Episode 1
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Eight Long Years
There’s a sweet voice from the darkness.
“I won’t make this easy for you, Derek Adonis.”
The source of the voice is lit subtly from above in a somber hue of blue mixed with red. A dark-haired woman, Slayter McKinney whose first SCW appearance came just recently, sits upon a bench in a locker room, her head bowed.
“I’m not coming out of the gate with promises. I’m not coming down to the ring with threats, or guarantees. I’ve seen what happens when you’re loaded with enough self-assurance to bury all other egos before you, only to find yourself eating your own words when life finds a whole new way to alter your plans.
I’m not looking ahead. I’m not looking at the belts. I’m not even looking at who holds them.
Some people might disagree.
But I’m not here for them.
On every journey you pick some up along the way that appreciate you, those willing to walk with you and see where you’re going.
On this journey the only measuring stick I’m bringing with me is myself. Anyone that tags along will see a woman carrying herself, measuring herself against herself, and working day-in and day-out to grow beyond herself.
The only certainty, the only promise, the only guarantee will be how hard I intend to work.
I won’t make this easy for you, Derek Adonis.
There’s no force that will work against me.
The only effort that can outdo me, will be my own.
I won’t make this easy for anyone.
Here’s hoping I make it easy for myself.”
![[Image: fist.png]](http://www.fightwriting.net/Dogged/fist.png)
She eased the front door closed and leaned her back against it with a sigh in the darkened front foyer of her modestly tiny flat. Breakdown had come and gone. Sleater, (read: Slayter, if you’re so inclined to stick to in-ring sobriquets,) had came, seen, and conquered what little corner of the SCW universe she could get her hands on. Now, basking in the afterglow, the electric buzz still tingling in her skin and at the tips of her elbows and the back of her neck. She was elated to see the future coming into focus. The Waiting, Tom Petty had said, was the hardest part. And now that it was over, tentatively albeit, she felt an almost post-coital bliss.
Her name was on the card. The match was booked. The proverbial cheque was in the mail. But what if something went wrong again? One knee bent and rested the sole of her shoe against the door, and her head slumped forward as she contemplated the possibility of this future she’d worked so hard to set up going blurry and out of focus once more. It was that easy. One bad apron bump, a pulled muscle; she’d heard of someone she’d gone through training with tilting his head to one side in order to give his neck a little crack and wound up, unpredictably, actually breaking the neck instead.
It was that easy.
Stars had a way of aligning in unexpected ways. The planets had shifted fatefully eight years ago, and she gave birth to Dylan, who currently slept peacefully, at least presumably, in his momma’s bed just feet away in the tiny flat. She rose up away from the door, quietly so as not to wake the sleeping household she’d struggled to build, and let her shoulders relax.
This time would be different. She’d make it work no matter the hurdle, or how high the obstacle. She’d find a way.
She slipped off her jacket and hung it on the coat hook before tiptoeing into the kitchen when, from the armchair came a voice,
“I feel like I’m at the beginning of the story of me being Alfred Pennyworth to your Batman.” Sleater straightened with a sigh and looked to the armchair where Dylan’s babysitter, and her personal best friend Shannon Coswell sat looking up from whatever book she was reading.
“What’s wrong with being my Alfred Pennyworth?” Sleater asked with a smirk. Shannon eyed her a moment before setting the book down on the nearby end table and pulled herself forward in the chair.
“Mmmm, well, how about the fact that Alfred’s charge prefers late nights, overwork, sustained injuries, which Alfred has to invariably help heal, and is often absent from life in general in favor of playing some demented form of make-believe.” Sleater cringed, setting a hand on her hip.
“You’re not going to give me a guilt trip every time I come home from a show, are you?”
Shannon stood up and inhaled sharply, looking tired, from her to the sleeping child.
“While you push the play button on your life, I’m hitting pause, Sleater. I got nothing better to do.”
“You love Dylan.” Sleater interjected, uncertain why this had to be a conversation now as she descended from cloud nine.
“I do,” Shannon looked back at her and padded softly along the floor past her towards the coathook where her shawl hung. “And I love you. But there will be a limit. Your first broken bone and I’m done. Is it cold out?” She asked, without needing an answer.
“It’s fine.” Sleater watched her friend and babysitter dress for the trip home to a house in the beginning stages of an upheaval that saw week-long babysitting outings as a welcome change from what she was escaping. “Thank you for doing this.”
