BW: And we're back wrestling fans. Now we get to the story of someone who has had her fingerprints on FTW since before it was formed. In fact many people feel she's the catalyst for the genesis of the FTW as we know it. But before FTW the Maestro of Machinations Callista Quinn was making waves around the world. Here is a clip from the upcoming Countdown documentary featuring a look back at one of the seminal moments of her career in her own words.
April 19, 2011
18:45 JST
Nagoya, Japan
I sat on the hard plastic bench, lacing up my boots, wearing a big comfy black hooded sweatshirt over my ring gear. As always before a match, I had headphones on to drown everything out, to centre my focus. Today, my mental soundtrack was accompanied by Beethoven's Fifth, specifically the iconic first movement, allegro con brio.
I'd already done the rounds of introducing myself, repeating the few phrases of greeting in Japanese that I'd memorised, (reverting to English for introductions to my fellow foreigners.) It would do for now, but I really did need to learn the language better.
I'd been touring with JWP, who'd had a show in relatively nearby Shizuoka last night. Tonight was a break before the weekend shows in and around Tokyo, but Oz Academy happened to need a fill-in. I was that fill-in. It was...appropriate, I thought, given who I was wrestling.
I'd first met “La Santa”, Gabriela Dos Santos, in the first year in my career at a show in London. She was one of the giants of women's wrestling. Not literally, of course. She stood a mere 5'2, and weighed just a smidgen over eight stone. But she was a big name wherever she went. America. Japan. Germany. Mexico. Anywhere you had women's professional wrestling, you knew La Santa.
She was scheduled to wrestle Kay O'Connor, then our champion, but Kay was rather fond of drink, and following her previous night's libations, had had an unfortunate run-in with some constables that ended with her in the dock. I was asked to fill in.
I didn't expect to win, of course, but I was able to get some sequences of control...or so I thought. I won't go too deep into it, but I came away feeling like I wasn't that far away from greatness. What an idiot I was. A couple years later, I'd end up wrestling the famed Spanish wrestler again in Calgary, and I'm ashamed to say it, but I was perhaps less respectful of my veteran opponent than I should have been.
In retrospect, it was obvious what had happened in London: She'd gone easy on me to give the punters a better show then stretching me from pillar to post would have been. Two years later, I thought I was much better than I'd been two years ago, (which was true,) so I'd surely be more than a match for her, (which was not.)
La Santa was perfectly willing to ease up to ensure the paying customers got a good show, but that didn't mean she was going to listen to shite from the jumped-up girl I still was. I got more lessons that night than I had in months of time in Manchester, and by no means did my fellow northerners go easy on new girls. It ended with me in the middle of the ring, pounding at the canvas with my hand as I screamed out my submission.
I don't know which match embarrasses me more, but they both rank pretty highly on my list.
We had a third match four years later in Chicago. Beforehand, I introduced myself to her MOST respectfully. I don't know if she remembered me or not, but she made no allusions to it, and responded in kind. The match WAS close that night, and I was no rookie anymore. If she had tried to take it easy, I'd have known.
So, once again, I was filling in. The match was something of a first, as Mayumi Ozaki famously didn't like to pay the extra cost for foreigners to wrestle for her. She'd made an exception for La Santa, (everyone did,) and since I was only being brought from 150 miles down the road, my trans expenses weren't a budget-buster either.
Ozaki, via an impromptu translator, explained that La Santa was being prepared for a championship match against the newly-crowned Oz Academy Openweight Champion, Aja Kong, in ten days. (I later learned that it was Ozaki herself who Kong beat, which explained a lot. I got the message. I was a tune-up match. I smiled respectfully and nodded when I needed to.
Later, after shaking Gabriela's hand once again, she said, “Good to see you again. I've been hearing good things about you in JWP.”
“Sounds like the Japanese all right,” I said jokingly, “You only ever hear good things about people they loathe. Not like they're letting ME anywhere near their title, unlike some.”
“The old barriers are coming down,” Gabriela said. “They have to. You'll see.”
