Post by Eira on Sept 18, 2015 10:33:27 GMT -5
Parts Unknown, NC - 9/18/2015
I’ve got to say, I was not only not expecting such a response, I’m not even sure what to say. The outpouring of concern and support has been heartwarming to say the least. Normally I’d try to do a recording to thank you, but I’m afraid I’m not quite up to it. Trying to save up all my strength to face Non Compos Mentis at Trauma 179. Not the best history ever with the guy but... he’s changed. Somehow.
Before we look towards the future, I want to take a look at the recent past. Another World Title shot granted - and lost. On the bright side, I’m still Pure Class Wrestling’s North American Champion (sorry, Showtime), and honor I’m proud to hold. With my ... reassignment to other parts of the PCW competition structure, I find myself looking back at the last year with a mix of pride at my accomplishments and frustrated resentment at the obstacles.
Despite all this, I do intend to compete at Trauma 179. I just have a few things to say - but first I'll address the slew of concerned messages about my injuries.
I’ve got to say, I was not only not expecting such a response, I’m not even sure what to say. The outpouring of concern and support has been heartwarming to say the least. Normally I’d try to do a recording to thank you, but I’m afraid I’m not quite up to it. Trying to save up all my strength to face Non Compos Mentis at Trauma 179. Not the best history ever with the guy but... he’s changed. Somehow.
Before we look towards the future, I want to take a look at the recent past. Another World Title shot granted - and lost. On the bright side, I’m still Pure Class Wrestling’s North American Champion (sorry, Showtime), and honor I’m proud to hold. With my ... reassignment to other parts of the PCW competition structure, I find myself looking back at the last year with a mix of pride at my accomplishments and frustrated resentment at the obstacles.
Despite all this, I do intend to compete at Trauma 179. I just have a few things to say - but first I'll address the slew of concerned messages about my injuries.
Nestling a bit deeper into the pillows stacked behind her in an avalanche of plush softness, Eira adjusts her laptop and shakes her hair out of her face - immediately regretting the decision as the movement sends a lance of throbbing pain through her skull.
Murdoc catches the wince, instantly at her side. “Amba, are you alright? Is your vision clear? Can you hear me?”
She breathes through the pain, putting a hand on his forearm in reassurance. “I’m fine, Love. Just jostled something, that’s all.”
He eases back, concern still etched on his face. The past two weeks hadn’t been easy on the man, Murdoc showing a nurturing side never before seen - and likely never to be believed. He had been attentive to Eira, remembering her medication times and bringing her food, seeing to her every comfort. Like a Susie Homemaker fueled by rage and blasted from the gates of Hell itself, he had risen to the occasion marvelously. Eira glances at him out of the corner of her eye.
“So... will you go get me a coffee?”
Murdoc frowns. “The doctor said you should avoid caffeine, if your blood pressure gets too high it could cause ‘complications’.”
Grimacing, she waves her hand dismissively. “They HAVE to say that. I swear I’m fine... and I could REALLY use a coffee. Been feeling so foggy lately.”
Crossing his arms over his massive chest, he stares down at her with the inflexible stare of a parent denying a toddler wheedling for extra treats.
“That’s what a concussion DOES. You’ve already had some issues with damage to your skull, then Sadistic hammered you into stonework.” A shudder ripples through his large frame, eyes closing. “Don’t make me do it again.”
She blinks at him, confused. “Don’t make you what?”
His eyes snap open, a gunmetal grey piercing straight through her. “Don’t ever - EVER - make me watch someone hurt you like that again.”
Her face falls. “I’m sorry it - we had to do it that way. You know why.”
Murdoc lowers himself to the bed, leaning over her and pressing his lips to her forehead. “Never again, Amba.” He gazes at her, brushing her hair gently aside. “How is your stomach?”
“Fine. Wait - HEY!” Eira squeals and struggles weakly as Murdoc pulls up the hem of her faded band tee, exposing her belly - and the ghastly bruise spread from hip to hip. Glancing down herself, she tilts her head, examining the mottled hues of purple, green, yellow, and brown. “I think I see Jesus in there. Think I could be famous for it?”
