“Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die. Do you believe this?” John 11:25-26
It seems quite possible to me that the entire world is being reflected off of the surface of the water. The moon is a warm orb gently floating on a blanket of blackened velvet, watching quietly over the reflections of the trees and buildings to either side of the banks. The bridge bisects the body of water like a belt cinched at its waist. Even my own reflection staring back at me from the surface does not look out of place in this surrealistic painting. On the contrary, I hardly recognize the girl as she leans forward wondering if when she jumps, she will find a world in that water that is any different from the one she has decided to take her leave of.
I died tonight though my body will not realize it for a few more minutes. Or maybe I’ve been dead already for some time and this is just my way of making sure I don’t stand up again? It’s hard to tell anymore in the days since I have left the hospital. I’ve thought of this bridge often over the course of the last nine months but it wasn’t until this very moment that I have had the freedom to climb over the railings to stand on the ledge and wonder about what might be on the other side.
I’m not scared anymore. Fear passed like an experimental phase to leave only quiet content and a knowledge that no matter what is ahead of me in this endeavor, the worst is already behind me. My nails are a dull clack against the steel railing as I readjust my grip on it so that I may lean further forward to inspect the distance of the drop. If I squint my eyes, I could almost imagine this river morphing into a pseudo-realistic version of Van Gogh’s Starry Night and my body becoming some post-impressionist version of itself as it enters the surface of the water. As I lean forward, my right hand is no longer gripping the railing and the fingers of my left begin to loosen.
“You seem troubled.”
What is normally a pleasant voice is suddenly almost painful as it thrusts me out of memory and back into the present. My lungs burn as I take a startled breath as if I have forgotten to breathe for the last few minutes though I know that logically this cannot be true. I can hear the noises his joints make as he settles down on the bench beside me, leaning forward to rest his clasped hands on the back of the pew before us.
“What makes you say that, Daddy?”
He sighs, bowing his head as he collects himself beside me. Timewise, it was relatively early but his demeanor told me that this had already been a very long day for him and the end was nowhere in sight. I shifted in my seat, sitting up a little straighter beside him while he spoke with his head still bowed.
“Pastor Steve. Father, even. But I really must insist you stop calling me daddy.”
“Can I call him daddy?” I nodded my head towards the depiction of a crucified Jesus Christ that hung on a pristine white wall over the pulpit. Pastor Steve snorted before he could contain it, leaning back so that his line of sight could follow my own.
“Fran, please. I’ve been sparring with your mother all morning, take mercy on an old man.”
I scoffed. “Some men would pay good money to spar with my mother.”
Pastor Steve chuckled. “I’ve known you since you were knee high to a grasshopper. What’s weighing on you?”
The hem of my dress suddenly became very interesting as I chewed on my lip trying to explain things that I barely even understood in my own head. What was weighing on me? If inventory of my life offered any clues I should for all intents and purposes be over the moon. I’d gone out there at the Excellence Invitational and proved to everyone what I’d already told them. I hadn’t just performed well and gotten a lucky win; I’d proven that I was a force to be reckoned with. It had taken five men ganging up to beat me down in order for them to stop the momentum I’d gained and even then, it still wasn’t enough to keep me from securing a win.
Thanks to that win I now had the biggest opportunity of my career looming on the horizon in the form of a championship match with a man who reminded me of a pharmaceutical rep that had suddenly been thrust into the world of wrestling. Damian Ayla had been granted the distinct honor of being given my undivided attention for the coming weeks leading up to Magnificence, an honor that I am sure is rapidly giving him a stomach ulcer or at the very least some gnarly hemorrhoids that no cream can touch.
A lot of old timers will sit here and tell you that Twitter isn’t important, that it’s about backing it up in the ring where it matters. Blah blah blah. What the old timers don’t realize is that one of the most important tools we have at our disposal in this line of work is the damage one can do with a bit of psychological warfare before you even step foot between the ropes. Annoying Ayla was no longer just a fun way to pass the time while I waited for Vin to warm up the baby oil and Worcestershire sauce, it had become part of my strategy leading up to the match at Magnificence. Another bit of career advice I could thank Stratford for.
