The Color of Money

By: Sahara

Writing Prompt: Yes

Date: 2nd Dec 2021

“If you’ve got an area of excellence – you’re good at something; you’re the best at something; Anything; Then, ‘rich’ can be arranged. I mean, ‘rich’ can come fairly easily.”

~~~~~

FIGHT Tower
Sahara’s Apartment

Sahara slowly rotates a little yellow bottle of Oxycontin. Prescribed by James Vincent, PhD. Now a former FIGHT Physician. The news of his firing was unexpected and slightly problematic for plans already set in motion, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. Ya gotta roll with the punches, as her father always said. It was an inconvenience she’d have to work out sooner rather than later. Mayhap the bathroom sex wasn’t the best idea in hindsight, as it turns out, it was all for nothing more than a quick orgasm she’d already forgotten about. It also caused rumors to fly amongst some on the roster. The whole idea behind fucking the good doctor’s brains out was meant to double as a way to steal some blank scripts and give her the leverage of blackmail in case he stepped out of line…

But it was all for nothing because the idiot couldn’t listen to simple instructions and shut his stupid fucking mouth.

She shook her head, nearly beside herself. The moron actually confessed to his wife for who knows what reason? There was no proof, of course, just his word against hers … and she’d deny any such involvement until the end of time–

”FUCK!”

The frustration was evident.

”All that fucking work on that guy…”

The poor guy had little chance from the day they met. She could remember it like it was yesterday; It was the night of FIGHT’s infamous Blood Money event. The show that introduced them to the world, and subsequently put the wrestling world on notice. It was such a hallacious event that left her beaten and broken…

That was the day she’d first met Dr. Vincent in the FIGHT Infirmary. And she instantly knew what he was…

…a mark.

 

Flashback to Blood Money
The FIGHT Infirmary

Sahara displayed absolutely no apprehension about urinating in front of her new doctor. She didn’t care that he saw her naked…

She preferred it this way.

“It’s called a Brazilian, though I’m guessing you already know that.” She flashed a slightly bigger smile as she opened her legs just a little bit more, leaving nothing to his imagination, “She’s rather pretty, ain’t she?!”

 

Sahara sighed at the memory.

She knew she had him right then and there. During a routine urine collection for a mandatory drug screen, the doctor couldn’t help his baser instincts. It was the way he looked at her…

He practically salivated as she gazed at him while taking a piss…

The poor guy.

He wasn’t a mark for the wrestling business. He wasn’t even a mark for wrestlers. He was just a genuinely good guy with something to offer her…

A red blooded male.

A mark.

What the carnies once did back in the day was scout the indiginous in whatever region they staked down. Scout out the people with money – but not just anyone with money – the suckers with money. This was an important distinction. They had to be suckers. And these ‘scouts’ would know the telltale signs of a sucker and ‘mark’ them. A simple line of chalk on their shoulder blade that they’d dismiss as nothing more than a stranger accidentally bumping into them. That let every other carnie in the park know that specific person right there wasn’t just a sucker, but a sucker with money.

Dr. James Vincent, for as nice as he was … was a sucker. He was an intelligent man. An accomplished physician. But he was still just a man. His homely wife didn’t stand a chance against a woman like Sahara. He was a guy she could manipulate with ease.

And so she did…

But it wasn’t for nothin’.

He was a means to an end.

A means she’d now have to replace to keep up appearances.

~~~~~

The infectious laughter that filled the room was something a little beyond celebratory. It was emphatically celebratory. No. It was beyond emphatic; it sounded like something of pure, unadulterated joy…

Like a child’s laughter on Christmas morning…

Sahara had come from nothing. From a lower middle-class south Chicago family that was destined to be forgotten; she somehow rose to the fame afforded to her by modern wrestling standards. She’d gotten a few television appearances over the course of her career, and recently even landed a role on SplatTV’s upcoming second season of Madison Tower, but she’d never hit it big.

And by big, she meant money. Lots of it. Because to her, that’s what wrestling was all about. That’s not to say titles don’t matter; of course they matter. Having a title tends to mean more money. But to Sahara, wrestling wasn’t about having fun.

It was about making a living.

