"I Don't Fuck Jobbers"
Jul 16, 2022 19:57:42 GMT
C̸̣̠̑̊ŗ̸̙̔͠u̵̗̾̾Z̴̗̺̿̀e̷̛͓͕̕, kylewilliams, and 1 more like this
Post by Amelia Winston on Jul 16, 2022 19:57:42 GMT
“Yo Wildheart… we fuckin’ tonight or nah?”
“Never gonna happen, Darryl.”
“What, you don’t get with other wrestlers?”
“Oh hun, no, I fuck wrestlers… but I don’t fuck jobbers.”
A chorus of amused ‘ooohs’ from the other wrestlers around as the scene opens at what could politely be described as a ‘shitty indy’ event, somewhere in Ontario, Canada. The doors haven’t opened yet and the locker room situation must be far from ideal as the wrestlers are gathered in the seats and around ringside in the… legion hall? Community center? Who knows, all those little venues start to look the same after a while. Amelia ‘Wildheart’ Wilson hasn’t even looked up at the come on from her fellow competitor, just sitting on the ring apron in her wrestling gear; little black and yellow trunks, a matching low-cut sports bra, kickpads over amateur-style boots, taping her wrists. Aside from her words she shows practically no reaction to the words; she’s heard this and worse plenty of times before.
The wrestlers around her are clearly amused though, all except for the one who’d originally propositioned her. Around 6 feet tall, a pale, husky ginger with an angry pout on his face storms over, standing before her.
“Bitch I can bench you without breaking a sweat!”
Amelia finally looks up from taping her wrists, rolling her eyes.
“Yeah, so can I Darryl. I weigh a buck forty, it’s not exactly an impressive metric. The fact that I can squat you is probably a little more impressive, but you don’t see me trying to use that to make myself sound good.”
“I oughta kick your ass!”
He rears back with a clenched fist as if to throw but Amelia brings her feet up quicker, planting both on his chest and pushing him backwards, sending him stumbling into the front row of folding chairs. Darryl is back on his feet quickly but a crowd of wrestlers has gotten between them to prevent him from trying again.
“I’m gonna-”
“Hey Mikey, you’re supposed to be facing this dumbass tonight, right?”
One of the wrestlers in the crowd separating Darryl and Amelia, Mikey apparently, nods.
“Mind switching? You take my match with Omar and I get Darryl? Sixpack of MegaSpark in it for you.”
“What flavour?”
“Tropical Triumph.”
“Deal!”
Amelia looks down to Darryl with a smirk as she stands on the ring apron.
“Congrats Darryl, for the first time in your life a woman is voluntarily going to touch you.”
The wrestlers ‘oooh’ again before we cut ahead.
The show is happening now, a less-than-huge crowd in attendance cheering loudly for ‘Wildheart’ as she stands opposite a pacing Darryl, a referee between them. Off camera the bell rings and the ref steps back and Darryl charges in, throwing a clothesline that Amelia sidesteps. His momentum sends Darryl into the ropes and as he rebounds back Amelia meets him coming, the crowd roaring as she connects with a standing Shining Wizard, her signature Flash Smash, sending her pasty foe crumbling to the mat. As Darryl tries to get to his feet she steps through the ropes to the ring apron, measuring her shot. He rises and she launches herself to the top rope, springboarding into a full front flip and flattening him with a lariat out of the flip, drawing more cheers for her Chaos Lariat. She rushes to the corner, quickly ascending to the top rope with her back to Darryl before launching herself as the crowd gasps: a twist towards her opponent followed by a tightly-coiled front flip, crashing down after 630 degrees of rotation with the Heart Stopper. Amelia rolls over into a pin and the crowd counts along with the referee.
One.
Two.
Three.
While the audio doesn’t pick it up, if you can read lips you can clearly make out the word Amelia says as she looks down at Darryl before standing up.
“Jobber.”
“The past is prologue. What I’ve done before today, what anyone else has done before today, it means nothing about what will happen on the beach on July 29th. Sure, past experiences impact us in different ways; lessons learned, injuries suffered, it makes a difference in what we do, how we fight, how we live, absolutely. But the wins and the losses, trophies raised and belts worn?”
