The Book of Charmaine - Vol. I, Chapter I
Aug 18, 2019 16:46:30 GMT -5
BonnieBlue, johnnyblaze, and 2 more like this
Post by Charmaine DaGawd™️ on Aug 18, 2019 16:46:30 GMT -5
AUGUST 12 - As the disclaimer would suggest, flashing on-screen of every broadcast, when crossing the braided threshold of a wrestling ring, you warrant the risks of serious and/or permanent injury. Bumps, bruises, and scars were to be anticipated. It was a profession not for the faint of heart; and ill-suited for the reenactments of rank amateurs, as even self-proclaimed Gods of the sport, like Charmaine, could leave with a ‘parting gift’.
Charmaine wasn’t delusional...prideful, maybe...egotistical, meh, debatable...but NOT delusional. She knew the risks. The hefty sum she’d forward to her insurance company served as the perfect, yet painful, reminder. However, what she didn’t anticipate was a loss on the night of her debut. To hell with her fresh battle scars and slightly wounded pride, in time, they would heal. They weren’t the source of her pain. The hopes of an entire community of good uninspired people who were told they were unworthy of realizing excellence on the level of their white counterparts or experience a life outside of poverty and struggle, the fate of her hard-working Mother, and the legacy of her deceased brother; were all hers to carry into prominence and she felt as if she’d let them all down. Now that hurt, like a son of a bitch.
The ‘click-clack’ of men’s loafers echoing along the depths of the corridor, brings the scene to life; coming into focus we see the dapper Troy Butler - clean-cut and hair well kept, with not so much as a single strand out of place, he manages a navy plaid blazer, dark undershirt, plaid bow tie, and black dress pants with a mic encased within the make of his fist. He nails three knocks into the surface of the door marked “Women’s Locker Room” prior to receiving the muffled clearance to enter from an inhabitant on the other side. Latching onto the metal knob, he gives it a firm twist and steps into the gaping passageway the door provides him, crossing the threshold of the APW’s most underrated athletes, he approaches a five panel room-divider that highlights the curvy silhouette of a woman. In a state of slight alarm, he adjusts his collar and clears his throat; a practice he uses not to remove any hurdles from his airway, but to again alert the changing stranger of his presence. One could never be too careful to offend in the era of the #MeTooMovement. Was that sexism or cautious of him, he wasn’t sure. A debate that would take place later when he was alone.
Troy Butler: Pardon me, Miss, would you happen to know of Charmaine the God’s whereabouts?
Charmaine the God: Who wants to know?
She spoke, continuing to dress, stepping into a pair of jeans, slipping them pass her roaring calves and thighs, and fastening at her waistline.
Troy Butler: Troy Butler. APW Correspondent.
He spoke confidently, despite his nervousness. To his surprise, the woman of the hour would step out behind the panel in a black lace bra and faded blue jeans with a slight tear at the knee, drying her raven locks with a cotton white towel.
Charmaine the God: Well, congratulations, you’ve found her. But she hates to inform you that she will NOT be taking any interviews tonight.
Troy Butler: Are you certain that’s what you want? No words for Noris Cranley?
Charmaine the God: Nope. I said what I had to say...but off the record, who in the scolding-hot-hell does he think he is?? Never has ‘She’ been so insulted, so infuriated -- so misunderstood. How dare he eyeball that camera and spew bold-face lies to the public at large about someone he hasn’t even taken the chance to try and understand? Granted, he and I were scheduled for an exhibition match, not a date. But I suspected some research to be conducted when squaring up with an individual who is the manifestation of a question mark to you! He took one gander at me, and thought he had me all figured out. He saw the bedazzled jacket, the fancy ponytail, noted the dip of over-confidence in my every stride, and assumed that I was some spoiled rich bitch who hasn’t so much as had a bad day in her life -- but he’s wrong. I’ve been resorted to the most dehumanizing living conditions that one could endure, and thought the shit was normal. Can you imagine? Thinking that having lights - only some of the time - was ‘normal’, using the oven for heat in the winter, and boiling bath water on the stove because your hot water heater worked on occasion...I could go on, but I think I’ve proven my point, never judge a book by it’s cover; and as I’ve made clear via Twitter never assume you know my story after the first-fucking-page. And no, I’m not fishing for an apology or sympathy...just a little respect. As the only black female competitor here, in a white male dominated industry, I think I’m owed THAT much.