It was about making enough that when she stood in that ring for what would be the final time, there would be enough to never worry.

Surrounded by folks like the Montouri’s, or the Moore’s, or the Preston’s … people that have never wanted for anything, Sahara had grown immensely jealous of their high-society lifestyles. Sure, they allowed her to hang out with them from time to time. And she did. Gladly. But she always felt like a charity case around them. She was the person they hung out with so at cocktail parties they could pretend they understood the plight of the less fortunate. That’s not to say Sahara was destitute by any means, but she also wasn’t one of them. She was the hundred-thousandaire that was surrounded by millionaires, that were surrounded by billionaires. They even covered the poor little blonde’s tabs when she was around them. Not that she didn’t take advantage. I mean, why pay for your own shit when someone else is willing to do it?

But between flying private, to living on islands they literally owned, there was a part of her that hated them for the excesses they enjoyed. A jealousy that quietly consumed her. And while those things were nice, it wasn’t really the clothes they wore, or the jewelry, or the yachts or fancy cars she was jealous of–

It was the security.

They never had to worry about paying bills or needing a rainy day fund. They probably didn’t know what the fuck a rainy day fund even was. FIGHT offered free housing, yet most of them didn’t take advantage, because they had so much money that they could still choose to pay for an overpriced New York apartment elsewhere while citing the Occhi privacy excuse as cover for their wastefulness. Privacy. Right. Whatever. These are the same people that pretend to care about big brother spying on them, yet they carry iPhones or Androids in their pockets, which track their every move 24/7 even if you try to disable all that shit in the privacy settings. These are the same people that ‘check-in’ and post every fucking thing they do or eat on Instagram or Facebook, because again … privacy.

It was never a thought on their mind that the next time they walk through that curtain, it could be their last. And that’d be it. No more money coming in. No more merch royalties. No more sponsorships. It wouldn’t take but a few years to dry up whatever savings Sahara had in such an event. The career-ender. She’d seen it enough throughout her time in the business to know it’s real. It happens. And it weighed heavy on her every single time she walked that aisle. It was a thought nobody else around her seemed to worry about, since they had so much … excess … that such thoughts never even occurred to them.

