| The Silence of the Night Clubs; POTW, I | |
|---|---|
| Tweet Topic Started: Jun 17 2016, 02:43 PM (26 Views) | |
| Grace Goeren | Jun 17 2016, 02:43 PM Post #1 |
|
Verboten. A German word that means “forbidden”. Grace remembers hearing her mother, a native German speaker, use it many times when she was growing up. Like many immigrants living in America, Grace’s mother let her accent and native tongue slip when she was flustered or angry. Subsequently, Grace heard many German words in that house. Don’t eat that cookie, fatty little Grace. It’s verboten. Look at you. So fat. You think the basketball team will keep you on if you eat that cookie? Go to the bathroom and get rid of your lunch while you’re at it. Stay slim. Mother knows best. Don’t go out with that boy, slutty little Grace. It’s verboten. I don’t care if he just wants to go to the movies, I tell you what men you are allowed to see you. Besides, you’d much rather prefer men to boys, right? Sure you do. Mother knows best. Don’t talk back to me, bitchy little Grace. It’s verboten. Now clean yourself up and wipe up that blood. Mother knows best. She’s always hated the word. Verboten. Ironic then, that she finds herself here tonight. Verboten. A dance club in the heart of Brooklyn, her fake home away from a non-existent home. If you were to pass by it out on the streets, you would assume that it's just another delipidated shithole. But through the wonders of marketing and overpriced martinis, it's become one of the hottest destinations in the city for those wanting to be seen rubbing elbows with the A-Listers. The wealthy elite of New York City have packed the halls for close to a decade now and there isn’t a night where it’s not over filled past capacity. Grace Goeren sits at one of the purposely designed chic industrial tables in the back, having gotten past the doorman once she had him Google her name. Odds are he got a pat on the back for doing that too since she’s had countless stares and twats “accidently” bump into her since she arrived. Celebs and athletes always bring in the crowds, especially young pretty ones like Grace. Everyone wants a piece of her. Story of her life. Different places. Different time. But they all still want a slice. In front of Grace is an untouched absinthe martini, watered-down of course for American consumption. An entourage of hanger-ons and ass-kissers flock around her, chatting it up about seeing Taylor Swift on 5th Avenue yesterday buying the absolute WORST dress imaginable. They blab on and on about the latest trends, the hottest clubs (other than this one) and how fantastic Milan is this time of year. Grace isn’t paying attention. Even when she wasn’t distracted with more personal matters, the drivel that these people spew out never interested her. She only keeps them around her at all times because they stave off the silence...oh God...the silence. That’s what hurts the most. She’d much rather be annoyed with wasted fake people than alone with her sober thoughts. She’s been fading more and more since Battlelines. After what happened with her father and what he did for her. And then what she did for him. Did she? Did I? It’s all so jarring. So...obscene. He helped me. No he didn’t. Grace’s eye twitches involuntarily as she tries to act normal, trying to pretend to the world around her that this internal debate isn’t happening right now. Yes. Yes he did. I was stupid, I let my guard down for one fucking second and that Latino fuckwad got the drop on me. Fuck! How could that have happened? He set me up like some clueless rookie and I almost got my head taken clean off if it weren’t for...for him. Her hands begin to fidget uncontrollably, a nervous tic she’s developed when under duress. Trying to keep it under wraps, she grabs hold of the napkin her martini was placed on and pulls it free, slowly beginning to tear pieces off and letting them fall to the ground like snowflakes. Oh my gawd, Grace. You’re like, totally making art right now. I can’t even...I can’t even… The ditzy blonde to Grace’s right is in complete awe of the discarded paper, taking her phone out and snapping a few pictures of her garbage. So muploading this right now. I’m muploading the shit out of this. My instagram is gonna blow up. Thank you soooooooo much, Grace! Even Grace doesn’t quite know how to respond to this much stupid concentrated in one human. The only positive over the brief exchange is that Grace seems to have centered herself as her hands return to normal. She can hear the repetitive drubbing of some pretentious new pop song hit the loudspeakers as her clique departs for the dance floor, looking to down a few more drinks and some ecstasy along the way. You coming, Grace? No. I’m just going to stay here. You sure? You want me to leave a few hits for you? Fuck off you dumb cunt. Leave me alone. Hahaha! Oh my gawd, you’re like sooooooo funny Grace! The ditzy blonde empties an entire orange