The truth of the matter was that this was no longer just a match for me, it was a turning point in my life and as I looked forward to what lay in front of me, I couldn’t help but think back on the path that brought me here. Every loss, every disappointment, every moment where I hadn’t been good enough. I’d spent a lifetime clawing and fighting my way here and now the moment was upon us and everything was riding on this. Everything. What if I failed?
Pastor Steve cleared his throat beside me and I realized that I had been quiet for too long.
“I’ve not been a good person, Pastor Steve.” I ducked my head, picking at a loose thread on the hem of the white dress. “I’ve done terrible things. Hurt a lot of people that didn’t deserve to be hurt.” The pastor was quiet beside me, his silence urging me on. “What if I’ve done so much bad that I don’t deserve anymore good?”
He cocked his head to the side beside me as he studied my face. “And you think the lord keeps score?”
My brows furrowed as I looked up at the Pastor. “I mean, does he?”
Pastor Steve shook his head as he spoke. “The lord isn’t an accountant keeping a tally of man’s misdeeds. Are you remorseful?”
“About what?” I questioned.
“Any of it.” He said.
I shrugged taking mental inventory of my wrong doings.
“Some of it, yes.” I paused. “But some of it, no.”
“Your husband?” He questioned as he nonchalantly slapped the hem of my dress out of my hands.
I smiled then. “Aww, you do watch.”
“Helps me figure out how much I need to be prayin’ for you.” Pastor Steve shot back with a faint arching of his brow. “But the Lord said to Samuel, “Do not consider his appearance or his height, for I have rejected him. The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”
“What’s that mean?”
Pastor Steve leaned in, speaking out of the side of his mouth as if he were telling me some great secret.
“Means the Lord is keeping score.” He paused. “Appearance doesn’t always mean looks. Sometimes it can mean the appearance of our actions.”
Truth be told, I’ve never considered myself to be a religious person though I spent a great many years in this church while growing up. My mother took her faith very seriously and expected nothing less out of my father and myself, taking great care to make sure that come hell or high water our butts were washed and on a pew every Sunday morning without fail. Growing up, I hated it. But now there were days when I longed for the structure that my mothers faith had given me.
“Father, can I be honest with you?” Pastor Steve sighed wearily but waved his hand subtly to indicate that I should continue. “I’m in my head about this match. It’s the biggest opportunity I’ve ever had in my career and I can’t just bullshit my way through it like I do everything else in life. I have to be successful. I have to win. I’ve never been in such a make or break situation when it came to my career.”
And that was the truth that I would never admit out loud to another soul. I was good at putting on a show and I’d done it even now to some extent. But I knew deep down that everything was riding on the outcome of this match. The irony is that I knew in my heart that I could beat Ayla, after all, I’d spent weeks shouting it from the rooftops. But there, in the deepest recesses of my mind, was this tiny voice whispering “but what if you don’t?”
“Tell me about the man that you are set to face.”
How did I even begin to explain a man like Damian Ayla to this simple backwoods preacher? Pastor Steve wasn’t no dummy so I knew that he knew that most of what he saw on television was an act put on to sell t-shirts but still. Did I tell him that if Ayla was a feature in the Golden Corral buffet that he would be the chocolate fountain, something that might sound like a good idea but is really just a disappointing hotbed of bacteria that will have you shitting your brains out with regret for the next three days? Was that tactless to say out loud? In a church? To a man of God? I thought about all the things I could say about Ayla and realized as each one flashed in my mind how absolutely ridiculous they were.
“Well, he claims to worship violence for one thing.” See? Ridiculous.
Pastor Steve made an mmm sound as he considered this before he cocked his head to the side and looked at me. “And what do you worship, Fran?”
“Our lord and savior Jesus Christ, of course!”
I knew that this was not precisely true but out it came anyway. Jesus was literally right there watching me from the crucifix on the wall and I’m pretty sure I’d have gotten smited for any other answer. It woulda been like talkin’ shit about Jesus in his own house. Not cool. The Pastor clicked his tongue at me.
“The truth, now.” He chided.
“I don’t know. That’s the truth. But I know that I don’t worship violence. I don’t want to hurt people beyond what’s acceptable in our line of work. I don’t care to destroy this man or any other for that matter. I just want to be good at my job and make people proud of me. I want to finally have the opportunity to lead and do things the right way. I don’t want to rule with fear and derision, I want us to have hope. All of us.”