But as it turns out, ‘rich’ can come fairly easily…

~~~~~

FIGHT Tower
The FIGHT Inaugural Christmas Party

As the elevator door opened, a dapper man dressed in a tuxedo motioned for Sahara to step inside. It felt like a scene straight out of Titanic. Her elegant black cocktail dress wisped across the floor, and the slit that ran up her leg left very little of her thigh to the imagination. Her black lace undergarments were practically visible through the thin sheen of fabric that covered her. She didn’t much like dressing like this, but someone at FIGHT thought it necessary to the point that this cocktail dress and these open toed strappy stilettos were sent to her room … along with a makeup artist and a hairdresser. And a security guard – because apparently that’s necessary now – to glam her up for the occasion.

And what an affair it was. Despite living in FIGHT Tower, she was instructed to go down to the lobby so she could be seen walking ‘the red carpet’, and smile and say a few words on behalf of FIGHT for the media. When Sahara was sober, she was a magnet for the media. And she looked fantastic, from her head to her toes. Everything about her screamed elegance, despite the fact that a week ago she walked through the lobby in a very very different manner.

In the elevator, she noted a special keycard necessary in order to activate the buttons to the Penthouse levels. A privilege reserved for the elite. A privilege a bug like her would never be afforded. As the doors opened to a sprawling room, intricately decorated for the occasion, she simply looked around and marveled at the sheer magnificence of it all. From the twinkling Christmas trees, to the dazzling snowflakes that hung from the ceiling. It was extravagance as only FIGHT could deliver–

And my oh my, was it grand.

As she stepped from the elevator into the sprawling ballroom, she turned to one of the many waiters. ”Ohh, thank you very much!” Sahara reached out and took a glass of champagne from one of the elegant serving trays. And of course it was magnificent tasting. Just as one would expect. This one party probably cost more than a decade’s worth of her salary–a thought that was not lost on her.

She gazed around the room, peeping out various people she wished to avoid entirely. Such as James Raven. Her upcoming opponent at Venom. She had absolutely no inclination to pretend she liked him for the sake of FIGHT or the sanctity of this festive occasion, and was warned by management not to start anything tonight. A promise that’d be easier to keep just by avoiding his stupid smarmy ass. Although throwing a glass of this fine champagne in his stupid fucking face might be worth her while…

”There you are…”

Her blue eyes locked upon her target.

Ricky Rodriguez.

Her sweet innocent little lion.

Gracefully approaching, she lightly tapped him on the shoulder and waited for him to turn. She gazed down at him, now slightly taller due to the heels she wore at the behest of FIGHT. She bent downward slightly so he could greet her like the gentlemen he is. A light kiss on the cheek was appropriate enough for him…

But not for her.

As he went to pull away, she grabbed his shirt and pulled him back, kissing him on the mouth like a true predator. She gently bit his lower lip for good measure before letting him go back to whatever it was he was doing prior to her approaching.

She whispered, “I gotta show you something later…” She playfully raised her eyebrows. ”If ya know what I mean…”

If the kiss hadn’t gotten his attention, that sure did.

”Um, what? Show me now…”

She smiled at him rather playfully, ”Yeah? Now?”

”It won’t take long, will it? I mean, ya live here…”

She let out a little giggle, ”It won’t take long? Hey, you said it, not me!”

Ricky rolled his eyes, ”Not like that, y’know what I meant, jackass! I mean, whatever it is you gotta show me, it won’t take long, right?”

”It’s at my apartment. C’mon, we shouldn’t be long…”

She quickly downed the rest of her champagne and took him by the hand. She hurried him out of the party like a couple of horny teenagers, avoiding anyone from FIGHT that might want to know what she was up to. They ran to the elevator bank and hurried down to the living levels of the Tower. As she keyed in and opened her apartment door, she looked both ways before entering. She led him back toward her bedroom as she turned to him with a finger over her lips as a call for silence…

”Close your eyes.” ”Wait, what? What the hell is going on, Lauren?”

”Just do it, it’s a surprise! And be quiet…when you see what I’m going to show you, keep it fucking quiet…”

Ricky nodded nervously. She was acting really secretive and weird. At first, he presumed this was some sort of cat and mouse prelude to a quick jaunt in the sack, but it was now apparent that this was something else entirely…

She opened her bedroom door just enough to slip inside as Ricky did the same.

”Don’t open your fucking eyes yet!”

Ricky sighed, “I said I ain’t! What’s going on?”

He heard the bedroom door close and she came up behind him covering his eyes with her hands. She pushed up against his behind, ushering him forward.

She whispered, ”Now remember what I said, keep your voice low. I don’t need these fucking FIGHT spies hearin’ this…”

She removed her hands and he opened his eyes. His eyes widened.

