Bronwen O'Connor
"Domestic Chaos"

“So Ms. O’Connor, when is the big day?” One reporter asks as Bronwen steps outside F1X into the glaring sun. She scowls and puts her sunglasses on.

“Will you and Shane Clemmens be having a private island getaway?” Another reporter asks, jamming his mic in Bronwen’s face. More queue around her, pawing and shouting, waving microphones and t.v. cameras.

“What’s it like to be marrying the Universal champ?” Someone shouts.

Bronwen gasps and screams, hands to her cheeks in horror. All the press people stop and stare, stunned by the exclamation.

“What the fuck is THAT?!” She yells, pointing into the sky behind them. Simultaneously, the crowd of people turn and look expectantly. A beer blimp is circling the football stadium nearby, humming inaudibly as dirigibles do as it navigates excruciatingly slow circles in the clear blue sky. After a moment of being mesmerized by the insanely slow process, the reporters turn back.

“Wh--? Where did she go?” a reporter stammers.

Pulling up to the house, she just wants to crawl into bed and hide under the covers, but she showers first and thinks meditatively as the water runs over her tattoos and battle scars in the naturally lit shower. She rests her head on the cool tiles and wonders if she’s made the right decision. Certainly standing in front of hundreds of Shane’s psychotic fans hadn’t been disconcerting and affecting her decision at all. Certainly watching the stupid grin on his face as he realized he’d won the title hadn’t affected her either. 

“Fucking devil bastard,” she murmurs.

 She couldn’t help but worry a little bit about what was down the road. What exactly did a wife do? Would she have to change somehow? Was there a manual or a teleprompter? 

“This is so fucked up…”

And yet, she realizes as she steps out of the shower into a black towel that smells like old spice, that she hasn’t stopped smiling yet. 

Marriage to Shane was certainly not near typical standards. She knew she wouldn’t change, fuck, neither would he. That’s why he wanted her.

“To the best goddamn tag-team ever,” he’d whispered one night.

As she throws on a fresh black tee-shirt and jeans and shakes her hair into a damp mane behind her, she hears the rumbling of several cars pulling up in front of the house. Damn, the press, back for more blood a la Dodi Al Fayed. She sneaks into the kitchen and pokes one eye around the corner to look out the picture window.

“What the fuck…” she moans.

Worse than the fucking paparazzi. She slouches back against the counter and groans to the ceiling, and looks around frantically for an exit.

There’s a light rhythmical knocking on the door. A second knock, more pert and perky than the first chimes in.

“Hey there girlfriend,” she hears from behind the front door, “we’re here to help you plan the greatest wedding of paper view history…..” 

“We have wedding favor samples and dress swatches,” a slightly masculine voice chimes in. 

Danielle Jacobsen, Megan , Allisa, Lucia  and Nigella Helms-King have all parked their super bubble shaped convertibles up the street.

“I brought a stripper for you to sample for the bachelorette,” Nigella yells raucously.

Bronwen shudders, and bolts for the back door. She hadn’t considered this bullshit. She had to do this shit to get married? Since fucking when?

“Uh oh pretties, she’s making a run for it,” Daniel announces, peeking around the doorframe into the picture window as Bronwen throws open the backdoor and slams it shut behind her.

“Well, I guess you know what this means,” Nigella says coolly, pulling an AK-47 out of her purse, upsetting the little dog it was riding next to.  

Daniel nods, and pulls the shotgun out of the wedding dress bag draped over his arm.

“Shotgun wedding?”

Lucia has already run out to the back yard and nearly corners Bronwen in the driveway. The two women circle the Challenger,  as it sits gleaming in the sun dappling the hood with the neighboring trees swaying.

“Where do you think you’re going pretty girl?” Lucia coos. “Did you think you could get away from us so easily?”

“Listen,” Bronwen snaps, “I know this is hard for you to get through your stupid skull, but I’m not like other girls.”

“Well, that’s the understatement of the year,” Lucia scoffs. “You’re a hard core brawler, and you drink fuckin’….what’s it called? Stout? Gross.”

“So what are you doing at my house then,” Bronwen replies calmly.

“We’re here to help you get married to Shane, silly!” She laughs daftly.

“ I think you’re trying to corner a marketing investment, meself,” Bronwen replies lowly.

“Hey baby, big weddings equal big bucks. That’s what people wanna see,” Nigella says menacingly. “So tell me, goddamnit, LACE or TULLE?”

“I can’t say I fancy either,” Bronwen returns with a growl, grabbing a garbage can lid and throwing it across the hood of the car. It smacks across Lucia’s face and she gawps in disbelief.

“You will marry Shane in a proper ladylike manner,” Lucia screams, throwing the lid aside. “With thousands of people watching, and millions of dollars made in revenue, so help you God. Even if I have to drag you down that fucking aisle myself!”  

Bronwen slams both of her palms on the hood of the car and vaults over it, cranking Lucia in the face. Lucia staggers and looks like she’s about to cry.

“My mom is going to kill me dude, you don’t understand…”

“Fuck off and die in a fire! Get the hell out of my way or I will mow you down like the white trash you are. Let that be a goddamn lesson to ye, interferin’ in other people’s business ye fuckin’ twat.”

“Mrs. Dog”, I like that… that’s really the only thing I got out of listening to that piece of shit war cry of yours.  

As for you though…it’s hard to step on a fresh shit lying on the sidewalk and say, “yeah, I like that.” Yeah Rayn, with all this bitching and complaining about how you deserve “respect” because you dole it out to everyone…I not only lose any respect I might have had for you (yeah, so it was an incrementally small amount, but it was there), but have a hard time scraping your disgusting ass off the bottom of my goddamn boot. You want and feel entitled to all this “respect” and notoriety for some reason, and you breach new lows to get it. I’m not talking the devious, conniving, somewhat excusable kind of low blow either, nor your pathetic lingering in a long forgotten past fed. It makes me think of a 40 year old dude with a beer gut who is like, “yeah dude, I was so skinny back in high school….fuck, that was awesome.”

--And? Is your paltry multiple personality disorder akin to a mid-life crisis? An existential conundrum? My goodness, I’m so sorry, I had no idea…

Let me help you out, one somewhat successful wrestler to a downtrodden sack of shit wrestler, all plain and simple so you can understand: Do you honestly think, that by crying in your room in the dark about how much you suck, and then following that with even further weakness of mind to the extent of a “having” a very weak ego dissociative personality disorder, is going to help you win? At what point in your mind did you think, “maybe, if I show how much of a pitiful piece of shit I actually am because I’m a fucking sore loser” would help you…win? Was it when you were glorifying your cars like they were the only interesting aspects of your personality?

Furthermore, your whole, ‘AND NOW I MUST REBEL AS I NOW HATE EVERYONE’ shtick…So lame. Holy crap you sad pathetic motherfucker. Good luck with that trite piece of nonsense. Oh, I mean, “dude….so original, oh my god…you king of kings...fuck me now. Oh baby. Oh baby.”

 By the way, I’m sorry about all the swears and obvious “immaturity” this rant must entail to you. I’m sorry that you’re so mistaken about the idea of regression = success. Want to hear something shocking? You were already there….that’s why you suck. Take a look around you. Obviously something’s not working if you’re the only one standing in your own feces here, so stop cutting yourself in the dark and singing Marilyn Manson in the shower fuckface. Oh, and please, please, don’t call my Mom and tell her I was using  curse words, you big nasty man! 

Logic says, that if you lose, you lose because you are inadequate somehow. Man up and take the beating, and instead of trying to be a whining attention whore, man up and take the fucking blame.

This said, you’re still fucked, either way. See ya.