The words fell over each other as I rushed to get them out. I felt wildly uncomfortable pouring out my most vulnerable thoughts to this man.
“I imagine that worshipping violence must be quite lonely for this man.” The pastor mused.
I considered this as I shifted on the uncomfortable wooden pew. Bent Fork wasn’t the sort of place that could afford those fancy red cushioned pews like some churches.
“I guess so. I mean, aside from his wife and kids I’m not sure that I’ve really seen him with anyone that he wasn’t paying.” Now that I thought about it, outside of Tara and their children I couldn’t name one person who would call Damian a friend. It was really quite sad when I thought about it.
“Your life on the other hand is very full, isn’t it?” Pastor Steve shifted his body so that he could turn towards me, hands clasped in his lap.
“What are you getting at, Father?” He was trying to make a point but I didn’t understand what.
“Love.” He said, simply.
“What’s love got to do with it?” The pastor chuckled at the phrasing before tapping a finger over my heart.
“This man is, in his own words, motivated by violence; it is what sustains him and drives him forward. But you are motivated by the love of those around you. The love of your friends and family is the driving force behind all of your actions – good or otherwise.” He paused. “You fear that you will fail those you love in your endeavor without realizing the very existence of this fear will be the thing that drives you forward.”
Fuck. He was good. The pastor patted my knee, rising from his seat to stand.
“Let love and faithfulness never leave you; bind them around your neck, write them on the tablet of your heart. Then you will win favor and a good name in the sight of God and man.”
“JK ROWLING!” Nailed it. Pastor Steve shook his head with a small smile.
“I imagine your mother is probably looking for me, I’ll give you some time to yourself before the service starts.” He turned and stepped out into the aisle of the church. “Goodluck, Fran.”
Pastor Steve quietly turned and walked back up the aisle to exit through a door on the side of the chapel leaving me alone in the sanctuary. Strangely enough, I felt more at ease now than when he had first sat down beside me. Truthfully, I’ve always kind of thought of faith as something that you err on the side of caution for just in case. I couldn’t say that I’d become one of those Bible carrying missionaries that lived and breathed this kind of stuff since missionary is probably one of my least favorite things but right now for the moment it felt sort of nice to be grounded by faith.
Perhaps the good pastor had been onto something with his observations about Damian Ayla. This was, after all, a man who fashioned himself to be - what was it? Oh yeah, a “godslaying beast”. I was no beast. Some people would probably argue that I’m barely human but maybe it all went back to what the Pastor had said. Perhaps my humanity was my strength. History was filled with stories of simple men slaying fantastical beasts, why should this match be any different?
Ayla had his moment. He joined an untested company and was able to secure the rights to the Excellence championship when there was realistically very little competition to stand in his way. To hear Damian tell it, it was as if he’d gone through something like Blood Money to beat the top names in the industry when in reality he’d been placed against the likes of Ciela Ruiz and Ross Hansen. Oh yeah, those are some folks to brag about. Even his title defenses since his initial capture of the championship had been against people that were mid tier at best in any other company. I guess that mediocre champions require mediocre challengers.
Though I should be somewhat thankful to some of those roster members, I suppose. If Damian wasn’t distracted enough with Tara’s general issues as a person, now he has to worry about the intentions of her handsome lady lover. It’s ironic, don’t you think? A man who thinks he has such an iron fist on this company yet he can hardly keep his own house in order. I’d think he’d be doing a much better job considering how little he actually has to focus on but it seems he can’t even manage to handle the demands of the championship and his family at once without the cracks starting to show.
It’s too bad for Damian, he’s got even bigger problems on the horizon. Make no mistake, no matter who wins this match, the fact that Shawn Warstein has decided to dip his toes into the waters of PWE is a big fucking problem for whoever is left holding that championship at the end of Magnificence. Ayla might think he’s some sort of big fish gobbling up all the little fish in the water but even big fish have natural predators. Something our champion would do well to keep in the back of his mind at Magnificence and something he should have taken heed of the moment that I stepped foot in this company and made my intentions known.
