I.
17th July, 2016 – CWA North-Western Headquarters. Seattle, Washington, US.
It was the first time I’d had cause to venture into the corporate swampland of our dear little promotion. The executive wildlife – malignant suits who filed and networked and photocopied without ever making eye contact – generally did their best to ignore me, which was a mutually agreeable arrangement. I sat behind the desk, staring through the huge windows that made up the western wall of the office. We were high up, looking down upon the Seattle sprawl. The Space Needle jutted out proudly in the distance, a gaudy, phallic sentinel standing guard over the city.
In front of me, a man whose name I couldn’t remember – Gregory? Graham? Something oh-so-vanilla like that – paced in front of the window, muttering his way through a soliloquy regarding responsibilities and contractual obligations. He was heavy-set and balding, and had removed his jacket to cower from the heat some time ago. Gentle patches of perspiration had formed beneath his arms. He had a funny habit of placing his thumbs behind his braces as he spoke, flicking them against himself as he finished each of his dull, unremarkable points. I wondered if he’d ever had an original thought in his life, if any measly morsel of his being wasn’t manufactured.
“It’s just something you have to realise, Miss von Horrowitz,” he said, picking up his coffee cup and placing it down again without sipping. “You can’t always do whatever you like. You have a contract here. You can’t just up and leave whenever you like.”
I thought about this in silence for a moment.
“I think you’ll find,” I began, carefully. “That I can do whatever I like.”
Gregory/Graham looked as if he intended to start his response a number of times, but on each occasion he’d climb back down before the first words passed his lips. Eventually, he sat down and looked over at the other man behind the desk. He was thinner, gaunter, with an entirely bald head and a sinister-looking beard. Like Ming the Merciless. Never trust a man who looks like Ming the Merciless.
“Miss von Horrowitz,” he began, leaning forward in his chair but remaining seated. His eyes were piercingly blue. “I think what my associate is trying to say is that, should you fail to appear in the weeks following Kings Reign Supreme, the company will sue. Yours isn’t the most lucrative contract in CWA, sure, but you will still be in breach of it, and I doubt you can afford to buy yourself out. I know how much you earn, after all.”
“Well, Mr Whatever-the-Fuck,” I began, yawning and placing my hands behind my head. In fairness to Ming, he didn’t flinch. “You may know how much I earn, but do you know how I live? Of course you don’t. If you did, you’d know I was a woman of simple pleasures. A bottle of Jameson’s, a box of cigarettes, and I’m happy. You pay for hotels, travel. No extravagance required, besides a return trip to Berlin earlier in the year. But the FWA gave me a huge cheque to make up for that, anyway. I haven’t cashed one of your cheques since February. I have them in my bag, if you’d like to see. And as for my contract, I signed for one year. That only leaves a couple of months after Kings Reign Supreme. I can afford to buy myself out and still have more money left than I could ever spend.”
“Miss von Horrowitz,” he said again, his grating formality as deliberate as the rest of his demeanor. “Even if what you say is true, we still have the moral argument. Just think of everything the CWA has done for you. You’re a household name. To leave with the High Voltage Championship, should you take it from LIGHTBRINGER, would be to bite the hand that feeds you. You’d be spitting in the face of your fellow wrestlers, the Board, the fans…”
“What the CWA has done for me?” I scoffed, louder than I intended. The larger man recoiled, nervously rotating in his chair as I continued. Ming remained resolute. “What about everything I’ve done for the CWA? I’ve plugged holes bigger than the one in the o-zone layer for months. They asked me to waste my time with Enigma, with Wake, with the Echo, just so there was something worth watching on the show, and I went along with it. The people wanted to see McGinnis and Snowmantashi. I understood. But they’ve been at it for months, and literally nobody cares any more. You should have thought about all of this before you spat in MY face, asking Michelle von fucking Horrowitz to slum it in the midcard in some thrown together triple threat. You’ve made the match, you’ve sold pay-per-views on it, and now you can’t just cancel it. You have to lie in the grave you’ve dug for yourself.”
Ming reclined in his chair as I stood, nodding his head and interlocking his fingers. He was the type of man who prized himself on being unflappable, but I could see through it. I saw his soul through his eyes, and a storm was raging. All that needed to be said had been said. Well, almost everything.
“And it’s Ms von Horrowitz, you fucking troglodytes.” |
II.

25th July, 2016 – The Stampede Corral. Calgary, Alberta, Canada.
The show may have finished, but the fun goes on. As Michelle lurks within one of the exits, surrounded by CWA fans with her hood up to conceal her identity, a special attraction “dark match” is reaching its conclusion in the ring. With the Women's Wrestling Classic fast approaching, management has decided it prudent to showcase some of the talent that will be involved in the tournament. Georgie Calloway, some local heroine who had given an emotional speech about her dead Daddy and how the tournament provided some hope of redemption for her, had been put up against Beth Sokurov, a Soviet nobody. Calloway seemed to have the advantage, teeing up her trademark Spear… but as she charged, Sokurov utilised her ‘Now You See Me’ technique, evading the attack and sending poor Georgie face first in the turnbuckle. Sokurov dragged her to her feet by the tights, booted her in the midsection, and nailed her with the pedigree. The three count was academic.
