Post by Tamika Strader on May 1, 2023 4:59:22 GMT -5
Excuse me can you tell me what you've heard about my life
Maybe a dirty little fairy tale, a girl of the night
It was a hot, sweltering day in Las Vegas. Every day in Vegas is hot--but it is a different kind of hot. It is a dry heat. The type of heat that could cook an egg on the sidewalk, even in the winter. But it gets cold at night--being in the desert there is nothing to hold in the heat. Once the sun goes down the hoodies come on. But the daytime---you would probably die of dehydration and heat stroke by even thinking the word "Hoodie".
North Las Vegas isn't what everyone thinks of as "Las Vegas". It is 3 miles north, a straight shot on Civic Center Drive, and doesn't have all the glitz and glamour that "Las Vegas" proper does. There are trailer parks, burnt out apartment complex's, drugs run rampant and half of the population is on some form of government assistance. A far cry from the multi-billion dollar business just a stone's throw to the south. There are some small pockets of North Vegas were the upper class live, usually those who work in Vegas, because the community of Henderson is too far away to deal with daily traffic and still make it in on time (26 miles). The "Vegas Strip", or "Las Vegas Boulevard" is about 60 miles end to end, from dead end to dead end, and Civic Center Drive was just off of that, to the east. CCD connected to "the strip". Jennifer could even see the hotel lights from the nations largest party city from her bedroom window, though they were a bit blurred.
For a city with so much money, it is amazingly difficult to believe how many people live in pure poverty just off the strip. The Las Vegas strip is an island, so to speak, surrounded by a sea of the some of the worst urban decay in the nation.
.....and nobody notices.....
....and if they do notice, they don't seem to care.
At least the North had SOME decent living standards. The east, south and west side of the Vegas "halo" are shockingly and obscenely dilapidated.
It was on Civic Center Drive that freshly turned 15 year old Jennifer Sambuca sat in the passenger seat of the 2003 Chevy Colorado pickup truck as it rumbled down the cement-laden parkway. Strip mall after strip mall and row after row of identical housing complex's rushed by her, seen through the glare in the dirty glass window. Vegas is such a melting pot, and most of the stirred ingredients are shit. The music was low, but could still be heard through a static scratch emanating from the old radio in the dashboard. Reception was never great in the desert.
But then again, what was?
This was the only place young Jennifer ever knew. She was born in a motel bathroom just north of the strip by a young mother who got into a nightclub with a fake ID and wanted to have a little "fun" before her daughter came. This mother, Jennifer never knew. It wasn't until she was old enough to process this information did she find that tidbit of info out.
Her "dad" was in the driver seat. He had on a what was once nice business dress shirt, open at the top with his gold chain laying over his chest hair. He had on dusty black dress pants and his "Gucci" dress shoes were pressed down on the clutch and gas pedal simultaneously.
This man wasn't perfect, but he was the only father she had ever known. She had been placed in foster care at a young age and bounced from trailer park to trailer park until Mark an Penny Sambuca decided to bring this "at risk teen" into their home, just north of the Vegas Strip.
Not only did she bounce around homes, but schools as well, never finishing more than 6 months at a school before being shipped somewhere else to "start over" again. She wasn't even sure what grade she was supposed to be in, but the state told her 10th, but she never technically finished 8th.
I heard that I grew up filthy, a trailer park queen
Drop out pregnant statistical teen
If only he knew.
Before they left their ranch-style house she had been sitting on the toilet in her less than accommodatingly small bathroom that connected to her bedroom. Tears welled in her eyes. She should have never snuck out to go to that party. But Braden Linfield was so hot. He was the son Hunter Linfield, president and COO of the Golden Nugget Casino, and had more many than any person she'd ever met. He had seen her at the Polaris Store when he was picking up his new ATV (she was there to apply for a cleaning position), and he told her she should come to his house for a raging party he was throwing. Said the boys would get a kick out of a natural platinum blonde. Said too many girls in this area looked too, "plain". He asked her her age and she told him 17 (she always looked a bit older than her age), because she didn't want too spoil her chance by telling him she was only 14.
She had never been opposed to using her body to get what she wanted. She got her period at 9, developed B cups, though low B, by 12, and got "curves" at 13. She could get whatever she wanted in Sin City.
---Now she was regretting that decision. Sitting in her hands on her lap was a small, white stick which came out of a coral pink box that sat on the sink. Her hand covered her mouth, her head spun.