From the very second I received the email about this place I knew that all roads would lead me to Ayla. Before my first match was even booked, I had my name down for the Excellence Invitational, all I had to do was get through a few people and then my path to the Excellence Championship and Ayla would be clear. But Tara Ayla was a curveball that I hadn’t been expecting – you remember our talk about curveballs? It was when the first card and my debut was announced that I had a choice to make. I could come out of the gate strong and establish myself as a force to be reckoned with by beating Tara Ayla or... I could play the long game. A few weeks ago, I spoke about the fact that my contemporaries that I came up with were floundering due to their inability to learn from those around them. I told everyone then that I was different and that part wasn’t a lie.
The thing is, I know a lot of wrestling families so I’m not a stranger to how it goes. People talk. And I knew that once I made my way to Damian that Tara would become crucial to his strategy to beat me. So, I took what I have learned from the people around me and I implemented it. Instead of debuting at the absolute height of what my ability is I only gave Tara just enough. Just enough to seem like I was really exerting myself, just enough to make her think that I was authentic. Because that match was never about Tara Ayla.
People know that you can get a sunburn from the sun but rarely do they think about the fact that you can also get one from the snow. The sun reflects off of the surface of the snow and can do the same amount of damage that you would get if you’d sat on the beach for too long without any shade. I didn’t want to debut as the sun and give Tara a roadmap of my ability that she could use to prepare Damian for this match. I wanted to not be a threat, not give Tara anything but the most basic of information she could debrief Damian with. I wanted to be as non threatening as a snow covered field. Damian doesn’t know how I move, what I’m capable of. He’s not seen it yet. Sure, he can look at old tapes of my few matches in FIGHT but those were against my husband's ex-wife and that was a much different sort of fight. Maybe he’ll do his homework and seek out OPW, if he does he’ll find what all of that new blood on the FIGHT roster found – no reason to fully exert yourself.
Ayla is a man who likes to trot out nifty little sound bites knowing full and well that though he has the ability to speak, his words are as empty as his threats. Widespread dominance he spoke of, wasn’t it? It sounded nice in a promo but like everything else about Ayla it was simply a fabricated response designed to elicit an emotion. It wasn’t a genuine article because Damian himself is not genuine.
If someone wants to claim “widespread dominance” as a nice little talking point on television wouldn’t that person need to actually follow through on not only being dominant but also, I don’t know, the widespread portion? Because I’ve seen neither. All I have seen is a mediocre wrestler who strikes a convincing persona when the camera is on but is too chickenshit to step out of his comfort zone to actually back up any of the words he spouts off week by week. His life reads like a television show - mute wife, some dark back story, a mystery about their circumstances. It’s all so terribly contrived.
Ask yourselves, what would Ayla be without that Excellence championship around his waist. Would anyone care about him? Or would he fade back into the obscurity he crawled out of in the first place? The man is supposed to make the belt. He’s supposed to elevate it, make it a force to be not only respected but reckoned with. But in the case of Damian Ayla, he hasn’t made the belt, the belt has made the man. Remove it and see what becomes of him. I already know how this one ends.
A distracted champion questioning his place in this business ended up coming about by sheer luck but making sure that he was as unprepared to face me as I could make him was not. You see, that’s just it. Damian is so egotistical that he never stops to consider that maybe those who would oppose him are not as stupid as he assumes they are. Oh, he might give someone the barest bit of credit, but to hear him tell it he’s always just so many steps above the competition. But he didn’t see LC Pinkston coming and I’d bet money he’s bought into what I’ve allowed him to see hook line and sinker.
Outside of the Excellence championship, that’s probably the thing that I’m looking forward to most in this match - watching the realization of being ill prepared and unequipped for what is in front of him blossom across Damian’s face.
Damian Ayla’s fifteen minutes are over for a lot of reasons. Because I have something to prove. Because he wrote me off and thus pissed me off. But truthfully because PWE deserves better than Ayla. This roster, these fans, the management - they deserve better. And for the first time in my life I truly believe that I’m the one who can give it to them. It’s about me, it’s about my family, my friends, yes that’s all true. But it’s also about this company. It’s about Allen Chaney and LC Pinkston and Acid Beth. It’s about those five men I took this opportunity from. It’s about each and every person who has given their time, money, sweat or tears to this promotion only to be sneered at by some self important fuck with a fragile ego who got his feathers ruffled by some dumb hillbilly he thought wasn’t a problem until she was.
