"They can't do this!"
Batti scrolled over the announcement posted in on WZCW's main site. An article's headline,
Batti V. Tyrone Blades, caught her eye. She bit her lip. With the click of the mouse, the reporter's biographical blurb popped up in grim bold letters.
The resident weeb is set to face off against Hall of Famer and closest friend Tyrone Blades. Will the happy go lucky blonde keep her momentum going and do what many in the industry have not? Or will Tyrone have to knock her out of the way to show Vis Imperium he will do whatever it takes to get his hands on them? Tune in Tuesday for the first-time confrontation.
She stared at the news article in disbelief. The Comment Section was full of condolences to her and praises for how she had gotten this far. Several said Tyrone Blades was a wrestling icon - a legend that just won't falter to some upstart. Batti placed her fingers to the keyboard ready to type out a big Fuck You to her doubters when there was a knock at her apartment door.
The blonde rolled off of her bed and opened the door. It was the last person she wanted to see.
"Hey," Ramparte blurted out apologetically. His eyes looked like a raccoon's, just darkened up with days of insomnia highlighting his cheeks. In his lap were the rest of her clothes.
"Umm your clothes from last Christmas. I respect your decision, but I really wish for you to reconsider..."
Batti sighed.
"You broke my trust, Rammikun. You spied on me, paid off people to mess with me. You got inside my head. That's not coaching. That's what abusers do. I love you, I really really do, but I can't stand to look at you right now. You've hurt me in ways I can't describe. And I doubt your bookworm mind could either."
She reached for her sweaters and jeans. He gazed down at his wheelchair.
"I only wanted you to be tough enough to beat Callie Clark."
"We saw how well that worked out."
"Please reconsider. I don’t know what I would be without you there for me."
For a moment, she stood in the doorway in her skirt and tie, feeling bad that it had come down to this. Maybe his intentions were good. Maybe he just wanted her to be strong enough to face WZCW head-on. To not lose focus and play around like a schoolgirl. But he hurt her. That’s all that mattered. He showed her there was a ruthless side and perhaps he did despise the fact she was a wrestler now and he wasn’t anymore. Ramparte made her tough. But he was not Tyrone Blades.
Saying nothing, she closed the door on The Recluse. She threw her clothes on a couch and picked up her cell.
"Hey. Let’s meet up. Sure, a bar sounds like a good idea right now."
________________________________________
It was pungent. Cigarette smoke was thick all around her, and from the looks of things she really dressed down for the evening. Girls half-naked swung around on barstools with their breasts wet with beer. Old bikers in the corner played the Fingers Dance with a cheap hunting knife. The grey bearded one lost. Tyrone Blades grabbed them a table and signaled to the barely legal waitress for a shot of Tequila. Batti asked for a Chocolatini.
The tavern fell silent. Bigger men than Ty started to laugh. Tyrone gave them all a look and they went back to their business. The waitress quickly walked off with their orders.
"Wowie. You have some reputation as a badboy, huh Ty-Sama?"
"I suppose. I’m a reg here so don’t feel awkward about the Chocolatini. I knew a guy named Spidey who’d drink nothing but White Russians here. Few truckers took offense to that one day. Bloodied him up pretty good, but not before ol’ Spider-Man took a shit on that pool table over there. Anybody can get their ass beat, but dropping trout in front of these lowlifes? Takes guts. Ever since he’d come in, get his cocktail, and nobody’d pay him any mind. Bloodstains are a lot easier to get out of the carpet than shit, feel me?"
"This is already shapin’ up to be an unforgettable evening."
Tyrone laughed. Batti smiled, happy that Ty was letting loose and being himself. The girl too young to be serving served them their drinks. Tyrone took the shot, licked the rim, and flipped the glass over. Bone-dry. Batti sipped at her sugary concoction.
"Neato trick."
"Thanks. I'm told I'm good with my tongue."
Was that heat coming from her face? She looked away, trying not to make a joke about what he said. Here they were, two close friends having a drink together in possibly the seediest bar Blades could have brought her to. But she was enjoying it.
Still, there was an elephant in the room.
"So...we will be fighting in the ring. Against each other."
"Mmhm. Corporate bullshit. Of all the people you should be fighting..." he trailed off, throwing his hands in the air.
