Maybe... Jun 15, 2022 9:55:47 GMT -5
Post by Sahara on Jun 15, 2022 9:55:47 GMT -5
New York, New York
The Duke Penthouse
Biting down on her bottom lip, Sahara leaned up against her step son, Frankie, and smushed him into the sofa cushions as her Princess Peach racer shot past his Bowser. Keeping her weight on him as he struggled to control his character, his muffled protests fell upon her deaf ears and joyous laughter. It was smooth sailing to victory for the blonde, who jumped up off the sofa and threw her arms up in celebration as if she’d just won the world title.
And she danced.
“Are you… dancing?!”
Frankie grabbed a handful of popcorn and threw it at her. As the popped kernels bounced off her, Sahara paused her celebration for a moment to fish one of them out of her cleavage… she popped it in her mouth and flashed a snarky smile.
She continued her little victory dance as Frankie rolled his eyes, “You cheated! That shit doesn’t even count!”
“First and foremost, language Frankie! I never know how your father’s gonna react to shit like that, but I know he’ll blame me! And second of all–” She made a grand sweeping gesture toward the television screen depicting her victory and flashed that trademark smile… “That victory screen with Princess Sahara the Peach on top of poor little Frankie Bowser the Loser says otherwise! I am the God Queen of video games–”
“Oh, what the fuck ever–” He shook his head and tossed the controller on the sofa. A moment later a sinister little smile formed on his cute little face. “Hey, Lauren,” Frankie looked at Sahara with that growing smile, but whatever he had planned she didn’t wait to hear it. Grabbing a pillow, she launched it at him with quite a bit of force, only Frankie ducked and a designer lamp went crashing across the cherry wood flooring. Both Sahara and Frankie made a grimace face as it shattered into a thousand pieces.
“Ohh you are so going down for that! Thad’s gonna be soooooo pissed! That was one of his weird designer lamps. It probably costs more than you make in a decade of waiting tables!”
“Oh fuck off, he can just buy another one… besides, you ducked, so that shit’s on you!”
“What the hell is goin’ on in here?!”
“What’d you two break now?!” Came the voice of their housekeeper, Berta, which startled them both. She entered the room and immediately sighed upon seeing the shattered lamp scattered across the hardwood floor. “Would you stop actin’ like you’re eleven?!”
“But I am eleven!” Frankie chimed in.
“Not you!” Berta pointed at his stepmother, “Her!”
“He started it!” Sahara shot back.
Shaking her head as she left the room, Berta paused for a moment, addressing both kids. Sahara and Frankie Duke. “Clean it up before Thad gets back…”
“Yes Ma'am…”, they both responded in unison.
After Berta left, Frankie looked to his stepmother, “He’s gonna notice…”
Sahara shook her head knowing Thad didn’t usually care about stuff like this. She no sold it– “No he won’t.”
Sahara crooked a brow, “Fifty bucks he won’t notice…”
Frankie thought about it for a moment, “Fifty? Done.”
“And don’t tell your father I’m gambling again, especially with you!” She paused for a moment, “Hey, I got an even better idea… let’s hit Target and buy some piece of shit five dollar lamp and put it there, see if he notices…”
Frankie snickered, “Fine by me…”
Sahara’s eyes narrowed, the sound of that little laugh was a bit on the devilish side– “What’s so funny?!”
“I ain’t the one that’s gonna be making it up to him in the bedroom…”
Lauren MacKay, now known as Lauren Duke, or Sahara for those in the business, had lived a life not unlike Andy Dufresne in the Shawshank Redemption. A prisoner of circumstance, bombarded with endless character assassination attempts, called everything from slut, to whore, to bitch, to a fuckin’ cunt… she crawled through miles of piss and shit to come out clean on the other side.
And just like Andy, she found her redemption in the end.
Only her prison wasn’t made of stone walls and concrete floors… it was life itself. It never mattered what it was she did… someone else would inevitably be better even if they didn’t bother practicing at it. Especially if they didn’t bother practicing. They were what you’d call ‘naturals’. Sahara, however, referred to them as the protected class. Nepotists. From academics, to sports… to wrestling itself, it seemed at every turn no matter how much effort she’d put forth, someone else would do it better… somehow.
Just like life can be.
OCW was her chance to change all that. Maybe her final chance.
Through the rose colored glasses of social media, her life was likely viewed as perfect, but through her eyes, life was like a predator chasing her down… and if she let it catch her, she’d never get outta this life alive…
I’ve heard the chatter in the back… it’d be impossible not to.
I’ve seen the looks and awkward side-eye I get while walking the halls backstage at Massacre.
I know what you’re all wondering. When is this bitch gonna show us what she’s made of? What’s she got? Is she worth the headaches everyone claims she’s gonna cause? What the fuck did Thad ever seen in this bitch other than tits and ass?
So lemme start addressing some of this before I’m even booked in my first match here in OCW, just to give ya a glimpse…
Let’s start with the Thad question I’ve heard whispered a number of times since my arrival… Maybe that’s all Thad saw in me… tits and ass. Because it’s all he wanted to see. Or… maybe it’s because that’s all I wanted him to see. I believe they call it Occam’s Razor. Maybe it’s that simple.
Maybe I am as stupid as I sound.
Or maybe… I’m only as stupid as I want you to believe.
Some people go at this a different way. The opposite way. They come into a new promotion headstrong to prove how amazing they are by citing numerous examples of the titles they’ve won or the people they’ve defeated… but that ain’t my style.
I ain’t here to show you my resume. I’m here to make you feel it. I’m here to put you on it. But before that opening bell ever rings, the match we're gonna fight has already begun. It takes place here, in your head… psychologically.
I begin by planting the seeds of doubt in your feeble little minds… and I make you wonder.
Lemme sum up your feelings going into this promo.
I doubt she’s very good.
I doubt she’s very smart.
I doubt she’s worth the headaches.
I doubt she can beat me…
The more you doubt, the more you’ll get tangled up in my web…
That’s the kinda poker I play.
I know what you’re thinkin’, she ain’t got the cards…
Maybe I don’t. So go all in motherfucker, cuz I’m gonna fold your bluffing hand.
And maybe now… you’re not so sure anymore.