Shannon straightened after tying up her granny boots and regarded Sleater, pride growing on her lips. Shannon was her senior by almost a decade, the lecture, Sleater knew, was done more out of love than burden
“Going home sucks right now,” Shannon said with pain in her voice, alluding to the event that made her century home feel haunted with the sounds of a family she’d only recently lost. “So, I do thank you. This is a perfect moment in your life for this opportunity. You’ve got a great cheering section, and I’m happy to share it with you. But there will come a time when you need to make amends with his father if you hope to make a career out of tussling.”
She looked at Sleater with finality, a loving finality, a motherly finality, and turned and exited as quietly as Sleater had arrived.
“It’s called wrestling.” she called gently after her with rolled eyes.Sleater turned her gaze to the sleeping child she’d pushed pause for and curled into bed beside him with a kiss on his cheek. Dylan stirred awake and, upon seeing her tired face, sat up excited.
“You did it?! You were on teevee!” She smirked, with a nod.
“Momma made it.” She grinned, exhausted and glad to be near him once more. She nestled her head into his shoulder, prodding him to lay back down as she spooned her little 8 year old son and felt a pang of guilt. She hadn’t thought of him at Breakdown, once the phone had clicked off, and she’d switched to promo mode. Dylan, that fruit of her loins, had become something distant, like a star on the edge of the cosmos, when her mind shifted to focusing on where her career’s trajectory was headed.
“Did you bring me anything?” Dylan asked, his tiredness returning with a yawn as she switched the light off and went right back to laying beside her son.
“Mmmmf,” she sighed, unable to keep her eyes open. Dylan could feel her breathing grow hoarse and heavy against his back as she went to sleep.
“Mom?” He glanced back at her, but she’d drifted off. Eight years old felt sometimes a lot like it were more. He slowly sat up and watched his mother sleeping with a sense of impending disaster. He’d encouraged her, wanted like anything to see his mother shine again.
But something felt off, now that she’d taken the chance she was being offered.
He slid silently out of bed from beneath the covers and gently, careful not to wake her, he tucked her in and watched her sleep peacefully before setting off to clean up the flat after Shannon. He’d do the dishes, and vacuum, all silently so as not to wake her, then prepare their breakfast, and somewhere inside of him he’d wonder at what point in the transaction where he encouraged his mother to follow her dreams, that he became the parent, and where this reversal would take them.
“Derek Adonis. Ten years pro, without, at least to my knowledge, a championship reign in Supreme Championship Wrestling to show for all that time.”
That same voice from the darkness. The raven-haired yet-to-be heroine, Slayter McKinney, still sat perched on the bench, only now she regarded the viewer with cold calculation.
“There’s some who might look upon that fact with derision, Derek. Sadly, it’s an accomplishment I share with you, technically. It has been eight long years since I could even think about stepping back into a wrestling ring. Eight long years of feeling the tautness of the ropes at my back, the spring of the ring boards under my feet… only in my dreams.
Ten long years, and some might ask you what you’ve accomplished, Derek. Not I. That’s not the type of fight this is going to be, and it’s not the type of fighter I am. I empathize, though, I must ask if you feel any hunger, at all?
Don’t you feel it eating away at your insides every time you come up short, just missing your chance to grab the success you feel you deserve?
I feel it incessantly.
I feel like I might explode if I don’t go down to that ring at Breakdown and give it my all.
And, win or lose, I’ll feel it the next time. And the next time, and the next time.
I need this, Derek.
I need this.”She says it in a mock, breathy tone, like, perhaps, oversexualization might be the one language her opponent understands.
“I’ll tell you the truth, Derek Adonis: I feel like I died eight years ago. I feel like I died, and someone else took my place and lived my life, and sidelined my dreams in favor of something that I never--” She stopped herself, and stood all of a sudden like a spring releasing its energy after too much tension. She shadow boxed the air a few strokes before refocusing.
“I’m excited for what this first match is. Eight years for me; eight years where I wasn’t even wrestling matches, living beyond the ring where I belong; eight years waiting for this moment.
And now here it is.
You might warn me not to ‘blow my load’ in one shot. You might encourage me to expend my energy more gradually, and not put all my proverbial eggs in one basket.
That’s the thing, Derek. Eight years of waiting for this and I feel like I’ve stored up, well, eight years worth of ‘eggs’. Eight years worth of energy to expend, and let me tell you it is going to take a lot more than one match to spend it all. It is going to take a lot more than YOU, Derek Adonis, to expel this innate need I have to walk down to the ring and give my every last ounce of strength to try for the 1, 2, and 3.”
She thought to herself a moment, and nodded with certainty.
“Eight long years have been building to this chance. It’s going to take a lot more than one match to make up for that absence, Derek. Whether you think so, or not, this match is just the BEGINNING for me. I got here. I put my foot in the door, and I intend to force the door off its jamb. I am barging in, and I’m not leaving.