R-E-S-P-E-C-T. The powerful and iconic voice of Aretha Franklin belted out in the minds of those spectating. Charmaine the God wasn’t a typical female competitor of the new millennium who led with her looks and body, using her physical attractiveness as a crutch to limp her way to the top of the heap; she was someone who didn’t mind getting her hands dirty, or breaking a nail or two, if it meant proving she was worthy -- gaining the respect she felt she deserved. Something she felt void of when encountering the proven ‘Unstoppable’ Noris Cranley. Later that week, it seemed that Cranley would agree with her sentiments in a congratulatory post, which she was quick to reject. Was she a sore loser? Had lines been crossed? Or was it just the Brooklyn girl in her that suspected and trusted no one, even those of seemingly good intentions like he? No one knew but her. Though she was still bitter about the results of her debut match, it did come with a shocking consolation prize. APW Wrestler of the Week. “She came on the scene like a hurricane; already an icon of feminine power and certain only to rise to prominence.” Those were the words that greeted her on the flashing screen of her phone by her bedside when she awoke the morning after. The APW Universe clearly saw in her, what her initial opponent couldn’t. Her in-ring persona wasn’t all steak and no sizzle, in truth, it was a middle finger to society and the outdated mindset that suggests only men could be synonymous with ‘The Best’, ‘The Greatest of All Time’, or ‘God’. As far as she was concerned, the future was female.
Charmaine the God: Y’know, despite the reputation I’ve acquired for being a hard-ass, I’ve always had a soft spot for places like this...and how can you not? The flashing lights, bright colors, sweet treats, and an array of games and exciting rides. My family didn’t have much when we were coming up, but my Mom always managed to set a little aside so that my brother and me could enjoy stuff like this.
While picking her first pinch of cotton candy, placing it into her mouth for that satisfyingly sweet dissolvement, her sights come across a large carousel; lined with pulsing lights and a high-pitched tune, rotating at a slow three hundred sixty degree turn.
Charmaine the God: Not so shockingly, they’ve even got the merry-go-round here. Hands down, the ride I loathed the most as a child. Outside its eye-catching exterior and model animals, it’s really just the same slow existence that rotates to the same annoying tune, over and over again. A lot like those in my old neighborhood...because they weren’t afforded certain opportunities over the years, whether due to their color or environment, they’ve been on that same carousel for years. Some even opt for the comfort of the life they’ve come to know over the unfamiliarity of the world beyond them -- allowing the fear of failure to dictate their lives; I, too, shared in their ignorance at a young age, but once I broke the spell of naive and adolescence I realized the absurdity in a life unlived or experienced. Unfortunately, like most things in life, it took something so drastic for the lightbulb to go off. That didn’t have to be my destiny...that didn’t have to be my life; I could get up and go out and do something that they would’ve only thought possible in children’s stories! At the risk of sounding like the theme to a silly anime cartoon, I could become the very best like no one ever was. Thus, the feminine greatness that is Charmaine the God was born.
…
I expected some resistance from my male counterparts, as I know how intimidating it can be for little boys masquerading as grown men in their daddies’ clothes, to have a woman come in and completely upstage every single one of you in her debut; dicks were bound to get soft, but if you ain’t up for the challenge or capable of performing perhaps you shouldn’t be here? The APW chose me because they saw something special in me. They understood that I push the same agenda, to stay ahead of the times and be as gender neutral as possible. I, myself, have always been an equal opportunity ass kicker; but to get the chance to do it professionally to a wide audience is just icing on the cake. Which leads me to my next opponent who I will proceed to read like a scripture, Luke Force, a business mogul and law school graduate with too much time on his hands who spends his evenings alone with his delusions of grandeur; insisting that even at his advanced years, he is still Irresistible. I can see it...maybe a century or so ago, he has that old school porn-star appeal, back when they were shooting silent films with captions; but that appeal is lost on those of us who exist in the present day.
A small breeze carries through her dark curls, as she continues on.