How could she have allowed this to happen? As if her life isn't shitty enough------
"JENNIFER! LET'S GO!" her "father" was crashing around the house, feverishly looking for something. He had called her several times now, but she was too much in shock to move.
He seemed frantic. She didn't understand why. It was 1:30 in the afternoon, on a Wednesday. But she didn't want to anger him. Last thing she needed was to get kicked out of yet another home. A twin sized bed where she could touch the ceiling laying down was better than the grassy patch under the interstate.
She left the bathroom, putting the stick back into the box. The box under her bed.
Walking out into the main room, she saw her dad stuffing a baggie with a white substance into a backpack.
"JENNIFER! Finally....finally...jesus what were you doing in there? Here....take this, we need to go."
He tossed the backpack to her. She looked at it and shook her head.
"Get in the truck, Jen. Don't ask questions."
I know you heard about the bloody knife
About my daddy's perfect virgin and my mother's wife
The truck continued to roll. They were getting to a big building at the north side of the strip. The "Strip" everyone knows was still about 3 miles down the road. Something told her they weren't headed there.
Roaring into a parking lot, her dad slammed it into park and pulled the E break.
"Out, get out" he said. He rubbed his nose. There was a bluish aura to it.
She stepped out. Her converse sneakers touched to warm cement. Her short jean shorts barely covred her ass and her tank top was beginning to show sweat stains on the lower back and under her new boobs. Her makeup, though, as usual, was flawless. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail.
She examined herself in the mirror as her "father" hurried around to her side of the car.
-----Her "mother" was never home anymore. When she was, she had a female friend with her. She claimed the two were only friends, but Jennifer had found the drive by wedding chapel brochure in the garbage when she was throwing away a maxi pad. She didn't ask questions, but had suspicions.
She also saw a lot of younger neighborhood girls leaving her house when she was on her way home, when only her father was home. He was "working from home" on those days. Every so often, one of those girls would go missing. She never thought anything of it, and her father said he was helping them with homework. She wasn't one to ask questions. ----
"Come on, let's go. In. In." He pushed her along by the top of the back. His pace was almost tripping her.
This is killing us all
I don't care if I fall
We're the dying, we are the damned
When they got inside, they had to go through a dark, dingy back room. Two men came out to meet them. They had suits on, and sunglasses. They didn't talk, just nodded. Jen and her "father" followed, keeping up the same fast pace. Finally they got to an office door.
"You wait here" one of the men said. He opened the door and went inside.
Jen could see out through what she assumed was a 2 way mirror. To those behind it, a mirror. To her, where she was, a window. The people---
--these poor people--
sitting in front of machine's with sunken eyes. Many had cups of coffee next to them and she assumed it wasn't their first. They had wristlets on which were attached to cards that sat in the machine. Like robots they pressed the button. Then pressed it again. Then again. Then again. Many of them looked like they hadn't done anything but press buttons and drink coffee for a very long time. Every once and a while, someone would get up, but only to go to another machine. Machine's with levers. Machine's with buttons. Machine's that controlled lives.
Her attention was broken by the door opening. The man who had brought them there came out and stood by the door. He nodded, and her "father" ushered her in. The man stepped in behind them and shut the door.
The room was huge. Behind an equally huge desk was an Italian looking man, also in a suit.
"You are late, Mark." His voice rumbled like a thunder cloud.
"Sorry---sorry, Vic--I had to find the bag. Yeah, bag. I needed to find it."
He signaled, and the man brought the backpack, which Jen was now holding, over to the thunder man.
"And who is this little treat?" he said, looking Jennifer up and down.
"This is Jennifer...my....my daughter".
The man chuckled.
"Another one? Seems a bit older.....mmmm".
Jennifer looked at her "dad" with a concerned look.
"Sir, she's good girl. Determined, hard headed, she has a good work ethic."
That was a lie.
"She can maybe do some tasks around here, help to make up more of what I owe."
Jen went to protest but the man behind the desk was up. He put a finger on her lips. Reaching back he undid her ponytail, and he blonde hair fell free. He smiled.
"She will do just fine."
He nodded and she felt big hands on her front behind. The last thing she remembered was screaming for her father.......
"Father".