Amelia blows a raspberry at the camera. She’s dressed in sneakers, short black gym shorts and a long yellow tank top, her long curls held back from her face with a wide headband, her skin glistening with sweat after a workout. She’s seated on a bench in a locker room, elbows on her knees as she looks straight at the camera with an impish grin.
“That stuff doesn’t mean shit. Yeah, it looks good on a resume, maybe it helps you get your foot in the door when a new company comes along and wants to hire the baddest talent they can find. But when two or four or twenty four people face off toe to toe in the ring? When the fists start flying and the action turns to that glorious chaos y’all love to see and we all love to do? All the accomplishments in the world won’t save you from eating that big move that puts you down for three or, in this particular case, keeps you from getting your ass tossed out over the top to the floor. Or sand. I dunno how the boss is gonna have this laid out. Y’all get the idea though.”
She shifts on the bench, leaning back against the locker behind her as she picks up a shaker bottle, taking a long drink from it before setting it back down next to her.
“MuscleFeed post-workout shake. Killer stuff. Not just because they’re paying me to drink it on camera. Anyway, it’s not like this is some way for me to excuse a lack of accolades on my end; I’ve been doing this for four years now and I’ve held belts in Canada, the US, Great Britain, even one in Luxembourg. Lovely country, by the way. Fantastic people. But those belts, they ain’t gonna help me on the 29th. They ain’t gonna help me beat over a dozen opponents in one crazy battle royal for a chance to be the first ever Wrestleverse champion. They ain’t gonna help 5’5”, 140-odd pound me in there against all those people, some of ‘em a good foot taller than me, some of ‘em over a hundred pounds heavier than me. Ever since I signed on for this insanity I’ve had people asking me how I can even think about winning.”
We cut to a series of quick clips: Amelia sitting in a studio in front of a mic being interviewed for a podcast, Amelia in a yellow bikini posing with a can of MegaSpark energy drink next to a pool talking to the photographer, Amelia taping her wrists sitting on the ring apron at some small-time indy show with a few other wrestlers around her, Amelia at a grocery store helping an elderly woman with a case of water in her cart. In each clip she is audibly asked the same question:
“How can you win that match?”
We cut back to Amelia who just shrugs.
A cut to another series of clips, these in wrestling rings, all featuring ‘Wildheart’ in battle royal action. The various clips seem to be months, maybe years apart; in some her hair is a bit shorter or a bit longer, a little more or less muscle on her frame, the ring attire varying. In one clip she lowbridges a charging opponent over the top rope to the apron before connecting with the Flash Smash to knock them to the floor. In the next a massively tall man has Amelia over his head in a military press but when he tries to throw her over the top rope she counters, catching him by the arm and dragging him out over the top to the floor while saving herself by catching the top rope with her feet. In another she leaps to the top rope at a sprint and hits a rana that sends a seated woman flying into a crowd of bodies on the floor while ‘Wildheart’ lands safely on the apron.
We cut back to Amelia once more, sipping her MuscleFeed before offering the camera a bright smile.
“Yeah, I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve. Point is, just because this is the kinda match that looks like it should be perfect for those musclebound powerhouse kinda folks, don’t y’all dare count me out on this. I’m not discounting the skills of my opponents by any means, but I know how good I am. I know I can win this match. I know I can walk onto that beach in my boots and trunks and sports bra on Friday night and leave it Saturday afternoon in my bikini, battered and bruised and contused and maybe concussed and almost certainly hungover with the Wrestleverse Championship belt around my waist. What, we’re having a show on the beach, you’re not expecting me to celebrate there too? Point is, I’m not confident because I think the other people in that ring are shit. I’m confident because I’m the shit, y’know?”
Amelia polishes off the last of her drink and rises from the bench, the camera panning up slightly to keep her in the shot.
“See you soon, Wrestleverse. My passport’s ready, my wrestling gear is packed and I got a whole suitcase set aside to fill up with duty free booze on the way home. Let’s do this.”
