Bronwen O’Connor
“Hot Garbage”

Bronwen was drinking in some dingy karaoke bar in downtown Tokyo when she got the call.  She had gotten a call a few days prior for a cherry job out of the blue blasting an old industrial skyscraper on the waterfront. It’d been a hell of an opportunity to escape the stifling environment that only grew in thickness as the days had passed from the engagement.  When she’d gotten a call from a really old business partner, she’d leapt at the chance and taken the excruciatingly long flight out, only after booking the trip for four days longer than it really needed to be.

 “Hold on a sec, I can’t hear ye in here,” she’d shouted over the squawks of the local flavor singing “American Pie” in the background.

Out in the brightly lit street, she almost dropped the phone in shock when she realized who it was.

“Annika?”

“Hi. Yes, it’s me,” she’d said abruptly. “Where are you right now?”

“Er…I’m in Tokyo, actually.”

“Oh, Tokyo…what for?”

“Business,” Bronwen replied, still startled.

“I see,” she replied hesitantly.

“So…do ye want to knock off this awkwardness and tell me what it ‘tis then that ye want?”

“I want you to come to London,” she said abruptly.

“Listen, my job is supposed to go for another four days,” Bronwen fibbed.

“You’re the only one I thought I could ask,” Annika replied tersely.

What the hell?

She’d watched the faded awnings of the glass tower crumble into a pile of dust and glass that morning, seen the cloud of dust swirl and dissipate over the busy Tokyo downtown, smoking a cigarette from the detonation point as the sun slowly rose to the midway point in the sky. 75 stories. It’d been a hell of a blast to organize, the Tokyo metropolis being one of tightly jammed businesses, economizing in the sky as they ran out of space on the ground. Yet, it had gone off perfectly, tumbling and shattering in one sheer column of blue glass and steel girders.  She’d walked off with a cool 2 million for the job, and hadn’t even broken a sweat. The property now cleared for a new building, offered a view of Fuji, and was much more valuable with the building gone.

“Is it important?” Bronwen asked, after a long pause.

“Yes.”

 

“You realize that’s one motherfucker of a flight, right?”

“Can you please just shut up? You know I don’t like hearing you talk.”

“Right, I’ll see you in twenty or so million hours or something, ye fucking cow.”

Annika didn’t pick her up at the airport, just left a cryptic message on her voicemail with an address. It was about noon, a day and half later when Bronwen stood, yawning and flighted out on Annika’s downtown London flat’s doorstep.

Annika opened the door and beheld the girl with the messy black hair and sleepy eyes.

“This better be good,” Bronwen yawned, as she was gestured inside. Annika showed her the spare bedroom noiselessly, and Bronwen immediately fell into a deep sleep on the white duvet covered bed.

Several hours later, she awoke to a knock on the door. Bronwen padded out of bed and opened the door to pick up the mug of steaming tea that was nestled next to the frame and stole back into her room, slipping back under the duvet to ponder and sip her tea in peace.

An hour or so later, they convened in the modest nook that was a kitchen as Bronwen, freshly showered, slipped into a chair at the table as Annika perused the paper over a half of grapefruit.

“How was the flight,” she asked.

“Long,” Bronwen answered.

They ate breakfast together in amicable silence, Annika wordlessly passing over chunks of the London Telegraph as she finished reading them.

After a while, Annika sighed and put the paper aside.

“Do you want to go for a walk?”

“Yeah, sure,” Bronwen shrugged.

They walked through the London downtown for several hours, mostly in silence, only interrupted by Bronwen’s occasional remarks on their surroundings, as they passed Buckingham Palace, and wandered through High street Kensington, watching the traffic on the sidewalks as shoppers swooped in and out of shops, shouldering profuse numbers of bags and gabbing on cellphones all while traffic whizzed by. They ended up at the twin pools in Hyde Park by the mid-afternoon, overlooking the slow bend of the river, an acid rain scarred statue of a woman holding the eternal burden of a fountain in the foreground.  The sky had turned grey by this point of the day, and Bronwen sat on the edge of one of the pools as a lone swan drifted by behind her. She beckoned for Annika to sit next to her, and the two sat, gazing out at the mist on the river for a while before Bronwen pulled a flask out of her black pea coat.

“Here, have some of this,” she gestured.

“I do not drink,” Annika said dourly.

“Throw it out the window for today,” Bronwen said gently, offering up the sterling silver flask again. Annika sighed, and took a swig. Bronwen watched as a small rose tint rose to Annika’s pale cheeks. She looked haggard, Bronwen had realized as soon as she’d seen her open the door. She still projected calm and cool, but her appearance had been peaked, her eyes more withdrawn than usual.

 Bronwen took a pull from the flask and continued to watch Annika out of the corner of her eye. Annika stared intently at her feet, both her arms rigid as her hands pressed down into the marble that they were seated upon.