I'll be your hatred and your pain
This is killing us all
I don't care if I fall
We're the dying, we are the damned
“It has certainly been a whirlwind the past seven years. I went from eye candy, to match-altering manager, to active competitor, to champion. Multi time at that. Even throw a little stint as GM into the mix. I have excelled at every facet of this business, and when it is all said and done my name will be put on a plaque in the wrestling Hall of Fame. Do they even have one of those? I digress.
I have spent the lion's share of my career in the XWF. I would be lying if I said it didn’t have its ups and downs (mostly downs–but that’s the fault of Vinnie Lane and his band of goons. I mean, if this guy is your boss, who's running the bouncy castle at the Fair? His shirt says vacation, his face says molestation!) and it is time for a fresh start. The last many of you saw of me I was being buried alive by Dolly Waters as a proverbial passing the torch (truth is, they knew I was leaving and needed a way to write me off television—)
*GASP, 4th WALL BREAK!*
……putting an end to the “crazy Jenny” era. No more black eyeshadow, no more paint splattered overalls, no more hideous hairstyle or an appetite for eating roadkill, oh no. The Jenny Myst that single handedly shaped, ran, and killed the women’s division over there is back. The Jenny Myst that made me famous, not the Jenny Myst who piggybacked off of it for ratings. I came here as the biggest named free agent in the business, and arguably the best signing OCW has ever had. Why do you think I am in a match for title contention in my first match here, because Tamika was bored? She knows what she has here, and she knows that to build this crumbling utopia back up from the embers, she needs the best in the world to do it. I have all the faith in the world that she will bring in the necessary talent to make this place worth the paycheck she gives me, but I hope she knows exactly who she offered a contract to.
I am not just here to win, I am here to dominate.
I fully expect to be in all of the commercials, on all of the programs and posters, the collectors cups, and in the Main Event spotlight. I expect to be given the biggest locker rooms, top notch transportation, stock in Fiji Water, and god help her if my backstage snacks don’t include chocolate. You see, Tamika is hiding something from all of you….something she didn’t reveal on TV last week when she made my deal official. The details, you ask? I can walk out at any time due to a breach of contract. That’s right. I can leave whenever I feel the least bit slighted and never look back at this place. Tamika didn’t tell you all that, did she? You know what else she failed to disclose?
She needs ME a hell of a lot more than I need HER.
Now that we are on the same page, unlike Tamika let me be as transparent as possible. What you’ve seen on OCW TV is what made me famous, but this past year is the most successful I’ve ever been. Sure, I’ve held the Shooting Star Title for longer than anyone, the Bombshell Title was made FOR me, and I held a briefcase which was eventually chased in for the X-Treme title. But over seven years? This past year I have been the TV champ 3 times, the X-Champ 3 times, and was a Vinnie Lane screw job (noticing a trend here?) away from cashing in to be the UNIVERSAL Champion. I’d say that was a pretty good year. I am on fire right now, the hottest I have ever been, and you’d don’t have to be the head cashier at the Wal-Mart to put two and two together: Crazy Jenny was the most successful Jenny of them all.
If you let XWF tell you the story, that Jenny is laying in a shallow grave somewhere in El Paso Texas, but let ME tell you the real story.
*GASP AT YET ANOTHER 4th WALL BREAK!*
That Jenny lives inside me. The one who can get down and dirty, violent, maniacal. The Belle of the Brawl, Your Highness of Violence, The Queen of X-Treme, The Goddess of Gore. She can surface at any moment, so don’t let this pretty face fool you. If I have to hurt someone to prove that, so be it.
I’ve read the dirt sheets. I’ve seen the magazine articles. Hell, I watched the documentary. I know that most people think I am some spoiled brat with a spray tan and an obsession with designer clothes, but this journey has not been easy. A foster kid sold to the mob to pay off gambling debts that got sold into sex slavery, became a stripper, then a model, then a valet, then a wrestler. My life could be a Netflix Series (and maybe if it was, that company wouldn’t be in the shitter right now), and I have survived it all. I deserve the shiny things I have, and at Wheel of Misfortune, I will add another shiny thing to my mantle. I don’t care who it is, man woman or whatever these things call themselves in 2023, I am putting them on their ass. There is a Paradigm Shift going on in the OCW and when the dust settles you’re looking at the new champion."