He rests his hand on her lower abdomen, the warmth of his touch soothing the damaged muscles underneath. Looking up at him, Eira runs a finger down his cheek.
“It’s alright, Love. No permanent damage, and no organ damage. Just damaged muscles and the single worst bruise I’ve ever had in my life.”
As Murdoc's contents himself with the closeness and the subconscious reassurance of Eira's state-of-aliveness, she returns to typing.
I assure you, the reports of my skull being caved in by a cathedral floor were (barely) exaggerated. There was some damage, some staples had to be put in... 23 of them, to be exact. Don’t fret, lovelies, I’m fine. I’m ensconced in bed, back home, and full of enough medication to make even Kelli Starr a bit blurry.
You know, it’s funny. The things we tell ourselves to get through the day. Little platitudes to keep you from losing your mind and drowning in it. Sometimes life shits on you simply because ... nothing. There are no reasons. There is no plan. Those little refugee children drowning in seek of sanctuary - there is no reason. Women gunned down for being the wrong sex in an extremist faith - there is no reason. There's never a reason beyond the reasons humanity creates. Some call upon a God to validate their suffering, or the suffering they inflict on others.
Billy Sadistic has no such crutch, no such excuse. As much as I believe that the concepts of good and evil are merely constructs to allow us to categorize things and control each other, I also firmly believe William Dillinger is as close to evil as it gets. The Black Hand vs the Order, Evil vs Good, Hell vs Heaven? Not hardly. This isn't an amphitheater in which we see the final showdown between polarities of virtue and turpitude. No, this is personal... deeply personal.
Now on to Gem.
Time to let it rest, you say? Possibly fans of the girl yourselves, glorying in her righteous triumphs and despairing in her bravely tragic failures?
No matter how you feel about it, the fact remains that I have been inexplicably linked to her through this mess of the last few months. My involvement with Sadistic was (and yes, ladies and gentleman, brass has determined for us it is most certainly “was”) a solid, if nasty feud - that completely fell the fuck apart when that persecuted little murder doll was shoved in the middle of it. Completely ignoring the fact she couldn’t get anywhere in the lower brackets once she was moved out of the Underground, suddenly it was “Gem as Accompanied by PCW’s World Title Picture”.
I’m sure enough is enough, right? Sick of hearing me talk about Gem?
Fuck you.
Imagine how tired of this bullshit you’d be if you were living it. Her story, her BEING, was given credence over me as a competitor - and I resent that. I resent her interjection into MY FUCKING BUSINESS because brass wanted her pretty face there. How many one on one matches did Gem get with Sadistic, despite being involved later in the overall timeline of the Black Hand’s terrorizing of Pure Class Wrestling?
2. So far, this Trauma? That’ll be 3. This is without counting that abortion of a match she weaseled in on that’s her only claim to a “win” over Billy-boy, which would actually make 4.
How many one on one matches did I get with Sadistic?
One. Go ahead, check the records on the official site. I’ll wait.
You know, Foley once said he found the rumors and accusations of favoritism laughable. Thing is, nobody else was laughing. But hey, that doesn’t really matter at this point, does it? It doesn’t at all. Water under the bridge. All in the past. Que sera, sera. Etc. I had what looks like my last chance at the World Championship for quite some time - and I lost. Again. But... I’ve held it. I’ve held three of PCW’s titles in as many years, which is more than some attain in their entire careers. I’m not going anywhere. I doubt Sadistic is, since at this point I refuse to believe he’s human enough to have the decency to die properly.
You know, it’s funny. The things we tell ourselves to get through the day. Little platitudes to keep you from losing your mind and drowning in it. Sometimes life shits on you simply because ... nothing. There are no reasons. There is no plan. Those little refugee children drowning in seek of sanctuary - there is no reason. Women gunned down for being the wrong sex in an extremist faith - there is no reason. There's never a reason beyond the reasons humanity creates. Some call upon a God to validate their suffering, or the suffering they inflict on others.