“What’s got your goat now then woman?” Bronwen asked quietly.

“You know what it is,” Annika snorted.

“Ohh…you’re upset that I’m going to marry Shane, is that it?” Bronwen laughed. Annika scowled,

“You flatter yourself. Do not assume that is what it is.”

“I’m kidding, ye harpy, chill out.”

She’d guessed what Annika was upset about, right in the moment that it had occurred. There was no point in dwelling on that incident in the PPV, but she knew it had been a huge spear in Annika’s side to have been caught off guard. The very men she’d thought she was on equal ground with, had turned on her out of their own selfishness and greed. It made Bronwen squeamish to think that she’d stood idly by, blinded by the glory of the title, blinded by Shane. Her stomach flipped at the thought of him. He had been a knowing party, despite his lack of direct involvement.

“I do not understand how they can claim to be who they are, and still feel insecure enough to show me such false integrity,” Annika said bitterly. “It makes me ashamed to be part of such an organization that is showing signs of such corruption so early on in its livelihood.”

Bronwen offered her the flask again, and Annika took a longer pull the second time. They were silent again, and Bronwen pondered the situation.

It’s true that there did seem to be a boy’s club going on in F1X, but being no stranger to the game, she also knew it was an inevitability that all the wrestlers quickly were tiered upon joining, whether they knew it or not. A combination of skill, and likeability affected the success of the wrestler upon joining the league. Marginality, such as what Annika offered in her unique fighting style and personality, was not viewed as the strangely impressive exotic for long. Bronwen personally had lots of respect for the girl, she was tenacious and strong hearted. Heavily guarded and vicious when called for, something that Bron could identify with.

“I think I’m fairly done with F1X,” Annika said, looking away from Bronwen as she said it.

 

Bronwen jumps to her feet, takes a long pull from the flask and paces in front of Annika for a moment before speaking.

“Done, like for real?”

“Done as in permanently, yes. I don’t need this constant aggravation. That was not why I joined.”

Bronwen passes her the flask again and watches her take a sip.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. I know you harbor a certain amount of distain for Mr. Walsh especially as of late,” Bronwen started. “I know you’re really comfortable as well going it alone in the fed.”

“I was,” Annika snorted, taking another sip of the whiskey. “Not anymore though. Those idiots can sit on their thumbs and continue to masturbate each other into eternity now, for all I care.”

Bronwen takes a deep breath as she looks at Annika’s face flustered with contempt and fury.

“So uh, I know Shane asked ye already, but he’s an idiot an never does this shit proper, but, here goes… Annika, I’d really like it if you joined No Cash Value. “

Annika glared up at her, and Bronwen looked away, biting her lip. There was just no good way of putting this shit, she supposed. Might as well be honest.

“I know it sounds like a load of shit. I know ye like being on yer own. I can tell ye though, that I was pretty reticent about the whole thing at first as well, but being a part of this doesn’t mean losing a part of yourself, of who you are in the ring. It just means ye have some back up—something I think you’re sorely in need of at the moment, “ Bronwen pressed.

“I will not lose a part of myself?” Annika laughed, “what, like you are losing with your grandiose marriage to Shane? How do you think that is going to play out for you anyways?”

Bronwen felt her temper bubbling up to the surface.

“Listen ye stupid wench,” she hissed. “That’s none of yer fucking business. I’m trying to make you an offer here that I don’t think ye should refuse, and you’re being an elitist prig. Do ye even fucking know what No Cash Value is? It’s a chance to be a legend. How do ye think I made it to being as big as I am from being a small flash in the pan when I started? I know ye had it big at one point, but don’t be confused into thinking that’ll come easy the second time around.”

Annika stood up and the two circled each other slowly for a minute, staring at each other.

“What is it that is compelling you to ask me this?” Annika asked bluntly.

Bronwen sighed, “if we don’t ask you, that stupid racist quadrant of Walshes will ask you. Or, they’ll grind you into a paste in F1X.”

“You are dodging my question Ms. O’Connor,” Annika replied coolly.

Bronwen mumbles something intelligible and takes a long draw off the flask.

“What? I could not hear what you said,” Annika asked, a small smile playing at the edge of her mouth.

“Fuck you,” Bronwen spat, “you know as well as I do that you want to be friends with me.”

“I hardly think so,” Annika sniffed. Bronwen reaches out and pushes Annika with two hands solidly, causing Annika to back off and loosen her arms out, waiting for the next blow.

“We’re so much alike,” Bronwen murmured, “but ye fight like a pussy. Ye should get into hardcore and put all that hidden angst into good use.”

“Who said I have said yes yet?” Annika responded, reaching out and snatching the flask away from Bronwen.

 “Just think about it, all right?”

 

It was a day later, and the two girls were strolling through the National Gallery, perched on the edge of Trafalgar square. It had been four long hours already, but Bronwen was as enthralled by all the art as Annika was, the difference being that while Bronwen had no knowledge per se about what she was looking at, Annika was a veritable fountain of historical facts.