I nodded and went off by myself. I hadn't the tenure or the political clout in JWP. I as much as knew that if any foreigner were to get a shot, it would be that idiotic American who still carried around the title belt of a promotion that went defunct over six years ago.
Wrestling in Japan hadn't been without it's upsides, and it WAS lucrative, but I had to admit it wasn't all I'd hoped it would be. Maybe it was better a decade or two ago. Maybe it would be again. But the bitter pill I had to swallow wasn't going away.
Bah. Thoughts for another night. I had a “tune-up” to prepare for.
*two hours later*
'It was her own fault.' That thought resonated through my mind as I pushed her forward, dropping down onto my arse, dropping her back-first onto the mat once more. 'Her own bloody fault.' I thought as she slumped down. I rolled her onto her side, pushing her legs away, and I sat there, looking at her lying there in a heap. I reached for her leg.
It was just going to be another match. I'd show up, wrestle, try to win, and win or lose, I'd get paid. One night among thousands. Nothing special. Nothing unique. I grabbed hold of her left ankle, pulling it upwards, wrapping the knee around the back of my head, holding onto her boot with my left hand, and her thigh with my right. I heard the announcers call out 'STURETCHU MUFFLAH'
'Oh sure', I thought sarcastically. 'THAT “L” you can manage, but the ones in my name...' One more gripe among many. In Japan, I'd wrestled as “Princess Quinn” because they claimed to find “Callista” too hard to pronounce. It sounded like “Princess Queen”, to me, which was just ridiculous.
Before the match, I'd heard that called, and actually been surprised at the amount of streamers tossed into the ring. Maybe Gabriela genuinely HAD been hearing positive feedback about me. Still, as was generally the case when my mood improved, someone else ruined it by opening their bloody mouth.
As we met in the middle of the ring, the ref gave us instructions first in “English”, then Spanish, then more loudly in Japanese. If his Spanish was as poor as his English, then La Santa could be forgiven for talking to me during them. “Let's give them a good show,” she said.
A moment after she said that, a smile crossed my face, one that didn't make it to my eyes, “Just a tune-up match,” I answered, turning and heading back to my corner. I'd never cared for masks, and I'd never wanted to wear one during a match, but I wanted one right now because I'd barely managed to turn around before the rage erupted on my face.
Good show. Good show. Good bloody show. Like I was still that fucking rookie she toyed with? I thought I'd earned a little respect in Chicago. Apparently not. I looked up and saw that I was gripping the top rope in my corner with both hands. Fans on that side of the ring were pointing at me. I forced my facial expression to smooth out, and tried to find a semblance of calm.
I didn't exactly achieve that calm, but I got to where I needed to be: that head-space where a plan comes into being. La Santa was most famous for her high-flying, but really, what I'd learned in our matches was that it was her technical prowess that was really impressive. Trying to ground her might take her aerial attacks out of play, but she was just as effective on the ground.
I played it cagey. If she tried to wrestle close-in, I'd match with her, and if she started to get the advantage, I'd use my greater power (and her lesser size) to force a break. If she tried to pick up the pace, I'd take a powder, getting out of the way, or out of the ring altogether. It was arguably the opposite of a “good show”, and the crowd, normally not so easily incensed as your Western crowds, was letting me know they didn't much appreciate my tactics.
I stopped to jaw with a few of them, and as I'd hoped, the crowd noise rose. When I saw the ones in the front row look up, I dove to the side, rolling on my shoulder as La Santa crashed into the barricade where I'd been just a split-second ago. Lifting my smaller opponent up off of the ground, I said, “Time for that 'good show' I promised,” before hurling her face-first into the ringpost.
In matches where I'd totally outclassed my opponent, I really did tend to just wrap it up quickly. Whether it was to avoid even memory of that match in London I couldn't say, but I never saw any advantage to myself or to the other person for me to drag it out any.
This match, though, was different. First, systematically hurting every part of her. Slams and bars. Suplexes and stretches. I didn't let up. I didn't relax. If she wasn't in a painful hold, she was being prepared for something equally painful. A piledriver. A brainbuster. An inverted atomic drop because fuck her.
I never went for a pinfall. When I had her in a crossface, and her resistance was next to nil, I loosened up a bit and said, “I think I'd accept a submission at this point.”