medicine bottle of uppers onto the table and prances off to find her next nightly mistake, leaving Grace alone at the table. In a room as loud as this one, there is no such thing as silence. She is still being barraged with the sound of the club, but her mind has gone quiet. Which is horrifying. Because that’s when it starts up again. He’s just using you. I can’t believe how fucking stupid you are helping him at the end of the night. Everything we’ve done to him and you cave in like a stupid bitch. It’s not like that. He helped me. I...I didn’t know what else to do. No, of course you didn’t. You never do. Shut the fuck up. Can’t yell at me, sweetheart. I’m you. Shut up. Listen to your phone, hear what Mr. Gates had to say. No. I don’t want to hear him again. He’ll help you. No. Do it. Dirty, filthy, useless Grace. As if she’s not even in control of her own body, Grace grabs hold of her handbag and finds her phone, hitting “play” on the green voicemail button. Duane Gates’ voice can immediately be heard, sounding like he’s having a panic attack after sending this right after Battlelines went off the air. Okay, what the fuck was that?! Where are you?! How could you help out that son of a bitch father of yours like that?! After everything we have planned! What the fuck are you thinking?! What the… *Bloop* Enough. You should have listened to more of that. He is making a lot of sense. You’re letting him control you, just like Mommy did to us. It’s not like that. How do you know? Because… Grace suddenly snaps her head back, her eyes narrowing. The pieces slowly start coming together inside her head, forming a picture that she prevented herself from seeing. Not that she didn’t want to see it. She couldn’t. She had shut down this possibility so long ago, it never crossed her mind until right now. Because he lost. What? Stupid ugly Grace trying to... He put me over his own career. Over winning that match. I was more important to him. I was important. Stop it. No. He...helped me. He cared for me. I see that now. I see what he was doing. Stop. Stop thinking like that. He’s worthless. Like you. Filthy ugly horrible nasty little... SHUT THE FUCK UP! All eyes in the club move to Grace as she suddenly realizes that she screamed that last bit aloud, causing some members of her group to stop and stare. Most people go back to their music and dancing and pill-popping soon enough after the outburst, but the ditzy blonde who handed Grace her happy-candy returns. Did you say something? We going to Vapor after this? Is that what you said? We going to Vapor? Like the eye of a tornado passing over her before the winds violently start whipping at her again, Grace notices something. Something that she hasn’t heard in a long, long time. Nothing. There is no screaming in her head. No condescension from an unseen malevolent conscience. She silenced it with a moment of clarity that yelled the message loud and clear. It vanished in the face of a long-hidden truism. Someone cares for her. Genuinely, truly cares for her. A smile creeps across Grace’s face. She stands up from the table and glares over at the blonde who eagerly awaits her marching orders on what fashionable boutique or rocking night club the group is headed to next. Grace grabs her bag calmly and slings it over her shoulder, cracking her neck in the process. You fuckwits are on your own. Get your shit out of my loft before the end of the night or you’re all going through the window. Hahaha, oh my gawd Grace! You’re totally killin’ it right now! You’re so fun… Reaching out with her free hand, Grace grabs hold of the blonde’s neck and brings her in close. The blonde chokes and gasps loudly in Grace’s grip, but she’s conscious long enough to hear Grace’s words. Grace Goeren is her own god-damn woman now. Dropping her prey to the ground, Grace turns towards the exit and gives her entire entourage the middle finger without even looking back. Enjoy your fucking night, you retards. As she steps out of the club, the silence overwhelms her. Her mind is calm and clear. Like a long lost relative, finally coming home. How appropriate for Grace. She’s finally found acceptance in the middle of a cloud of hate. In the last place that she ever thought was possible. With her father. No longer verboten. ******************** Well shit. Path of the Warrior came up CRAZY fast, didn’t it? Time flies when you’re breaking faces, bodies and records, right guys? Not that I expect any of you to answer me or know what I’m talking about. I mean, none of your careers even come close to touching mine right now. I’m sitting here pulling double duty on both nights and I can’t fucking wait to get my hands dirty. Any chance we can move the show up to this weekend? Who do I have to petition to beat the piss out of all of you a week in advance? Someone start a crowdfunding page to make this happen! Because I simply cannot wait to launch my career into the stratosphere. I’ve