Billy Sadistic has no such crutch, no such excuse. As much as I believe that the concepts of good and evil are merely constructs to allow us to categorize things and control each other, I also firmly believe William Dillinger is as close to evil as it gets. The Black Hand vs the Order, Evil vs Good, Hell vs Heaven? Not hardly. This isn't an amphitheater in which we see the final showdown between polarities of virtue and turpitude. No, this is personal... deeply personal.
Now on to Gem.
Time to let it rest, you say? Possibly fans of the girl yourselves, glorying in her righteous triumphs and despairing in her bravely tragic failures?
No matter how you feel about it, the fact remains that I have been inexplicably linked to her through this mess of the last few months. My involvement with Sadistic was (and yes, ladies and gentleman, brass has determined for us it is most certainly “was”) a solid, if nasty feud - that completely fell the fuck apart when that persecuted little murder doll was shoved in the middle of it. Completely ignoring the fact she couldn’t get anywhere in the lower brackets once she was moved out of the Underground, suddenly it was “Gem as Accompanied by PCW’s World Title Picture”.
I’m sure enough is enough, right? Sick of hearing me talk about Gem?
Fuck you.
Imagine how tired of this bullshit you’d be if you were living it. Her story, her BEING, was given credence over me as a competitor - and I resent that. I resent her interjection into MY FUCKING BUSINESS because brass wanted her pretty face there. How many one on one matches did Gem get with Sadistic, despite being involved later in the overall timeline of the Black Hand’s terrorizing of Pure Class Wrestling?
2. So far, this Trauma? That’ll be 3. This is without counting that abortion of a match she weaseled in on that’s her only claim to a “win” over Billy-boy, which would actually make 4.
How many one on one matches did I get with Sadistic?
One. Go ahead, check the records on the official site. I’ll wait.
You know, Foley once said he found the rumors and accusations of favoritism laughable. Thing is, nobody else was laughing. But hey, that doesn’t really matter at this point, does it? It doesn’t at all. Water under the bridge. All in the past. Que sera, sera. Etc. I had what looks like my last chance at the World Championship for quite some time - and I lost. Again. But... I’ve held it. I’ve held three of PCW’s titles in as many years, which is more than some attain in their entire careers. I’m not going anywhere. I doubt Sadistic is, since at this point I refuse to believe he’s human enough to have the decency to die properly.
Murdoc lifts his hand from her stomach, running lightly through her hair, his fingertips grazing the jagged path of staples in her skull. “Did Altman get a hold of you?”
Eira nods, pausing work on her post-in-progress. “He did.”
“Did we get what we needed?”
Grinning up at him, she winks. “He was IMPRESSED. Apparently Sadistic only needed to bleed a little at the site of the baptismal font. Rather than, you know, being impaled by part of it.”
Giving her a searching look, he probes for the answer he really wants. “So... your match with NCM. You’re not actually going to compete, are you? The doctor told you not to. If you do -”
“If I do, and my blood pressure goes too high, I run the risk of potentially fatal brain hemorrhage.”
“Not to mention if you actually get hit in the head.”
“I can’t just NOT show. I can’t let Sadistic know how bad he hurt me. I don’t care if the brass thinks we’re done - I’m not done with that grimy son of a bitch until he’s deep sixed.”
Murdoc watches her for a moment, then rises from the bed, Eira looking up at him expectantly. “Coffee?”
“No coffee. I’ll bring you some tea though.”
She smiles as he pads from the room, turning back to her laptop.
Now on to NCM. Sean Rhodes, The Hobo King, whatever it is you want to call him... he’s a monster. Before you think this is trash talking, just hear me out.
The man has been put through so many variations of himself, so many trials, so many punishing matches and brutal competitions... but he’s still here. Ugly, scarred, but still very much here. We don’t have much in the way of match history, but we have - more. There are involvements well outside the hallowed halls of the PCW Arena that I share with him, involvements that add bias and caution to such a match.
In stark contrast to my conflict with Sadistic, I will not be going into this match to do grievous bodily harm to the man.
In direct opposition to my conflict with Gem, I will not be going into this match to slap down a self righteous martyr.