“Go to hell,” she spat out. “Pin me and choke on it.”
It was a good idea, so I spent the next few minutes putting her into and out of chokes. If she ever felt close to passing out, I'd let go of the hold. If the ref lifted an arm and she didn't respond the first time, I'd push my way in between them, pushing or kicking Gabriela out of the ring, earning the ire of the ref and the fans alike.
Speaking of spectators, I noticed Ozaki herself standing in the entryway, looking daggers in my direction. I smiled and went on about my business. At one point, I lifted my opponent up in a bear hug, (one not held all that tightly,) and marched about the ring, displaying her like a trophy. Still, Gabriela groaned in the hold. Leaning forward, she murmured. “Do as you wish. I will never give you a submission.”
“I know you won't, love,” I answer, smiling. “I've moved on to the next best thing.” I pushed her forward, dropping her down onto her back, then pulled her leg up over my shoulders. I wrenched the stretch muffler for every bit of effort I could, bouncing on the mat and bending at the knees as I did. At first Gabriela tried to keep her mouth shut, but she couldn't for long. I'd targeted this leg earlier. Now I was wrenching that knee painfully. She screamed out, but as the ref dropped to his knees to check on her, she shook her head no.
Good. Much as I'd like a submission back, I thought this would be even better. Eventually, body gave before mind did. I felt something give, and La Santa's screams echoed throughout the arena, before they were silenced by unconsciousness. I dropped her onto the ring, the crowd actually enraged to the point where two young men threw coins at me.
Just two, of course. Most Japanese fans would never think of doing that. But still, it was an achievement nonetheless. The ref was looking to Ozaki, but I spared him the need by immediately walking out of the ring and back up the aisle. He gathered his wits, and began to count. Ozaki looked on the verge of attacking me herself as I passed her and said, “Good tune-up.”
The record will show that in four matches against “La Santa” Gabriela Dos Santos, I was never once victorious. The record is incomplete. I may not have won a match. But did I beat her? You be the judge.
Ozaki ended up putting Ran Yu-Yu in the match against Aja, (astonishingly, she actually won,) and while it wasn't Gabriela's last match, it was her last match for over six months, at which point she competed in a few trios matches in CMLL before hanging up her boots for good.
I put Beethoven's NINTH symphony on repeat for the entire drive back to Tokyo.
BW: Longtime fans of Joshi (Google it Johnny, just google it) will remember how she began her rise. With Countdown, she made a showier splash. It all started with a clock and ended up with the reveal that the Maestro of Machinations Callista Quinn was behind it all.
JC: And she didn't stop there with just the most suspenseful countdown since the Y2J bug.
BW: K
JC: Whatever. She had a hand in orchestrating the attack on Rowan Chance we saw earlier. She also recruited Punky and Gemma Rox and...*gritting his teeth* that guy...All in the hopes of "Saving Wrestling" as she says.
BW: I'm sure most fans are like me in that they don't know really what to make of her. Is she truly here to "save wrestling" by any means necessary or is she her for her own glory and fame? Honestly, it's too soon to see. I'm sure in her mind she is here to further her cause. I admit, I do agree with the substance of what she's saying, perhaps not in the way she's going about it.
JC: Well, it looks like she's goin' old school with some of her decisions. We haven't seen gang warfare like this in quite some time. And there isn't an organized effort to stop Countdown.
BW: That's true fans, right now the Sultry Seductress Emily Layne is the only obstacle to the Maestro of Machinations Callista Quinn gaining power in FTW via the FTW World Championship. But first it seems like there may be a little dissention in the ranks as seen in this footage.
I arrive at the arena, pulling my bag behind me as I do. It's a light day, today. Some promo work for the upcoming PPV, then probably hit the gym for a couple hours. But I've brought my gear with me. It's the second thing they beat into you as a rookie, (right after "This hurts. A lot,") always have your gear ready. Never know what opportunities you might miss if you don't have it with you. I'm clad in black leather boots, blue jeans and the ubiquitous black Countdown hoodie, (on sale at countdownmerch.com, shop.ftw.com, and any third-party vendors we could intimidate into carrying them,) and a pair of black sunglasses. I've got a bulky set of headphones over my ears. Nothing's playing out of them, I just like the excuse to ignore people. mtc
callistaxqI open the door and step into the backstage area, taking my sunglasses off and tucking them in the hoodie's pocket, careful to put them on top of rather than underneath the heavy mag-lite already in there. I take a quick look around at who's here.