”Lauren–” His voice somewhat raised from a bit of a shocked whisper. “What the fuck?!”

”Shhhhhhh-shhhhh!”

Ricky Rodriguez gazed in utter shock upon her King bedspread, which was covered in cash. Random denominations of hundreds, fifties and twenties. He looked at her as an uncontrollable smile crept across her lips.

”That’s like almost a half fuckin’ million–” He could hear the sheer giddiness in her voice. ”I’ve never even seen this much money all at once!”

”What the fuck is goin’ on, Lauren? Are you doin’ something illegal?”

She kind of waffled at this question, half shrugging while she shook her head back and forth. ”No, not really. I mean. I dunno. I don’t think so. Look, after um, that whole car accident thing hit social media when I relapsed, my odds started dropping to almost shit in Vegas. So a few months ago I saw this old movie … the uh, the Color of Money with Tom Cruise, and that’s where I got the idea! If I could somehow do something to tank my odds, and then have a front bet on me, the payouts could be insane!”

She emphatically motioned to her cash covered bed to highlight her point.

”That was for one match, Ricky. One! Fuck my yearly downside, look at this!”

Ricky couldn’t shake the shocked look off his face, but he kept his voice just above a whisper. ”So if you thought this was legal, why is this all in cash? Why wouldn’t they send you a check or something?”

”I uh, I couldn’t bet legit, when you make bets over a certain amount, they tend to ask questions, so I uh, went through a more unscrupulous bunch. I don’t wanna know anything more than I know about them, either. All I know is he lays the bets and if I win he takes 20%, and if I lose I lose. Well, I won and they happen to pay in cash…like this…”

”Lauren, this is fuckin nuts…so that whole lobby thing you orchestrated..that wasn’t real?”

Again, she waffled in her response. ”Eh, I mean. No. I needed the drugs to commit to the role. If it didn’t look real, it’d look like a wrestling skit and my odds wouldn’t have moved. I needed to look like I was rocked off my gourd, so I uh, I kinda got rocked off my gourd and stripped down to my bra and panties to really sell it. When word of my second relapse hit social media, the odds of me being able to beat Betsy Granger turned to absolute shit. But like, I bet on myself, why would that be illegal? It’s not like I was throwing the match–

”Jesus Christ, Lauren…so you’re taking drugs and going out in public to tank your odds? Then you’re betting you’ll win? Isn’t that what Pete Rose went to jail for?! You’re playing with fire here. You know you got that guy that prescribed this shit to you fired, right? If FIGHT finds out about this–”

”–shhhh!” She repeated her call for silence by covering his lips. ”Shhh. Shhh. Shhhhhhhhhh.”

”They won’t find out. Why would they? And why would they care? Calm down my hysterical little lion. Look. Some of us are born rich. Some of us got everything. Boats. Cars. Houses. You name it. And then there’s people like us, that look at people like them and wonder why they do this?! Getting my ass kicked out there – win, lose, or draw? – it isn’t fun, Ricky. And I don’t know how long I got left to do this. I do it cuz if I didn’t, I’d be working at fucking Applebee’s. They do it because they’re fucking sick in the head. The rest of us normal people gotta do what we gotta do to get ahead…so I mean, so what if I’m doing some not-so-okay shit to fuck my odds and betting on myself? There are people out there in the streets, starving to death while people like Joe Montouri spends a million dollars on one fucking birthday party for a goddamn stripper…”

She sighed.

”I see you Ricky. My little lion.” She lovingly ran a hand through his hair. ”I know what a good person you are. But nice guys finish last. And I’m sick and tired of seein’ us nice guys finishin’ last while all these rich fucks keep on getting richer. I don’t know when the last time I go out there is gonna be, and if it all ended right now, at this show against James Raven … I’d be dead fucking broke within a few years. That ain’t gonna be me, Ricky. I just … I wanted to share this with you … my happiness with you–”

Ricky sighed, fully understanding where she was coming from. “I get it, Lauren. I really do–”

Taking a step forward, she gently placed a finger on his lips and looked down into her Little Lion’s eyes. She bent slightly downward and after fiddling with it, tossed one of her stilettos to the side, losing a few inches in the process. She repeated the same motion with the other. Now slightly shorter than he, she touched her forehead to his and continued staring him in the eyes.

”We could really do somethin’ with this, Ricky. We could even do something good. Start like one of those foundations for the homeless, or poor kids or whatever…when we know we got a sure thing, we take some of this and lay a big bet. I know how good I am in that ring, and I know how good you could be. Let ‘em think I’m addicted to this shit again, let ‘em keep tanking my odds, and when we find a sure thing we fucking rake.”

Still standing forehead to forehead, she gave him a rather devilish grin.

”Besides, I wanted to show ya this cuz I kinda wanted you to fuck me on it. Yanno, then go back to the party with a part of you still inside me?”

Not waiting for him to respond, she locked lips with her little lion and began fumbling for his belt buckle–

