What does this match matter? It doesn’t, really. It’s not even worth the effort mentioning, so one wonders why I’m even wasting that effort doing so. It’s not as if I’m going up against a veteran worth my time or someone with a reputation for equal parts skill, ferocity and violence on par with mine, is it? I’m going mano e mano with yet another waste of my time. Another random match with another random loser, and once again I’ve grown bored.
Like, what’s the point? I am the New Ace of Pro Wrestling, the single most ferocious joshi Axe is lucky to have in his little roster. I strike hard, strike fast and I always--always--bring the terror to my opponents-slash-victims, no matter how hard they try to put on their brave faces and deny the experience facing me brings them.
So why is it so hard to get a goddamn real fight in this company?!
****
In a dressing room at the Bridgestone Arena in Nashville, Tennessee, on the evening of Union Battlegrounds penultimate supershow, Sara Yoshiko Saint--the one known as Saint Saito, the New Ace of Pro Wrestling--sat in front of a mirror, already decked out in her in-ring gear as she applied some red paint over her left cheek with a smooth, practiced stroke. Resting against the mirror was Saito’s phone, silently recording her as she worked.
“I’m recording this as a message to Xion Ben-Judah,” stated Saito with a bored tone and another practiced stroke of the paintbrush against her cheek. She didn’t even bother looking into the phone’s camera as it recorded her. In fact, Saito appeared to be more interested in her brush strokes than the promo she was apparently about to cut. “It suddenly came to my attention that you and I are set up to fight each other at the next edition of Lights Out, after this supershow is done. Frankly, it didn’t come to me as much as a surprise--Axe and the powers-that-be’s booking leaves much to be desired when it comes to me. It’s getting to the point where it might as well be ‘Saint Saito, versus...That Guy!’ or ‘The New Ace, versus Some Dumb Bish!’ from my perspective, and if I was apologetic about it in any way, shape or form I’d have said to you, ‘Hey, sorry pal...but you just happen to be ‘That Guy,’ this week!’”
The tone in her words reflected that she wasn’t apologetic in the least. ‘Apathetic’ might have been a more apt term. Suddenly, she gave a small laugh and quietly said to herself, “Heh, but I guess I said that, anyway,” before returning to her facepainting.
“But it’s true, ain’t it?” she asked rhetorically, before wiping her brush and applying some black paint. “You really are ‘That Guy’ as far I’m concerned. I’ve mentioned in my last one of these--” referring of course to her last promo, “--that I was aware of your two victories here in Union Battleground--” she said the name as though it were some kind of mockery, “--and more power to you for those wins, but I also believe the people you beat to get this far were also ‘That Guy.’ People I wouldn’t trust to tie my boot laces, let alone give me something resembling, oh, I don't know...a decent fucking challenge??”
Saito paused for a few moments to look at herself in the mirror, looking at her current handiwork on her face. The pattern of savage, curved lines on her cheek were still unfinished, but were shaping up quite nicely. A few more moments passed until Saito applied some more black paint to her brush and added a few more careful strokes.
“Shit, if I’m recalling things correctly, one of those guys was that garbage wrestler whose ass I kicked when I first came here,” she said finally. “And that other guy you beat? Just as bad. It’d taken me more energy to get out of bed than it would to beat that guy, but hey...it’s not as if the people I’ve faced in this dump were of any higher fighting calibre. Not that I blame myself for that, and believe me, guy, I’m doing you as close to a courtesy as I might get with you people when I say I don’t blame you or the other asses I’ve kicked, either. You’re only as good as the work you put in, am I right? And me...I’ve worked hard to be the New Ace of Professional Wrestling.
“So,” continued Saito, still sounding bored out of her mind and more interesting in the paint than the promo, “because I’m nice like that, how about I do you another little courtesy and explain to you what fighting Saint Saito is all about. Have you ever fought a joshi? And I don’t mean some bingo hall tart from Bumfuck, Canada who claims, ‘Yaay! I’m a joshi!!’ like she thinks she earned that honoured title. I’m talking about a real joshi. I’m going to assume you haven’t, because A: I don’t actually care enough about you to do some research, and B: it was a rhetorical question, anyway, so deal with it.