After another hour or so, Bronwen stopped and looked at Annika incredulously for a moment.

“I think you’re making this shit up, ye know?”

“What? I would never make anything up about such great people,” Annika stammered.

“We just passed this painting two hours ago, and you told me something completely different,” Bronwen laughed, pointing at the oil of a Venetian river boat scene by Dalganes.

“I…did I?” Annika asked.

“Yeah. Remember the Degas is just a few canvases down,” Bronwen reminded her.

“I need to go…” Annika trailed off, looking around for a rest room.

“Pretentious fibbing ploys, no less,” Bronwen scowled sarcastically, pointing off to the east wing of Renaissance.

“Plumbing, is that way. Literally, and historically,” she winked. Annika glared at her in surprise and strode off.

 Bronwen meandered into the post-modern wing and wandered slowly past a few canvases before pausing in front of a Rothko. It was a primarily black canvas with roughly a third painted in a crimson, part of a commissioned series for a restaurant. The funny part was that the restaurant had paid a fortune for the series, and not come anywhere close to understanding that which they shelled out millions for.

As much as she didn’t have an eye for art, Rothko had always sort of stood out to her, because it was deceptively complicated in a way she equated to the fragile work of assembling charges and building detonators. Every movement had to be just so, and minimal. Every detail had a reason, with no decided alternative, just an absolute gesture of good faith and expertise.

She stood in front of the painting for quite a while, lost in her thoughts as people schooled around her, behind her and past her. Bronwen thought about Shane, and realized that as much as she’d felt the need to escape from F1X, that she missed him horribly and wished that she’d brought him. As her mind flowed over the details of his face the last time she’d seen him, she was jolted abruptly out of the reverie with the distinct feeling pressing against her back that someone was staring at her. Without turning, she stepped to the side slightly. The stare continued, and she slowly continued onto the next painting on the wall. A macabre clown painted to emphasize an ugly reality of humour, that it doesn’t pay to be the last one laughing. The eyes still bored into her, and she was mildly disconcerted. At that moment, Annika drifted next to her noiselessly.

                “Clown paintings are so clichéd,” she mentioned. “Come to think about it, so is post-modernism. Can we go look at pastorals please?”

Bronwen groaned, “if by cliché, you mean possessing of some imagination, I guess.”

“You hated that clown, do not pretend that you enjoyed that.”

“Ughhh….” Bronwen sighed, turning to follow her out of the room.

In the pastoral section,  Bron was free to return to her daydreams about Shane, but couldn’t shake the feeling that her companion and herself were still being followed.

“Annie,” Bronwen murmured, “is there someone watching us?”

Annika’s attention was fixed on the specific greens and texture of a Canadian painter’s poor idolatry of early Romantic period pastoral technique, and she looked up vacantly at Bron.

“I do not think so….It is an art gallery after all. One should not assume one is the centre of attention, rather, you should wonder what it is you are blocking the view of instead.”

 

Brains and Bron
“Lucas Knight”

Too often, people do seem to think they’re much more significant in the grand scheme of things than they actually prove to be. Such seems to be the case of one overinflated ego in particular that I seem to have been matched up with in this round of Aftershock. Lucky to be so unlucky Lucas Knight. That’s sure some hot garbage you’ve promised to serve up to the masses, I have to say.  I’ve never personally had the experience of putting up with your foul emitus, but I can say that the pleasure certainly isn’t mine, and hopefully won’t be again. Too often I’ve come across opponents like you, claiming to be the next coming of Christ in the ring or some shit. Narcissism really does you no favors, in the ring or out of it, and certainly will earn you none by me.

You may prove to be redeeming in the ring, but I am somewhat unconvinced at this point. From what I’ve seen, you’re all clichéd talk and all fumbling action rock star poseur. That’s right, I think you’re an attention whore, the worst kind of whore, worst than the kind that bites you during the blowjob you paid $10 for. Oh sorry, you’re all hung up on your ex? You would never get a whore? Your life ISN’T like some never-ending Jerry Springer monologue?

Please, for the love of fuck, prove me wrong. Prove to me somehow that you’ve got what it takes to be here, that you’re not just another pansy-assed fluffer with a penchant for the trivialities and ignorance. I plead, yes, but only because every ounce of who you are, you bring to the ring. If at all possible, I’d like to at least have a fight with you that wouldn’t have the disgusting taint of what I’ve seen that your “essence” encompasses thus far.

Lets get realistic though. You really are that guy that everyone loves because you are the “dip the tip” wonder of life—you rock and roll your way through it and you’ve got nothing meaningful to show for it, other than some seriously emo issues of self-absorbedness and a bad habit of brooding over stupid shlock.

The shitty part about the Lucas Knight cocktail? Sugary, watered down, and a dime a dozen.

Next!