~~~~~

FIGHT Tower
Back to the FIGHT Inaugural Christmas Party

Sahara quickly fixed her hair and hopped on one foot trying to get her stilettos back on as her and Ricky raced out of her apartment and headed back to the Christmas party. If they were gone too long, prying eyes would surely take notice. Especially that Miss F bitch, or one of the other snitch ass higher ups that seem to wanna keep her down. Firing her doctor was clearly a warning message. But fuck them, that ain’t gonna derail this money train…

Besides, so long as they weren’t gone very long, this would be dismissed as nothing more than a quick jaunt in the sack between known lovers…

As the elevator doors opened to the penthouse ballroom, Sahara and Ricky gave each other a knowing smile and temporarily parted ways. Sahara quickly grabbed another glass of that fantastic champagne before she turned around…

”Oh, God…” Sahara whispered to herself as she locked eyes with Jennie Fenix. This girl had to be the most nauseatingly concentrated dose of sweetness she’d ever met. But there was something so annoyingly genuine about her, she somehow made Sahara feel good just hanging out with her.

It was weird–

”Oh my, Jennie–” Sahara eyed her up and down. From her lavender hair to the silver sequined gown that was almost as revealing as her own. ”Don’t you look amazing…”

”Sahara! Heeey!” Jennie said in absolute glee as she raised the glasses of punch into the air and walked over toward her with caution. She was beaming the moment she saw Sahara, but didn’t hesitate in leaning forward toward her to complete a la bise. She took a step back after and eyed Sahara momentarily. ”LOVE the dress!”

”So did Ricky.” She momentarily raised her eyebrows rather devilishly.

”Who wouldn’t? Everyone should be all over you!” Jennie said, rather oblivious to Sahara’s hint.

”I could say the same about you. But I’m guessing you ain’t all that interested.” Sahara made a bit of a disappointed scoffing noise. ”Jennie, you have no idea what power you could wield with that body…hey, check it out–” Sahara took a Santa hat off of one of the various decorations they had set up and put it on, playfully dangling the little ball attached to the top of it in front of her eyes.

”One more of these balls, and this could be called the ‘Ani view’.”

Sahara laughed at her own joke.

Jennie giggled along with her, but appeared rather awkward as she was still trying to keep the drinks steady in her hand. ”Nailed it!” Jennie glanced around and saw a table on the other side of Sahara, ”Do you mind if I just–“ Jennie reached around Sahara, so they were rather close, ”–just gonna set this here.” She successfully placed the drink down on the table and took a step back.

”I’m glad you like my outfit! I dunno, it caught my eye, and I just thought it would look good, but–“ Jennie glanced behind her to see that there were still quite a few eyes on her that quickly turned away when they realized they were spotted, ”–it’s still a little weird getting all these looks.” Jennie said in a whisper.

”Those looks? That weirdness? That’s power, Jennie. All ya gotta do is choose to use it. Keep that in mind if yer plannin’ on stayin’ in this business.”

Sahara raised her glass of champagne to Jennie.

Standing side by side, the two girls scanned the room. Sahara, like a hungry lioness on the prowl, and Jennie … more like an innocent school girl that couldn’t wait to mingle with all her new friends to talk about legos or something. Sahara’s gaze suddenly stopped at the bar, where she spotted Shawn Warstein.

”Jennie, sweetie, do me a favor and have like fifteen more of those glasses of punch while I’m gone. I gotta go talk to someone real quick. I’ll be back in a few…”