It was at this point that Michelle hopped the barricade, just as Beth Sokurov took her leave and stamped up the entrance ramp. She rolled beneath the bottom rope and waited patiently for the Canadian to rise. Calloway was ignorant to her presence, more concerned with coordinating her feet into a position where they could support her weight. She turned right into the Busaiku Knee Kick, crashing back to the mat once more. The crowd soured on the scene instantly, the cameras – sluggish after the culmination of this week’s Adrenaline Rush – perked up to focus in on a close-up of the assailant. Michelle von Horrowitz stood, a rare smile on her face and her arms raised either side of her, her trademark ‘Pro-Wrestling Jesus’ pose.
After barking at Lindsay Monahan, she is handed a microphone and a steel chair, the former of which she places in the corner for later. Throwing the chair down on the mat, she hoists up Georgie Calloway’s dead weight, executing a double arm underhook DDT, sending the local hero’s head crashing into the steel. With the rookie lying face down and motionless on the mat, she nods in a contented manner at nobody in particular, before retrieving the microphone and taking a seat upon the top turnbuckle.
“You know, I used to think that the Clique Wrestling Alliance, and those in positions of authority here, just don’t listen to the things that I say,” she begins, staring around at the assembled audience. Some, her most ardent detractors, have got up to leave, whilst others have stayed to boo. “But now I know the truth, and that’s not right at all. They do listen to the things that I say. They just choose to disregard them, and do precisely the opposite. How many months have I been here? Ten? Eleven? And how many times have I called Women’s championships and Women’s tournaments utter, contemptible bullshit? To be the best in the world, you need to be able to stand with anyone that could be put in front of you. Heavyweights and cruiserweights, male and female. If you cordon yourself off in your own little division, craving safety over competition, you end up with silly creatures like this one tripping over her own boot laces. This is not a petting zoo. It’s a jungle.”
She hops down from her turnbuckle, walking across the ring to stand over her fallen prey.
“But I shouldn’t expect anything more from the cretins that run this place. They are, after all, the same people who put me in this afterthought-extravaganza with LIGHTBRINGER and Elijah Edwards next Sunday. I’ve spoken about my problems with this booking at length, and others have spoken about it more, so I don’t see the point in re-hashing my plans. You know what they are. They haven’t changed. All that remains to be done is to rip that belt away from its paper champion. This Sunday is the precipice, my dear tulips.”
To her credit, Geogie Calloway shows signs of life. Her limbs have gradually become responsive, and at length she begins to make her way to her hands and knees. Michelle, unmoved by the effort, simply scrapes the sole of her boot against the local’s head, sending her back to the mat. She repeats the motion whilst continuing her monologue.
“I call LIGHTBRINGER a paper champion because, well, that’s what he is. He may be something somewhere else. In Japan, the name that he uses is regarded with respect and with honour. This means nothing to me. All he has done here is graciously accept the meager offerings being fed to him. Dustin Dreamer? Johnny Vegas? These are victories that we are meant to take seriously? This man beats Elijah Edwards a couple of times and all of a sudden he’s the second coming? Let me remind you, boys and girls, that I defeated the entire fucking roster on my first pay-per-view. I’ve pinned WOLF, I’ve tapped out Bell Connelly, and our current World Champion succumbed to me on two separate occasions. I went to war with Mr Enigma and Harrison Wake, and both bowed down to my will. We’re meant to respect that little charade you call an undefeated streak? Come back when you’ve beaten somebody, anybody, worth beating.”
She allows her words to sink in whilst busying herself in removing the middle turnbuckle cover. She places the microphone on the top one so that her words are still audible.
“At least Elijah Edwards challenges himself. I mean, his crusade against the Club is doomed to fail, of course, but it shows a sort of charmingly futile ambition. He refuses to play it safe. I once thought I could respect a man like LIGHTBRINGER. He wasn’t the worst tag partner I’ve ever had, not by a long shot. But in truth? He allows himself to be used as a pawn, without even realising it. I see it all now. Clear as day. LIGHTBRINGER fits the corporate mold perfectly. In some ways, he is the second coming. Of Snowmantashi. The Man-Baby’s heart hasn’t been in it for a while, and it doesn’t surprise me to see the powers that be lining the Kisai up to take his place. Krash and Cyrus have joined the queue, too. Throw in Darling Jonathan and you have five men that are variations upon precisely the same theme, competing in matches that we’ve all seen before, even when we haven’t.”
After placing the microphone on the mat she lifts Calloway’s dead weight, pulls her over to the corner, and plants her face-first onto the exposed steel with a drop toe hold. She turns her back on the rookie to retrieve the mic, refusing to further acknowledge her presence in the ring.
