Fifteen Minutes - Part 2 - Time's Up

[Sahara]

PREVIOUSLY
Fifteen Minutes

“You gotta rediscover your love for this, like when we were kids. It’s the only chance you’ll have against someone like Harmony, or PIC… or even Nickleman.”

~~~~~

AND NOW
The Amazon Paintball Experience

“I don’t know why I ever agreed to do this. It’s cold, it’s muddy–” I rolled my eyes as I held a hand out, feeling light flecks of rain falling from the skies above– “And now it’s drizzling.”

As I trudged through the forest, I whispered complaint after complaint knowing I shouldn’t have let Tiny talk me into this paintball thing. Especially when I woke up and saw the weather was set to be miserable.

Because of course it was.

“Don’t worry, Lauren! It’ll be fun! And you get to shoot people with paintballs! It’s been like… I dunno, but it's been a while and I haven’t seen a single person on the other team yet, and this stupid gun is heavy–”

As I stepped on the wet blanket of autumn colored leaves that covered the forest floor, I sank up to my knee in wet, cold glop… or mud… or whatever the hell you wanna call it.

“What the fuck!”, I shouted in exasperation as a round of shushing from nearby teammates followed. I grabbed hold of some nearby branches to pull myself out, hearing a sucking sound as the wet Earth tried its damnedest to steal one of my brand new Kenetrek hunting boots. “That’s the last thing I need, to be barefoot in the cold… c’mon, fucking ground! Gimme my godforsaken boot back!”

*Schlllllllloooooop–*

As I freed my foot from its muddy prison, I slipped backwards and fell right on my ass from the momentum. Thank God my boot stayed on. Only now I was caked in a thick coating of mud from knee to toe. And of course my ass was wet because when I fell, I fell into even more mud.

“Oh for Christ's sake! Is anything NOT fuckin’ muddy around here?”, I complained.

“Sahara, shut the fuck up!”, one of my teammates whisper-shouted in my direction.

Thank God I made them take me to Bass Pro Shops earlier this morning so I could buy some clothing more suited for this nonsense, only now I looked like Sonya Blade… covered in mud.

And I was cold.

And wet.

And this helmet they made me wear for safety purposes was uncomfortable.

I seriously wanted to scream.

How this little experience was supposed to help me defeat Nickleman I’ll never know. It might help me beat Tiny’s ass for talking me into this. The only silver lining was it was nice to see this place was still standing. When I was a kid, this place was known as the Amazon. It was a spacious forested area of the neighborhood where we’d all bring our bikes to ride the carved out trails, hills, ramps and a host of other stuff we’d constantly hurt ourselves on. Of course, it wasn’t actually the Amazon, that’s just what us kids called it. Eventually, they condemned it because of all the injuries, and they fenced it in to keep us out.

A lotta good that did.

Today, it stands as a paintball theme park where adults go to act like kids, and shoot each other with little balls of paint that sting like a mother-bitch. The fact they named it the Amazon couldn’t have been a coincidence. Maybe the adults paid more attention to us than we gave them credit for…

Anyway, every so often, Tiny would get some of his students together to go on random ‘team-building’ exercises… he said they helped build trust and comradery. It just so happened he had this little excursion planned and since I was already in town, I figured why not… maybe he’s right and I do need to get my mind off wrestling for a change. Not to mention, he shot me in the chest three times from a few feet out and now bitches have got to pay.

That hurt a lot more than I expected, by the way… and spare me the chest jokes.

“Pssssst, Sahara”, came a subdued whisper, just loud enough to get my attention. My team was doing something they called a “horizontal forward push”, whatever that meant. I was surprised by how seriously they took this. They even had those special-ops hand signals you see in movies all the time, you know the ones; where they hold up three fingers, make a fist, and then make some weird motion? Well, it turns out, those hand signals actually mean something, but you have to be taught what… and I totally didn’t pay attention to any of that.

He lifted two fingers, made a fist, and then some sort of twirling motion that sent my teammates scrambling. I had no idea what the fuck he was doing…

I tapped the side of my helmet and made a confused shrugging motion, only for him to repeat those same exact hand signals…

“What?!”, I literally shouted, likely attracting unwanted attention to our area.

“They’re flanking us from around the edges… fan out!”, he whispered back as he scurried off.

“Fine, whatever.” I sighed as I grabbed hold of my gun and got up off the wet forest floor. I shook off my mud covered boot, “Goddamnit, I bet that mud is all inside my boot and it’s gonna fuck up my pedicure–” And no, I have no idea why I was saying this out loud… I didn’t even realize I was. I also didn’t care. How the hell does anyone find this fun?!

Pop, pop, pop–

I heard the sudden sound of paintball guns echoing as shots hit the tree right next to my face, splattering green paint across my visor. I tried to duck away, but the only thing I accomplished was stepping my other boot right into that same stupid mud pit–

“Jesus fucking Christ I’m gonna kill Nickleman for getting me into this, him with his condescending bullshit about my breasts, and whatever the hell else he said last week on Massacre. Fat fucking useless trash–” I don’t know why, but I ranted away as I tried to pull myself out of the mud, only this time I seemed to be a bit more stuck.

“Oh, what the hell–”

Pop, pop, pop–

I could literally hear paintballs whizzing past me.

Pop, pop, pop–

I tried to wipe away the paint that splattered on my visor… only all I did was add mud, so now all I could see was green flecked mud–

“That’s it!”, I shouted as I unstrapped my helmet, “I’m fucking done… this is stupid–” I threw my helmet off, unleashing my shock of platinum hair.