Eight years spent away from the sport I love, live, and breathe?
Well,” she smirked, “That means I need to spend eight years making up for all the time I lost doing what I love, doesn’t it?
Eight long years, Derek.
And it begins… with you.”
She winks, and strides casually out of frame.
Fade.
“I won’t make this easy for you, Derek Adonis.”
The source of the voice is lit subtly from above in a somber hue of blue mixed with red. A dark-haired woman, Slayter McKinney whose first SCW appearance came just recently, sits upon a bench in a locker room, her head bowed.
“I’m not coming out of the gate with promises. I’m not coming down to the ring with threats, or guarantees. I’ve seen what happens when you’re loaded with enough self-assurance to bury all other egos before you, only to find yourself eating your own words when life finds a whole new way to alter your plans.
I’m not looking ahead. I’m not looking at the belts. I’m not even looking at who holds them.
Some people might disagree.
But I’m not here for them.
On every journey you pick some up along the way that appreciate you, those willing to walk with you and see where you’re going.
On this journey the only measuring stick I’m bringing with me is myself. Anyone that tags along will see a woman carrying herself, measuring herself against herself, and working day-in and day-out to grow beyond herself.
The only certainty, the only promise, the only guarantee will be how hard I intend to work.
I won’t make this easy for you, Derek Adonis.
There’s no force that will work against me.
The only effort that can outdo me, will be my own.
I won’t make this easy for anyone.
Here’s hoping I make it easy for myself.”
Her name was on the card. The match was booked. The proverbial cheque was in the mail. But what if something went wrong again? One knee bent and rested the sole of her shoe against the door, and her head slumped forward as she contemplated the possibility of this future she’d worked so hard to set up going blurry and out of focus once more. It was that easy. One bad apron bump, a pulled muscle; she’d heard of someone she’d gone through training with tilting his head to one side in order to give his neck a little crack and wound up, unpredictably, actually breaking the neck instead.
It was that easy.
Stars had a way of aligning in unexpected ways. The planets had shifted fatefully eight years ago, and she gave birth to Dylan, who currently slept peacefully, at least presumably, in his momma’s bed just feet away in the tiny flat. She rose up away from the door, quietly so as not to wake the sleeping household she’d struggled to build, and let her shoulders relax.
This time would be different. She’d make it work no matter the hurdle, or how high the obstacle. She’d find a way.
She slipped off her jacket and hung it on the coat hook before tiptoeing into the kitchen when, from the armchair came a voice,
“I feel like I’m at the beginning of the story of me being Alfred Pennyworth to your Batman.” Sleater straightened with a sigh and looked to the armchair where Dylan’s babysitter, and her personal best friend Shannon Coswell sat looking up from whatever book she was reading.
“What’s wrong with being my Alfred Pennyworth?” Sleater asked with a smirk. Shannon eyed her a moment before setting the book down on the nearby end table and pulled herself forward in the chair.
“Mmmm, well, how about the fact that Alfred’s charge prefers late nights, overwork, sustained injuries, which Alfred has to invariably help heal, and is often absent from life in general in favor of playing some demented form of make-believe.” Sleater cringed, setting a hand on her hip.
“You’re not going to give me a guilt trip every time I come home from a show, are you?”
Shannon stood up and inhaled sharply, looking tired, from her to the sleeping child.
“While you push the play button on your life, I’m hitting pause, Sleater. I got nothing better to do.”
“You love Dylan.” Sleater interjected, uncertain why this had to be a conversation now as she descended from cloud nine.
“I do,” Shannon looked back at her and padded softly along the floor past her towards the coathook where her shawl hung. “And I love you. But there will be a limit. Your first broken bone and I’m done. Is it cold out?” She asked, without needing an answer.
“It’s fine.” Sleater watched her friend and babysitter dress for the trip home to a house in the beginning stages of an upheaval that saw week-long babysitting outings as a welcome change from what she was escaping. “Thank you for doing this.”
Shannon straightened after tying up her granny boots and regarded Sleater, pride growing on her lips. Shannon was her senior by almost a decade, the lecture, Sleater knew, was done more out of love than burden
“Going home sucks right now,” Shannon said with pain in her voice, alluding to the event that made her century home feel haunted with the sounds of a family she’d only recently lost. “So, I do thank you. This is a perfect moment in your life for this opportunity. You’ve got a great cheering section, and I’m happy to share it with you. But there will come a time when you need to make amends with his father if you hope to make a career out of tussling.”
