Post by distortedamber on Oct 7, 2022 7:37:18 GMT -5
Pages splattered with black and white squares and obscurely fonted clue columns flick by, a series of crossword pages half completed and left in disregard after patience long since abandoned hope of completion fall on a cheap, glass tabletop.
Scatters of cigarette ash pause to take in the proceedings, before a breeze sends them tumbling off the table edge and the mobile phone being recorded on seems to shake as the unintelligible murmurings of technological frustrations are captured for posterity.
As the camera flips, the cascade of trailing crimson dominates for a second until the familiar face of Amber Bane-Ryan turns her attention from a lead pencil idly twirled, to the camera. Late afternoon in Atlantic City glows against her freckles, the sunglasses perched on her head reflect a steely neon skyline as her lazy half-smile breaks open.
“You know, I used to hate these fucking things…”
Another twirl of the pencil between her fingers punctuates the disquiet, framed by the faint background of the street five storeys below.
“Aside from the fact they are designed by legitimate sociopaths… Just the idea of being memorialised in a shitty, obscurely worded ‘clue’ should be enough to make anyone reconsider their choice of occupation hazard. Can you imagine it?
12 across. Multi-time unalived redhead with world championship abandonment issues. 5 - 4 letters.
Between you and me, kiddies, I think I’d rather have a career obituary on the back of a Wal-Mart receipt.”
Amber shrugs politely.
“That's why we do it though, isn’t it? So that someone, somewhere eventually sees our names and remembers that we did something… that we stood for something… that we were someone worth remembering. Everyone here wants that legacy that shines for generations and most would sell their left testicle for a glimpse at what could be- granted most people in this industry already sold their right one just to get a foot in the door…”
A flicker in her smile creates an uneasy ripple in the air, as though even the atmosphere wants its voice heard.
“Not everyone gets to be that star though. Most of us got told from the get go that we’d be little more than cannon fodder for the ‘real stars’, and some probably still are. We got told that our last names and our talents weren’t enough, that this isn’t for everyone.
Some generational legacies start and end with a single punch cause apparently dynasties didn’t die with the phase out of ancestral incest, rich and infamous are ridiculed cause they act like glorified rockstars only with half the required ambition- meanwhile the rest of us just wanna prove the universe wrong.
We all want to be the best. You don’t get into the industry without believing that. You don’t walk through the door grateful for a spot on a card and a weak handshake missing monetary value.
We still do. We love this crazy shit… Maybe our reasons suck, but be damned if most of us aren’t at least passionate.
We’ve wanted this more than we ever wanted anything else- but not everyone can stay.
I’ve made my name by staying. Enduring. It's no secret that the breath in my lungs stings with the blood and sweat of those I’ve outlasted and I’m not proud to admit that my life depends on there being a versus next to my name.
What I leave behind is what I leave in the ring- I haven’t birthed 15 kids to carry my name as I wither into frailty, I haven’t built an empire on quicksand foundation or lined my pockets with more money than I could snort or fuck before the reaper calls it quits. I don’t spend my days peacocking and swinging clout like it's the overcompensated cock dangling flaccidly between my legs.
Night after fucking night I have gone out and turned the dirt that should have laid upon my grave into gold.
Fate is a cruel yet efficient tutor. I’ve taken what I loved and let it kill me time and time again, I’ve offered my life to this industry like it's a magician begging to cut me in half.
I never needed to be the best, just the last. A modern Valkyrie refusing to accept retirement, bloated and signing autographs for nostalgia and painkillers.
It’s never been my life. It's my death. It’s my beginning as much as it's become my end.”
Thoughtfully, Amber leans in with a middle-distance smile.
“Being a wrestler isn’t my everything… it’s my only thing.”
Scatters of cigarette ash pause to take in the proceedings, before a breeze sends them tumbling off the table edge and the mobile phone being recorded on seems to shake as the unintelligible murmurings of technological frustrations are captured for posterity.
As the camera flips, the cascade of trailing crimson dominates for a second until the familiar face of Amber Bane-Ryan turns her attention from a lead pencil idly twirled, to the camera. Late afternoon in Atlantic City glows against her freckles, the sunglasses perched on her head reflect a steely neon skyline as her lazy half-smile breaks open.
“You know, I used to hate these fucking things…”
Another twirl of the pencil between her fingers punctuates the disquiet, framed by the faint background of the street five storeys below.
“Aside from the fact they are designed by legitimate sociopaths… Just the idea of being memorialised in a shitty, obscurely worded ‘clue’ should be enough to make anyone reconsider their choice of occupation hazard. Can you imagine it?
12 across. Multi-time unalived redhead with world championship abandonment issues. 5 - 4 letters.
Between you and me, kiddies, I think I’d rather have a career obituary on the back of a Wal-Mart receipt.”
Amber shrugs politely.
“That's why we do it though, isn’t it? So that someone, somewhere eventually sees our names and remembers that we did something… that we stood for something… that we were someone worth remembering. Everyone here wants that legacy that shines for generations and most would sell their left testicle for a glimpse at what could be- granted most people in this industry already sold their right one just to get a foot in the door…”
A flicker in her smile creates an uneasy ripple in the air, as though even the atmosphere wants its voice heard.
“Not everyone gets to be that star though. Most of us got told from the get go that we’d be little more than cannon fodder for the ‘real stars’, and some probably still are. We got told that our last names and our talents weren’t enough, that this isn’t for everyone.
Some generational legacies start and end with a single punch cause apparently dynasties didn’t die with the phase out of ancestral incest, rich and infamous are ridiculed cause they act like glorified rockstars only with half the required ambition- meanwhile the rest of us just wanna prove the universe wrong.
We all want to be the best. You don’t get into the industry without believing that. You don’t walk through the door grateful for a spot on a card and a weak handshake missing monetary value.
We still do. We love this crazy shit… Maybe our reasons suck, but be damned if most of us aren’t at least passionate.
We’ve wanted this more than we ever wanted anything else- but not everyone can stay.
I’ve made my name by staying. Enduring. It's no secret that the breath in my lungs stings with the blood and sweat of those I’ve outlasted and I’m not proud to admit that my life depends on there being a versus next to my name.
What I leave behind is what I leave in the ring- I haven’t birthed 15 kids to carry my name as I wither into frailty, I haven’t built an empire on quicksand foundation or lined my pockets with more money than I could snort or fuck before the reaper calls it quits. I don’t spend my days peacocking and swinging clout like it's the overcompensated cock dangling flaccidly between my legs.
Night after fucking night I have gone out and turned the dirt that should have laid upon my grave into gold.
Fate is a cruel yet efficient tutor. I’ve taken what I loved and let it kill me time and time again, I’ve offered my life to this industry like it's a magician begging to cut me in half.
I never needed to be the best, just the last. A modern Valkyrie refusing to accept retirement, bloated and signing autographs for nostalgia and painkillers.
It’s never been my life. It's my death. It’s my beginning as much as it's become my end.”
Thoughtfully, Amber leans in with a middle-distance smile.
“Being a wrestler isn’t my everything… it’s my only thing.”