Post by mrhacksaw on Jan 29, 2022 19:23:10 GMT
“If you wanna be the king, you gotta kill the king. This shit’s medieval, baby.”
DING DING DING DING DING.
An abrasive alarm clock.
DING DING DING DING DING DING.
A healthy head of raven-colored hair pops up from the pillow like a toaster.
Her eyes were bloodshot. Drained. Completely exasperated.
She hadn’t been getting adequate sleep. She’d barely gotten any sleep since her former company forcefully shut down.
For a while, she was ‘feeling herself’. Her confidence was growing. She got comfortable. She felt like she had an identity again. Until she didn’t.
But she persisted. She endured her demanding routine. Pushups. Pullups. Sprinting on the treadmill. Destroying squats and deadlifts. Pounding the punching bag. Everyday. No questions asked.
Then she gracefully put on her always-finely-tailored 3-piece suit and got to the real work.
In her smooth black Porsche Boxster, she zoomed away.
The crisp, corporate building of Stoneworth Investors. There were many. This was Florida’s.
Ms. Deville waited patiently in the lobby. Nowadays, she was an astute professional. But…she did remember who she used to be.
“For a big part of my life, my story was written in blood. My own blood. The blood of others too.”
“People called me names. They said I was insane. They said I deserved to be locked away. Maybe I did.”
“Once upon a time, I was willing to kill. I was willing to do whatever it takes to get where I needed to go. Because that’s what the world did to me. It treated me like a means. It used me like a pawn. It uses us all like that. And when we fight back, when we finally say enough’s enough, it treats us like we’re fucking crazy.
“It sprays us with mace. It bombs our revolution. It makes us wonder if we’re really as oppressed as we say we are. But we are. We always have been.”
“Look, everybody knows I’m a fighter. The problem is, if you keep fighting, then that’s all you’ll ever be. A fighter. You’ll keep fighting and throwing your fists down, which tells them that they’re the ones in control. You’re the one playing defense. You’re the one with your back against the wall. You’ll fight forever, and you’ll never win.”
“But Sony Deville is a winner. She’s not just a fighter. She’s a motherfucking winner.”
“Daria, you can come in.”
The composed Deville stands from her seat, greeting the stocky old man in a suit. Need he further description?
The two individuals sit down in his lavish, albeit contemporary and ‘plain’ styled office. It was devoid of life. Just like this entire building.
OLD DIPSHIT: It’s a pleasure to meet with you, Ms. Berenato.
DEVILLE: It’s good to meet you.
OLD DIPSHIT: My assistants say you’ve expressed interest in our professional wrestling purchases. I understand you were a former employee of one of the companies.
A beat. Her stare is laser-focused and stern, as it almost invariably is.
OLD DIPSHIT: Are they right to say that you would like to be considered a candidate to run the day to day operations of our new company?
Without hesitation.
DEVILLE: That’s right.
OLD DIPSHIT: That’s very brazen.
DEVILLE: I am brazen.
OLD DIPSHIT: Well, we wouldn’t have had you in if we weren’t interested. You are very experienced. My main concern is, how ‘valid’ was the position?
DEVILLE: What do you mean?
OLD DIPSHIT: Well, you were in a certain role on television. Did it expand beyond that?
DEVILLE: It sure did.
OLD DIPSHIT: I’m sorry for needing to ask.
DEVILLE: It’s reasonable.
OLD DIPSHIT: What makes you believe you’re qualified for this new position?
DEVILLE: I don’t believe I am. I am.
OLD DIPSHIT: Okay…
DEVILLE: All due respect, the world doesn’t need another old privileged man running the show.
OLD DIPSHIT: I see.
DEVILLE: Wrestling needs a different perspective. I mean, the main reason the buyout was even able to happen? We know why. It was because of Vince McMahon. An old, privileged man who overstayed himself.
OLD DIPSHIT: Alternatively, it could be said he was greedy.