She looked at Sleater with finality, a loving finality, a motherly finality, and turned and exited as quietly as Sleater had arrived.
“It’s called wrestling.” she called gently after her with rolled eyes.Sleater turned her gaze to the sleeping child she’d pushed pause for and curled into bed beside him with a kiss on his cheek. Dylan stirred awake and, upon seeing her tired face, sat up excited.
“You did it?! You were on teevee!” She smirked, with a nod.
“Momma made it.” She grinned, exhausted and glad to be near him once more. She nestled her head into his shoulder, prodding him to lay back down as she spooned her little 8 year old son and felt a pang of guilt. She hadn’t thought of him at Breakdown, once the phone had clicked off, and she’d switched to promo mode. Dylan, that fruit of her loins, had become something distant, like a star on the edge of the cosmos, when her mind shifted to focusing on where her career’s trajectory was headed.
“Did you bring me anything?” Dylan asked, his tiredness returning with a yawn as she switched the light off and went right back to laying beside her son.
“Mmmmf,” she sighed, unable to keep her eyes open. Dylan could feel her breathing grow hoarse and heavy against his back as she went to sleep.
“Mom?” He glanced back at her, but she’d drifted off. Eight years old felt sometimes a lot like it were more. He slowly sat up and watched his mother sleeping with a sense of impending disaster. He’d encouraged her, wanted like anything to see his mother shine again.
But something felt off, now that she’d taken the chance she was being offered.
He slid silently out of bed from beneath the covers and gently, careful not to wake her, he tucked her in and watched her sleep peacefully before setting off to clean up the flat after Shannon. He’d do the dishes, and vacuum, all silently so as not to wake her, then prepare their breakfast, and somewhere inside of him he’d wonder at what point in the transaction where he encouraged his mother to follow her dreams, that he became the parent, and where this reversal would take them.
That same voice from the darkness. The raven-haired yet-to-be heroine, Slayter McKinney, still sat perched on the bench, only now she regarded the viewer with cold calculation.
“There’s some who might look upon that fact with derision, Derek. Sadly, it’s an accomplishment I share with you, technically. It has been eight long years since I could even think about stepping back into a wrestling ring. Eight long years of feeling the tautness of the ropes at my back, the spring of the ring boards under my feet… only in my dreams.
Ten long years, and some might ask you what you’ve accomplished, Derek. Not I. That’s not the type of fight this is going to be, and it’s not the type of fighter I am. I empathize, though, I must ask if you feel any hunger, at all?
Don’t you feel it eating away at your insides every time you come up short, just missing your chance to grab the success you feel you deserve?
I feel it incessantly.
I feel like I might explode if I don’t go down to that ring at Breakdown and give it my all.
And, win or lose, I’ll feel it the next time. And the next time, and the next time.
I need this, Derek.
I need this.”She says it in a mock, breathy tone, like, perhaps, oversexualization might be the one language her opponent understands.
“I’ll tell you the truth, Derek Adonis: I feel like I died eight years ago. I feel like I died, and someone else took my place and lived my life, and sidelined my dreams in favor of something that I never--” She stopped herself, and stood all of a sudden like a spring releasing its energy after too much tension. She shadow boxed the air a few strokes before refocusing.
“I’m excited for what this first match is. Eight years for me; eight years where I wasn’t even wrestling matches, living beyond the ring where I belong; eight years waiting for this moment.
And now here it is.
You might warn me not to ‘blow my load’ in one shot. You might encourage me to expend my energy more gradually, and not put all my proverbial eggs in one basket.
That’s the thing, Derek. Eight years of waiting for this and I feel like I’ve stored up, well, eight years worth of ‘eggs’. Eight years worth of energy to expend, and let me tell you it is going to take a lot more than one match to spend it all. It is going to take a lot more than YOU, Derek Adonis, to expel this innate need I have to walk down to the ring and give my every last ounce of strength to try for the 1, 2, and 3.”
She thought to herself a moment, and nodded with certainty.
“Eight long years have been building to this chance. It’s going to take a lot more than one match to make up for that absence, Derek. Whether you think so, or not, this match is just the BEGINNING for me. I got here. I put my foot in the door, and I intend to force the door off its jamb. I am barging in, and I’m not leaving.
Eight years spent away from the sport I love, live, and breathe?
Well,” she smirked, “That means I need to spend eight years making up for all the time I lost doing what I love, doesn’t it?
Eight long years, Derek.
And it begins… with you.”
She winks, and strides casually out of frame.
Fade.
![[Image: gbrocLu.png]](https://i.imgur.com/gbrocLu.png)