finally gotten my Network Championship match against Martin Robertson, something that I rightfully won a month or so back, but of course I’ve got to share that distinction with another old-timer who just doesn’t know when it's time to hit the glue factory. My old pal NOTHING has decided to Ouiji-board his way into this match and cast a Plus Seven Shroud of Darkness spell on what should be MY fucking moment. How rude, Mr. NOTHING. I don’t crash the all-male Wicca meetings you put on with the rest of the Scooby Gang, so why do you continue to poke and prod your way into my business? I guess the beating I brought down on you the first time wasn’t enough. I guess pinning you in the middle of the ring after three straight Patricides just didn’t get the job done. Do you know how hard it is to constantly beat the shit out of you, Lord Voldemort? I’m a busy chick and I can’t just waste my time crippling old dudes who are twenty years past their prime. I want to, but I can’t. It’s called scheduling. Look it up on your demonic palm pilot, grandad. Plus, not to mention how much prep I have to put in beating the fuck tar out of you. I went through SO much hand tape the last time around. Do you think that shit grows on trees? No, it grows in Dick’s Sporting Goods and it's expensive as all Hell. Aw shit, I mentioned Hell. You probably have a HUGE hate-boner right now, huh? Listen up NOTHING, I have abso-fucking nothing to prove against you. I told you last time I was going to walk all over you, and I did. I told you last time I was going to humiliate you, strip you of your manhood and kick you to the streets like the sack of garbage you are and I fucking did. You want to weasel in on my opportunity? You want to take the spotlight that I rightfully earned? By all means, come and get another ass raping, chubbs. You and your Halloween groupies don’t scare me, all talk and no action. So you can triple-team X-Calibur with smoke and mirrors and spooky sound effects? Is that supposed to frighten me? HATE is about as terrifying and lame as Child’s Play movie. Which is all you are to me, old man. You’re child’s play. I’ll be more than happy to kick your ass one more time. Just don’t be surprised when I send you the bill for my hand tape. I want to be reimbursed with REAL money this time. None of that ghost money bullshit they use in Corpse Bride. Pay up, old man. On the other side of the coin is our current Network Champion. Now at least Martin Robertson is a lowlife I can get behind. Sure, you hide behind the rest of the Youth and have become an afterthought compared to Kage & Haven, but a champ’s gotta do what a champ’s gotta do, amiright? I mean, you’re like the busted eighth wheel in the group, the one that everyone forgets even is a member. I think I remember the concessions guy the Youth hired that one time before I remembered you, Marty. But hey, you’re young. You’re talented. You’re good looking. And lookie here, you got what I need so that means we are about to become extremely infatuated with one another. Calm down, not talking about that. Unless you like dominant women, in which case I’ve got a strap-on with your name on it. No, I’m talking about that gateway to greatness that you’ve got strapped across your waist. That Network Championship belt is like the first step towards achieving immortality in this sport, and you’ve managed to hold onto that belt longer than anyone. Bravo. Instead of using that title to trampoline yourself to greatness, you’ve face-planted into a brick wall. What’s wrong, Martin? Afraid of reaching for the stars? Don’t want to leave your little nest and achieve anything better? I’ll be honest with both you and NOTHING when I tell you that when I win the belt, I’m hoping to have it taken from me as soon as fucking possible. Not because I would have been beaten for it. That’ll never happen. No, I want it taken from me because EWA is forced to strip me of it after I win the EWA World Heavyweight Championship. I plan on using the Network Championship as ransom. That belt gives me the opportunity to wrestle on every show that EWA puts on and I plan on beating every fucktwit and chode that thinks they’re the hottest shit in wrestling so I can keep growing my brand. There is only one standard bearer in this disgusting industry and you’re looking at her. And Martin, just because you and I share some common traits doesn’t mean I plan to go easy on you. Sure, I feel bad for you that your father is dead weight and was trying to use your name to catapult himself back into the spotlight. Trust me, if anyone knows a thing or two about daddy issues, it's fucking me. But sometimes things aren’t what they seem. Sometimes people like us use people like our fathers as excuses for why we are the way we are. I blamed my father for not being there to keep me safe when I was younger. You blame your father for keeping you where you are in this business. See the difference? My