“But I mustn’t neglect Double E. I want to quote to you what a very wise person once said about Edwards, less than a year ago. ’Elijah Edwards is a man blinded by hypocrisy, floundering in the torrid guidance dished out to him by his manipulative little pipsqueak of a manager. Rollings is a cretinous leech driven by money, and a man like that is to be neither trusted nor admired. Edwards’ association with this creature only highlights the magnitude of his double standards. He paints a mundane picture of himself as a respectful, honourable soul. A general solid guy. Yet he buys into the spin of a squalid little runt like Rollings, eyes wide and starry at the merest suggestion of accolades, wealth, and power. Edwards is full of the ugliest of lusts, and unintentional vanity is just as bad as deliberate.’”
She pauses at the quote’s climax, lowering the microphone to unleash a wicked grin. Georgie Calloway lies forgotten about and twitching in the corner.
“Do you know who said that? That was me, my dear tulips. The week before the Wrestle Royale, when I stamped my name on this company by sheer force of will. I repeat it now because it is still true today, and Elijah Edwards is not worth wasting original thought upon. He has many qualities that one might deem admirable. He is relentless, and, as I’ve already discussed, ambitious. But he is also deluded. He did not keep his championship because he could not keep his championship. He hasn’t torn apart the Club because he cannot tear apart the Club. And he will not defeat Michelle von Horrowitz because he cannot defeat Michelle von Horrowitz. I present these things as facts because they are so.”
After checking upon Calloway and content that she’s incapacitated, Michelle moves to the opposite corner and climbs to the second turnbuckle. She extends her arms to either side of her and allows the crowd’s hostility to wash over. She smiles, as if refreshed by the waves of angst and mistrust. The silence endures, and then lingers, and then stagnates. Eventually, with the camera focused upon her euphoric face, she concludes.
“I’ve already said that to be the best you need to show yourself willing and able to confront all foes. Heavyweight, cruiserweight, male, female, brawler, technician. LIGHTBRINGER has shown himself unwilling and Elijah Edwards has shown himself unable. I am the only competitor on this roster to consistently do this, week in, week out, for almost a year. No weeks off. No vacations. No excuses. And yet I’m still told to eat scraps at the kid’s table. And so, I’m leaving, with your precious High Voltage Championship, along with its holder’s reputation. And there’s not a god damn fucking thing any one of you can do about it. We’re standing at the Edge of the World. Throw yourselves over, tulips. You haven’t got a chance.”
The FWA.com footage fades to black with Michelle still atop the second turnbuckle, her eyes closed, soaking in the atmosphere. The next day, it would be announced that Georgie Calloway had withdrawn from the Women’s Wrestling Classic. |
III.

29th July, 2016 – Ellesmere Island, Qikiqtaaluk, Nunavut. Quebec, Canada.
The snow was thick on the ground, and she held her coat around her as tightly as she could. The man who’d agreed to bring her to this place – Onatok, a middle-aged inuit man from the nearby settlement named Griese Fiord – sat nearby, eating the raw beans that he’d carefully wrapped up before they’d left the village. The snow pressed through the thick trousers she’d bought especially, leaving her damp and cold and genuinely dissatisfied. But the mountain that reared up ahead of her was everything she’d thought it would be.
She’d seen a picture of it in the bus station upon arrival in Montreal: Barbeau Peak, a lonely and dominating pyramid of rock, covered with snow, hostile and unforgiving and inevitable. It was the one she’d seen many times before, in her dreams and nightmares alike. She was sure of it. And now, sat at its feet, damp and cold and genuinely dissatisfied as she was, she felt, well, at least she felt something…
Truth be told, the shadow of the hill engulfed her, and – as she shivered with her back propped against Onatok’s tent – she felt as if the mountain knew she was cowering from it. It had been this way in her dreams, too. Each time the formation of rock had reared up before her like some angry stallion she’d been feeble and deferential. It seemed eternal, and now that she sat upon its foothills that feeling was only compounded.
Michelle was snapped from her malaise by a bark from one of Onatok’s dogs. Another pissed against the side of his sled, ricocheting down to cut through the snow. She must have jumped at the noise, the first to break the utter silence in a while, for Onatok let out one of his strange, low giggles.
“The dogs are bored, Shivers. They don’t know why they’re out here, either,” he said, in his monotonous fashion. He’d taken to calling her Shivers, which she wasn’t crazy about. “Up past the mountain there is a settlement named Alert. Five people live there, left over and forgotten when the Cold War petered out. Alert is the northernmost settlement on Earth. That’s where you are, Shivers; the Edge of the World. You’ll find nothing here.”
“That is here,” she said, nodding towards the mountain. It didn’t acknowledge her. It didn’t need to. “I mean to climb it.”
Onatok let out another low giggle, unable to contain himself.
“You have a match. In two days’ time, I believe,” he began, slow enough for her to understand. He clearly didn’t think she was particularly intelligent, and – when it came to mountaineering – he was probably right. “Even with dogs, sled, the Barbeau Peak cannot be climbed so quickly. If it can be climbed at all. The snow is deep and cold, and you have been shivering for hours already.”
Michelle stared at the peak, as insurmountable now, sat just a few miles from it, as it had been in her dreams.
“Not today,” Michelle conceded. “But soon.” |
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