Post by Eira on Apr 4, 2014 1:44:16 GMT -5
Hierarchies can take many forms. The theocracy of the Vatican, the monarchy of true royalty, the inscrutable ranking of the Order, even the trophy belt system in place at Pure Class Wrestling. You enter at the bottom and work your way up - if you can. Through struggle and strife to the ultimate position of glory, to be honored as is your right. However, there is a less pleasant aspect to the lofty status that the upper echelon of any organization must always face.
Supplicants.
They may have “earned” the right to stand before me and challenge me for the World Title, but by no means have they earned the right to wear this belt around their waists. An International Title run, no matter how impressive, does not garner a free pass into the highest ranking honor Pure Class Wrestling has to offer. Neither, unfortunately, does being a former holder of the very trophy now sought. A match so close and intense that even with a clear win Mr. President himself decides to allow the fallen man to compete for the belt that had so recently been taken from him. Yet what does all this ultimately mean to me...and what does it mean to them?
Does it mean acceptance? I have all the acceptance I need. My place in PCW can no longer be denied. I have been accepted by the fans, I have been accepted by the management and regardless of their thoughts on me as a person, my abilities have been accepted by the roster as a whole.
Does it mean validation? I am my own validation. Gone are the days when I required a tick in the win column to justify my worth and reinforce my position. Win or lose, I still hold the same invulnerable core of self that will remain Untouchable to all but those I choose to share it with.
What does this mean to my opponents? For Whitey Ford it means he’s been nudged out of his unimpeded shot at a belt he very clearly wants. For Andy D. it means he’s been given a second chance at an opportunity he thought he lost. To one it means the highest honor offered by Pure Class Wrestling, an honor he has yet to hold; to the other it means a chance at redemption, a hope of reclaiming what had slipped through his fingers.
Petitioners.
Andy D., a familiar and well-respected opponent. Through two different brackets of competition we’ve circled around each other in a give and take that often leaves us both wondering who will emerge the victor. Supreme athleticism, speed, and breathtaking aerial skill the trademark of us both; lightning bolts chasing each other through a tempestuous sky. Unfortunately the elements don’t always favor the crowd's champion in Andy; just as often that one factor misses and the thunderstorm meekly fades into an unobtrusive drizzle. Former Genesis Champion, former North American Champion, even former World Champion - clearly no slouch. But where are those titles now?
Beggars.
Whitey Ford, an impressive competitor but perhaps not as confident as he might like us all to believe. Why else would he have bothered with that pointless newscast? A lot of cheap heat and enfeebled ranting that mean slightly less than fuck-all. One might think that he of all the knuckle dragging man-apes on this planet would realize that there is exactly nothing new in anything he’s said. Women are “the problem”? Weaker? Less intelligent? We run into those attitudes every day, and there is exactly nothing new or shocking in anything he’s said. As to his puerile threats...talk dirty to me, big boy. The match rules are in place for the safety of all, but if he really wants to turn this into a bloodbath I’ll be more than happy to relinquish my highly questionable professionalism and oblige him. I can always claim self defense, because after all... I’m just a girl.
The thoughts continue to flow freely through her mind, colliding and separating, bouncing off one another in a pandemonium of neurons. Quiet rumination had abruptly given way to a strong sense of power and purpose - quite probably the opposite effect wished by the catalyst. Ford’s repugnant “news” briefing had been everything it was meant to be. Appalling, disgraceful, needlessly vulgar and the first time she had ever felt embarrassed for Whitey. Falling off the wagon is one thing - pissing in the eye of the driver and defiling the pony tugging the wagon along before you go was another thing entirely. Shortly after the newscast had aired, Eira had retreated to the haven of their bedroom alone, as much to give herself time to think as to escape the palpable surge of rage emanating from Murdoc. After giving her a bit of space and getting his intense reaction under tighter control, he made quick work of following her to their own private sanctuary.
“Are you alright, Eira?”
Restrained anger like the subliminal roar of a distant wildfire rumbles through his voice as he enters their room to find her gazing out the window, elegant, slender hands clasped around her upper arms. Silence meets his words, her lithe form silhouetted against the night skyline as the gauzy curtains ripple and swell in the cool breeze. Concern knitting his brows together, he takes another step forward into the room, one hand extended towards her.
“Amba. “
The name given to her and spoken only by her Beloved; the only word in any language that expresses God and Devil in the same breath. A few more seconds of silence fade into the ether, the rhythmic hiss of passing cars on damp pavement a hushed counterpoint to her soft exhale.
“I am Pure Class Wrestling’s World Title holder. I have clawed my way up through the ranks for this honor. I have shown them the Devil on their back.”
Her voice is calm and clear, resonating with sensual power; blood soaked velvet over granite. Silvery white tresses catch the moonlight in a shimmering wave as she turns her head to lock eyes with him, eyes bright with amber fire, her dark lips curving in a wicked smile.
“Now I will show them their vengeful God.”