In this match, I go only to compete. A battle of athleticism and wit. Non Compos Mentis is a heavy hitting powerhouse, whereas I have speed and agility. If he gets his hands on me for long... it might as well be done. Ring the bell, call the match, NCM the winner.
But if he lets me hit the air...
Well. We’ll see how it goes, won’t we?
I’ll be seeing you all at Trauma 179 - keep on watching, Faithful. Your support is everything to this business.
The man has been put through so many variations of himself, so many trials, so many punishing matches and brutal competitions... but he’s still here. Ugly, scarred, but still very much here. We don’t have much in the way of match history, but we have - more. There are involvements well outside the hallowed halls of the PCW Arena that I share with him, involvements that add bias and caution to such a match.
In stark contrast to my conflict with Sadistic, I will not be going into this match to do grievous bodily harm to the man.
In direct opposition to my conflict with Gem, I will not be going into this match to slap down a self righteous martyr.
In this match, I go only to compete. A battle of athleticism and wit. Non Compos Mentis is a heavy hitting powerhouse, whereas I have speed and agility. If he gets his hands on me for long... it might as well be done. Ring the bell, call the match, NCM the winner.
But if he lets me hit the air...
Well. We’ll see how it goes, won’t we?
I’ll be seeing you all at Trauma 179 - keep on watching, Faithful. Your support is everything to this business.
~ Eira
Murdoc returns, carrying a small wooden tray. Eira shifts the laptop out of the way, Murdoc settling the tray down over her thighs. Looking down, she smiles at what he’s prepared.
The promised beverage releases tendrils of steam into the air, carrying the scent of black tea and bergamot. A small plate of tea biscuits accompanies the drink, along with a bowl of sliced fruit. Smiling up at him, she pulls his head down and lifts her own to kiss him soundly on the lips.
“Thank you, Love, it looks amazing.” Eagerly tucking in, she reaches for a tea biscuit, taking a bite of the crispy snack.
“Why was NCM here?” Eyes wide, she freezes, suddenly hyper-conscious of the small mouthful of food. Her gaze darting to him, she chews cautiously, trying to organize her thoughts under the cover of good manners. Musn’t talk with food in one’s mouth and all.
“I um.” She swallows, reaching for the mug of tea and taking a dainty sip. “How did you know?”
“That didn’t answer my question.” Implacable man, that Murdoc.
“He needed help. The Order... they’re priming him for something and we can’t figure out what. It might involve you, and I don’t - I don’t want to see him get dragged in and pulled under like I was. Anyway, that’s all that was. Just a quick talk. I did some poking aroundf or him, and I have something I need to give him when I see him at Trauma.” Clapping her hands over her mouth, she stares at Murdoc, who glares at her with patent disapproval.
“Seeing him at Trauma, hm? Amba -”
“Please. Love, I know you don’t want me to do it, and I know the doctors don’t want me to do it, and to be totally honest I’d rather be sitting here being spoiled than doing it - but I HAVE to compete.”
“Why? Why do you HAVE to?”
She stares down at the tray, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I have to prove I can do it. I have to prove I’m strong enough, that I’m worth it.”
“Amba, who has said ANYTHING to the contrary? You go out there, and you risk your LIFE, do you realize that!?”
She shrinks back a bit from the shout, a burning sensation at the back of her neck a forewarning to her PTSD activating in full. Struggling to control it amid her already jangled nervous system, she closes her eyes.
“Please trust me.” Her eyes open, wet and blurry as she seeks Murdoc’s gaze, his hard expression collapsing at the sight of her tears. “I see you -” she swallows back a small cry, gritting her teeth. “I see you going out, on different nights. I’m not a Seeker, but I know what you face - and you risk everything every time. You risk your life. You risk your sanity. You risk everything we have.”
He opens his mouth, but she holds a gentle finger to his lips.
“I know why you do it. And I TRUST you to do it. I just need you to trust ME to do this. This isn’t the Black Hand. This isn’t Sadistic. This is a man who not only has no actual reason to do me terrible harm, but needs my HELP. I’ll be alright.”
Lifting the tray from her, he sets it aside, pulling her close to him and wrapping her securely in his arms.
“Just come home safe to me, Amba. Just come home safe.”