father royally fucked me over for reals. Your Dad just treated you like a man and you resented him for it. That weakness is going to catch up with you at Path of the Warrior. Enjoy your longest running reign just a little while longer, McFly. I’ll do you a HUGE favor and take the belt from you, that way you can ride back down the card and be your typical, underachieving self. No charge for that one, cause I like your ass. Literally, your ass. So after I become the Network Champion, I should just kick it and relax for the rest of the card, right? WRONG. I’m not done after the first night. I’ve got an opportunity to win the whole fucking tournament, something that I’ve said I was going to do from the very SECOND I signed my EWA contract. With that tournament win, I’ll have the world at my fingertips. The youngest Network Champion in EWA history. The chance to become the youngest World Heavyweight Champion in EWA history. The pinnacle of professional wrestling. Fuck yeah, does that sound HOT or what? But here’s the fucking swerve. I have no idea what jack-off I’ve got to mow down in the Finals. I mean, talk about a kick to the vagina. I know its going to be either Sweary McSwear Pants, Shaun Sinclair or Donnie Darko himself, Indrid Calder. I’ve been asked so many times since Battlelines who I would prefer win that match during the first day of Path of the Warrior, and I have the same answer each time. Stop asking me questions you nasty cunt and go fetch me a Fresca. Good times. But naw, what I should be saying is that I don’t care which one wins because I’ll fucking dismantle either one of them. Now it's true, I don’t have as much of an advantage in this one as I’d like to have had on account of me wrestling on Day One for the Network strap, but I know both Calder and Sinclair will put each other through all sorts of torture that will make whoever survives easy prey on Day Numero Dos. I still owe Calder a big ol’ fuck you for tossing me out of the ring in the Warrior’s Trial battle royal a few months back. Don’t think I have forgotten that, I don’t take kindly to being thrown out of matches by the little girl from The Ring movies. So listen up Samara, you and NOTHING can talk cryptic poetry all you want until that boy at school finally notices you at lunch time, but get one thing straight… I’m not the type of girl who can be intimidated by flowery language and veiled threats from emo punks. So if you do manage to get to me Calder, feel free to shitcan the “I’m so fucking crazy I must be scary” speech. You insult us people who really are fucking lunatics with that act. Just bring all nine circles of Hell into our match and be prepared to be the Trivial Pursuit answer in the Grace Goeren board game. As for Sinclair, can’t say that I’m particularly impressed with all of the f-bombs. I’m a god-damned lady and that type of language doesn’t sit well with me. Try and act like a professional. You fucking git. Honestly though, should I be blown away by the fact that you managed to waltz your way past Kilminster because he wanted to stay healthy? I mean, Jesus Christ man. You’re already dependent on him to train you for your matches, dress you before each show and clean your bottom after you make poopies...does he honestly have to start handing you wins now? You’ve got all the talent in the world Sinclair, I just wish you acted like a man for once in your life and actually hit this girl right in her loudmouthed face. Then I would respect you. But instead, you’ll swear up a storm, cast heaven and Hell down on me and then when we actually step into the ring...IF we actually step into the ring...you’ll fold up like a double bed after Ozzy and Sinn got finished fucking on it. Still though, I hope you at least try to do this on your own and not reach out for help. Be your own man for once, you might actually like it. So yeah mother fuckers...I’ve been running my mouth nonstop since Path of the Warrior was announced. Not because I want to get in your heads or I think it actually screws with your preparations against me. No, I’m talking like this because I already know what's going to happen. It’s easy to talk shit when you’re the one everyone has to plan for. You have no idea how much confidence a girl can have when she knows she’s the best in the business in her rookie year. I’m not here to just win titles, I’m here to change this fucking sport forever. I don’t want to adjust to the EWA style, I want the style of EWA to adjust to me. Path of the Warrior is my coming-out party, It’s my Sweet Sixteen, my Quinceañera and my Bat Mitzvah rolled into the biggest party of the Summer. All of you twats are invited. And all of you will fall at my feet. Get used to it. Because that’s where every wrestler belongs from here on in. Bow down. |
| |
![]() |
|
| 1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous) | |
| « Previous Topic · The Warrior's Den · Next Topic » |








10:51 AM Jul 11