DEVILLE: He was, but.
OLD DIPSHIT: Ms. Berenato, you understand that we have a field of immensely experienced candidates, with not only many more years of experience doing this kind of work, but many more accolades as well.
DEVILLE: I get that.
OLD DIPSHIT: Then you understand it will be difficult to choose you.
DEVILLE: It always is.
OLD DIPSHIT: Well, young lady, I wouldn’t get too discouraged. We would be happy to have you in some other capacity. You are otherwise extremely impressive.
DEVILLE: Young lady, huh? Motherfucker, do you realize who I’ve been?
OLD DIPSHIT: Excuse me?
It has to be the lack of sleep. She hasn’t flipped like that in a while. She’s been forcing herself, even if painfully, immeasurably painfully, to be cordial and polite.
DEVILLE: You realize what I’ve done? What I’ve had to do? Just to get to the next day?
OLD DIPSHIT: I don’t–
DEVILLE: You don’t care? I wouldn’t expect you to. But what do you think this is, huh? You think this is little league? You think I’m another dumb brainless bitch you can manipulate into sucking your cock for a barely minimum wage salary? Who do you think you’re dealing with?
OLD DIPSHIT: Do I need to call security?
DEVILLE: Hah.
Deville adjusts her tie, perhaps re-gaining some composure.
DEVILLE: You don’t need to call anyone. Only 911. Because I’ll still run your company. I’ll run it into the fucking ground.
OLD DIPSHIT: This is ridiculous! Get out of my office now!
’The Pridefighter’ stands, smug. Proud of her words. Proud of her words for the first time in a long time of corporate asskissing and gladhandling.
“So uh. Old habits die hard. Or some shit.”
Sony lays back on her silver bedsheets, her black leather bedframe behind her. Contemplating while marveling at the figurative stars.
Life’s about balance. For a while, I swung too hard one way. Then I swung too hard another way. I need to be more calculated. More precise. I still need to be a thinker. But I can’t always be thinking. Sometimes I’ll have to throw down. Let’s be real. It’s what I do best.
A pale arm extends onto Sonya’s chest from the adjacent side of the bed.
If you want to be in control, then one way is to run shit. Work within the existing order. The existing framework. Then, slowly, fashion that framework into something better.
Or you can just level that shit and build your own.
Sonya delicately removes the arm and places it into its corresponding body, which happens to have orangey-red hair. For one thing, Sonya wasn’t very comfortable with cuddles. That wasn’t what was going on there. Not on her watch.
‘The Pridefighter’ stands from her bed and exits the room in her solid black-tshirt and pajama pants. In the kitchen, she finds her longtime best friend, Mandy Rose, sipping a coffee.
MANDY ROSE: What’s this thing about ‘American Top Team’?
Mandy scans over something on Sonya’s open laptop.
DEVILLE: Haha. You’ll see.
Vroom vroom. Beside a hotpink Porsche Taycan in the nearby spot, she zooms her way off.
The Porsche Boxster finds its way to the American Top Team gym.
She strutted in like she owned the place. Always in her 3-piece suit. Everyone else in there? Barely in clothes at all.
Deville approached the reception desk.
DEVILLE: I need to see Dan Lambert.
The receptionist glances up at her, confused. He seems to recognize her, judging by his engaged, albeit baffled look.
RECEPTIONIST: Uh, Dan will be in soon. Is he expecting you?
DEVILLE: Yeah. No. I need to start right fucking now.
RECEPTIONIST: Uhm.
The door not far behind them creaks open, revealing the contrastingly (always) casual Dan Lambert.
DAN LAMBERT: Oh great. Who the fuck is this? Another detective? I’M NOT ABUSING ANYONE HERE. THAT KID WAS A FUCKING PUSSY.
Deville turns around, revealing herself. Dan appears to recognize her, nodding.
DAN LAMBERT: About fucking time.
Fade.