Amelia peels her tank top off, revealing a white sports bra for just a second before she drops the shirt over the camera, a shock of yellow and then a fade to black.
“Never gonna happen, Darryl.”
“What, you don’t get with other wrestlers?”
“Oh hun, no, I fuck wrestlers… but I don’t fuck jobbers.”
A chorus of amused ‘ooohs’ from the other wrestlers around as the scene opens at what could politely be described as a ‘shitty indy’ event, somewhere in Ontario, Canada. The doors haven’t opened yet and the locker room situation must be far from ideal as the wrestlers are gathered in the seats and around ringside in the… legion hall? Community center? Who knows, all those little venues start to look the same after a while. Amelia ‘Wildheart’ Wilson hasn’t even looked up at the come on from her fellow competitor, just sitting on the ring apron in her wrestling gear; little black and yellow trunks, a matching low-cut sports bra, kickpads over amateur-style boots, taping her wrists. Aside from her words she shows practically no reaction to the words; she’s heard this and worse plenty of times before.
The wrestlers around her are clearly amused though, all except for the one who’d originally propositioned her. Around 6 feet tall, a pale, husky ginger with an angry pout on his face storms over, standing before her.
“Bitch I can bench you without breaking a sweat!”
Amelia finally looks up from taping her wrists, rolling her eyes.
“Yeah, so can I Darryl. I weigh a buck forty, it’s not exactly an impressive metric. The fact that I can squat you is probably a little more impressive, but you don’t see me trying to use that to make myself sound good.”
“I oughta kick your ass!”
He rears back with a clenched fist as if to throw but Amelia brings her feet up quicker, planting both on his chest and pushing him backwards, sending him stumbling into the front row of folding chairs. Darryl is back on his feet quickly but a crowd of wrestlers has gotten between them to prevent him from trying again.
“I’m gonna-”
“Hey Mikey, you’re supposed to be facing this dumbass tonight, right?”
One of the wrestlers in the crowd separating Darryl and Amelia, Mikey apparently, nods.
“Mind switching? You take my match with Omar and I get Darryl? Sixpack of MegaSpark in it for you.”
“What flavour?”
“Tropical Triumph.”
“Deal!”
Amelia looks down to Darryl with a smirk as she stands on the ring apron.
“Congrats Darryl, for the first time in your life a woman is voluntarily going to touch you.”
The wrestlers ‘oooh’ again before we cut ahead.
The show is happening now, a less-than-huge crowd in attendance cheering loudly for ‘Wildheart’ as she stands opposite a pacing Darryl, a referee between them. Off camera the bell rings and the ref steps back and Darryl charges in, throwing a clothesline that Amelia sidesteps. His momentum sends Darryl into the ropes and as he rebounds back Amelia meets him coming, the crowd roaring as she connects with a standing Shining Wizard, her signature Flash Smash, sending her pasty foe crumbling to the mat. As Darryl tries to get to his feet she steps through the ropes to the ring apron, measuring her shot. He rises and she launches herself to the top rope, springboarding into a full front flip and flattening him with a lariat out of the flip, drawing more cheers for her Chaos Lariat. She rushes to the corner, quickly ascending to the top rope with her back to Darryl before launching herself as the crowd gasps: a twist towards her opponent followed by a tightly-coiled front flip, crashing down after 630 degrees of rotation with the Heart Stopper. Amelia rolls over into a pin and the crowd counts along with the referee.
One.
Two.
Three.
While the audio doesn’t pick it up, if you can read lips you can clearly make out the word Amelia says as she looks down at Darryl before standing up.
“Jobber.”
“The past is prologue. What I’ve done before today, what anyone else has done before today, it means nothing about what will happen on the beach on July 29th. Sure, past experiences impact us in different ways; lessons learned, injuries suffered, it makes a difference in what we do, how we fight, how we live, absolutely. But the wins and the losses, trophies raised and belts worn?”