Jenny sat in her hotel room, a depression on the edge of the bed contouring around her hips as she leaned forward. The sun was starting to set in Burbank, and the lights of the surrounding city were popping up like millions of fireflies in the distance. A hand ran through her blonde and pink hair, a sigh escaped her red lips. In front of her was a piece of paper, unfolded with the envelope it came in next to. It sat on the barely-big-enough-to-write-a-full-sentence notepad on that useless desk in every room she stayed in, and the handwriting on it was neatly displayed in blue ink.
Her hand shook as she picked it up off the desk again, bringing it to eye level. It was a note from her "father".
“JENN–
I am so proud of what you have become. I just wish I could have given you a better life. You’re a beautiful woman now, and more successful than your mother and eye could have ever dreamed about being. We watch you on TV every week–it took us a while to realize it was actually you but when we did, we’ve become your biggest fans. I know that there isn’t much I can do or say to you to make what happened any less terrible. I am beyond sorry, and sorry probably isn’t acceptable to you at this point. I also know that you have everything you could ever need or want. You’ve done that yourself, and that speaks volumes to your character.
Congratulations on the new contract and the fresh start in a new company. I know change can be hard. Your mother and I are vacationing in Santa Barbara. That is only a two hour drive from Burbank. She suggested we get tickets and come to watch you perform live. We would love to meet up with you, maybe go to dinner, and reconnect after all these years. We completely understand if you don’t want to.
Anyways, see you soon.”
Jenny set the letter back down, taking a long exhale. How did he know the show was in Burbank? How did he know HOW to even contact her (the message was delivered by personal courier to her room), how did he know which hotel—-
WHO even was he?
Whoever wrote the letter claiming to be her father had some nice words but to reach out now, after she’s become successful? It’s pitiful, honestly. Whoever it was is a spineless coward.
Whoever it was—-because it wasn’t her “father” Mark Sambuca. Because Mark Sambuca died in the middle of the Nevada desert almost a decade ago.
She would know—she’s the one that pulled the trigger.
Right as she went to throw the ill-received letter away she noticed it had writing on the back as well.
“Room 800. The Penthouse Suit. Nice touch. I guess I did teach you something.”
Jenny felt the bile rise in her throat. She ripped up the letter into pieces. She felt her crazy side coming back out—but she swallowed it back.
There was a new paradigm coming, and this newest daddy issue wasn’t going to get in the way.
Maybe a dirty little fairy tale, a girl of the night
It was a hot, sweltering day in Las Vegas. Every day in Vegas is hot--but it is a different kind of hot. It is a dry heat. The type of heat that could cook an egg on the sidewalk, even in the winter. But it gets cold at night--being in the desert there is nothing to hold in the heat. Once the sun goes down the hoodies come on. But the daytime---you would probably die of dehydration and heat stroke by even thinking the word "Hoodie".
North Las Vegas isn't what everyone thinks of as "Las Vegas". It is 3 miles north, a straight shot on Civic Center Drive, and doesn't have all the glitz and glamour that "Las Vegas" proper does. There are trailer parks, burnt out apartment complex's, drugs run rampant and half of the population is on some form of government assistance. A far cry from the multi-billion dollar business just a stone's throw to the south. There are some small pockets of North Vegas were the upper class live, usually those who work in Vegas, because the community of Henderson is too far away to deal with daily traffic and still make it in on time (26 miles). The "Vegas Strip", or "Las Vegas Boulevard" is about 60 miles end to end, from dead end to dead end, and Civic Center Drive was just off of that, to the east. CCD connected to "the strip". Jennifer could even see the hotel lights from the nations largest party city from her bedroom window, though they were a bit blurred.
For a city with so much money, it is amazingly difficult to believe how many people live in pure poverty just off the strip. The Las Vegas strip is an island, so to speak, surrounded by a sea of the some of the worst urban decay in the nation.
.....and nobody notices.....
....and if they do notice, they don't seem to care.
At least the North had SOME decent living standards. The east, south and west side of the Vegas "halo" are shockingly and obscenely dilapidated.
It was on Civic Center Drive that freshly turned 15 year old Jennifer Sambuca sat in the passenger seat of the 2003 Chevy Colorado pickup truck as it rumbled down the cement-laden parkway. Strip mall after strip mall and row after row of identical housing complex's rushed by her, seen through the glare in the dirty glass window. Vegas is such a melting pot, and most of the stirred ingredients are shit. The music was low, but could still be heard through a static scratch emanating from the old radio in the dashboard. Reception was never great in the desert.