As Sahara walked toward the bar, Jennie threw a hand up to grab someone’s attention. ”Ricky, over here!”

~~~~~

The Peoples Goat!

I really wanted to like you, James. I really did.

You got personality. You’re funny. I mean, you look … yummy, but…there’s just somethin’ about ya that rubs me the wrong way, and trust me when I tell ya this; it’s really fuckin’ hard to rub me the wrong way. Get it? I said rub me…gotta get to that low hanging fruit before you do, cuz based on your little shoot on Dane, that’s pretty much all you’re good at.

Look, I ain’t one for fake introductions and surface level respect, so lemme get to the meat of the matter. You think you’re the best. I get it, Mr. Raven. Hell, we allllllll get it. It’s written right there in your little name. ‘The People’s GOAT!’ You couldn’t scream it any louder if you tried. Now, am I supposed to refer to you as ‘goat’ with a period between each letter, or is just sayin’ ‘goat’ good enough for ya?

Actually, it doesn’t matter…

I’m paraphrasing of course, but a great man once said, ‘When you’re good at something, you’ll tell everyone. But when you’re great at something, they’ll tell you.’

So keep on tellin’ us how you’re the goat. Or the people’s goat. Or whatever fuck kinda goat you think you are, cuz I sure as hell wouldn’t be telling you. And neither would anyone else outside of your little group of self-aggrandizing ‘pals’.

And do you know why? Cuz you’re good, Mr. Raven. I’ll give ya that. But you ain’t great. And you damn sure ain’t the greatest of all time. Not for the people, not by the people, and not of the people.

God, I really hate playin’ this part of the game. I really do. And yeah, it’s a fuckin’ game. The evisceration of others does nothing more than eviscerate this business, and it’s history. I saw what you said about Alli, Dane, and Damon. So I figure I got it comin’ myself. Quite frankly, it disgusted me. So for you, I’m gonna make a rare exception and I’m takin’ the gloves off. But unfortunately for you, you just ran into the wrong girl, cuz I’m about to lay my ladyballs on your chin and skull fuck you back to the minors.

Bitch, you can’t handle my game. Lemme say their names again, in case you didn’t get through your thick fuckin’ skull; Alli, Dane, and Damon. Again. Alli, Dane and Damon. Again. Say their names with me this time– Alli. Dane. Damon. Three peas in a pod. And while I know all of ‘em got a voice of their own, I gotta set some of your delusional shit straight. I get it. I really do. They gotta be the most vanilla of all the flavors in the ice cream shop. They weren’t always this way, but maybe they’ve found something we haven’t. Happiness. But their place in this business isn’t up for question. It’s not up for debate. Especially not by some piss-ant like you. And maybe that happiness dulled their fangs a bit. But that ain’t me. Because I sure as hell haven’t found happiness, and I may be a lotta things… But I sure as hell ain’t vanilla.

I’m that colorful superman swirl you always see outta the corner of yer eye, but you’re too afraid to sample it, cuz you might just find I’m better than anything you’ve ever gotten a taste of. But that’s about to change. I’m bold. I’m brash. I’m unpredictable. And I shine brighter than any other flavor in the shop. And now I’m comin’ for you.

You can deny it all you want, but I’m the hottest thing in FIGHT. And everyone knows it.

Including your little crew.

It’s called wrestling 101, Mr. Raven. It’s called having proper decorum and some basic fucking decency. It’s called having respect for the people that paved the golden road you now walk on. Respect you don’t got, and in turn, respect you don’t deserve. So lemme lay this on ya; if it wasn’t for Dane Preston, there wouldn’t be a FIGHT. If it wasn’t for Dane Preston, there wouldn’t be a Sahara. At least not here. And damn sure not now. So therefore, if it wasn’t for Dane Preston, there wouldn’t be a you. At least not here. Because you’d still be dilly dallyin’ in the minors instead of up here in the tower. But of course that’s lost on you, just like it’s lost on so many others that take it for granted. It’s easy to piss on the legends that made FIGHT possible, especially when the sun is settin’ on ‘em, cuz you know they ain’t gonna bite back. But God, I wish they would. So if you wanna come out here and verbally eviscerate these legends? That’s fine. I can do that, too. Only in your case it wouldn’t be eviscerating a legend…

But a guy.

Just … a guy.

Like all the other guys and so-called ‘goats’ that came before you. People around here aren’t setting their sights on you because you’re important. They’re doin’ it cuz you latched on to someone else’s coattails and tagged yourself with those three very important letters that instantly elevates any curtain jerker that puts ‘em on– N. S. Q. Want proof?

