trying to gauge whether or not this particular situation required his presence. I shrugged; his guess was as good as mine. Almost as if in agreement, we both took a seat on either side of Ripley who barely seemed to register our presence beside her. 

« Vhodka Black » 
You want to talk about it?

Ripley looked studiously at her hands, picking the cuticles around a nail as she tried to avoid making eye contact with either of us. My father silently nudged his beer in her direction which elicited a small smirk followed by a laugh as she batted the can away from her face. Over her head, I smiled at my father. He was a product of his upbringing and rarely would consider himself good at the emotional stuff but he had this way of making all of life's problems seem just a little smaller, even if only for a minute. I was more thankful for him than I knew how to say. 

« Ripley Austin »
I didn’t mean to break his nose. 

« Vhodka Black » 
Did he deserve it?

She considered this for a moment before nodding looking up at me for the first time since we had sat down, nodding her head.

« Ripley Austin »
They won’t stop making fun of me.

« Vhodka Black » 
Why?

Ripley looked uncomfortable at the question, like she didn’t want to say. Beside her, my father knocked his knee into hers prompting her to get on with it. 

« Ripley Austin »
You.

« Vhodka Black » 
Me? What the fu-heck did I do?

« Ripley Austin »
They called you a joke, said you ain’t even a real wrestler. Asked if you spend more time on your back in the ring or out of it. So, I socked him like Grandpa Buck taught me.

My father suddenly became very interested in how well the grout between the bricks of the wall had been applied.

« Vhodka Black » 
Well, tell them to pull up if they think they’re about that life! I’ll fuck up a middle schooler. I’m not even joking. I will fight children.

Ripley sniffled, wiping her nose on the back of her arm before she looked at me with an intensity far beyond her years.

« Ripley Austin »
I handled it.

« Vhodka Black » 
Yeah, you did, kiddo. 

I didn’t really know what to say to her. My personal life has been public consumption for the last year and middle schoolers are known for being assholes. It shouldn’t surprise me that a bunch of 6th graders would use what they had heard people throw around in promos on television to hurt my kid. What was worse was that I couldn’t even really blame them. I’d broken up a marriage; taken a man away from his children. I couldn’t fall back on my accomplishments because truthfully since Outlaw had shuttered my career had become more of a hobby than anything I spent time building. Ripley was suffering because I hadn’t considered how my actions would reflect on her among her peers. I was ashamed of myself. 

« Vhodka Black » 
I’m going to fix it, Ripley. I promise you. 

She opened her mouth to speak but was stopped by the door to Principal Pringle’s office opening and Alexis's head peeking out. 

« Alexis Austin »
Ripley, Principal Pringle would like for you to join us. 

The girl looked from the mother who had raised her to the mother who had birthed her, almost as if she were asking permission. The last thing I felt like doing at that moment was smiling but I did, chucking her on the chin. 

« Vhodka Black » 
Give her hell, killer. 

My father didn’t bother stopping me when I stood and took off down the hall. I needed air. I needed more than air, I needed to change my entire life. The fresh air hit my skin like the crack of a whip as I took several deep breaths trying to pull myself out of the hole Ripley’s words had put me into. This was it, the reason why I wasn’t ready for this. It was hard enough having to make good decisions for myself but now there was this whole other innocent person who would forever have to move through her life as a reflection of all of my deeds; good or otherwise. 

My eyes closed against the light of the midday sun as I continued breathing through all of the thoughts that were flying through my head. I had to fix this for Ripley, to give her parents that she could be proud of. More than anything in this world I wanted our daughter to be able to walk through this life with her head held high, it’s what she deserved and I’d give it to her or die trying. 

The Excellence Invitational was no longer something I needed to win for bragging rights or a championship shot, it was something that I had to win because she needed me to. Page wanted to win to add to his legend, Wraith needed to continue a family legacy, Ernie knew this was the closest he’d ever get, but me... what had been about proving something to myself was now tied up in proving something to Ripley. This was just like in Jaws, six kids go into the water, one kid comes out of the water. Vhodka Black in the water. Wait, fuck, that isn’t right. No kids come out of the water? Cause I’m the shark? This analogy got away from me. 

I’d like to sit here and say nice things about all of the men involved in this match but the fact of the matter is that these men are all bark and no bite. They wanted to act like bitches so now Mama gotta take them to PetSmart. I mean, If Shawn Warstein is the Michael Vick to Jenny Fenix’s puppy, then I guess that means I’m going to have to be the OJ Simpson to Wraith’s Nicole Brown. I like the kid under normal circumstances but this week I’m Juice and he’s going to have to be left dead on the lawn for the kids to find. 

This is a kid who just turned Nineteen and I’m not an ageist or anything but let’s be honest some things in this business come with experience. It doesn’t matter what your family has done or that you were born into this business, training is not akin to having to take on some of the biggest names in this business in what is essentially six on one no matter which one of us you are. 

Page on the other end of the spectrum has all the experience in the world and if you didn’t know that just wait ten minutes and he’ll Old Man River on about it. Page and Wraith both managed to get into this round of the invitational the same way, dumb luck. Wraith because he and Allen got a lucky handout from management, Page because he nailed a cheap shot on a distracted woman who was already on her way out the door in the first place. As usual with men, the bar is literally on the floor. 

On the other hand, you have Ernie Spencer who is like the ugliest girl at the slumber party, the one that no one really wanted to invite because she eats her boogers in class when she thinks no one is watching but your Mom forced you to invite her because she gets her hair done at the same salon as that girl's Mom. Regardless, he earned his way into this match by taking out Alice who is no slouch in the ring, unconventional or not. Credit where it’s due.

