Post by Danica Kane on Mar 8, 2020 23:01:37 GMT -5
I stood in front of the bathroom’s mirror and pretended to see myself as I straightened my lipstick. Honestly, It’s easy after a few decades, you get used to the handicap that comes with the advantages of being...what I am. Besides, some bright spark invented the smartphone, now I get to “check whatsapp”, while I use the phone’s camera to actually see what I’m doing. Bodies in tight dresses squeeze past me as intermittent echoes from the restaurant wash ashore, self obsessed and oblivious to the omission of a reflection.
“I hear you have side projects, right?”
Red stands right next to me, she’s pretty. Well toned. She has one of those bodies that come with hard work and dedication rather than a genetic pass.
“I’m a detective, that was my stock and trade for a while. Still is on occasion. You?”
“I’m this. All day, every day. I roll up, I wrestle. After the stitches and the obligatory concussion check I crash in a motel room and figure out how to do it better.”
“Tunnel vision then. I get that.”
“More like I have to work twice as hard for half the money. So this vampire gimmick, isn’t it a bit of a cliche?”
A lock of raven hair flopped into Red’s deep blue eyes as she addressed me, her voice carrying just enough disdain blended with resolve to make it work my notice. She knows that, she wants a reaction. I guess I do too. I need to know how easily she can be pushed. If you’re in a tag team it’s essential to know your partner’s limitations before your enemies teach you. That’s tag title one-oh-one.
“Can be. That's why I go with it...I get to hide in plain sight”
I head back to our table before she notices. We drink cocktails. The company is pleasant enough. Her blood…
Could be sweet. But that’s too soon.
Back and to the left as the heel of a six thousand pound John Hobb Holt landed plush under the stunned and bewildered chin of “Prince Lightskin”. It was a size ten bullet that rolled Andre’s bloodshot eyes to the back of his rattled, bewildered skull, just in time to see his future dissipate above him as the swagger of progress stepped over his dead, useless weight. For Andre, there was just enough time for one final glimpse of The Ripper as Aquarius passed out, then slumber and a fading dream of a life that might have been. A life that has never been lived.
A week later, WCF’s resident physician Dr. Remus Micayle gave “Sickwaves Blackamura” a clean bill of health but poor Aquarius’s mind was shot after that. Andre became hobbled as far as ambition went, never achieving the heights literally every other member of #beachkrew attained. Andre was the red headed stepchild of the most dominant wrestling stable in history. It’s one thing to fail, but to do so with so much privilege, so many chances around him. It’s inexcusable. Think about it, Andre, you could’ve tagged with world champions, multiple time tag title winners, WAR winners and yet...you didn’t. Instead you lingered in the lower mid card and achieved nothing. That’s a new level of pathetic, don’t you think?
In England we have a saying, “knocked for six”, it’s a cricket reference Andre, so I know you won’t get it. But, try to think of it this way, once upon a time there was a vampire named Johnny Rabid, effete, charming, and some would say devilishly handsome; but with a poisonous disdain for humanity and a thirst for absolute power that was insatiable. Johnny kicked you down the ladder of success, stole your spot and left your career in ruins. You never recovered. You never prospered. And now, years later, here you are, at that doorway again with another vampire, who’s about to do the same to you once more.
I’ve spent my days creeping around your history, Andre, sneaking among the wreckage with a flashlight and observing the tragedy. It’s a sad tale of talent squandered by a frat house juggernaut determined to dominate at all costs. Andre Aquarius, the forgotten voice of #beachkrew. The Andre who isn’t Holmes. The afterthought, the least favourite earth child of Hacksaw Jim Thuggin. The joke. The fool. The disappointment. Andre Aquarius, the petulant manchild not trusted to seize control of the “Hashtag Bromance Championship”, not once, but twice. First, Wade Moor and Jared Holmes dismantled Spencer Adams and Vic Venable to win the tag straps, then Rabid (not you) and Kyle Kemp seized the WCF titles for #beachkrew a second time. But where was Andre Aquarius?
Back at the wineBAGO, knocking one out to Future’s latest drop (probably in Rabid’s monogrammed socks) as a single tear rolled down your quivering chin. I wonder, how did it feel to be the de facto manservant to Dustin Beaver? Because that's how utterly irrelevant you became. Not because you were forced to be, because you allowed yourself to be.
You’re a ghost in your own lifetime, Andre. You don't enforce your will over titles and divisions, you haunt them. You’re nothing but a blink and you’ll-miss-him talent. You have potential, but it’s been four long years since you debuted anywhere and what we’ve seen is indifference and boredom. You don't care enough to win, to compete. It’s been beaten out of you and I know why.