If Dickie’s the tire that makes the NSQ roll, then Shawn’s the axle that drives it. And you? You’re a spoke. You’re a fuckin’ spoke, Mr. Goat. Just like the rest of the supporting cast. Now I know how you all try to spin it that the NSQ don’t work that way, but that’s nothin’ more than a delusion. Make no mistake, there’s Dickie and Shawn, then there’s three feet of crap, and then there’s everyone else. And then there’s you. If the people’s goat picked up his tiny little goat balls and went home, absolutely nothing would change around here. Not a damn thing. But if you remove Dickie or Shawn … the NSQ becomes irrelevant.

Like you.

You’re just another face in the crowd that thinks he’s king shit, when ya didn’t even earn it for yourself. You came in here and stood on the shoulders of giants, and then you got the audacity to tear up the legends that’ve done more in their careers than you’ll ever do in your life. You got the balls to claim you and your so-called ‘friends’ are gonna take this place to the next level? Brother, you’re only here cuz us founders made it possible. You’re only here … cuz people like Dane Preston came in before this place was a name and made it one.

And then your little friends brought ya in when all the hard work was already done.

And that’s the only reason why you’re here.

Cuz it was easy. You had and have nothin’ to do with the success of FIGHT. I’ve seen this movie before, Mr. Goat, and it always ends poorly. You’re like the sequel to the sequel where they couldn’t even get the original actors back, so they pretend like nothing’s changed; despite some second rate talentless clown like yourself standin’ in their place. You’re the fake fucking Becky on Roseanne. You’re this new knockoff Morpheus in Matrix Revolutions. You’re a fucking hack that tells everyone that’ll listen that you’re the greatest of all time…

But ya see, Mr. Goat, eventually you run into the wrong person. You just did. That person you look at and shrug. You look at ‘em and say to yourself, ‘I don’t get it’. You can’t help but underestimate her. Whether subconsciously or otherwise, before you know shit about her or her past, you’ve already convinced yourself you’re better than she is.

And you’re gonna feel that way until that bell rings and you find yourself starin’ across that ring at me.

And that’s when yer gonna know.

That’s when you’re finally gonna understand…

I’ve been doin’ this longer than you. And I’ve been doin’ it better than you. So I’m gonna tell ya a little somethin’ a mentor of mine once said, before I grew up and took the mantle. Before I became the woman I am today. And it’s the same thing everyone outside of your little circlejerk of ‘pals’ already knows, and you’re about to find out— I’m. Better. Than. You.

You wanted me? You got me, you arrogant fuckrag. I ain’t Allison, I ain’t Damon, and I damn sure ain’t Dane Preston. I’m unlike anyone you’ve ever met before in this business, out here, or in that ring. Yeah, yeah, I’m sure you got an endless list of misogynistic terms for me. OMG. LOL. Yawn, motherfucker. Say what ya want about me, but nothin’ you say is gonna stop me from weaving a tapestry of pain all over your cheap, knockoff, ‘Wal-mart edition’ goat ass. So you can take your blow up dolls, you can take yer little action figures with 69 points of articulating kung-fu dick grips, your egomenical bullshit, and your big fuckin’ baloon head, and piss the fuck off, because I’m gonna crack ya open, Mr. Goat. I’m gonna crack yer skull and I’m gonna watch ya bleed. And while yer down there moanin’, and whinin’, and whimperin’, and wailin’ like the little bitch you are, and I’m gonna calmly bend down next to ya and remind ya of somethin’ very important–

If you gotta constantly remind people that you’re great … it’s because you ain’t.

So you can hide behind some fabled streak of wins against the less fortunate, the overmatched, and the minor leaguers you usually contend with, but this is FIGHT Mr. Raven.

This is my home.

And in my home, I’m better than you will ever be at this.

I’m Sahara. I stand alone because I can. You? You’re just another member of the NSQ.

You ain’t the member. You ain’t even Dickie’s right hand man. You’re just a spoke in the wheel.

Like I told your sister-in-arms Betsy Granger, don’t tell me how often you win, tell me when you win. You’re nothin’ more than a stat-padding three quarter baller that’s gonna choke with the game on the line. Cuz I’m gonna castrate ya in front of the world, and then I’m gonna shove those peoples rocky mountain oysters straight down your toothless gullet after I kick yer teeth down yer throat. And then I’m gonna piss in your stupid fuckin’ mouth so you can wash it all down and lick the splash off your face with that so-called silver tongue.

You think you’re LeBron remindin’ us how you’re the so-called goat, and you would be if you were lucky, but I’m Jordan. And when the game is on the line – and it damn sure will be at Silent Fight – you’re gonna come up empty, and I’m gonna dunk all over your overrated punk ass.

The truth hurts, don’t it? Good. Next time, have some goddamn respect for the people that made all of this possible. At Silent Fight, I’m gonna sing ya a lullaby just like your dead mother used to do. Only mine is gonna be short, and not so sweet, cuz son … you ain’t worth any more of my goddamn time.