Which also got muddy.

I screamed!

And when I say I screamed, I mean… I screeeeeeeammmmmmed. The hell hath no fury like a woman scorned kind of scream that can shrivel up a man's testicles just by being within earshot. I could literally kill someone right now… namely that unworthy piece of garbage they call Nickleman, who was the sole reason I even came back to Chicago to rediscover whoever the hell I am in preparation for our upcoming match…

And now I’m cold and covered in mud because of him.

“Oh for Christ’s sake…” I said as a member of the opposing team emerged, pointing his gun at me. I sighed and looked at him with puppy-dog eyes, “Please don’t shoot me… I’m stuck. I’m wet… I’m freezing, and I’m just–” Tears welled up in my eyes as total exasperation took hold.

He said something to me in a muffled voice, but I couldn’t tell what through his helmet…

“I’m sorry, what?”

Unstrapping his helmet, he pulled it off and I immediately rolled my eyes.

Of all the people that could have run into me. This guy was a damn-near spitting image of Charles Nichols. I swear if the guy had a brother, it was this douche.

“I said, do you need some help, Mrs. Sahara?!”

Was he blind? I had mud on my face, in my hair, down my boots… my ass was wet. I was freezing. I probably had mud down my pants…

“Lemme ask you somethin’... do I look like I need help?!” I said rather sarcastically as I reached my hand out. “Yes! I need help! Please!”

Nervously, he reached out a gloved hand and pulled… only I barely budged. He pulled again, harder this time, and the Earth once again sucked away on my leg– *schlllllllloooooop–* –finally freeing me from the mud.

“Oh for fucks sake!”

Hopping on one leg, I looked down at my bare foot and I swear to God the only thing I could see was red. I lost my brand new boot in the mud… my sock… it was freezing and now I was half-barefoot hopping around like an idiot covered in mud–

I looked up at Nickleman and instantly raised my gun, aiming it right at his stupid face.

“Drop your gun or I swear to God I’ll unload this shit–” My echoing words split through the trees.

He immediately tossed his gun, realizing how serious I was.

“I–I–I–”, he stammered. “I just h-helped you out Mrs. Sahara–”

I hopped forward on one leg, keeping my bare foot off the forest floor–

“You fat, perverted, piece of shit–”, my words dripped venom. “I hate you with a burning passion. You’re a condescending prick that ain’t on my level in any way, shape or form, yet you somehow think I’m the one that doesn't belong. You think yer gonna skate past me and claim what’s already mine?

“I already am the Paradigm champion, moron.

“Ya see, Charles, you can’t catch lightning in a broken bottle, and by the time I’m through with you? You will be broken. I’m gonna beat you within an inch of your life while I take what’s mine, and when you beg me to stop… I’ll start all over again. You’ll get the message that I ain’t some talentless bimbo that only got a job because of who my husband is. I am the White Widow… and you will feel my venom coursing through your pig intestines–”

“Mrs. Sahara–” The poor guy pleaded through the confusion. “I-I’m not Charles Nichols! My name is Patr–”

“I don’t care what your name is–” I spat.

He was Charles Nichols. At that moment, in that miserable wetness of the Amazon, covered in mud, hopping around on one boot in the freezing cold… he was the manifestation of everything I’d been through since my arrival in OCW–

I’ve been dismissed as the owner's wife.

A spoiled bitch.

A laughing stock they didn’t respect.

A loser.

A joke.

And it was my fault.

I let it happen.

No more.

That all stops now.

I re-aimed my paintball gun mere inches from his pudgy face as he backed into a tree–

“Mrs. Sahara, please–” he begged.

“Lauren!”, I could hear Tiny’s voice of reason calling from behind. “Lauren, if you discharge at that distance, you could take out an eye–”

I couldn’t hear him.

I didn’t care.

“Since I got to OCW, all you people have done is laugh at me. Disrespect me. You’ve called me stupid. A dumb blonde. A talentless whore. So go ahead, call me a bimbo–” I nodded at Charles Nichols, the muzzle of my gun mere inches from his face. “Go ahead you fat fuck, call me a bimbo again!”

His lip quivered as Tiny tried to calm me, “Lauren for God’s sake… that’s not Charles Nichols. Look at him!”

I felt my finger ever so slightly squeezing the trigger, bringing it closer and closer to discharge.

“You have no idea who I am, Charles… you have no idea what you’ve unleashed. You shoulda’ left my name outta your fat fucking mouth. So go ahead… man up and call me a bimbo again.

“I dare ya.

“I double, triple, whatever the fuck is more than triple dog dare ya…

“DO IT!”, I shouted.

Finally, I pressed my gun to his forehead, shoving the back of his head against the tree as I prepared to fire. In that moment, I could literally smell his fear.

But then, I could hear my husband's calming voice.

Lauren…

I could hear my sons…

Mom…

I could see myself when that mobster held a gun to my head many months ago…

I closed my eyes… and backed away.

I could hear a sigh of relief spread through those that stood watching the chaos.

I looked down, realizing I was standing barefoot in the cold, miserable mud.

I tossed my paintball gun to the side as everyone rushed to check on that poor guy.

I whispered to myself as Tiny turned my face toward his, looking me in my tear-filled eyes.

“My husband’s right,” I confessed. “I need help. All I could see was Charles Nichols, and I wanted to hurt him. Permanently.

“I don’t know what I’m doin’ anymore, Tiny… I’m just so fucking angry at how everyone treats me in OCW.”

Tiny didn’t say anything. He simply hugged me. He knew my life wasn’t a sitcom that was gonna be solved with one twenty-minute episode… it was a tragedy in the making.

Charles Nichols was now a part of that tragedy.

And I’m tragically going to end his reign as Savage Champion when I become–

P A R A D I G M