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Description of spider bite
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Two days out from a return. Hockey had taught Alicia how to deal with injury layups from a conditioning perspective, but she never figured out the boredom. The near month-and-a-half away from the ring, or at least competition, had at least come at an opportune time, allowing her to spread out from the basement into the Good Side of the house.
Sabrina said the night of the Last Woman Standing match was the last anyone had seen of Black Violet, at least that she had heard of. While others might have suspected where the former TV Champion may have escaped to, only Alicia knew for certain.
Alicia toweled off the last dish from dinner and left the kitchen. She headed through the still mostly empty living room, past the weight room/guest bedroom, and into the walk-in closet. There hung Robert's painting of the princess and the wizard on dragonback, four feet above where she first saw it. She couldn't have asked for a better housewarming present. Something moved on the carpet.
Alicia gasped hard enough to swallow her tongue if her heart hadn't already been stuck in her throat. Mandibles, thorax, seven and three-quarters legs, and a stare like an airport parking lot attendant. Not as big as she remembered, but not small. Maybe the size of Robert's hand, if it stretched. "I'm sorry, Ralph. We can't keep doing this. I'm gonna tell Robert I took you somewhere upstate where you can run around with all the other spiders." Breathe in, breathe out.
From Alicia's first footstep, Ralph was determined to make it a chase, scurrying toward and then up the back-corner wall. Alicia scanned the upper shelves and then the floor for options as her roommate scurried against the corner baseboard, heading for the door. "Okay, Ralph, come here," said Alicia, grabbing her neon green gym bag with her free hand. She stepped - more like danced - in front of the door, blocking the exit. Ralph hung a sharp turn and scampered up the wall. He was making a break for the vent. "Nononononono!" pleaded Alicia as she reached for her hockey stick propped up by the door. Five feet up the wall, six feet, seven feet, seven and three-quarters…
WHAM!
The excessive arachnid plummeted from the wall. She missed wide-left by more than a foot, but the impact had been enough to dislodge the creature. Ralph may have been disoriented from the fall but clearly not stunned as he tumbled into the open bag in Alicia's free hand. "Gross gross gross!" she cried as she tossed the stick aside and reached for the opening just as Ralph had the same idea.
The wolf spider crawled out of the bag on the zipper side. She felt not only the creature's grip but its weight as it took the path of least resistance and skittered onto her hand. "Oh you. Oh you!" Her peeved and claustrophobic (if it's possible for spiders to be that) adversary crawled up her wrist with one purpose in mind: vengeance.
Chomp.
"Owww!" cried Alicia as Ralph sunk his mandibles into her and Ralph continued to scamper in a direction that tickled in a fuzzy, heavy way all the way up her forearm.
Rather than drop the bag, Alicia flipped her arm and wrist with a dainty, terrified flourish. Into the bag went Ralph. She reached for the zipper. Zzzzzzz- it stuck halfway. "Are you kidding me?" shouted Alicia, stuffing her noncompliant luggage back into the duffel with her bare hand to stymie another escape attempt. "AAAAAAAAA!" she shouted, yanking the zipper past the unseen obstruction and drawing the bag shut -iiiiiip.
Alicia breathed a long, relieved sigh when a chuckle bubbled up from who-knows-where. Another chuckle turned into a laughing fit. Triumph and relief made for a potent cocktail as Alicia started laughing again. "Oh,
that was disgusting," she said, catching her breath only to lose
it again. She examined the bag from every angle, rotating it in her hands. "Oh beans, there aren't any holes, right?"
* * * * *
Triple-check to make sure. She was sure. Jersey, stick, keys, gym bag, and title belt. She headed for th- Oh, and purse. She headed for the garage and hopped into the driver's seat. Her guest of honor could ride shotgun with the belt. "You mind we leave it on Eagles's Nest? I know Steve-Steve's not for everybody." Hearing no objections, she turned up the volume and onto the highway. Windows down.
There was the Queens of War billboard, even grander cast against the growing skyline at sunset. Beyond it, a sign helpfully declared "Beaver, Illinois: It'll Grow on You!"
Doggone it, sign. You were right.
Into the parking lot, then into the arena. The first pair of eyes that met hers belonged to Jill McKill, flying solo these days. The tense second lapsed, and Alica shot her a quick up-nod. The veteran-squared shot her one back as the TV Champion strode past and continued until she reached the trainer's room labeled "Trainer's Room" with the alcove and locked door leading to the maintenance hallway. There was the rolling garbage can, and there was the hatch leading to the maintenance catwalk. After a couple minutes of uncomfortable waiting and eye contact with a pair of crew members chatting in the hallway, an opportunity arose.