Amelia blows a raspberry at the camera. She’s dressed in sneakers, short black gym shorts and a long yellow tank top, her long curls held back from her face with a wide headband, her skin glistening with sweat after a workout. She’s seated on a bench in a locker room, elbows on her knees as she looks straight at the camera with an impish grin.
“That stuff doesn’t mean shit. Yeah, it looks good on a resume, maybe it helps you get your foot in the door when a new company comes along and wants to hire the baddest talent they can find. But when two or four or twenty four people face off toe to toe in the ring? When the fists start flying and the action turns to that glorious chaos y’all love to see and we all love to do? All the accomplishments in the world won’t save you from eating that big move that puts you down for three or, in this particular case, keeps you from getting your ass tossed out over the top to the floor. Or sand. I dunno how the boss is gonna have this laid out. Y’all get the idea though.”
She shifts on the bench, leaning back against the locker behind her as she picks up a shaker bottle, taking a long drink from it before setting it back down next to her.
“MuscleFeed post-workout shake. Killer stuff. Not just because they’re paying me to drink it on camera. Anyway, it’s not like this is some way for me to excuse a lack of accolades on my end; I’ve been doing this for four years now and I’ve held belts in Canada, the US, Great Britain, even one in Luxembourg. Lovely country, by the way. Fantastic people. But those belts, they ain’t gonna help me on the 29th. They ain’t gonna help me beat over a dozen opponents in one crazy battle royal for a chance to be the first ever Wrestleverse champion. They ain’t gonna help 5’5”, 140-odd pound me in there against all those people, some of ‘em a good foot taller than me, some of ‘em over a hundred pounds heavier than me. Ever since I signed on for this insanity I’ve had people asking me how I can even think about winning.”
We cut to a series of quick clips: Amelia sitting in a studio in front of a mic being interviewed for a podcast, Amelia in a yellow bikini posing with a can of MegaSpark energy drink next to a pool talking to the photographer, Amelia taping her wrists sitting on the ring apron at some small-time indy show with a few other wrestlers around her, Amelia at a grocery store helping an elderly woman with a case of water in her cart. In each clip she is audibly asked the same question:
“How can you win that match?”
We cut back to Amelia who just shrugs.
A cut to another series of clips, these in wrestling rings, all featuring ‘Wildheart’ in battle royal action. The various clips seem to be months, maybe years apart; in some her hair is a bit shorter or a bit longer, a little more or less muscle on her frame, the ring attire varying. In one clip she lowbridges a charging opponent over the top rope to the apron before connecting with the Flash Smash to knock them to the floor. In the next a massively tall man has Amelia over his head in a military press but when he tries to throw her over the top rope she counters, catching him by the arm and dragging him out over the top to the floor while saving herself by catching the top rope with her feet. In another she leaps to the top rope at a sprint and hits a rana that sends a seated woman flying into a crowd of bodies on the floor while ‘Wildheart’ lands safely on the apron.
We cut back to Amelia once more, sipping her MuscleFeed before offering the camera a bright smile.
“Yeah, I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve. Point is, just because this is the kinda match that looks like it should be perfect for those musclebound powerhouse kinda folks, don’t y’all dare count me out on this. I’m not discounting the skills of my opponents by any means, but I know how good I am. I know I can win this match. I know I can walk onto that beach in my boots and trunks and sports bra on Friday night and leave it Saturday afternoon in my bikini, battered and bruised and contused and maybe concussed and almost certainly hungover with the Wrestleverse Championship belt around my waist. What, we’re having a show on the beach, you’re not expecting me to celebrate there too? Point is, I’m not confident because I think the other people in that ring are shit. I’m confident because I’m the shit, y’know?”
Amelia polishes off the last of her drink and rises from the bench, the camera panning up slightly to keep her in the shot.
“See you soon, Wrestleverse. My passport’s ready, my wrestling gear is packed and I got a whole suitcase set aside to fill up with duty free booze on the way home. Let’s do this.”
Amelia peels her tank top off, revealing a white sports bra for just a second before she drops the shirt over the camera, a shock of yellow and then a fade to black.