AR: ...Dios
DA: Indeed. Well, I had hoped we could conclude on a note of sanity, but my producers are telling me that the FTW champion Callista Quinn has in fact already left the building. Which, given what else seems to have transpired tonight, is arguably that note of sanity I was hoping for! Thanks again, Callista!
AR: And again I say, 'Dios."
The music plays as Debra and Aarón begin to bicker. The logo shows on the center of the screen: FTW AFTERSHOCK
Meanwhile, a few miles away...
I slid the keycard into the slat just above the door lever, heard the telltale sound of the lock releasing, and turned the lever, stepping inside my hotel room and turning the lights on. As the door closed behind me, I pulled the old black duffel bag Gemma gave me stick for using off of my shoulder and let it drop to the ground.
Yes, I was obviously aware that wheeled luggage was available. But as a wrestler, I needed to put hours of effort every day into keeping my body in the best possible condition. It was more efficient to combine this effort with the unavoidable mundane aspects of day-to-day existence whenever possible, rather than taking my ease during travel and needing to spend more time in the gym to compensate.
Alone in my room, I abandoned dignity and flopped forwards onto the queen-sized bed, grunting as I landed, exhaustion and the pain not wholly suppressed by the acetaminophen I'd popped both encouraging me to stay there for a week or so, but after a momentary wallow, I groaned and pushed myself back off of the bed, standing back up with difficulty. It was about two hours after my match ended, which meant it was time to carb-load.
The hotel room, while certainly no fleabag motor lodge, was not a posh suite either. I could have afforded such, (insofar as “posh” even existed in Greensboro,) but chose to save the money instead. The important things, those things that are really worth it to a travelling wrestler, could be found in these sorts of places, such as a basic “kitchenette”, as the hotel literature described it. It consisted solely of a mini-fridge and a microwave, but I took a box of cold Indian takeaway out of the one and put it in the other, setting the chicken and vegetable biryani to heat while I pulled the bottle of Fuller's Vintage Ale 2010 out as well.
The beer needed to warm up to a proper drinking temperature, so I held the bottle to my face, gingerly touching it to the bruise on my forehead I could feel growing up from where that first shot with the kendo stick struck me. I closed my eyes. That was harder than I'd anticipated, and I hadn't anticipated an easy match. Of course, I also hadn't anticipated the need to go it alone throughout. “Fucking Megan,” I muttered to myself, shaking my head and sitting there for a moment, only the whirring of the micro interrupting the night-time silence.
I retrieved a glass tumbler from next to the sink, setting it on the table next to the bottle, leaning down with a wince as I tweaked a sore back muscle in the process, rummaging around in my bag for the bottle opener I knew was in there. I found the opener, but I also found something else. Smiling, I took that as well, setting the bottle opener aside for the moment, and laying the black leather belt with its gold plate on the front onto the table. The plate had a logo, but I only had eyes for the words on the perimeter.
FTW WORLD CHAMPION
The micro beeped, signifying that my largely tasteless supper was ready. I didn't even hear it, so wrapped up was I in staring, staring at my belt and smiling...