The unfortunate creak of the garbage can's wheels managed not to draw any attention. She tucked the hockey stick under one arm and grabbed her My "Handy" Flashlight from her purse. She adjusted her gym bag and title belt over her left and right shoulders. With a quick, sure-footed leap, Alicia vaulted onto the lid, and slowly stood up. With one hand, she pushed the maintenance hatch open with all her strength. Far too much.
CLANG!
She definitely heard that.
She definitely heard that.
Alicia felt uninvited as she flicked the flashlight on. "Hello?" she called, the bile of her better judgement bubbling in her stomach. She flashed the light down one end of the maintenance shaft, then the other. "Black Violet? I wanted to tell you I'm sorry. I want to give you the belt back." The champion cringed as she tapped the metal edge of the catwalk with her stick. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I, um… actually, it's a long story."
She turned to check behind her and sucked in a reverse-banshee scream as she dropped the flashlight on the linoleum. Greasy curtain of dark tangles, gaunt face, gnarled fingers, and smears of old, dried blood in varying stages of the curing and aging process. Narrow, accusatory eyes.
"Jiminy Christmas!" cried Alicia, louder than she would've liked.
Louder than Black Violet would've liked, too. Her startle response chose "flight," and the wronged party retreated four or five feet back into the catwalk.
"No, no, no," stammered the belt-holder. Wrong answer.
Black Violet retreated another foot into the dark. Alicia slowly reached for the belt on her right shoulder. That got the previous owner's attention. No malice remained in Black Violet's shadowy stare. Alicia peered into eyes wrought with sadness, resentment, and loss. Alicia's expression grew heavy and her sight began to blur as Black Violet crawled closer. The TV Champion lifted the silver and gold from her shoulder and extended it for the taking.
"I'm so sorry. You didn't deserve to be dragge-" A sharp tug yanked the leather strap free from Alicia's weathered hands. "Yeah, fair."
Black Violet clutched the belt tight, hung it around her neck, and slunk back into the shadows.
"Wait!" called Alicia behind her. Black Violet slowed to a crawl from a much faster crawl. "I'm sorry, I need to ask for your help. Please. It's not for me."
Dark eyes peered back at the edge of sight. This time, Alicia reached for the strap on her left shoulder and lifted the gym bag up into the vent. With nervous cringe, she reached for the zipper. Pulling it open quickly enough to surely cheese off Ralph. Purely out of instinct, Alicia yanked back her hand.
No cheesed-off Ralph.
Please don't be in my car. Alicia peeked inside. There he was, scrunched in the corner. Black Violet continued to look expectantly at the interloper. Alicia made the introductions, "This is Ralph."
Scarred, misshapen ivory fingers slid into the gym bag in front of the timid creature as she scooped it into her palm. Ralph looked somehow smaller in Black Violet's hands as he seemed to acclimate to being held almost immediately. After a quick survey of her new surroundings, Ralph plodded up Black Violet's wrist and up her left straitjacket sleeve. With a toothy, foul grin, the ghost of Plunj arena shrank into a pale, dimming shadow at the edge of Alicia's vision. Hopefully, that meant a truce.
At least for now, Alicia would be a queen without a crown. She would have to break the news to Helene and Allen. Sabrina warned it wouldn't go over well. She reached for the hatch on the maintenance catwalk with one hand and effortlessly swung it shut with as quiet a loud clang! as possible. Maybe she could-
"Hi! Wow!" shouted Alicia in as close to an indoor voice as possible, suddenly face-to-face with another unexpected presence. She nodded and smiled enthusiastically while greeting the crew member watching her from the floor. Alicia hopped down to the linoleum. "No, this isn't what it looks like to you, whatever you think that is, if it's bad," she explained, poorly.
The crew member on the receiving end took a moment to recover. "So what were you…?" she inquired before seeming not to know how to finish that sentence or perhaps not wanting to. She stood nearly as tall as Alicia, giving the champ a good look at the confused, fair complexion staring back.
Alicia answered to the best of her ability, "Um." When that answer proved unsatisfactory, she tried again, "I thought I heard something."
The
back of her head started to simmer in anticipation of a lot of very
fair questions, but her unsuspecting spectator looked reluctant to ask. They simmered in each other's
secondhand embarrassment, triggering a cascade event. A fremdschämen
singularity, as Zack would say, no matter how many times Alicia asked him
to stop.
Worth a shot. "We met normally in the hallway just now," Alicia offered with a "what do you say?" shrug.
It took a second to register, but the crew member got it. "Oh, Right. Yeah, um. We did. Hey, how's it going?" said the backstage staff, not at all naturally. "Let's go- I have your key." She threw up her hands in frustration. "I don't talk like this. Let me start again: you've been bumped to a dressing room. Congratulations! That's huge. Let me show you where they put you. It doesn't lock by itself, so make sure to lock up when you leave."
