Alicia Goon 015: First impressions

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Descriptions of violence

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She hadn't been pushed through the curtain, per se, but it was more than a nudge. People. Stands and people. She had played in front of bigger crowds, but that was when she was one of the best at the thing she was doing. The crowd of a few hundred and more steadily filing in felt like an ocean. Oh jeepers, she thought. "Oh jeepers," she said. She stared down the ramp at those 30 feet. Those 30 feet that couldn't be 30 feet. They should measure again. One foot in front of the other. This was happening. What am I doing? What have I done? This was happening soon, and soon was almost now. Take a breath. It's been a while since the last one. "Okay. Okay, I can do this." I don't remember a single wrestling move.

"Ohhhhh boy," whimpered Alicia bravely. There had been scattered claps. The reaction wasn't hostile, at least. She noticed the ramp wasn't a ramp anymore. It was flat now. How am I getting into the ring? Up the ring steps or one big step up onto the apron from the floor or slide under the ropes? Or roll? Step between them? BETWEEN WHICH?! The newcomer picked the least cool option of all: none of them. She stepped up the ring steps, climbed up on the bottom rope, then stepped over with one foot, sort of, and then swung the other one over. She was now standing on the second rope, holding onto the top rope with both hands, inside the ring. The wrestler making her one and only debut of a lifetime then kicked her feet out and landed flat-footed on the canvas. That was not an entrance she had practiced.

Alicia marched to the center of the ring. Halfway through raising her hand to acknowledge the audience, it became clear she was not about to be introduced. Cringing, she dropped her hand to her side and shuffled back to her corner. She wouldn't have to wait long for her opponent, as the sound of lively drums and brass of college marching band music from the arena speakers punctured the relative stillness. A half-dozen college-age Japanese men emerged from behind the curtain. Their uniforms were identical and immaculate: a coal-black four-button suit with two golden stripes around the left arm. All four polished bronze buttons had been done up, and the suit itself had a collar that hugged the neck, almost like a priest's collar. She could only tell they were wearing formal white shirts underneath by the protruding inch-and-a-half of sleeve.

The men spread themselves evenly in a straight line along the stage area at the top of the ramp, facing out towards the audience. Then came the cheerleaders: clad in red skirts, red and yellow tops, and each carrying a red and a yellow pom-pom, the cheer squad filed in and took their positions several feet behind their male counterparts. Following them, a seventh college-aged man also wearing a black suit rolled out a massive drum and took his place in the back. Then the show began. 

Rising above the rest of the band came the pounding of that massive drum. With each beat, the besuited--she didn't know what else to call them but cheerleaders--gestured flamboyantly, changing poses in perfect unison every few seconds. Hands flat, arms outstretched, then crossed at the chest, up, down at the sides, overhead, crossed at the chest; then a pause. All at once, the men shouted, kicked out a leg--managing some impressive height--turned 90 degrees to the right, dropped into a squat, and rhythmically threw one-two punches at the air in front of them. Another high kick, another 90-degree turn - this time to the left. Repeat. All the while, the cheerleaders kept up their end of the performance with a complex routine of dancing, kicking, jumping, and waving their pom-poms in time with the music and the beat of the drum.

There she was: Connie Rocket. Bursting through the curtain beaming a confident smile, she soaked in the cheers of the gathering crowd that had grown to close to a thousand. Even with that few people in a still mostly empty arena, the adulation neared a roar. She wore her usual yellow track shirt, red track shorts, and wore a red sweatband with a thin yellow stripe around the middle. No boots; instead she wore red and white wrestling shoes patterned to look like track shoes. She stretched as if for a race, finishing up by easily touching her toes and then going palms-flat to the ground.

Upon completing the cheer routine a third time, the music stopped. The cheerleaders in skirts took a stance with their pom-poms at their hips while the ones wearing suits assumed a pose with arms outstretched, right arm tilted slightly up and the left slightly down. The men shouted something in Japanese as they continued alternating between poses. Arms up, arms out, cross the chest, arms up arms forward. After bellowing a few sentences, the men stopped posing and stood in place as well, arms at their sides.

The Rocket approached the top of the ramp, crouched down, and brought her fingers to the floor, as though lining up for a race. Head up, eyes forward. Silence washed over the crowd.

Bang.

She earned the nickname for a reason. With the sound of a starting pistol, the track star came off the blocks and was down the ramp and sliding into the ring blink-and-you-miss-it fast.

