In order to most efficiently beat the absolute FUCK out of somebody you have to know three things. You have to know yourself, you have to know your enemy, and you have to know the world you two are living in.
Now for most people that first one is easy, 'cause there really has to be something wrong with you in order for you to be lying to yourself so damned bad that you're a goddamn stranger to your own sorry ass self. And I don't me lying on your left arm til it goes numb and using it to jerk off.
Knowing your enemy? That can be easy or it can be hard. But with video tape… well motherfucking DVD's and the interbutts these days, it's pretty easy to get to know the person you're aiming to skullfuck into sausage meat if they're a pro wrestler. They invite you into a jam session in their skulls twice a week and then you get to see 'em fight.
Now knowing the world? That's the motherfucking kicker. There's a bunch of shit that goes down that most people don't know about, 'cause they can't fucking see it. I'm not just talking about angels and demons and ghosts and devils and shit (well, maybe not shit. You can see shit. Though sometimes you don't, you step in it, and you track filth all over the fucking place.)
That's simple stuff, that's shit you can see by turning the dial every so slightly so that you get a bid of a bleedover between channels. Spooky shit you can understand, because it does stuff. It wants stuff. The creeps fucking do things, ya know?
Not the Eyes, man. Not the motherfucking Eyes. They might not be there all the time, but they're there for import things, and they're watching, man. They're fuckin' watching."
-SPIDER
There are times when you just want to be alone, to just sit by yourself along with your own thoughts and hash them out. Or in my case get them all in order so you can sit down and write an article about how exactly you managed to go from your native high-magic, rather interesting world with a plethora of sentient species to a magically barren crudball of a world with only one species of person that can carry a conversation.
The universe hates those times and will move heaven and earth to do whatever it can to fuck with them. Case in point, I'd plopped myself down with my laptop and a big orange mug of hot chocolate that was approximately one third marshmallow by volume when somebody started pounding on my door like it owed them money.
"Here you are, my dear, adamant in admitting that you want to go home. Incensed that you were being denied the opportunity. Drowning your sorrows in drink when the powers that be when you see you path home blocked from your footsteps. And yet… and yet you somehow managed to fail in achieving that which you most desired in all the world."
The life of a professional wrestler is fraught with its ups and downs, its triumphs and tragedies, and they're only made worse when you have a cannibalistic dragon goddess living inside your cranium.
Like the bitter, racist great aunt nobody wants but someone ends up having to take care of out of familial obligation. Only in this case it just so happens that I ended up with big scaly bitch queen numero uno, who literally ate herself out of house, home, and worshippers, by offering a rather non-specific prayer in the right place at the wrong time.
So as her sole draconic worshipper, as a technicality, I'm kind of stuck with her. Spark and I have been calling her Miss Hissy, as to reveal her true name to millions of people would be a rather poor idea. Douchebag Old Testament Jehovah's got nothing on her, and it wouldn't be good for anybody if she were allowed to take roots and get a foothold of the faithful on a backwater, near magic-less world.
That racist old grandma in this case is an unabashed dragon supremacist. It'd be like some tribe in deepest, darkest Africa that's never interacted with any other members of humanity dumped into the care of the Grand Wizard of the KKK. I'm not going to inflict her on anybody.
But last week my trainer, mentor, and friend Desolation pulled a Spark and applied a little bit of pop culture to the situation. She'd probably prefer the new name to the old, but I'm not going to call her either Miss Hissy or Eleanor Rigby to her face. Even though she did indeed die in a church and was buried along with her name.
My life is strange. I'm a seven foot tall blue dragoness, my best friend in the multiverse is an elf with a big floofy tail, I'm trapped on a world where the creator being is obsessed with balls (and also beetles), I have a zombie for a lawyer, a vampire for a doctor, and a fat, skulleted Euro-pop loving Dutchman for an arch nemesis.
It is, however, not so strange that a fellow in a hockey mask, camouflage pants, suit coat, red silken tie, and one of those metal band t-shirts with the band's name beaten into nonrecognition with the ugly stick doesn't cause at least a brow raise.
Of course there's pretty much exactly one person in my life who dresses like that, as if army surplus pantaloons and one of a thousand different black t's with a skull on the front are a uniform as mandatory as the red coat and huge fuzzy hat for the dudes that stand outside Buckingham palace.
So when he tosses a briefcase up on a crate nearby that contains some bit of production gear and whips off the hockey mask, revealing none other than the Patron Saint of Professional Wrestling, Desolation.
The man's amongst the best at what he does. He's had a storied career in ULW and its sister promotion the IWC, and a just as grand career curb stomping the crap out of the indy circuit. He also trained me in the art of professional wrestling.
He pulls off the suit coat and holds it between two fingers, as if it has a bad smell to it, then wads it up and tosses it into a corner. He then proceeds to theatrically brush himself off, as if he had been somehow befouled by the presence of the garment. With that done, then and only then does he grin and greet me.
LiveWireWrestling.com Exclusive!
The Secret Origins of Kalinda Kriegsdottir
Part Two of Several
By Kalinda Kriegsdottir
There really isn't any experience better than a mutual slaughtering of an army of the undead to really bring two people together. Take two random folks off the street from whatever walks of life, give them an armory to raid, and then sick a rampaging horde of cannibalistic corpses on them.
Religion, social class, wealth, politics, sexual orientation. Not going to matter. You give Richard Simmons and Jerry Falwell some motorcycle leathers, shotguns, and a rabid, decaying mass of churchgoers in their Sunday best and somehow they're going to end up pals after having discovered a mutual fondness for being spanked with a cat o nine tails and wearing assless chaps.
You bring together two people who are already close to one another, and you can ignite the relationship into something new. A little spark to ignite the fusion of two souls into a gestalt, a whole greater than the sum of its parts. That happened to me and to my best friend in the whole wide world, Delilah.
If there's one thing you can say about elves, its that depictions of them are inconsistent. Are they tall, are they short, are they mortal, are the spirits, are they magic, are they mundane? But where I come from the three best words to describe an elf are smug, magical, and feminine.
Androgynous is a term thrown around to describe elves in a number of places; ethereal, transcendent beauty beyond the mere constraints of binary gender. Unless you're a Dungeon and Dragons character artist, then they all look like a transitioning Ross Noble three months into his-her hormone replacement therapy.