"Right," answered Alicia. They approached the brightly lit hallway and kept walking. They were approaching the end of the line. Oh no. No. No no no no. No, please. Oh no. I'm having an irony dream. Oh no. "Last door on the left?"
"Mmhmm," answered the crew member. There it was, right across the hall from the last door on the right: Party Girl. Of course. "Um, sorry, Alicia Goon, I've kind of been following you since you started. What advice would you give to, um, me if I wanted to become a pro wrestler?"
A reflective moment passed. She answered, "I say go for it. That's what I did." Another moment of reflective but much less pleasant silence followed. Fill it with something. "And make sure you try." No, something poignant. "And maybe you'll get lucky, I don't know. It's a crazy business, from what I've seen."
"Oh, okay. Thanks," the crew member muttered, dubiously grateful. She turned to leave.
One more try. "Sorry. Look, I'm not the one you should ask, but here," She reached into her purse for a Pupe's Full Mouth Dentistry pen and tore off a bicuspid-shaped piece of stationery. "I trained at Hard Times, and if you show up and work hard, you will learn to wrestle. Here's the number. Ask for Minisha. She's the head trainer. She'll take care of you."
"Thanks," replied the aspiring wrestler. She held up the paper with a smile, "I'll tell her you sent me. Good luck tonight."
Alicia turned the key and stepped inside. Big mirror, couple of chairs, closet. Sparse. Alicia's heart dropped. Yep, that was definitely a title belt laid on the edge of the dressing table. How many wrestling champion ghosts do we have around here? Fortunately, this one came with a note:
I still don't know why you're giving the belt back, but by the time you read this, I'm guessing it's too late to talk you out of it. If you think
it belongs to her, then do what you think is right.
If it were
anyone else, I'd kick their ass because that belt cost like
$30,000. You're getting special treatment. Welcome to backstage
politics. Enjoy when they work out in your favor.
You're
the champion, and you don't need a belt to prove that.
(over)
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But
a champion should have a belt, so just this once, I'll spot you. They retired this version
of the TV belt in '92. First title I ever won. Championships should be fought for. It's wasted on my office wall. I know you'll make me proud.
-Sab
PS- Don't lose it!
No pressure haha
Once again, Sabrina managed to drop Alicia's jaw as she examined the aged, well-worn but well cared-for brown leather strap with a faceplate like a pair of layered, concentric circles of lustrous silver. The pattern evoked a round shield, specifically a buckler. Turns out I did learn something at all those renfaires after all.
The faceplate had been engraved with a silver wrestling ring, surrounded in laurels, wrapped in a brilliant red banner spanning the top for a nameplate. Sabrina had already done the honors of removing her own. "Queens of War" had been engraved across the top border in black lettering, and "TV Champion" appeared in similar lettering across the bottom. The rounded, rectangular silver side plates depicted a wire frame outline of the Plunj Drain Cleaner Arena against the silhouette of the Beaver, Illinois skyline circa 1976. She not only held a piece of history in her hands, she was now part of it.
Knock at the door. "It's unlocked!" called Alicia. Ooh. Better not make that a habit.
The door swung open. Different crew member. "We're live in five minutes. You're on first after the video package."
The throwback belt got the looks it deserved as Alicia strolled through the corridor. As much as she admired the other belt, Black Violet could have it. This was the prize Alicia wanted to defend. She strolled into the darkness of the production area, instinctively checking over both shoulders when she entered. There was Sabrina, and there was Allen. Alicia hoped he dug the retro aesthetic as much as everyone else.
Allen stood up from his chair and stormed over. "Where the fuck's the belt? Hey. Hey!"
He did not.
"Um, hey, so-" Alicia grasped at syllables.
"Hey, there's no chit-chatting back here," Sabrina interrupted, shooting Alicia a wink. Sabrina turned to Allen and gave him the spiel, "Okay, I'm about to throw a whole bunch of crazy shit at you all at once. Do not talk, do not ask questions. Listen."
Allen gave his colleague the reluctant courtesy of his undivided attention as he sighed. "Why, again? What is-"
"I'm starting. You know how we're like a tenant of the Plunj arena? We also have a neighbor, and we should try to stay on her good side." Sabrina gestured with a thumb for Alicia to take her spot in gorilla.
Alicia excused herself to her mark behind the curtain and watched the monitor. Following the opening lead-in, the florescent yellow heart and pink chain of the Party Girl logo exploded onto the screen with the obnoxiously pink, puffy "Get Like Me!" slogan before fading to reveal a shadowy silhouette, stark against a vivid pink background. Despite the darkness, the figure was familiar, but different. The shape of her head looked uneven and heavily bandaged. Long hair hung past her shoulders with the right third done in dreadlocks.