Check the date, Andre. Because today is the most important day of your life. Today is the day I lift up a mirror and show you the truth. (by the way, can you tell me how I look? I don't do reflections well and I like to make an impression)
If there’s one constant in professional wrestling it’s that women are overlooked, underrated, and treated like second class citizens. We’re pretty valets of no consequence or managers that say little. We‘re objects to be fought over, bodies locked in cages, contracts stapled to poles, while men below us fight to avenge our honor. We’re the impetus for men to go on and win titles because our injuries spur them to great victories. We live in the constant shadow of masculine archetypes that rule the ring, while we women prop them up and do our best to be happy for them, because that’s what’s expected for us. That is the “role” of a woman in the squared circle.
Your role, Andre. Welcome to the fairer sex. Because after analysing your career, you’re a honorary woman from now on. The difference being, you’re comfortable with your lot. The extra standing behind Sandy Coconuts. The ghost that mixes Jim’s martini and mows the lawn. That was you then, and still is you now. Means nothing that you rocked up into APW thinking you could take NEW YAWK by storm at Liberty or Death, because what you actually achieved was merely blip of good fortune in a career that is desperately, and utterly sad. You think you’re a small fish that’s discovered a smallish pond to rule...or so you think. Because now the gleam of those smart new tag belts is everywhere and suddenly we have all comers from across the world descending upon Alpha Pro. We have Norse Gods and Creeping Deaths and now you’re right back to where you always were. Tumbling down to the bottom run of the ladder. The one that holds the door, until he’s kicked through it.
Then there’s Amirah by your side. The palestine victim of more American meddling. I feel for her because once again she’s being screwed over by the west. As if having your homeland pulled out from under you isn’t enough, here comes Uncle Sam to once again jab the knife into her shoulder blades with a shoddy example of home grown talent that's supposed to be her tag partner, but has no experience in the field and even less experience at actually winning matches.
You’re supposed to be the veteran in this equation of ours Andre and yet, Red Wedding has the advantage because we’re not taking this for granted. We’re not peeking out from under a rock and hoping the talent margin here is easier to manage. We accept the challenge and rise to it. That's what winners do. That's what women every day have to do. We get up, we know the odds are against us. We get on with it, because there’s no other choice. We have to adapt, while you Andre, you never did, you just stood there and expected things to fall into your lap and that's why you’re the loser that you are and that's why your tag partner has been utterly and completely screwed over, by a man, and not probably for the first time.
Don’t worry, Andre, this monday night on Metal we’ll teach you what it means to be a woman. And after you learn? Maybe some fashion tips and a nice trip to a spa.
Because you’re gonna need it after we dismantle you and any hope of ressurecting your career.
“I hear you have side projects, right?”
Red stands right next to me, she’s pretty. Well toned. She has one of those bodies that come with hard work and dedication rather than a genetic pass.
“I’m a detective, that was my stock and trade for a while. Still is on occasion. You?”
“I’m this. All day, every day. I roll up, I wrestle. After the stitches and the obligatory concussion check I crash in a motel room and figure out how to do it better.”
“Tunnel vision then. I get that.”
“More like I have to work twice as hard for half the money. So this vampire gimmick, isn’t it a bit of a cliche?”
A lock of raven hair flopped into Red’s deep blue eyes as she addressed me, her voice carrying just enough disdain blended with resolve to make it work my notice. She knows that, she wants a reaction. I guess I do too. I need to know how easily she can be pushed. If you’re in a tag team it’s essential to know your partner’s limitations before your enemies teach you. That’s tag title one-oh-one.
“Can be. That's why I go with it...I get to hide in plain sight”
I head back to our table before she notices. We drink cocktails. The company is pleasant enough. Her blood…
Could be sweet. But that’s too soon.
He’s afraid of Americans, he’s afraid of the world (except Andre Aquarius)
Johnny’s in America. WCF Slam
Back and to the left as the heel of a six thousand pound John Hobb Holt landed plush under the stunned and bewildered chin of “Prince Lightskin”. It was a size ten bullet that rolled Andre’s bloodshot eyes to the back of his rattled, bewildered skull, just in time to see his future dissipate above him as the swagger of progress stepped over his dead, useless weight. For Andre, there was just enough time for one final glimpse of The Ripper as Aquarius passed out, then slumber and a fading dream of a life that might have been. A life that has never been lived.
A week later, WCF’s resident physician Dr. Remus Micayle gave “Sickwaves Blackamura” a clean bill of health but poor Aquarius’s mind was shot after that. Andre became hobbled as far as ambition went, never achieving the heights literally every other member of #beachkrew attained. Andre was the red headed stepchild of the most dominant wrestling stable in history. It’s one thing to fail, but to do so with so much privilege, so many chances around him. It’s inexcusable. Think about it, Andre, you could’ve tagged with world champions, multiple time tag title winners, WAR winners and yet...you didn’t. Instead you lingered in the lower mid card and achieved nothing. That’s a new level of pathetic, don’t you think?
