The Ramova

[Sahara]

PREVIOUSLY
Don't Believe Your Eyes

When Tamika cried out, I didn’t care. I was caught up in the moment. I watched as she grabbed her shoulder with that twisted look of anguish on her face. I was desperate. I knew this bitch wasn’t gonna stop… and I knew this would stop her. I wrapped her arm around the ring post and used my foot as a pivot… I couldn’t necessarily pull her through the post… but I sure as hell could rip her arm off tryin’.

It seemed like a good idea…

Until I heard that pop and the blood curdling scream that followed.

In that moment, in front of all those people, the hardest part was pretending I didn’t care.

~~~~~

Backstage, Post Face Off

Droplets of blood slowly roll from my brow and splatter against the sink. Remnants of a brass knuckle shot from my own bodyguard. Pressing a handful of gauze against the wound, I couldn’t help but stare at the star-like spatters my blood made in contrast to the gleaming white porcelain.

But that's not what I was seeing–

It was flashes of Tamika’s face. The anguish in her dazzling emerald eyes, and the haunting scream that emanated from her lips…

It was the way she looked at me.

I couldn’t get her out of my head.

Closing my eyes, I grit my teeth and wished it away. I tried to convince myself it was just business… but I knew it wasn’t.

I’d crossed a line.

It was failure in spite of my success. They were right about me. About everything. And in that moment… I knew it. It was like a self-fulfilling prophecy, and I was the prophet of my own unbecoming. When I look at that TransAtlantic title, I want to be proud of it… but I’m not.

I had become everything I swore I’d never be.

The fact is, I couldn’t beat Tamika Strader. No matter what I did, she kept coming for me. So I took advantage of the situation, and in that moment, I took liberties. Liberties we don’t take. I ripped her arm from its socket, and in doing so, I put her career on the line.

I knew right then and there…

I’d lost my way.

~~~~~

AND NOW
Sweet Home, Chicago

Maybe it isn’t all that sweet anymore… at least, not the area I grew up in.

Bridgeport.

A little factory town on the edge of the Chicago river… or bubbly creek to us locals. The stockyards would dump the carcasses of stripped down livestock in the river which eventually decomposed and caused gas to bubble to the surface. Hence the name Bubbly Creek. Clever, I know. Other than that, our claim to fame was the Chicago White Sox… and right there in the center of our little world sat the once great Comiskey Park.

It’s still there, but it’s become some homogenized corporate monstrosity.

It’s not the same.

As I looked around at the weathered brick homes and the cracked asphalt streets, I wouldn’t say the area had fallen into ruin, but it was well on its way. Some of the houses even had bars on the windows… a telltale sign to us inner-city kids that we were on the wrong side of the tracks.

It made me long for the past.

The familiar streets were fraught with faded memories. Long Summer days of playing tag-one-tag-all in the sweltering heat; dreading the moment those streetlights would come on. That meant playtime was over. It was one of those unspoken rules we all knew about, without having to be told.

I could almost hear the specters of our laughter… and the echoing sound of fireworks in the distance, which meant our beloved White Sox had hit a home run.

Our blood and sweat was soaked into these streets… and now it feels empty. Like some sorta ghost town. These streets were our playground… and damn did we play. It was a time before video games were actually good and cell phones and chat rooms filled our time…

The memories were thick, and though they brought a smile to my face, it was a bittersweet smile.

Looking back, I never thought it would end.

But then, one day… those streetlights came on and we all went home for the final time.

We never played together again…

We moved onto bigger n’ better things… broke off into new cliques. Friends we had in grammar school slowly became strangers in high school… just as friends we had in high school would fade into “Facebook Friends” later in life. I was happy to see them doing well, but I didn’t really care. I had my own life and stuff to worry about…

And that’s what I came here for… to remind me of who I was, because I sure as hell forgot.

The only problem was, for all the memories, I was left with a lingering sense of emptiness.

After what I did to Tamika Strader in order to retain my TransAtlantic title, something called me here…

No.

Something called me home.

There was one particular place… but I half expected it to be gone. It was the place that started it all. An old neighborhood wrestling gym… we kids called it the Ramova. It was named after the old movie theater it replaced. On Sundays, when it was closed, we used to sneak in through the back doors. They were these huge metal doors that were chained from the inside, but there was enough slack that I could slip through and let everyone else in.

It had a pretty dilapidated ring, with sweat stains covering the canvas, but that didn’t matter to us… it was the only ring in town. So we’d sneak in and run the ropes and bump around, copying off our favorite stars of the era. We had no idea what the hell we were doing, but that didn’t matter. It was fun. We loved it. We even made cheap cardboard title belts and whatnot, carrying them around like we were actual champions.

Perhaps I was hoping it’d spark something in me.

“What the–” I could hear the wonder in my voice as the whisper escaped my lips.

My eyes fixated on the building in the distance. Only it hadn’t been abandoned or torn down like I expected. As I got closer, the words written on metallic industrial sign came into focus–

Lawrences’ The Ramova
A Chicago Wrestling Academy

What the hell? How’d I not hear about this?! I suppose that’s the product of having my head up my own ass as of late… since marrying my beloved Thaddeus and moving to New York, I hadn’t really thought of the old neighborhood.