A man with gelled hair and a flawless smile wearing a suit and bow tie entered the ring in a more traditional manner. He held the microphone up to his lips and announced the premier athlete, "Hailing from Okinawa, Japan and weighing 148 pounds, she is the human blur. She is the gold standard. She is CONNNNIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEE ROOOOOOOOOOOCKEEEEETTT!!!!!!!"

There was a roar in the crowd that time. The fans rose to their feet, clapping and cheering in support of the living legend herself. Connie mounted the second ropes in each of the four corners and played to the crowd. Some fans threw colorful streamers into the ring from the stands. Two young Japanese women in their early 20s wearing track suits and carrying towels and bottled water had eventually followed the Rocket down the ramp. They had been waiting at ringside, but reflexively climbed into the ring and bundled out the streamers with a quickness almost as impressive as Connie's. At the top of the ramp, the men of the assembled cheering squad chanted something along with more poses while the cheerleaders clapped their pom-poms together. The music stopped. With a loud "Hoi" and a bow, the squad filed out, drummer at the caboose. Connie Rocket took her corner.

"And her opponent, already in the ring: Alicia Winthrop."

Polite little wave.

It wasn't crickets, but if crickets heard the reaction, they'd describe it as "mild." Alicia took the corner opposite Connie. Big inhale, big exhale. You've got this. Just rememb-

Ding!

Connie didn't drop into the traditional wrestling stance. She instead bounced on the balls of her feet, shifting her weight between them as she removed her sweatband and tossed it into the crowd. Alicia dipped into a half-crouch, arms partially extended. She knew her opponent wasn't going to lock up with her. She hoped her opponent didn't know she knew that. As the debuting wrestler approached, the track athlete kept a measured distance, harrying Alicia from just outside her reach. The newcomer dropped the disciplined wrestler act and charged full-speed into her opponent, aiming a clothesline at chest-height, hoping to catch the smaller woman off-guard. Way too slow. The nimble combatant effortlessly ducked the clothesline, turned, and leaped in the air with a dropkick, catching Alicia right on the button with both feet as the larger wrestler rebounded off the ropes.

Alicia went to the ground hard, clutching her nose with one hand. It hurt, but it wasn't broken. After vandalizing her own prom photo with a broken nose from a game the week prior, she prayed it would never happen again. Sabrina was going to give her heck for going maverick at the start of the match, but the rookie had never seen anyone try bum rushing the Rocket at the opening bell. Unfortunately, the experiment hadn't paid off. Alicia rose to her feet. Where was Connie? Alicia wheeled around just in time to see that same pair of wrestling shoes hurtling towards her chest. The former hockey player brought her hands up and blocked the dropkick, deflecting her opponent's feet away and sending her crashing unceremoniously to the mat.

Connie was on flat her back and within reach; it was time to go on offense. Work the leg. Alicia grabbed her smaller opponent's ankles and launched a few kicks into the back of that rehabilitated knee. Figure Four. Here goes. Right knee flush to the back of her left, release the right foot, step over, keep turning…

Suddenly, a woman in a black and white striped shirt jumped in her face, shouting and counting with her fingers. It was unwelcome. "Alicia, you've got to break the hold! One! Two! Three! Four!"

While she had been trying to apply the figure four, her opponent had been scrambling for the ropes. Despite her smaller stature, the track star made good use of her long, powerful limbs, dragging herself across the mat and secure a tight grip on the bottom cable with one hand. Guess that's that "ring awareness" thing Sab always talks about. Alicia released the captive leg and took a step back. Connie rose to her feet, but not unchallenged. Seeing her opponent's back against the ropes and an opportunity, Alicia reached down and grabbed her opponent in a wristlock, trying to drag her to her feet. The smaller combatant shot her head up into Alicia's stomach, momentarily knocking the wind out of her. The quicker wrestler turned the wristlock around on her more powerful opponent and jumped through the middle and top ropes, pulling Alicia along, hanging her up by her armpit over the middle strand.