Her voice, too, sounded familiar, but different. "Hello, this is Giselle Tillman, owner of Party Girl Incorporated saying 'wassup' to all my party animals. Today's my 24th birthday. Sorry I couldn't be there. You know me, staying busy! Really, really busy with a lot of... stuff. That's why I am choosing, voluntarily, to retire undefeated from Queens of War, having achieved my goal of holding the prestigious TV Championship. If anyone is in the market for three-quarters of a million cans of Party Perm, please reach out to my lawyer."
Giselle paused for a moment before clarifying, "Not the one handling my historical landmark defacement case with the city of Pickle, Illinois or the one cooperating with authorities about the several bags of someone else's cocaine found in my dark room, thanks to an anonymous tip. Janice. But if you want a great deal on a bulk order of Party Perm, talk to the lawyer handling my… situation with the bank. It turns out having a net worth of $86 million doesn't mean you have $86 million in money. Nobody told me that." There was another pause. "And how can Party Perm cause mesothelioma? It's not even an ingredient!" The silhouette seemed to look off-camera. "I wasn't commenting on a pending case! No I wasn't! No, you're jeopardizing it! You don't make sense! Fine! I don't need you! Get out! Get out!" Once again, Giselle found her focus. "So, okay, Party Animals. Holla-holla, or- yeah, that's fine. I'm going away for a while." Giselle trailed off before breaking down into gasping fits of song, " Happy birthday to me… happy birthday to me…"
Alicia watched the monitor utterly mortified at what she just witnessed. "That's terrible," said Alicia to a crew member passing by. "Giselle was on drugs?"
A long, silent stare got cut short by the sound of skates carving through the ice and the crack of a slapshot. That was her cue. The reigning Queens of War TV Champion emerged through the backstage curtain into an arena bathed in pale blue light as snow blew from machines rigged to the arena roof. With her hockey stick in her right hand and title belt slung over her left shoulder, Alicia Goon raised her stick in the air to signal for the crowd to join in as one.
Bang.
Claps, stomps, and cheers picked up speed, building louder and louder. Alicia unloaded an imaginary slapshot that set off the horn and lit the red light, sending the fans into a frenzy for the new singles star. Down the ramp. Helene extended a handheld microphone from the commentator's desk. Alicia Goon took it and left her hockey stick on the floor. With a single, giant step, Alicia Goon climbed onto the ring apron, then vaulted up and over the top rope. She made the rounds on the turnbuckles, waving and playing to the crowd, hoisting the belt with her spider-bitten arm–not that she noticed. No more corners remained. Time to cut a promo. Live mic.
"Illinois, it is good to be back, and I am proud to be your Queens of War TV Champion!" announced Alicia Goon, hoisting the belt high once again to enthusiastic cheers.
"Goon! Goon! Goon! Goon! Goon!" chanted a 4,068-strong capacity crowd for the March 31st "March to War" special event. The crowd response might not have torn the roof off the arena, but they at least loosened it.
"Maybe some of you are wondering who's the newcomer holding the TV title? And that's fair. Who I am is your your fighting TV Champion--not on paper, in the ring--and I promise you, nobody wrestles like me, and I don't wrestle like anyone else!"
"A-li-cia! A-li-cia! A-li-cia! A-li-cia!" rose another wave of chants before dying down to let the new champion continue.
Alicia raised the title in one hand as she spoke. "Starting tonight, this TV Championship is a belt of opportunity. This is my open challenge to the locker room: anyone in the back who wants a shot at this title tonight, step up. Everyone else, form a line, because that challenge stands every week for as long as I hold the title. I am Alicia Goon. This is my belt. Come take it if you can."
A hush of anticipation hung, and hung, until the drums and brass of college gameday shattered the quiet as the crowd erupted into cheers. Connie Rocket emerged through the curtain to a white-hot crowd, clad in her yellow sleeveless track shirt and red shorts. The Human Blur pushed back her short black hair and adjusted her sweatband. She waved to the crowd from the stage, then turned and looked at the champion as she bounced on her toes at the top of the ramp. Connie flashed her the same warm smile she showed the fans as she prepared for the contest ahead. Alicia Goon faced her challenger. Polite little wave. Connie Rocket waved back.
The former track star took a moment to stretch before standing up and effortlessly touching her toes. Alicia Goon handed the referee the microphone and title belt and took her corner. The Rocket lowered herself into a ready position as the marching tune faded out. She put her fingers to the floor behind an imaginary starting line. Head up, eyes forward. Silence washed over a tense crowd as they awaited the starting pistol.
"Alright, second title defense," said Alicia. "Let's go." Breathe in, breathe out.
Bang.
The end