I showed up at the arena so early that the staff was rightfully nervous and hesitant to let me in. Fortunately, I had my FTW staff lanyard and at least one of the night janitors leaving recognized me ("Oh, she's that crazy chick. The one with the purple hair, not the other one."). That gave me time to find out how to get into the rafters and clamber around up there, muttering to myself and scattering handfuls of adhesive-backed thumbtacks along the rafters in the dark. Let's see that daffy bitch get up here and do her little Crow act now. Then I roamed the back halls for a while, getting familiar with the place - I think I was here on a tour with Backfist Wrestling once, but that was years ago - and then finally I run out of ways to pace around muttering so I just take up a spot in the little workout area.
Since I'm the first one there I have to set the heavy bag up myself, snarling as I hang it on the hook in the backstage area. Wearing a ribbed cotton Joker tank (the Miller one where he's got a Batarang in his eye and he's broken his own neck, laughing HA HA HA HA HA HA) and a pair of cargo shorts, my morning flannel tied loosely around my waist, I give my fists a once-over with athletic tape and unload on the bag, thudding into it over and over, the rhythm of my fists letting me lose myself. I don't even hear the door open, but I feel the sunlight fall across me. I look over my shoulder, narrow my eyes, and then turn back to the bag, sweat running down me as I unload an even angrier combination than before, snarling to myself as I finish with a heavy hook that sets the bag to reeling.
Glancing over at my teammate pounding away at the heavy back, I purse my lips, frowning. I saw that look. Well fine. I pull the hoodie up and over my head, revealing the white cotton tank-top underneath, setting it down on my bag, and moving to take a position on an unoccupied bit of mats (which just so happens to be kinda near the heavy bag, somewhere you can't possibly miss me,) facing away from you. Not wanting to work up a sweat before my promo, I slip into a t'ai chi ch'uan routine, moving gracefully through forms, maintaining careful balance as I slip from position to position.
I watch you approach through a mist of sweat - I have a promo scheduled too, sometime, but I've never given a fuck if I look like a dripping maniac. It just helps me sell more of the Fiery Volatile Psychopathci Brutalist shirts. I deliver a few more combinations, low and then high, and then I start to throw in Muay Thai as you go through the elaborate forms of the taiji. I snarl louder, throwing my elbows into the bag, clasping it and driving my knees up into it. You've got your back to me, and I'm supposed to rush up and make the first move,but I'm not Sadie. I am, however, as noisy as a gorilla testing Samsonite luggage. "RNNRAH!" I roar, jumping to grab the hook with both hands as I SLAM both knees up into the bag.
I lift my hands, slowly, turning slightly at the waist before sliding my left foot forward, my weight still balanced on my right foot, but shifting forward as I bend the elbows and turn to the right, then lift my left hand to eye level, palm downward, sweeping my right arm in an arc. "RNNRAH!" I hear behind me. My lips curl upward slightly, but I continue through the form, turning, my eyes sweeping past you as I pull my hands in towards my midsection, bending gently at the knees.
I slither down off the bag, landing on my battered Vans. I shake my fists out, the knuckles tingling and a little sprung from the harsh working-over, and I slide back a couple of steps. My eyes slide over you, going through your forms and being all smugly serene. My lip curls in a sneer as I turn sideways and lash out with a superkick, bantaming forwards and thrusting my right leg out as I arch my body into a wide V, hammering my foot right into the bag's goofy cross-eyed smiley face drawn on with Sharpie. *SMACK!* I bounce off, taking a few breaths, and put my hands on my hips, looking over at you for a few long quiet moments. "You oughtta open your chakras more," I offer, deadpan.