But then again, what was?
This was the only place young Jennifer ever knew. She was born in a motel bathroom just north of the strip by a young mother who got into a nightclub with a fake ID and wanted to have a little "fun" before her daughter came. This mother, Jennifer never knew. It wasn't until she was old enough to process this information did she find that tidbit of info out.
Her "dad" was in the driver seat. He had on a what was once nice business dress shirt, open at the top with his gold chain laying over his chest hair. He had on dusty black dress pants and his "Gucci" dress shoes were pressed down on the clutch and gas pedal simultaneously.
This man wasn't perfect, but he was the only father she had ever known. She had been placed in foster care at a young age and bounced from trailer park to trailer park until Mark an Penny Sambuca decided to bring this "at risk teen" into their home, just north of the Vegas Strip.
Not only did she bounce around homes, but schools as well, never finishing more than 6 months at a school before being shipped somewhere else to "start over" again. She wasn't even sure what grade she was supposed to be in, but the state told her 10th, but she never technically finished 8th.
I heard that I grew up filthy, a trailer park queen
Drop out pregnant statistical teen
If only he knew.
Before they left their ranch-style house she had been sitting on the toilet in her less than accommodatingly small bathroom that connected to her bedroom. Tears welled in her eyes. She should have never snuck out to go to that party. But Braden Linfield was so hot. He was the son Hunter Linfield, president and COO of the Golden Nugget Casino, and had more many than any person she'd ever met. He had seen her at the Polaris Store when he was picking up his new ATV (she was there to apply for a cleaning position), and he told her she should come to his house for a raging party he was throwing. Said the boys would get a kick out of a natural platinum blonde. Said too many girls in this area looked too, "plain". He asked her her age and she told him 17 (she always looked a bit older than her age), because she didn't want too spoil her chance by telling him she was only 14.
She had never been opposed to using her body to get what she wanted. She got her period at 9, developed B cups, though low B, by 12, and got "curves" at 13. She could get whatever she wanted in Sin City.
---Now she was regretting that decision. Sitting in her hands on her lap was a small, white stick which came out of a coral pink box that sat on the sink. Her hand covered her mouth, her head spun.
How could she have allowed this to happen? As if her life isn't shitty enough------
"JENNIFER! LET'S GO!" her "father" was crashing around the house, feverishly looking for something. He had called her several times now, but she was too much in shock to move.
He seemed frantic. She didn't understand why. It was 1:30 in the afternoon, on a Wednesday. But she didn't want to anger him. Last thing she needed was to get kicked out of yet another home. A twin sized bed where she could touch the ceiling laying down was better than the grassy patch under the interstate.
She left the bathroom, putting the stick back into the box. The box under her bed.
Walking out into the main room, she saw her dad stuffing a baggie with a white substance into a backpack.
"JENNIFER! Finally....finally...jesus what were you doing in there? Here....take this, we need to go."
He tossed the backpack to her. She looked at it and shook her head.
"Get in the truck, Jen. Don't ask questions."
I know you heard about the bloody knife
About my daddy's perfect virgin and my mother's wife
The truck continued to roll. They were getting to a big building at the north side of the strip. The "Strip" everyone knows was still about 3 miles down the road. Something told her they weren't headed there.
Roaring into a parking lot, her dad slammed it into park and pulled the E break.
"Out, get out" he said. He rubbed his nose. There was a bluish aura to it.
She stepped out. Her converse sneakers touched to warm cement. Her short jean shorts barely covred her ass and her tank top was beginning to show sweat stains on the lower back and under her new boobs. Her makeup, though, as usual, was flawless. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail.
She examined herself in the mirror as her "father" hurried around to her side of the car.
-----Her "mother" was never home anymore. When she was, she had a female friend with her. She claimed the two were only friends, but Jennifer had found the drive by wedding chapel brochure in the garbage when she was throwing away a maxi pad. She didn't ask questions, but had suspicions.
She also saw a lot of younger neighborhood girls leaving her house when she was on her way home, when only her father was home. He was "working from home" on those days. Every so often, one of those girls would go missing. She never thought anything of it, and her father said he was helping them with homework. She wasn't one to ask questions. ----
"Come on, let's go. In. In." He pushed her along by the top of the back. His pace was almost tripping her.