Charmaine the God: First of all, I expected a man of his credentials to exhibit more decorum, and manage a social media post that isn’t mucked with typos -- especially when spell check exists in the free world. But I guess I should be impressed with the fact that this dinosaur even knows what technology is, much less knows how it functions. Kudos to you. But that is all the slack I’ll give you, gramps, as I found your latest attempts at ‘mind games’ to be both desperate and obvious. One thing I could say about Noris Cranley, he knew what buttons to push, he may not have succeeded in pushing them well, but he managed to do a far better job than you’re doing at the moment. I don’t know where to start with you, your lack of respect for yourself, me, and this company by recycling old material or the immorality in speaking on the deceased? You, like your mustache, really are just a shit-streak on the very fabric of humanity -- a major disappointment to those who practice law -- a living example of why safe sex should ALWAYS be practiced else you run the risks of giving birth to a walking STD -- your Mother’s biggest regret who I’m sure for every birthday just before blowing out her candles, she wished she would’ve just given your Dad head instead -- you think you’re hot shit because you’ve walked similar halls and laced those same boots more times than your tiny little mind can remember, must be that Alzheimer's flaring up again, but I doubt you could make it from the locker room to the ring without me pointing the way -- how the hell did you even get here, it certainly wasn’t on skill as the prime of your career has come and gone like a passing breeze -- since when were canes and walkers allowed down the ramp -- somebody better call AARP because they’re about to be short a member if this old-ass senile inbred continues to entertain the idea of stepping into the ring with God. Fuck, testing me, at this rate you couldn’t even pop-quiz me. You’re eons out of your league, pops, and have no clue of the astounding measure of pain and torment that awaits you when you hobble down to that ring, just do yourself a favor, and try not to pull a quad or throw out your back on the way; that'll take away all the fun in me doing it myself. Here, at this fair, this is where all the fun and games cease; you step into that ring with me tonight and you’re bound to suffer a heart attack; take what I say as your surgeon general:learn it hear it, live it heed it, love it abide by it.
Fin.
Charmaine wasn’t delusional...prideful, maybe...egotistical, meh, debatable...but NOT delusional. She knew the risks. The hefty sum she’d forward to her insurance company served as the perfect, yet painful, reminder. However, what she didn’t anticipate was a loss on the night of her debut. To hell with her fresh battle scars and slightly wounded pride, in time, they would heal. They weren’t the source of her pain. The hopes of an entire community of good uninspired people who were told they were unworthy of realizing excellence on the level of their white counterparts or experience a life outside of poverty and struggle, the fate of her hard-working Mother, and the legacy of her deceased brother; were all hers to carry into prominence and she felt as if she’d let them all down. Now that hurt, like a son of a bitch.
The ‘click-clack’ of men’s loafers echoing along the depths of the corridor, brings the scene to life; coming into focus we see the dapper Troy Butler - clean-cut and hair well kept, with not so much as a single strand out of place, he manages a navy plaid blazer, dark undershirt, plaid bow tie, and black dress pants with a mic encased within the make of his fist. He nails three knocks into the surface of the door marked “Women’s Locker Room” prior to receiving the muffled clearance to enter from an inhabitant on the other side. Latching onto the metal knob, he gives it a firm twist and steps into the gaping passageway the door provides him, crossing the threshold of the APW’s most underrated athletes, he approaches a five panel room-divider that highlights the curvy silhouette of a woman. In a state of slight alarm, he adjusts his collar and clears his throat; a practice he uses not to remove any hurdles from his airway, but to again alert the changing stranger of his presence. One could never be too careful to offend in the era of the #MeTooMovement. Was that sexism or cautious of him, he wasn’t sure. A debate that would take place later when he was alone.
Troy Butler: Pardon me, Miss, would you happen to know of Charmaine the God’s whereabouts?
Charmaine the God: Who wants to know?
She spoke, continuing to dress, stepping into a pair of jeans, slipping them pass her roaring calves and thighs, and fastening at her waistline.
Troy Butler: Troy Butler. APW Correspondent.
He spoke confidently, despite his nervousness. To his surprise, the woman of the hour would step out behind the panel in a black lace bra and faded blue jeans with a slight tear at the knee, drying her raven locks with a cotton white towel.