"And your midichlorian count is low," I deadpan back, "You should eat more fibre," not missing a beat with the form, before finishing it up in a simple cat-stance. I practice t'ai chi ch'uan because it has been medically proven to aid in balance, and enhance psychological health, (though for you, that might be a bug rather than a feature.) That does not mean I've suddenly become a Taoist, or devotee of hokey religions of any origin. I stand up straight and look your way. "Doing alright, Meggers?"
I snort because you can make me laugh even when I'm blackly furious. That's always annoyed me. "If I eat any more fiber, Red threatened to get a biohazard shutdown order for the Countdown's bathroom," I manage to half-grin before I turn back towards the bag, staring at the stupid goofy face on it for a few long moments before I punch him again between the eyes, making the steel hook clank, and turn back to face you. "Why was I the only one after Rowan?" I finally spit like something nasty that's been stuck behind my teeth for a few days. "SHE cost me that match. And she's still running around, free as fucking air, ready to Looney Toons her way into my business again. OUR business." I step forward, my taped fist socking my open palm, *smek*. "We ALL shoulda been after her."
I give a shake of my head at what literally is toilet humour. I usually have to work my way down to the gutters of my mind. You seem to inhabit that area naturally. "Because the rest of us were focused on the task at hand," I say, jaw setting a bit as I metaphorically bite my tongue on a particular follow-up to that. Expressing too much frustration with you will be counter-productive. "Rowan is a distraction. The next step is the title. When you," I start, again biting off words, revising them on the fly, "When your match went poorly, the job was to soften up Emily for Sunday." There. That was neutrally said. "Asking why we were all headed for the ring is like an American tourist in London complaining about everyone driving on the wrong side of the road."
'Heh, that's a good one. Got to write that....wait, S*BEEP*, I said that aloud'
My eyes don't miss much on that lovely ice-carved face of yours after all these years. The little smug glitter in your eyes when you're thinking you're better than everyone in the room. The way you lift your chin when you're inwardly toasting your own bon mot. The way your jaw sets when you're trying to sound diplomatic in order to manipulate someone. I turn and lace a punch into the bag. "Emily is SOFTENED. She's fucking TENDERIZED. If I'd hit her with anything else she'd have been listed as fucking Kobe beef. ROWAN is the god-damn problem." I swing another hook into the bag, a low and nasty shot that'd hit just under the floating rib. "You told us, Gemma n' me, that we were doing this for a fucking REASON," I hiss, and drive another jab into the bag.
"And that we were a fucking TEAM. I don't remember being told that we were doing this so we could play Arn and Tully for you to fucking win gold in a league with no tag belts." I snarl, and snatch the back of the bag with my left hand, yanking it into a right forearm smash that'd hit right around the throat. "ROWAN disrespected us. You have Emily in the ring, tonight, with nowhere to fucking go, surrounded by us and still fucked up from what I did to her back and neck. ROWAN should be who we went after. If we'd gone after HER, Red wouldn't have gotten his fucking shoulder cranked off." The idiot. " This is supposed to be about US," I growl the word and piston my knee into the bag, leaving it swinging as I turn back to you. "ISN'T it?"
In a soft, low voice, one you probably know means that I'm furious, I answer, "'Us'?" Narrowing my eyes, I step forward, gently laying my right hand on your left shoulder. "I may be arrogant, egotistical, manipulative," I say, giving that shoulder a gentle squeeze, "all the elements that go into a properly megalomaniacal villain," I step forward, tilting my face down a bit as I gently press my chest up against yours so our eyes stay locked...and then I reach behind and seize hold of a handful of purple hair, yanking your head backwards and saying, "But I can fucking count."
I let go of your hair, stepping back to create a bit of separation, raising my voice and saying, "The rest of US were headed to the ring! YOU were the one who felt disrespected by Rowan! Just like YOU were the one who picked Rowan as the target for US to make our debut on. Do you recall that, Megan? I said 'You know these girls better than me. Pick someone good enough that it'll send a message, but not so good she'll be a problem.' Well? That message seems to have gotten a bit garbled. As for 'respect'..." I snort, shaking my head. "We get disrespected every time we walk out there. It's what we bloody signed up for. You want 'respect'? Start following the rules and telling the marks what lovely people they are."