"Why not Flex Mussel? I know you and Ram aren't very close these days, but surely getting your hands on him was the reason you even got into the business. Or Callie Clark? The fans loved seeing you two go at it. Batti vs. Callie III is a money maker WZCW could definitely use. Hell, fighting Titus Avison for the Eurasian Championship would be fantastic. Didn't he face you in your debut match? Fucking Christ. Instead they make you fight me. Typical."
Batti pressed her Martini glass to her lips and sat silently. She didn't know the ins and outs of wrestling like Tyrone Blades did. Why anyone would put them against one another was beyond her. It just seemed mean and conspiratory.
"I don't want this."
"I know."
"Should say to hell with it and throw the damn thing."
She gasped. Batti slid her Chocolatini out of the way and leaned over the table.
"You do that and I swear Vis Imperium will be the least of your concerns. No... you will meet me in that ring and you will not go easy on me. I've worked too hard and I've suffered too many times for Hall of Fame Wrestling Legend World Champion For A Year Goddamn Tyrone Mutha Fuggin' Blades to let me win. I'd rather you kicked me square in the face and pin me clean in record time than to deal with that. There are already so many people that think I'm a shit wrestler. If you let me win, what does that say about your own legacy?"
Batti Otaku lifted her Chocolatini to her mouth and chugged it.
"Now, let's have fun. Round Two!!!"
________________________________________
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Tyrone guided her down the small stairwell that led to the bar's dance floor. Nobody was there but the live band that came in twenty minutes ago. They had finished tuning up before sliding into a crisp rendition of "Way Down We Go". Batti staggered drunkenly into Tyrone, stringing apologies, but he wasn't fettered. He graciously placed her hands to his shoulders. He pressed warmly against her, his Tequila breath making her giggle.
"Father tell me, we get what we deserve
Oh we get what we deserve"
Miles away, in another city in another bar, Ramparte had finished his Scotch. He tried desperately to pick a fight with a bar patron, but one look at his wheelchair was enough for the gruffest of men to feel sorry for him. He felt useless again, weak. Alone. He couldn't bare another minute there. Ramparte paid his tab and wheeled himself outside. A waiter asked if he could call him a cab. He shook his head.
"You let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all oh, go down
Yeah but for the fall oh, my
Do you dare to look him right in the eyes?"
Slowly she found her head resting against his chest. The lead singer was yawning through the lyrics, but they didn't mind. It was the steady kick of the drum set that really kept them entranced. Tyrone whispered something, Batti couldn't hear and she won't recall, but she knew it was sweet. Some compliment maybe. She pulled herself in tighter.
"And way down we go
Way down we go
Say way down we go
'Cause they will run you down, down til you fall
Way down we go"
Ramparte sat in an empty alleyway. The stench of hobo piss and trash were all around him, and it was then when he remembered who he used to be. An aristocrat. Someone of high class. Wine and fine suits. Mansions and butlers. A modern day Dorian Gray.
"How the mighty have fallen."
Flex betrayed him. Batti abandoned him. Cut down in his prime. What could he possibly do but try the impossible?
Without a word, Ramparte grabbed hold of the arms of his wheelchair and rose.
"And way down we go
Way down we go
Say way down we go
Way down we go"
Why couldn't she see him as an opponent and not a friend? Why couldn't she keep it professional between them? She was going through so much so fast. All she wanted was to escape. Tyrone Blades...he felt so comforting. And he never played with her emotions like Ramparte did. If she kissed him now, would he return it? Would she be distracting him from the corporate monster, Vis Imperium, etc? Who was she to be this friendly with a fellow wrestler? With Ramparte it was so different.
She buried her face into his chest again, and quietly cried.
"♫ ♫ ♫
♫ ♫ ♫"
Ramparte took a step. And then another. Pain shot through him, pain he had never in his entire left felt. Left foot. Right foot. He swayed, bellowing like a wounded animal, cursing the sky. Blaming God for his plight. One more step. He thought of her, and how badly he wanted to make it up to her. He walked. If only she could see him now.
With one more step he tumbled to the garbage ridden pavement. He was out in the open now, on the sidewalk of a busy street late at night. A couple rushed passed him with a kid, no older than ten, looking at him curiously.
"Don't pay him any mind, David. He'll only ask for money."
His wheelchair seemed so far away. He crawled, shame and grime coated his face. He gave up midway, and silently wept.
"Way down we go"