This is killing us all
I don't care if I fall
We're the dying, we are the damned
When they got inside, they had to go through a dark, dingy back room. Two men came out to meet them. They had suits on, and sunglasses. They didn't talk, just nodded. Jen and her "father" followed, keeping up the same fast pace. Finally they got to an office door.
"You wait here" one of the men said. He opened the door and went inside.
Jen could see out through what she assumed was a 2 way mirror. To those behind it, a mirror. To her, where she was, a window. The people---
--these poor people--
sitting in front of machine's with sunken eyes. Many had cups of coffee next to them and she assumed it wasn't their first. They had wristlets on which were attached to cards that sat in the machine. Like robots they pressed the button. Then pressed it again. Then again. Then again. Many of them looked like they hadn't done anything but press buttons and drink coffee for a very long time. Every once and a while, someone would get up, but only to go to another machine. Machine's with levers. Machine's with buttons. Machine's that controlled lives.
Her attention was broken by the door opening. The man who had brought them there came out and stood by the door. He nodded, and her "father" ushered her in. The man stepped in behind them and shut the door.
The room was huge. Behind an equally huge desk was an Italian looking man, also in a suit.
"You are late, Mark." His voice rumbled like a thunder cloud.
"Sorry---sorry, Vic--I had to find the bag. Yeah, bag. I needed to find it."
He signaled, and the man brought the backpack, which Jen was now holding, over to the thunder man.
"And who is this little treat?" he said, looking Jennifer up and down.
"This is Jennifer...my....my daughter".
The man chuckled.
"Another one? Seems a bit older.....mmmm".
Jennifer looked at her "dad" with a concerned look.
"Sir, she's good girl. Determined, hard headed, she has a good work ethic."
That was a lie.
"She can maybe do some tasks around here, help to make up more of what I owe."
Jen went to protest but the man behind the desk was up. He put a finger on her lips. Reaching back he undid her ponytail, and he blonde hair fell free. He smiled.
"She will do just fine."
He nodded and she felt big hands on her front behind. The last thing she remembered was screaming for her father.......
"Father".
I'll be your hatred and your pain
This is killing us all
I don't care if I fall
We're the dying, we are the damned
“It has certainly been a whirlwind the past seven years. I went from eye candy, to match-altering manager, to active competitor, to champion. Multi time at that. Even throw a little stint as GM into the mix. I have excelled at every facet of this business, and when it is all said and done my name will be put on a plaque in the wrestling Hall of Fame. Do they even have one of those? I digress.
I have spent the lion's share of my career in the XWF. I would be lying if I said it didn’t have its ups and downs (mostly downs–but that’s the fault of Vinnie Lane and his band of goons. I mean, if this guy is your boss, who's running the bouncy castle at the Fair? His shirt says vacation, his face says molestation!) and it is time for a fresh start. The last many of you saw of me I was being buried alive by Dolly Waters as a proverbial passing the torch (truth is, they knew I was leaving and needed a way to write me off television—)
*GASP, 4th WALL BREAK!*
……putting an end to the “crazy Jenny” era. No more black eyeshadow, no more paint splattered overalls, no more hideous hairstyle or an appetite for eating roadkill, oh no. The Jenny Myst that single handedly shaped, ran, and killed the women’s division over there is back. The Jenny Myst that made me famous, not the Jenny Myst who piggybacked off of it for ratings. I came here as the biggest named free agent in the business, and arguably the best signing OCW has ever had. Why do you think I am in a match for title contention in my first match here, because Tamika was bored? She knows what she has here, and she knows that to build this crumbling utopia back up from the embers, she needs the best in the world to do it. I have all the faith in the world that she will bring in the necessary talent to make this place worth the paycheck she gives me, but I hope she knows exactly who she offered a contract to.
I am not just here to win, I am here to dominate.
I fully expect to be in all of the commercials, on all of the programs and posters, the collectors cups, and in the Main Event spotlight. I expect to be given the biggest locker rooms, top notch transportation, stock in Fiji Water, and god help her if my backstage snacks don’t include chocolate. You see, Tamika is hiding something from all of you….something she didn’t reveal on TV last week when she made my deal official. The details, you ask? I can walk out at any time due to a breach of contract. That’s right. I can leave whenever I feel the least bit slighted and never look back at this place. Tamika didn’t tell you all that, did she? You know what else she failed to disclose?
She needs ME a hell of a lot more than I need HER.