Charmaine the God: Well, congratulations, you’ve found her. But she hates to inform you that she will NOT be taking any interviews tonight.
Troy Butler: Are you certain that’s what you want? No words for Noris Cranley?
Charmaine the God: Nope. I said what I had to say...but off the record, who in the scolding-hot-hell does he think he is?? Never has ‘She’ been so insulted, so infuriated -- so misunderstood. How dare he eyeball that camera and spew bold-face lies to the public at large about someone he hasn’t even taken the chance to try and understand? Granted, he and I were scheduled for an exhibition match, not a date. But I suspected some research to be conducted when squaring up with an individual who is the manifestation of a question mark to you! He took one gander at me, and thought he had me all figured out. He saw the bedazzled jacket, the fancy ponytail, noted the dip of over-confidence in my every stride, and assumed that I was some spoiled rich bitch who hasn’t so much as had a bad day in her life -- but he’s wrong. I’ve been resorted to the most dehumanizing living conditions that one could endure, and thought the shit was normal. Can you imagine? Thinking that having lights - only some of the time - was ‘normal’, using the oven for heat in the winter, and boiling bath water on the stove because your hot water heater worked on occasion...I could go on, but I think I’ve proven my point, never judge a book by it’s cover; and as I’ve made clear via Twitter never assume you know my story after the first-fucking-page. And no, I’m not fishing for an apology or sympathy...just a little respect. As the only black female competitor here, in a white male dominated industry, I think I’m owed THAT much.
R-E-S-P-E-C-T. The powerful and iconic voice of Aretha Franklin belted out in the minds of those spectating. Charmaine the God wasn’t a typical female competitor of the new millennium who led with her looks and body, using her physical attractiveness as a crutch to limp her way to the top of the heap; she was someone who didn’t mind getting her hands dirty, or breaking a nail or two, if it meant proving she was worthy -- gaining the respect she felt she deserved. Something she felt void of when encountering the proven ‘Unstoppable’ Noris Cranley. Later that week, it seemed that Cranley would agree with her sentiments in a congratulatory post, which she was quick to reject. Was she a sore loser? Had lines been crossed? Or was it just the Brooklyn girl in her that suspected and trusted no one, even those of seemingly good intentions like he? No one knew but her. Though she was still bitter about the results of her debut match, it did come with a shocking consolation prize. APW Wrestler of the Week. “She came on the scene like a hurricane; already an icon of feminine power and certain only to rise to prominence.” Those were the words that greeted her on the flashing screen of her phone by her bedside when she awoke the morning after. The APW Universe clearly saw in her, what her initial opponent couldn’t. Her in-ring persona wasn’t all steak and no sizzle, in truth, it was a middle finger to society and the outdated mindset that suggests only men could be synonymous with ‘The Best’, ‘The Greatest of All Time’, or ‘God’. As far as she was concerned, the future was female.
***
PRESENT DAY - "One, please", sounded the sun-kissed siren. It was another warm day spent in the upper eighties here in Flagstaff, Arizona; perfect weather for a fair, many locals must’ve thought, judging by the turnout. Charmaine was there too, sporting a jungle cat face paint, multi-colored print sundress, gold necklace with her birthstone in the pendant, brown open-toed sandals, bangles at the end of her wrists, and gold hoop earrings dangling from her ears; putting in her request for a sugary spun snack at the cotton candy station. Places like this had a way of bringing out her inner child, and she needed a brief intermission from her own thoughts. Needless to say, this countywide fair provided the perfect distraction. The man operating the booth handed her the stick of intermingling pink and blue cotton candy in exchange for the two wrinkled bucks she slipped into his palm. She thanked him and went on her way, strolling through the fairgrounds at a leisurely pace, taking in the sights prior to panning her chocolate gaze to the present camera.Charmaine the God: Y’know, despite the reputation I’ve acquired for being a hard-ass, I’ve always had a soft spot for places like this...and how can you not? The flashing lights, bright colors, sweet treats, and an array of games and exciting rides. My family didn’t have much when we were coming up, but my Mom always managed to set a little aside so that my brother and me could enjoy stuff like this.