In England we have a saying, “knocked for six”, it’s a cricket reference Andre, so I know you won’t get it. But, try to think of it this way, once upon a time there was a vampire named Johnny Rabid, effete, charming, and some would say devilishly handsome; but with a poisonous disdain for humanity and a thirst for absolute power that was insatiable. Johnny kicked you down the ladder of success, stole your spot and left your career in ruins. You never recovered. You never prospered. And now, years later, here you are, at that doorway again with another vampire, who’s about to do the same to you once more.
I’ve spent my days creeping around your history, Andre, sneaking among the wreckage with a flashlight and observing the tragedy. It’s a sad tale of talent squandered by a frat house juggernaut determined to dominate at all costs. Andre Aquarius, the forgotten voice of #beachkrew. The Andre who isn’t Holmes. The afterthought, the least favourite earth child of Hacksaw Jim Thuggin. The joke. The fool. The disappointment. Andre Aquarius, the petulant manchild not trusted to seize control of the “Hashtag Bromance Championship”, not once, but twice. First, Wade Moor and Jared Holmes dismantled Spencer Adams and Vic Venable to win the tag straps, then Rabid (not you) and Kyle Kemp seized the WCF titles for #beachkrew a second time. But where was Andre Aquarius?
Back at the wineBAGO, knocking one out to Future’s latest drop (probably in Rabid’s monogrammed socks) as a single tear rolled down your quivering chin. I wonder, how did it feel to be the de facto manservant to Dustin Beaver? Because that's how utterly irrelevant you became. Not because you were forced to be, because you allowed yourself to be.
You’re a ghost in your own lifetime, Andre. You don't enforce your will over titles and divisions, you haunt them. You’re nothing but a blink and you’ll-miss-him talent. You have potential, but it’s been four long years since you debuted anywhere and what we’ve seen is indifference and boredom. You don't care enough to win, to compete. It’s been beaten out of you and I know why.
Check the date, Andre. Because today is the most important day of your life. Today is the day I lift up a mirror and show you the truth. (by the way, can you tell me how I look? I don't do reflections well and I like to make an impression)
If there’s one constant in professional wrestling it’s that women are overlooked, underrated, and treated like second class citizens. We’re pretty valets of no consequence or managers that say little. We‘re objects to be fought over, bodies locked in cages, contracts stapled to poles, while men below us fight to avenge our honor. We’re the impetus for men to go on and win titles because our injuries spur them to great victories. We live in the constant shadow of masculine archetypes that rule the ring, while we women prop them up and do our best to be happy for them, because that’s what’s expected for us. That is the “role” of a woman in the squared circle.
Your role, Andre. Welcome to the fairer sex. Because after analysing your career, you’re a honorary woman from now on. The difference being, you’re comfortable with your lot. The extra standing behind Sandy Coconuts. The ghost that mixes Jim’s martini and mows the lawn. That was you then, and still is you now. Means nothing that you rocked up into APW thinking you could take NEW YAWK by storm at Liberty or Death, because what you actually achieved was merely blip of good fortune in a career that is desperately, and utterly sad. You think you’re a small fish that’s discovered a smallish pond to rule...or so you think. Because now the gleam of those smart new tag belts is everywhere and suddenly we have all comers from across the world descending upon Alpha Pro. We have Norse Gods and Creeping Deaths and now you’re right back to where you always were. Tumbling down to the bottom run of the ladder. The one that holds the door, until he’s kicked through it.
Then there’s Amirah by your side. The palestine victim of more American meddling. I feel for her because once again she’s being screwed over by the west. As if having your homeland pulled out from under you isn’t enough, here comes Uncle Sam to once again jab the knife into her shoulder blades with a shoddy example of home grown talent that's supposed to be her tag partner, but has no experience in the field and even less experience at actually winning matches.
You’re supposed to be the veteran in this equation of ours Andre and yet, Red Wedding has the advantage because we’re not taking this for granted. We’re not peeking out from under a rock and hoping the talent margin here is easier to manage. We accept the challenge and rise to it. That's what winners do. That's what women every day have to do. We get up, we know the odds are against us. We get on with it, because there’s no other choice. We have to adapt, while you Andre, you never did, you just stood there and expected things to fall into your lap and that's why you’re the loser that you are and that's why your tag partner has been utterly and completely screwed over, by a man, and not probably for the first time.
Don’t worry, Andre, this monday night on Metal we’ll teach you what it means to be a woman. And after you learn? Maybe some fashion tips and a nice trip to a spa.
Because you’re gonna need it after we dismantle you and any hope of ressurecting your career.