Now that we are on the same page, unlike Tamika let me be as transparent as possible. What you’ve seen on OCW TV is what made me famous, but this past year is the most successful I’ve ever been. Sure, I’ve held the Shooting Star Title for longer than anyone, the Bombshell Title was made FOR me, and I held a briefcase which was eventually chased in for the X-Treme title. But over seven years? This past year I have been the TV champ 3 times, the X-Champ 3 times, and was a Vinnie Lane screw job (noticing a trend here?) away from cashing in to be the UNIVERSAL Champion. I’d say that was a pretty good year. I am on fire right now, the hottest I have ever been, and you’d don’t have to be the head cashier at the Wal-Mart to put two and two together: Crazy Jenny was the most successful Jenny of them all.
If you let XWF tell you the story, that Jenny is laying in a shallow grave somewhere in El Paso Texas, but let ME tell you the real story.
*GASP AT YET ANOTHER 4th WALL BREAK!*
That Jenny lives inside me. The one who can get down and dirty, violent, maniacal. The Belle of the Brawl, Your Highness of Violence, The Queen of X-Treme, The Goddess of Gore. She can surface at any moment, so don’t let this pretty face fool you. If I have to hurt someone to prove that, so be it.
I’ve read the dirt sheets. I’ve seen the magazine articles. Hell, I watched the documentary. I know that most people think I am some spoiled brat with a spray tan and an obsession with designer clothes, but this journey has not been easy. A foster kid sold to the mob to pay off gambling debts that got sold into sex slavery, became a stripper, then a model, then a valet, then a wrestler. My life could be a Netflix Series (and maybe if it was, that company wouldn’t be in the shitter right now), and I have survived it all. I deserve the shiny things I have, and at Wheel of Misfortune, I will add another shiny thing to my mantle. I don’t care who it is, man woman or whatever these things call themselves in 2023, I am putting them on their ass. There is a Paradigm Shift going on in the OCW and when the dust settles you’re looking at the new champion."
Jenny sat in her hotel room, a depression on the edge of the bed contouring around her hips as she leaned forward. The sun was starting to set in Burbank, and the lights of the surrounding city were popping up like millions of fireflies in the distance. A hand ran through her blonde and pink hair, a sigh escaped her red lips. In front of her was a piece of paper, unfolded with the envelope it came in next to. It sat on the barely-big-enough-to-write-a-full-sentence notepad on that useless desk in every room she stayed in, and the handwriting on it was neatly displayed in blue ink.
Her hand shook as she picked it up off the desk again, bringing it to eye level. It was a note from her "father".
“JENN–
I am so proud of what you have become. I just wish I could have given you a better life. You’re a beautiful woman now, and more successful than your mother and eye could have ever dreamed about being. We watch you on TV every week–it took us a while to realize it was actually you but when we did, we’ve become your biggest fans. I know that there isn’t much I can do or say to you to make what happened any less terrible. I am beyond sorry, and sorry probably isn’t acceptable to you at this point. I also know that you have everything you could ever need or want. You’ve done that yourself, and that speaks volumes to your character.
Congratulations on the new contract and the fresh start in a new company. I know change can be hard. Your mother and I are vacationing in Santa Barbara. That is only a two hour drive from Burbank. She suggested we get tickets and come to watch you perform live. We would love to meet up with you, maybe go to dinner, and reconnect after all these years. We completely understand if you don’t want to.
Anyways, see you soon.”
Jenny set the letter back down, taking a long exhale. How did he know the show was in Burbank? How did he know HOW to even contact her (the message was delivered by personal courier to her room), how did he know which hotel—-
WHO even was he?
Whoever wrote the letter claiming to be her father had some nice words but to reach out now, after she’s become successful? It’s pitiful, honestly. Whoever it was is a spineless coward.
Whoever it was—-because it wasn’t her “father” Mark Sambuca. Because Mark Sambuca died in the middle of the Nevada desert almost a decade ago.
She would know—she’s the one that pulled the trigger.
Right as she went to throw the ill-received letter away she noticed it had writing on the back as well.
“Room 800. The Penthouse Suit. Nice touch. I guess I did teach you something.”
Jenny felt the bile rise in her throat. She ripped up the letter into pieces. She felt her crazy side coming back out—but she swallowed it back.
There was a new paradigm coming, and this newest daddy issue wasn’t going to get in the way.