“Fighting a joshi--a true joshi--is like fighting a demon sent straight from hell,” explained Saito. “That’s actually pretty close to the truth, by the way. Japanese wrestlers have a reputation for being the toughest, meanest sons-of-bitches walking the ring. Guys who would beat you and then keep on beating you until children are crying their poor little hearts out, begging them, ‘Stop! Stop...he’s already dead!’ And what are joshi compared to that, you ask? Well...joshi also have the added benefit of being batshit insane, is what.”
For the first time, Saito actually cracked a smile. Small, almost imperceptible, but a smile nonetheless.
“I’ve recently heard some guy even label joshi as being, quote: ‘crazy as shithouse rats,’ which is pretty accurate if I do say so myself. Now, onto the point I was trying to make: Saint Saito is to joshi what a she-wolf is to the adorable little puppy. She is the vicious lioness walking among pussies. She is to joshi what a dragon is to the sheep it feasts on and we all should know what happens when a dragon is pissed off: terror, blood and destruction, and all that shit is Tuesday for me. Ya get me?
“So, I have to ask...compared to, y’know, being a dragon among shithouse rat crazy joshi what do you have working for you? A stupid name that makes you sound like you’re not of this Earth? Two victories against assholes that can’t even defeat a bologna sandwich if their lives depended on it, let alone another human being? Please. You might as well take it as another one of those little courtesies that I’m even recording this message for you.
“But okay, before speaking to you bores me completely, I’m gonna tell you what,” allowed Saito, after a brief moment to apply another couple of lines on her face. “Assuming that you decide to show up at this Guerrilla Warfare thing I’m going to give you one chance to impress me, and believe me, I don’t give those lightly. I challenge you, weirdo-name-guy: impress upon me that you’re even worth my time, let alone the effort it would take me to kick your ass. I warn you though: do not disappoint me. Don’t show up tonight, or if you turn out to be as lame as these other fucks, then when we square off one-on-one at Lights Out...well...you really don’t want to piss off a dragon, do you?”
For the first time, Saint Saito turns her attention to the phone that was recording her, the paint on her cheek now a complete pattern of red and black. The look of utter boredom melted away into a mask of sincerity. Whether that sincerity was, well, sincere, was hard to say...but this was Saint Saito.
“As the Saito family saying goes, Omae wa mou shindeiru,” she said. “Roughly translated, it means, ‘You are already dead.’ My family consider it like an oath on par with kismet, see. Dying at the hands of a Saito--it’s something you simply can’t help when you come face-to-face with one, no matter how hard you fight. But hey, do me a solid and don’t die a disappointment, ‘kay? ‘Kay.”
And with that, the young woman known as Saint Saito blew a mocking kiss to the phone before she reached over to switch it off.
Those white faces. The colored patchwork clothes. The bright hair. The oversized clothing. The loud voices that drowned everything else around them. Adults, parents and grandparents alike, squealed with delight at the sight of them. I stiffened up and clenched my fists. The eyes were always searching. And when they approached, I felt like a mouse being cornered by a hungry and cruel alley cat with no hope of escape. My family, who were given the divine responsibility to protect me, instead pushed me out into the open where I was forced to face my terror. I wanted to shout, to scream, but my family didn’t understand. Under the guise of family entertainment, I was subjected to the emotional torture of these creatures’ play acting. This wasn’t entertainment. This was Hell.
God, I hate clowns.
***
Cheyenne was in the shower of our hotel room, getting ready to accompany to L!GHTS OUT #13 across the street, while I paced back and forth across the room. I was agitated. I was uneasy. I was ready for war.
I looked over at the laptop sitting on the room desk and kept pacing. On the screen was an online still of my L!GHTS OUT opponent in all her ring regalia and facepaint. The uneasiness only intensified. I was so consumed with my upcoming match that I didn’t hear the shower turn off or when Cheyenne stepped out into the bedroom wearing two white towels (one for her hair; one for her private areas). When Cheyenne put her hand on my shoulder, I instinctively grabbed her arm like I was choking the life out of it. Thankfully Cheyenne is one of the toughest people I’ve ever encountered but it still took her by surprise.
“Umm...OWW!”
The sound of her voice brought me back from the dark place consuming my thoughts. Her beautiful face lessened the edge. I let go of her and apologized.
“Honey, are ya okay? I’ve never seen ya so… intense... about a match. This isn’t like ya. Ya weren’t even this intense at the courthouse!”