"But if you're in this for US, don't you dare disrespect your teammates by charging off quixotically after your personal windmill and have the gall to bitch at me for not hitching the rest of the team to you. I will quite simply not have it!"
When you touch me I tense up, but not too much. But then you grab a handful of my sweat-matted violet hair, loose and wild down my shoulders, and as you yank my head back my lips skin back from my teeth in a snarl. My fists clench at my sides, my forearms standing out like steel cables. When you let go of me, my head snaps forward, purple hair hanging in my face and hiding the burning fury of my eyes. The point about Rowan stings, visibly. I picked Rowan Chance for personal reasons, to try to exorcise myself of a personal demon, but picking her was just as bad a choice as picking me would have been. Like me, Rowan is relentless, fearless, and merciless. Like me, Rowan is fucking crazy. I take that lash as something I've earned - but the rest makes me go stock still.
My fists are lax at my sides and my back almost slumped until you snap at me. You won't have it. You simply won't have it. My heavens, Horatio, it shan't be had. I bolt forward, quick as a hungry ghost, my hands coming up to cradle your cheeks roughly and my thumbs pressing in brutally hard just below your eyes as I yank your face to mine. I wonder how well you remember SPARK, and how I almost put Gemma's eyes out with my thumbs. "WE were supposed to be changing WRESTLING. WE were supposed to be a MOB, and that means if someone fucks with you YOU FUCK WITH THEM RIGHT BACK AND TWICE AS HARD!" I snarl, my voice cracking in my fury. "WE ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE YOUR PERSONAL GOD DAMN GOON SQUAD, QUINN, NO MATTER HOW FUCKING BAD YOU WANT GOLD!" I shove back roughly from you before you can decide I'm enough of a threat to come at me, and I back away until I bump into the heavy bag - and I whip around, smashing my fist into it and setting it swinging. I wrap my arms around the bag, clasping it, and almost hang on it, finally looking as tired as I am as all that rage drains from my head to my shoes. "I guess it doesn't fucking matter," I finally say after a long quiet. "Tonight we will get you your fucking belt and I will take care of fucking Rowan Chance." I sigh, pushing my forehead into the bag. I'm open to you hitting me, but frankly at this point, I'd fucking welcome a little mindless violence.
"And that'll be fucking that."
My bio in FTW's 'Talent' section reads 'grew up fighting on the mean streets of Salford, England.' It sounds much better than 'raised by two university professors, moved to a decent city when she was two.' When I start to get angry, I forget to pepper my speech with slang and start slipping into Received Pronunciation. When you push forward, I flinch back, but when you catch me, my eyes go wide as you press your thumbs up against my orbital bones. My right hand slips into the pocket of my jeans, slender fingers slipping through the brass knuckles. My teeth clench and my muscles grow taut. Calm. Must be calm. Maintain order. Maintain tact. Maintain diplo-"OF COURSE IT FUCKING MATTERS YOU PURPLE-HEADED GIT!" And then when I really lose my shit, the slang works its way back in.
"HOW THE BLOODY HELL DO WE CHANGE WRESTLING FROM THE FUCKING MIDCARD? DO THE HORSEMEN CHANGE WRESTLING IF ARN'S PROTECTING RIC'S WESTERN STATES HERITAGE BELT YOU DIMWITTED COW? DOES THE NWO CHANGE WRESTLING IF HOLLYWOOD HOGAN IS SPRAYPAINTING THE TELEVISION TITLE? YOU CHANGE WRESTLING FROM THE TOP! IF YOU HADN'T BEEN SO GODDAMNED OBSESSED WITH YOUR EX, I WOULDN'T HAVE TO FUCKING WORRY ABOUT THAT TOP, CUZ IT'D BE THE TWO OF US RIGHT FUCKING THERE!" I say, chest heaving up and down as I shout myself a bit hoarse. Lovely, and me with a promo coming up. I clench my fist, considering hitting you, but I force myself to look away, settling for taking a chunk out of the plaster in the cheap gym wall by hurling the brass knuckles into it at high speed.
