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Talking to Myself; Toughill v. Donovann
Topic Started: Nov 28 2015, 08:00 AM (30 Views)
Jon A
[In the back hallways of The Pitt, a door opens from the raining outside. It is barely dawn, not that anyone can tell, as the orange street lights provide more light than cloud-obscured rising sun can. Through the door steps a sullen looking figure in an oversized black zip-up hoodie; the hood is drawn closely over her head, and she carries a trio of grocery bags full of garbage bags and other cleaning supplies. She makes sure the door is closed behind her as she heads down a hallway, hood still drawn, looking back and forth nervously. A voice from off-camera momentarily distracts her.]

VOICE: CRAAAAAAAAZEEEE ERICAAAAAA!

[Erica Toughill weakly gives a thumbs up to the off-camera Fury Rider without breaking stride. A few more turns to avoid anyone else and she stops outside a dressing room door. A sheet of paper on the door reads 'ERICA' in Times New Roman, and several surnames are hastily scrawled in and crossed out beneath it. She puts her grocery bags on the floor and pulls out a mass of keys that nearly fill her fist. One by one, she undoes the various locks and latches she has installed on her heavily fortified dressing room door, when another voice makes her wheel around, back to the wall, fists raised.]

OTHER VOICE: [in an off-key faux-Latino caterwaul] One toke over the liiine, sweet Jesus... One toke over the liiiine!

[Enter a swarthy-looking man in an unbuttoned floral-print shirt with a mighty moustache singing to himself. After a second or two, he is recognizable as...]

ERICA: ...Rodney?

RODNEY: Hey, maaaaan! Like my Movember 'stache?

ERICA: It's... It's nice—it's good. Uh, L-look, Rodney... I'm really sorry about everything I've put your through th-the past couple of months. I promise I won't let it happen again. I am so so sorry.

RODNEY: You kiddin'? You're the most fun thing about working at this place! Think JJ Brine and Valkyrie are any fun? NAAAAAH. Hey... you wanna turn a fire extinguisher on KMC later?

ERICA: [ambiguously] Gee, that sounds like fun. Uh, s-sorry Rodney—

RODNEY: Hey, you can call me Honey Rectum.

ERICA: I'd... r-rather not... I gotta tidy up my dressing room.

RODNEY: You're not leaving us are you, Duke? Okay, I can dig getting duct-taped into an office chair by a sassy cat-lady. Just don't make me show the tape, cause it might cost you again.

ERICA: No, I'm... I'm... I'm just c-cleaning up after myself.

RODNEY: [disappointed] Oh. Okay...

[He reaches into one of her grocery bags and pulls out a jug of bleach.]

RODNEY: As your technician, I advise you to not use heavy chemicals on the floor; just a mix of white vinegar and water will do. You won't need much... Just a teeny taste.

ERICA: I-I'll keep that in mind.

[Rodney walks off down the hallway, humming “Mama Told Me Not To Come” by Three Dog Night.]

ERICA: And Rodney? Thank you.

[She quickly undoes the last of the locks on her door, grabs her cleaning supplies, and shuts the door behind her. Erica does up the chain latch, locks the deadbolt, presses the look on the door handle, and takes the padlock she removed from the outside of the door and latches it on the eyelet she installed on the inside. She allows herself a momentary sigh of relief, then looks with disgust at the mess she has accumulated over the past four months.]

ERICA: Eeeeuuu-yuck.

[The floor is covered in empty beer cans and rotting food. Every surface seems to be covered with garbage or debris of some kind. Erica pops the lid on an air freshener and waves it around like she's warding off evil spirits, then opens a garbage bag, puts on a pair of heavy work gloves, and begins scooping up the mess.]

[After a very short time, she discards the heavy black hoodie, revealing her pale frame, octopus tattoo glaring out menacingly over her right shoulder. She has allowed her sidecut to grow for a couple weeks, the shaved side revealing patches of salt-and-pepper greying color.]

[In the full-length mirror, cracked in a spider-web pattern, Erica catches a glimpse of herself; she pinches the inch-and-a-half of bare, pasty babyfat between her tank top and baggy jeans, and sticks her tongue out with a disgusted grunt.]

ERICA: Yecch. Who let the garbage girl in with the angels and the amazons?

[She pauses and decides to follow through, standing up and taking a good, long look in the broken mirror.]

ERICA: You shouldn't say that. Andrea Kristian sure seems to think you belong here.

[Erica tries to smooth out the 'crow's feet' wrinkles that frame her morose eyes.]

ERICA: Yeah, and now you have face her psychotic girl toy Kiora again. She never liked you, did she? All the way back since 2008 she never liked you. I guess that makes two of us...

[Erica slaps her hand on the wall beside the mirror.]

ERICA: Stop saying that! Stop saying that, you crybaby!

[She runs her fingers through the greasy black hair running down the side of her face, seemingly soothing herself.]

ERICA: I haven't changed. Those other faces I've worn for five years now, and this one hasn't changed.

[Erica looks deeply into her own eyes, inching closer to the cracked surface of the mirror, trying to get a better look.]

ERICA: Why you? Why now? Why this face? Why do I need this face now? Why am I you now? Why am I me?

[She stares at her reflection for a few more seconds before quietly, bitterly chuckling.]

ERICA: Wrestling for twelve years, and my greatest opponent has been my own mind. No wonder I'm not scared of what Kiora Donovan or anyone else can do to me.

[She leans in close to glass, close enough that her breath fogs the surface of the mirror.]

ERICA: [whispering] Craaaaaaaazeeee Ericaaaaaa, the Queen of Clubs.

[She allows herself a rare smile.]

ERICA: Hail to the Queen, baby.

[Erica turns her back to the cracked mirror and returns to work, squatting down and continuing to scoop garbage and debris into the oversized black plastic bag.]

[She doesn't see her reflection in the same position looking back at her over her tattooed shoulder.]
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