I stared at the still of Saint Saito again.
“God, I hate clowns.”
Cheyenne snorted, trying to keep from laughing as I was dead serious about my statement. I looked at her with a sneer. She didn’t know just how serious I was about the subject. When she got the message, her smile disappeared.
“Before my parents died, they took me to the circus on a family outing. While we were in line to pay for our admission, a clown came out of nowhere and scared me the shit out of me by giving me a big hug and doing his stupid laugh in my ear. My father, instead of protecting me, decided to take a picture of my horror. When I said I didn’t want to go into the circus anymore, he took to the side and tanned my ass for making him spend the money. It traumatized me for years.”
Cheyenne empathetically sat down on the edge of the bed and grabbed my hand.
“And ya never got over it?”
I shot a look at Cheyenne that told her that I wasn’t done with my revelation. “Oh, I got over it. I just prefer not to go to that dark place when I’m faced with a clown.”
Cheyenne looked at Saint Saito’s picture on the screen with all her facepaint. “She reminds you of a clown, doesn’t she?”
My mind was back in the past, to when I released my fear of clowns.
“After completing my training with Missio Dei, I went back to Tel Aviv to visit some friends and pack up my belongings for the year-long mission. I was walking downtown, heading for the cafe where I was going to meet my friends, when I saw it coming towards me. I didn’t know the circus was in Tel Aviv for a month long engagement. Several businesses had hired people to dress up as clowns to commemorate the event but I wasn’t having it.”
I felt my hands clench as I continued to retell Cheyenne the story.
“There is was, a frizzy-rainbow-haired, classic red-nosed painted face clown with baggy clothes and stupid shoes as long as its legs. And it stood between me and my friends. ‘Shalom!’ it said. I answered back with, ‘You’re in my way.’ It retorted, ‘Oh, don’t be such a pussyface! Everyone loves clowns. I make people happy.’ I glared, hoping it would get the point and move. But it didn't, so I sidestepped it. Like a shadow, it followed. ‘I can't let you leave until you smile, why don't you smile?’ I warned him again. ‘You are in my way.’ It responded back with ‘Why don't you smile?’ I gave it a look that would make an ordinary person step off. It didn’t. ‘You’re in my way.’ It repeated, ‘Why don’t you smile?’ That was it for me. My childhood fear became a weapon. The clown had an umbrella to shield him from the heat.”
Cheyenne raised a hand to her mouth, anticipating my actions.
“I decided to do what my father should have done year ago. I focused my fear as I was taught in Missio Dei. I wasn’t going to repress it anymore. I snatched the umbrella from him and gave the clown the beating of its life. I even pulled off its nose and tossed it. I went for the wig and it stuck! It was real hair! I laughed, I smiled. And I walked on, leaving the clown licking his wounds. I never met up with my friends since the police would be coming shortly. So I headed back to Missio Dei but I went back smiling. But God, I hate clowns.”
Cheyenne’s beautiful smile broke through the seriousness as she envisioned me kicking the clown’s ass.
“Oh...I would hate to be Saint Saito tonight.”
Cheyenne had this ability to make the world slow down for me. And she was right. I would hate to be Saint Saito tonight too. Oh well, it gives me reason to smile tonight.
***
“God, I hate clowns.”
“And that’s exactly what you are, Saint Saito. You are the Clown of Union Battleground. Behind your mask of paint, you have succeeded in instilling fear in your opponents before they even step into the ring with you. The psychological edge has already done the work for you. All you need to do is finish the job with your incredible ring skills. And that’s no joke.”
“However, at Guerilla Warfare, you were shown to be a human, not some demon or ‘joshi’ as you claim. Much like Nemesis was proven to be mortal like everyone else, I saw you for who you are behind the facepaint. And behind the facepaint, you’re still a clown. So at L!GHTS OUT #13, I’m going to exorcise the so-called ‘joshi’ of the Battleground. I’m going to remove the fear of clowns from this company beginning with you. Then I’m going to find my way to Nemesis and show the world the clown that he is.”
“Saint Saito, you’re in my way. And I’m leaving Cincinnati with a smile on my face.”
“God, I hate clowns.”
Last Edit: Jun 20, 2017 22:58:30 GMT -5 by Deleted