I take a deep breath, then another, saying in a softer voice, "The thing about obsessive types is, they don't LOSE their fixations." Unfortunately. "We could have dealt with her as a group afterwards. Instead, you're fighting Rowan, and Gemma and Red have to deal with the blondtards, and Red's not at 100%. This is...." I struggle to find a word that truly encapsulates the situation... "NON-OPTIMAL."
I turn my head from where it's pillowed cozily against Mr. Heavy Bag and despite everything, I actually have to fight the urge to grin a little. It's been a long time since you shouted at me properly, and even longer since you let loose with a "git". You whip your brass knuckles into the wall and I DO grin a little, then, as I calculate exactly how close I just came to getting my jaw broken. Of course ... that wouldn't necessarily have STOPPED me, and then FTW would've been REALLY short for tonight's show after someone hosed all the blood out from back here. You take deep calming breaths - and so do I, pranayana breathing and letting my eyes close. I look like I'm slow dancing with Mr. Heavy Bag, swaying gently at the end of his short chain and hook with my arms wrapped around him.
Like most of the people I dance with, he's probably just happy I'm not hitting him. "Yeah. It ain't great," I say finally, encapsulating not just the situation we're in tonight but ... a lot of things. "Maybe we oughtta ... " I start, and then stop, shaking my head as I snap my teeth together. I wave my taped fist, shaking that idea off. "Fuck it. We'll deal with it an' ... shit'll work out the way it works out." I grin and set myself in a familiar stance by the bag, letting it go and moving back - bouncing on the balls of my feet with my left foot forward, my left arm up and bent sharply up at the elbow, fist curled into a light claw with my right fist chambered at my hip, I do my famous terrible Bruce Lee impression. "Not tense - but READY. Not thinking - but DREAMING."
What really makes me grin is how much you hate it when I do my Bruce Lee impression.
It's one of the many reasons I don't train against my teammates. When emotions get involved, good or bad, control becomes more difficult. Gemma and I have lost more money due to injuries we've inflicted on each other than from getting rolled while falling down drunk in Wales. I don't even want to THINK what would happen if you and I "sparred". Then you do your fucking Bruce Lee impression and I groan audibly. "You'll pardon me if I don't accept 'dreaming that shit'll work out' as a suitable plan," I say sourly. "Ehhh. As you say, fuck it." I walk over towards where I flung the metal knuckles, retrieving 'Plan B' from the drywall. "Gotta go cut my promo," I say, heading back to my bag and saying, "Best of luck tonight."
"See, now you're on the trolley," I grin, and lash out with a series of tiger claws to the bag, heavy leather smacks ringing out, driving it back until I finally step aside, letting it swing wildly with the chain clanking desperately. "When in doubt, fuck it." I shake my hands out and bow my head to you as you get your bag. "Yeah, you too, Calli-san. Anata no gādo o iji." Bet you haven't heard that one since we last toured Osaka. I watch you disappear, stalking off, and I take a long few breaths. At least now I know you're as pissed off as I am, even if it's for all the wrong reasons. I look back over my shoulder at the bag, still swinging on its chain - and then I lash back at it with another superkick.
*SMACK-CLORNK!*
There's the wrench of metal as I superkick the hook out of the wall and drop the bag with a thud to the floor. Sighing, I move to the wall and pick up the Red Queen from where she was tucked in a corner. I swing the lead-loaded croquet mallet over my shoulder, dig my vaporizer out of my pocket and click the button, the LED glowing a soft red. Inhaling a long puff of clove vapor, I let it drift out of my nose like an angry dragon. I glance around before I stalk off down the halls.
They're not gonna furiously pace themselves, after all.
The instant I leave the room, all expression disappears from my face. I'll keep my guard up, all right. I've got to. As you Americans like to say, I face threats both foreign and domestic. And unsuitable plans are quite simply something I don't do. Time to get a bit of "help" from the unlikeliest source of all....
BW: Fans, it seems like Punky may be more wound up than we thought. But despite that, don't doubt that Callista has a plan. We'll be back after the break with a wrap up of the entire card and predictions.