Then there is Nathaniel Dixon or as I like to call him – the human personification of reading the ingredients off the back of a bottle of shampoo. The man is about as entertaining as watching paint dry which is what I imagine his idea of fun must look like. Out of everyone in this match, this is the motherfucker I hate. He says a lot of big words and quite frankly, I can’t understand him so I’m just going to assume he’s insulting me. Even if I lose this, so help me God Nathaniel will not walk out the winner. Literally no one on the face of this earth wants to see Ayla vs Dixon. Two smarmy condescending self important mook fucks who think they’re smarter than everyone else around them measuring their microdicks? If I wanted to see that I’d take up an interest in politics. 

But this match? It’s not going to be won by sitting around and lobbying insults at the other people in the field. It doesn’t matter how much I like Allen and Wraith under normal circumstances. Everyone in this match is perfectly proficient in their own ways, they wouldn’t be in this position if they weren’t. Here is the thing though, these men, they know whose match this is to win. They’ll come out and talk a good game but the bottom line is that I’m making these men piss like a pregnancy test when you’re two weeks late. Whether they found themselves here by luck or merit no longer matters, what matters now is merely who wants it more. And baby, I want it so bad I can taste it. 

Do you recall a few weeks ago when Damian Ayla made a big show about making it known he hoped that Allen Chaney won this invitational? What Damian did not realize was that at that very moment his fate, as well as anyone else who ended up in this match, was already sealed. The thing about me is that nothing motivates me more than spite, so now, every time someone knocks me down to that mat, every single time someone tries to push my shoulders down for the pin – I remember. I remember that some man who isn’t even fit to chew on my used Kotex saw fit to pop off on Twitter and discount me. I remember that even after I advanced from the first round on Episode VII of Victory that the first thing Damian did was not afford me the respect that I deserved in that moment but instead to tweet Vincent in some misguided attempt to have my own husband usurp my path to his championship. That was a mistake. Big. Huge. 

So now Ernie, Nathaniel, Wraith, Page and Chaney all have to bend over and bite the pillow. Not because they’ve done anything wrong themselves but merely because Damian has put them in the position where they are now in my way. I’m not stupid, I know that the smart money isn’t on me. I know that when Damian publicly made his preference for Allen known that it was because the smart money is on Allen Chaney who has been here from the beginning clawing and biting his way up the ranks to prove a point to Damian about the little guys. But sometimes life throws you a curveball that you don’t even see coming. And baby, these men couldn’t see me coming if I was sitting on their face. 

Under normal circumstances I think Allen and myself could be friends. He has something, something special and truth be told if I weren’t in this match he would be the one I’d want to see win this thing. I’m not going the Ayla route of dismissing him and Wraith because their time limit expired and neither could secure the win. See, that’s Damian’s fear talking. He saw an opportunity to clear part of the field and buy himself a little security. He’s put on a show about wanting to face the best yet he threw an absolute hissy about two men who went out there and put on a hell of a match being rewarded for their effort. I don’t like Dixon but he was correct when he called Damian on saying one thing and then backtracking for another. 

But me? I want all the smoke. Bring me your Allen Chaney’s, your Wraith’s, your Nathanial Dixon’s, your Chris Page’s, your Ernie Spencer’s. Bring anything and everything you can. Arm them if you want, even. These men all make the same mistake, they focus on each other and everyone else on the field instead of focusing on themselves. While they’re sitting around trying to lobby good enough insults to figure out who has the most sensitive prostate I’ve been focused on myself and making sure that when I step out in that ring that I have everything it takes to bring home this win. This isn’t their match to win, it’s my match to lose.

Possibly more so than any man in this match I am acutely aware of how a match like this has the possibilities to change the entire course of your life. Not so long ago, there was a similar match involving as many people as I have the opportunity of facing. The match itself was billed as a Stairway to Heaven, ascend to the pearly gates for salvation or be stuck spinning your wheels in purgatory with the rest. Two men managed to ascend, both with their hands on the championship that was left hanging above the ring. Then, a cruel twist of fate. They fell and though they both had a grip on the belt in the fall one of the men's fingers slipped off only for a moment. But that was all it took. 

Even though I was not involved in that match, it changed my life. That man, the one who lost his grip, was able to very nearly destroy an entire family not because they deserved it but only because years of resentment made him believe in his own mind that they did. His destruction was like a match being thrown into a drought ravaged landscape – it burnt so quickly and thoroughly that even people like myself who had nothing to do with any of it ended up burnt. 

For all the pain he caused, all the destruction, he taught me something. People won’t notice that you’re a wolf if you’re willing to dress yourself in sheep's clothing. 

I was startled by Vincent’s hand around my waist as he moved up behind me and gently turned me toward the direction of the car. His mouth was set in a tight line that told me that he was trying very hard to not let everything he was feeling leak out at that moment. 

« Vhodka Black » 
What now? 

« Vincent Black »
A few hours ago Xavier received the footage from Countdown. It’s him. 

My feet stopped moving and I tried to stop us but Vin took my hand in his own, pulling me in the direction of the Caddy. I knew without asking that if this was true then he would not be able to relax until he was close enough to the family to be useful should the need arise. This man had already stolen one person from us, Vincent would die before he allowed him to take another.

« Vhodka Black » 
Are you sure?

« Vincent Black »
Me? No, not at all. Xavier? Yes. 

« Vhodka Black » 
Why is it that Xavier is sure and you’re not? I don’t understand. 

« Vincent Black »
They could only retrieve the footage from one camera, a camera that only caught the back of the person. 

« Vhodka Black » 
So?

« Vincent Black »
He sent it to me. Fran, it doesn’t look like him. Physically from behind this looks like an entirely different person. 

« Vhodka Black » 
Then why is X so sure it’s him?

Vincent stopped suddenly as we approached the car, only now turning to look at me and give me the full weight of his eye contact. 

« Vincent Black »
Because of the way he moves.