While picking her first pinch of cotton candy, placing it into her mouth for that satisfyingly sweet dissolvement, her sights come across a large carousel; lined with pulsing lights and a high-pitched tune, rotating at a slow three hundred sixty degree turn.
Charmaine the God: Not so shockingly, they’ve even got the merry-go-round here. Hands down, the ride I loathed the most as a child. Outside its eye-catching exterior and model animals, it’s really just the same slow existence that rotates to the same annoying tune, over and over again. A lot like those in my old neighborhood...because they weren’t afforded certain opportunities over the years, whether due to their color or environment, they’ve been on that same carousel for years. Some even opt for the comfort of the life they’ve come to know over the unfamiliarity of the world beyond them -- allowing the fear of failure to dictate their lives; I, too, shared in their ignorance at a young age, but once I broke the spell of naive and adolescence I realized the absurdity in a life unlived or experienced. Unfortunately, like most things in life, it took something so drastic for the lightbulb to go off. That didn’t have to be my destiny...that didn’t have to be my life; I could get up and go out and do something that they would’ve only thought possible in children’s stories! At the risk of sounding like the theme to a silly anime cartoon, I could become the very best like no one ever was. Thus, the feminine greatness that is Charmaine the God was born.
…
I expected some resistance from my male counterparts, as I know how intimidating it can be for little boys masquerading as grown men in their daddies’ clothes, to have a woman come in and completely upstage every single one of you in her debut; dicks were bound to get soft, but if you ain’t up for the challenge or capable of performing perhaps you shouldn’t be here? The APW chose me because they saw something special in me. They understood that I push the same agenda, to stay ahead of the times and be as gender neutral as possible. I, myself, have always been an equal opportunity ass kicker; but to get the chance to do it professionally to a wide audience is just icing on the cake. Which leads me to my next opponent who I will proceed to read like a scripture, Luke Force, a business mogul and law school graduate with too much time on his hands who spends his evenings alone with his delusions of grandeur; insisting that even at his advanced years, he is still Irresistible. I can see it...maybe a century or so ago, he has that old school porn-star appeal, back when they were shooting silent films with captions; but that appeal is lost on those of us who exist in the present day.
A small breeze carries through her dark curls, as she continues on.
Charmaine the God: First of all, I expected a man of his credentials to exhibit more decorum, and manage a social media post that isn’t mucked with typos -- especially when spell check exists in the free world. But I guess I should be impressed with the fact that this dinosaur even knows what technology is, much less knows how it functions. Kudos to you. But that is all the slack I’ll give you, gramps, as I found your latest attempts at ‘mind games’ to be both desperate and obvious. One thing I could say about Noris Cranley, he knew what buttons to push, he may not have succeeded in pushing them well, but he managed to do a far better job than you’re doing at the moment. I don’t know where to start with you, your lack of respect for yourself, me, and this company by recycling old material or the immorality in speaking on the deceased? You, like your mustache, really are just a shit-streak on the very fabric of humanity -- a major disappointment to those who practice law -- a living example of why safe sex should ALWAYS be practiced else you run the risks of giving birth to a walking STD -- your Mother’s biggest regret who I’m sure for every birthday just before blowing out her candles, she wished she would’ve just given your Dad head instead -- you think you’re hot shit because you’ve walked similar halls and laced those same boots more times than your tiny little mind can remember, must be that Alzheimer's flaring up again, but I doubt you could make it from the locker room to the ring without me pointing the way -- how the hell did you even get here, it certainly wasn’t on skill as the prime of your career has come and gone like a passing breeze -- since when were canes and walkers allowed down the ramp -- somebody better call AARP because they’re about to be short a member if this old-ass senile inbred continues to entertain the idea of stepping into the ring with God. Fuck, testing me, at this rate you couldn’t even pop-quiz me. You’re eons out of your league, pops, and have no clue of the astounding measure of pain and torment that awaits you when you hobble down to that ring, just do yourself a favor, and try not to pull a quad or throw out your back on the way; that'll take away all the fun in me doing it myself. Here, at this fair, this is where all the fun and games cease; you step into that ring with me tonight and you’re bound to suffer a heart attack; take what I say as your surgeon general:
Fin.