I wasn’t thinking when I pulled the doors open and walked in. Moments later, a resounding silence washed over the place. The clanging weights, the random grunting… it all just stopped–

And everyone was staring at me.

I mean… everyone.

I stick out like a sore thumb as it is, but these are wrestling trainees from a relatively poor area of Chicago, and Sahara Duke just walked in the front door. To them, I wasn’t some random blonde… I was the Sahara Duke from the OCW.

I may be a lot of things, but I was also the girl that proved it was possible to get the hell outta this place.

Even the receptionist had a slack jawed, dumbfounded look on her face…

Thankfully, a singular voice cut through the lingering silence–

“Well, well, well… as I live and breathe–”

The gruff voice came from behind, tinged with that old school Bridgeport-Irish accent. I turned to see an enormous ginger of a man, with freckled skin to match. He had the biggest smile on his face as he waited for realization to dawn on me–

Only it didn’t. I had absolutely no idea who I was looking at, so I stood there with that confused bunny look on my face–

“I’m sorry, do I know you?”

He looked me up and down and let out a hearty laugh, “You did at one time. I’m Lawrence. Owner and operator–” He pointed at me matter of factly, “--and you’re Lauren MacKay. At least, you used to be.”

I was obviously confused, “MacKay?” My maiden name. “I’m sorry, who did you say you were?!”

“We usta’ break in here when we were kids and you’d give me sky elbows off the top since you didn’t weigh anything!”

Ding!

“Tiny?!”

He let out that raucous laughter once again, “Hah! Haven’t been called that in a while!”

As he embraced me with the biggest hug, I almost forgot to hug him back. I was so caught up in the moment of overwhelming memories, I was slow to respond. We never called him Lawrence as kids. To us, his name was Tiny… mostly because he wasn’t all that tiny. I know… we were so damn clever with the nicknames.

I looked up at his smiling Irish face and couldn’t help but smile back.

“My God… I can’t– why didn’t you call me? With this place, I mean, I could have helped–”

He outright dismissed the thought–

“That ain’t how we were raised. Besides, if I ever called you for that, I’d expect you wouldn’t call me back. You don’t go callin’ old friends you haven’t spoken to in twenty somethin’ years because you know they could help you out… besides, I’m doin’ great, look at this place!”

He looked over my shoulder and made motion to the students slowly approaching.

“When you’re done with them, come on back and talk… I think I know why you’re here.”

I forced a smile.

“I’m glad someone does…”

<< to be continued >>

~~~~~

Video Diary: Entry 1

Harmony Egan, I figured it fair since I’ll be readin’ yours – and likely fallin’ asleep doin’ it – you’ll be watchin’ mine. With audio. Cuz it’s 2022. And silent pictures suck. And if ya think I’m mockin’ ya? That’s mostly because I am.

I’m petty like that.

But of course you already knew that. And since my reputation precedes me, I won’t bother tryin’ to convince you otherwise. Let’s just say yer on my radar… and that’s not the place to be when I decide to care.

And yeah, I’m thinkin’ I care again.

You wanna call me a terminally egotistical, deluded little bitch? Fine. I’ll show ya why I can be. Ya fucked around… now ya get to find out. I hear ya don’t like being pitched softballs? Good, cuz I don’t like throwin’ ‘em. So how’s a 101mph heater to the head sound?! Usually, I don’t tip my pitches, but in this case I’m gonna make an exception, cuz I got no problem bein’ a headhunter on your ass.

On a recent trip back home, I was reminded of so many things. Things I’d forgotten. The person I was, versus the person I became. Where I’m from, versus where I am. There ain’t many among us that life turned out as we expected, or even wanted. But that’s the way it is. Where I’m from, we fought for everything we got. Didn’t matter if it was a can of Pepsi or a fuckin’ Snickers… or a fake cardboard title belt wrapped in aluminum foil. If we didn’t protect it, it got taken from us by bigger, meaner kids.

Which in turn, made us the bigger, meaner kids.

And don’t get me wrong, in a weird way, I respect what you’ve done. As a matter of fact, I’m impressed by it. I mean, despite your obvious disadvantage, you hit the scene runnin’ and made it your own little thing… in a world where talkin’ means everything, you’ve carved a path I couldn’t even comprehend. And that gets my respect, whether ya care or not. You went from nothin’ to somethin’ in what seems like an instant.

And much the same, you can always go from somethin’ to nothin’ in even less time.

So if this is the part where I’m supposed to apologize for makin’ light of your little problem cuz our snowflake society thinks I should? I’ll pass… cuz I know you’re like me… a survivor. You didn't get to where you are by givin’ up and hidin’ in a hole.

No.

You fought for everything you got…

And so did I.

Maybe I didn’t go about it the way most think I should’ve… but if you think for one second I care what you or anyone else thinks of me… I don’t.

All that matters to me is I’m the TransAtlantic champion. Me! And even though it ain’t on the line, I’m gonna fight you as if it was… cuz it’s time I remind the world of who I really am.

And if you don’t think I can… or will?! Ask Tamika, cuz I don’t care if I gotta rip your arm off or kick your dick up into your throat to send ya that message… I promise ya, I will.

I know how I look… but don't believe yer eyes… I’m like a phasmid. I’m cloaked in this aura of… well, Sahara…

But make no mistake… I’m the predator.

And you’re just another fly caught up in my tangled web of lies… because I am…

The White Widow.