Amanda Lorian

The light from the twin suns outside glints off the polished Beskar steel armor, forcing those who’ve turned to look at who’s entering the cantina to squint and shield their eyes.

And then, like a cool drop of water in a parched desert, the figure of the bounty hunter known as Amanda Lorian enters and the paradigm shifts. This is a backwater burg. A hive of scum, greed and villainy, and here enters one even this lot fears.

The armor, for the figure is all armor showing no skin, is cut to suit a female frame, though with the wicked cool helmet, no one knows what’s truly beneath the gaudy get up. Amanda Lorian strides up to the bar and stands before the bartender.

“I’m looking for Mahaan Bhayaanak Neta.” The patrons of this cantina all watch as a group of three lowlifes surround the bounty hunter at the bar who’s just said… something. The bartender leans forward.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Mahaan Bhayaanak Neta.” Amanda Lorian says forcefully. “I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of him. He has a tendency of getting lost. They say he lives in a glass house, and I will teach him not to throw stones.” The three alien lowlife scum chuckle amongst themselves.


“What’s the matter, Amanda Lorian… the galaxy’s most feared bounty hunteress has to resort to asking at the local watering hole for help finding her quarry?”

“I know exactly how to find him.”

The expressionless mask barely moves.

“I’m talking about the imaginary projection of himself he’s using to make himself look bigger than he is, more viable as an opponent. I’m looking for the version of Willie Pete who actually thinks he can beat me.”

“You’ll never find him… that Willie Pete is an illusion,” one alien intones menacingly.

The moment is tense. You can tell there’s about to be a fight.

But “Amanda Lorian” promptly removes the metal helmet to reveal an irritated Wendy Wynne who fixes her disheveled red hair and glares past the camera frame.

“Cut. I can’t breathe in this stupid helmet.”

Off-camera, Buddy the Wannabe Director yells ‘cut’ and the actors on screen relax. Production assistants and makeup artists come into view to reset the scene as Wendy strides past towards her trailer. Her erstwhile assistant Buddy strides in beside her.

Buddy the Clown but also the Star Wars Fan: What’s the matter, champ? This idea is gold.

Wendy rolls her eyes.

Wendy Wynne: It’s not gold. 'Amanda Lorian'? That is soooo stupid. No one will get it because stupid Willie Pete--

She glares at the handheld camera which is striding beside her to record these candid moments.

Wendy Wynne: --who’s only claim to fame is being Valor Pro Wrestling’s quickest vanishing act--

She looks forward again,

Wendy Wynne: ...is going to fire silly potshots at my career in Union Battleground. Nobody knows who this guy is. Nobody. Half the jokes you wrote about him are only funny if you didn’t blink in the intermediate period between VPW’s Blitz 7 and 8.

Buddy the Tryhard Clown Director: But I worked really hard to research this guy for you, Wendy--

Wendy Wynne: I realize that. That’s why you’re not fired. But no one’s going to be able to follow the stupid zig-zag insane connect-the-dots of this guy’s career without losing interest, and so, yet again, you’ve wasted an entire week’s promo budget on this silly Star Wars thing.

Buddy the Longsuffering Clown Director: You can’t scrap this idea now, Wendy. It’s dynamite. Can we at least get to the Baby Yoda-Willie part?

Wendy sighs loudly as she climbs the steps to her trailer and turns with one last glare at Buddy.

Wendy Wynne: I refuse to make anymore of a meme out of this ridiculous man. These stupid gimmicks are played out, Buddy. Everyone who’s ANYONE knows satire is not a viable form of humor. It’s DONE. Finished. Summon me when it’s time to cut a decent promo, loser.

And with that she slams the trailer door in Buddy’s face. Poor Buddy the Director Clown is dejected as he looks into the camera. He slumps his hands into his pockets and hangs his head.

Buddy the Monologuing Clown: She wasn’t always like this, you know? No siree. There was a time when Wendy Wynne would have gladly given any young up and coming wrestler the shirt off her back if it didn’t risk revealing her naughty bits.

It’s true, though even the person operating the camera guffaws at the thought of an honorable Wendy Wynne, rather than childish, conniving redhead we’re now treated to on a quassi-bi-weekly basis. Buddy walks softly back toward the set with the camera following closely beside him.

Buddy the Reminiscing Clown: Yep. I’ll tell you, after Guerrilla warfare, Wendy blamed me alongside the Trump Impeachment inquiry as well as ‘Benghazi’ and Edward Snowden for her loss. She said the sun had blinded her for a second and it caused her to lose focus. She said she felt sorry for Dakota Smith so she let him win. She said I hadn’t tied her boots properly. She said I didn’t ‘use the appropriate overhand method’.

Buddy looks perplexed.

Buddy the Caught-Between-a-Rock-and-a-Hard Place Clown: I don’t even know what that means. Truth-be-told, I miss the The Wendy Wynne from way back before this… uh… well I don’t know what I could politely call her without needing to visit a priest afterward; the Wendy Wynne that first hired me would have watched the tape of Guerrilla Warfare, seen what she did wrong, and trained harder, ran faster, strove for more. This one? This Wendy Wynne spends her time looking for ways to cheat to win.

Buddy stops as Wendy Wynne bursts out of her trailer to yell at him.

Wendy Wynne: Buddy! I’m going to need a case of staples and a staple gun so I can staple Willie Pete’s face to his ass and he can WATCH me kick the crap out of him. HAHAHA!

Buddy frowns, watching Wendy snicker to herself before shooting him a dirty look and climbing back into her trailer. Buddy looks apologetically into the camera.

Buddy the Clown Who Misses the Good Old Days: See what I mean? It’s not like Wendy’s lost her will to win, or that she’s gone soft. She’s just… well… I hope you understand that just defeating Wendy Wynne won’t help me out, Willie. I need you to knock something loose inside her head. I need someone to bring back the Wendy Wynne that didn’t fire me all the time. I want the Wendy Wynne who held sdome regard for the sport of wrestling rather than a means to whatever end she's even after these days.

The cameraman, whom we can’t see, looks sympathetically thoughtful.

Cameraman: What if she just becomes a more driven Wicked Witch?

Buddy thinks about it.

Buddy Compromising Clown: I guess. I mean, sure. I want to see her thrive. I want to see her flourish. Can you help her do that, Willie Pete? Can you push her to be more than what she is? Can you be that opponent that motivates Wendy Wynne to be the talent both you and I know her to be? Cause, deep down, isn’t that what we all need? A swift kick in the ass to jumpstart something. A spark that sets a fire. A key in the ignition.

Buddy ruminates on this question.

Buddy the Ruminant Clown: I don’t think you are, Willie. No offence. Any insult you fire at her could be redirected back at you. A talent without focus or drive. A force without direction or purpose aside from firing cheap shots and misdirections that keep us from seeing the small, little man hiding behind the curtain. Maybe, just maybe, this match and the fallout and aftermath will be what does it. I’m hoping so. Otherwise she’s gonna fire me, and I’ve already been fired twice this week.

Buddy contemplates these facts as he strides past the camera, leaving on a rather silent quandary.