And no matter who I have been in my life or where I have come from or how hard I had to scratch and claw my way to get to this point I now know one very simple thing and that is:
I will not fail them.
The crucifix on the wall glinted in the sunlight coming through the simple single pane windows on the walls adjacent to it. The crucifixion has always struck me as a morbid piece of iconography despite its importance in the story of the Bible. They say that crowds gathered to mourn and watch Jesus' death upon the cross not realizing that he would rise and be reborn. Jesus and I had that in common.
“Ayy Guera!”
Her nasally voice cut into my subconscious like a warm knife melting through a stick of butter. The foot that had been hovering in the air in front of me was returned to the edge of the bridge and my left hand tightened its grip on the railing. She was petite, dressed in a pair of baggy Dickie’s work pants and a fitted white tank top, large hoop earrings glinting in the moonlight as she slowly approached the railing of the bridge. Behind her, a stockier version of herself looked irritated in the driver's seat of an idling car.
“You good, cuh?” Her hands were extended in front of her as if to show she was not armed. I got the impression that this was not usually the case.
“I’m fine, thanks.” I respond, turning my attention back to the water below me.
“Don’t look fine. Look like you finna take a swim, Guera.” The woman slowly leaned forward on the railing beside me, looking down at the distance to the water below us with a low whistle.
“Shiiiit, Drop like that gonna mess your shit up for real, chica. Moms probably wouldn’t even be able to have an open casket for the homies or nothin’.” She said, looking over at me. I knew I should respond and ease her concern in some way but I couldn’t get my mouth to form the words. “My homeboy Sad Boy took a drop like that once, fucked him all the way up. Now he gotta eat his elotes through a straw.”
“He jumped off a bridge?” I asked as she shrugged her shoulders.
“Nah, he got wasted off the side of a parking garage by his homegirls cousins tio for fucking with his old lady.” Slowly she started to scale the railing, careful to watch the footing of her navy house shoes as she did. “They call me Ruca. What’s your name, Guera?” She asked as she swung her legs over and started to lower herself onto the ledge with much more concern for her own well being than I had for mine in that moment.
“Vhodka.”
“Ayy, no shit! White people be naming their kids anything, I swear.” Ruca cautiously stepped a little closer to me, her right hand reaching out to grasp my forearm. “Guera, this shit right here? This ain’t it. Shits weak.” She places her right hand atop of my left where it grips the railing, maintaining eye contact with me as she does so.
Ruca did not realize that though she stopped me from jumping, I still died that night. It was not the first time I had died, nor was it the last - in fact I’ve died many times again since then. But like Jesus Christ I did not stay dead. Instead, I was resurrected. Reborn. And in that rebirth and all of those that came after it I became something new.
Ripley’s hand was gentle on my wrist as she drew my attention away from the image of the crucifixion and to her presence beside me. She smiled up at me in the way that children do when the world has yet to chew them up and spit them out.
“They sent me to check on you.” Her voice was soft, as if she wasn’t sure what sort of frame of mind I might be in at that moment. Looking down into her eyes I realized something that I usually did not have the foresight to predict: very soon, I would die again. My breath was a sharp intake with the sudden knowledge, fear bitter on my tongue before it passed and I felt the acceptance wash down my throat like a cool glass of water on a hot day when you’ve not taken a drink in a very long time. At that moment, I made a decision.
“I’d like to tell you a story.” My voice was light as I took her hand in my own and drew her to sit down on the edge of the raised stage where the pulpit sat sentinel.
“What kind of a story?” Ripley questioned as she smoothed her dress under the backs of her legs to sit beside me. I couldn’t help but smile as she did so, knowing that it was a habit born from my mothers insistence. The knowledge that my bare ass cheeks were resting on the chapel stage because I had not had the forethought to smooth down my own dress before sitting was a stark reminder of how far from my mothers path I had strayed. Sorry, Mama. Sorry, Jesus.
“A story about the times I’ve died.”
Ripley’s mouth formed into an O of surprise as I took a deep breath and tried to decide the best way to begin something I had truthfully probably never intended to tell her. My gaze traveled over to the pulpit to find the slack face of Jesus above us. I had a brief thought of myself and then oddly enough, of Damian Ayla.
In that brief moment I did something unusual and silently said a little prayer. A prayer that Ayla would give his heart to the lord, because his ass was mine.
