Frontier Psychiatry (vs Miles Lucky at Lights Out #39)

She awoke with a jolt, her feet hitting the cold floor as her eyes opened and took in the room with a bleary sort of exhaustion. Bizarre dreams. Again. Morgan for all her bluster, the bravado, the air of thuggery. Her ties with the Kingdom, with the Na Fianna, all the things in her life currently balanced on a delicate thread. Sitting in the middle of all that was a woman who didn’t really know her place. She was reeling between one thing and another, trying to fit inside everyone else’s box. The fighting, it helped put it all into perspective, one of the reasons why she kept going like she had been. Catharsis in explosive emotions, and the displays there of. Months of constant wars, to grasp some sense of self meaning.

She’d found it, couldn’t decide what it was, or why, but there had been contentment in beating Danny MacNamara. Even if she might have burned regretful bridges along the way. That brought her to being awake at 2AM, thoughts of the meaning of life, an overcrowded fight schedule and burning bridges seering through her dreams. All of that brought her to Miles Lucky, her next, possibly biggest fight. A weird little enigma of a man, who seemed no better off with his place in the world than she did. At least no happier with it, than she was.

Morgan pushed herself up from the bed, running a hand through mussed hair. Miles Lucky? He liked to play the man of mystery, she knew, but one damaged individual saw another. He was just as desperately, clawing for his place in the world. He had his violent tendencies, sure, but violence was just another of her strange bedfellows. She’d grown accustomed to it in the more recent months of her career. She accepted it now. Relished in it. A fight wasn’t a fight, to her, if there was no blood shed. She’d tasted the blood of her last opponent within Union Battleground, literally, and it had awoken something new inside of her. Something blood soaked and roaring.

Clad in compression shorts and a tank top fit for sleep, Morgan pulled her phone off the nightstand. There was a slight thunk, as it hit the wood of her dresser. Now she’s sitting in her easy chair, feeling anything but easy at the moment. She leans forward with one arm propped on her knee. Her other hand wields the zippo she uses to spark up the end of the Chancellor Treasurer Luxury Menthol she’d started smoking recently in place of the Newports she used to enjoy. She had Morrigan MacNamara to thank for turning her onto something with a little more flavor and class. She lets that first drag linger as she stares down at the zippo in her hand. A half chuckle, half scoff escapes her as she closes her hand around the lighter, finally lifting her attention to where she set her phone. She leans back in her chair, staring at the lens for a long, almost uncomfortable moment before she speaks; her voice raspy from still being half asleep.

“Figure I should do this now while the thoughts are still fresh in my head, ya know?”

She pauses again, long enough for another drag off of the cancer stick out of a pack that costs almost as much as her cellphone bill. Morgan exhales a plume of smoke from her lips as she leans her head back into the chair. Her eyes, however, shift directly to the camera.

“Miles Lucky. Who the fuck are you, man? Nah, I don’t mean that as in a ‘what have you done in your career?’ I mean….”

She leans forward in her chair with another drag off her cigarette; her green and blue gems locked on the camera the entire time, never looking away as she shrugs her hands.

“Who are you? The man people don’t see. Where do you belong in the world?”

Her head drops, casting her eyes at the floor with the smoke of her cigarette rising up around her.

“Found myself askin’ the same shit about, well, me lately. Who am I and where do I belong? I guess that’s somethin’ we got in common, yeah? We’re both here tryin’ to figure out just who we’re meant to be. Here I am, stuck in life between a collective of lovers that things have been feeling rocky with, lately. Even they’ve been questioning who I am now; Jasmine most of all.”

She bounces her eyebrows once and takes another drag on her cigarette.

“There’s that on one side and on the other, there’s those that I felt like I was more useful with. Na Fianna. I made a decision that, if I’m being honest, I’m still wonderin’ if it’s the right choice. I felt reborn when I was there. Lately, I feel more trapped in the place that I’ve been callin’ home for over a year now, than I have anywhere else. Like I can’t truly discover who I am. Then there’s you. Miles Lucky.”

She lifts her head again and motions, almost dismissively, at the camera.

“Little...art lovin’, homeless lookin’ Kurt Cobain wannabe ass. You, shit, you’re like one of those bad indie horror flicks. Not the old ones, no, the new ones. They got these slow, ponderous, confusing fucking plot points for no reason at all. You act all weird and mysterious, hoping it’s gonna get you by. Maybe it used to but eventually, everyone hits a wall and well, here I am, Miles.”

Without changing her expression, Morgan lifts her hand, opposite of holding the cigarette and gives a mocking royal wave.

“The bitch who doesn’t know her place in the world versus the motherfucker who prefers style over substance, pretending to say and do something meaningful while masquerading as high art. Ya know, I have to admit, as lost as I feel sometimes, I found a sense of peace when I was able to keep my last promise to my mentor. When I was able to beat Danny. I think there’s more peace I can achieve, Miles. I almost feel like being War Horse Champion, with a place to represent, I’d at least have a purpose.”

Pause. Another drag on her menthol is taken as she looks off to the side, away from the camera for a moment. She scoffs the smoke from her lips.

“I know how everyone else is gonna react to this little piece here. I hear it all the time when I do these. ‘He’s a great wrestler. He’s one of the best to step into the ring. You best be wary of him!’ Well no fucking shit I better be wary of you!”

Her attention snaps back to the camera.

“You’re the fucking War Horse Champion for a goddamn reason, ain’t ya? Underneath all that weird, kooky ass shit you pull, you know how to hurt someone and get the job done but what all those people who warn me like to forget is I’m damn good in that ring too! See that’s where we’re different, Miles, is our styles. You like things ultra violent and wild. You like to hit heavy but you go in without any real plan. You swing for the fences and I’ll give it to you, more times than not, it pays off. Me? I can get violent too. I’ve been trained to be both violent and targeted. I step into the ring with a game plan but I can be flexible if I need to be. I can switch things up.”

She sits back in her chair again and actually throws one leg over the other, crossing them as she smirks around her cigarette.

“You wanna play the weird, mysterious part, Miles? I’ll fucks with you on that. Some people prolly look at’chu and say shit like ‘kid’s gotta be a maniac. He likes to take body parts! He needs therapy!’ Shit, maybe ya do. Let me be your therapist, Miles. Let me show you how alike we can be. See, I like to take body parts too. I like to gouge eyes out. I like to knock out teeth. I like to pick knees apart like jigsaw puzzles. I like to snap fingers like little toothpicks. Shit, I like my bits so much, I just may snap all of yours to ensure I walk my ass outta there with all my parts intact, in addition to the War Horse Championship.”

She gives another half shrug and polishes off her menthol, halfheartedly looking around for an ashtray she doesn’t have access to before turning her focus back to the camera. Morgan gives an almost unhinged little smile as she looks at the burning butt in her hand. She lowers it then, pressing it to her bare thigh with a soft hiss. The woman inhales and exhales shakily before opening her eyes to smile into the camera again.

“Happy Pigeon Day, Miles….”