Alicia faced out towards the stands and groaned in pain as an ache stabbed up into her shoulder. Connie kept her foot on the gas by grabbing the second rope and using it to assist a jumping roundhouse kick directly into her larger foe's face. Alicia stumbled and fell onto her back in the middle of the ring clutching her nose in anguish. The next thing she saw was Connie completing a backflip, landing chest-first across Alicia's stomach and floating ribs with a devastating Moonsault. Connie reached down, hooked Alicia's leg and went for a pin. The referee slid next to them and slapped the canvas, "One! T-"

Alicia kicked out, shoving the nimble warrior off of her as she clambered to all-fours. Wait. This felt familiar. She turned her head to the left just in time to see Connie coming off the cables at breakneck speed, looking for that running knee. Nice try. Alicia shot to her feet and took two powerful steps toward her fast-approaching adversary and threw her arm wide, like swinging a right hook over her opponent's left shoulder. The impact felt nothing like hitting the kick pads in the gym. The smaller woman left her feet and went to the canvas hard. For the briefest instant, Alicia was back on the ice. She'll be looking for the Figure Four, thought the rookie, mentally running through the list of alternatives.

She bent down, grabbed her opponent's left ankle, and used it to roll Connie onto her stomach. Alicia kneeled down and pressed her full weight onto her grounded captive, driving her knee hard into the smaller fighter's back while bending the ailing woman's leg up and over those broad, powerful shoulders, wrenching and hyperextending it with a Stretch Muffler submission hold. The Rocket pounded the mat and squirmed in the larger competitor's grip. Alicia knew she hadn't locked it in tight and couldn't maintain it for long. Turning her body hard on the mat, the star athlete wriggled free of the hold. She scrambled to her feet, but this time she couldn't outrun her pursuer. The powerhouse grabbed the smaller woman's wrist and twisted it behind her back between the shoulder blades. Connie expected it, and swung her free elbow behind her, cracking Alicia in the jaw and causing her to lose her grip on the hammerlock.

In a daze, Alicia searched the ring for her opponent. There she was, flying in from the top rope. Connie Rocket caught the larger woman's head with her legs in a flying Headscissor. The heptathlete twisted her body, using her momentum to throw her opponent. Sabrina was right: practicing flip bumps really did pay off. The aching fighter rolled to her stomach and tried to push herself up, but the smaller aggressor was already on her. She grabbed Alicia by a French braid and pulled her to the nearest corner, gathering speed on the approach. Holding her opponent in a tight front face lock, Connie hopped on the middle rope to the left of the turnbuckle, then the top rope to the right, then leapt back towards center-ring, sending Alicia spiraling down to the mat face-first. Alicia's hands instinctively flew to her face, trying to protect her throbbing nose. The ring was still spinning, but the debuting wrestler rose to her feet regardless.

The Rocket was confident to the point of carelessness and spent a bit too long soaking in the cheers. When she approached Alicia again to resume the assault, the larger woman caught a roundhouse kick with her arm and kept hold of the errant limb. Trying to press the advantage, the rookie went to sweep the other leg - where was it? A spinning kick to the side of the face answered Alicia's question and sent her sprawling.

Standing up had gotten significantly more difficult. The best Alicia could manage was a slow crawl for the ropes, but Connie was more than happy to help her on her journey. The half-Japanese wrestler grabbed that braid again and tugged the bigger combatant along behind her. Alicia finally managed to stumble to her feet, which allowed the Rocket to try and slam the former hockey player's head into the top turnbuckle. Although groggy, beaten, and bewildered, Alicia managed to grab the top ropes on either side to stop her momentum. The larger woman fired an elbow behind her, grabbed her opponent by her short raven hair, and sent the smaller woman's head colliding into it instead, then bounced it off the pads two more times for good measure.

Grabbing the dazed Connie by her shoulder, Alicia spun her opponent around and shoved her back-first into the corner, and tried to lift the premier athlete into a seated position on the top turnbuckle. Once again, the smaller woman was one step ahead and hopped up onto the second ropes, then the top ropes, and front-flipped up and over Alicia and out of her predicament, making an escape back to center-ring.

Nuts to this! shouted the rookie in her mind. She tracked the nimble wrestler through the air, and as soon as the Rocket touched down, Alicia threw a right hook–the punch she wanted to show Sabrina since the very beginning of training; the one her trainer insisted couldn't possibly win a fight–and hit Connie Rocket dead center of the breadbasket like a sledgehammer. The smaller wrestler's eyes turned to saucers, her hands dropped, and then the rest of her did. She sank to the canvas, audibly sucking air, trying desperately to fill her lungs. A rush of adrenaline lightened the powerhouse's limbs as she dove to the mat on top of her gasping opponent, fury in her eyes as she poured on the punches and forearm shots to her victim's head. 

Not satisfied with the damage of her ground-and-pound, Alicia stood up from the mat with Connie in tow by the hair and arm. The stronger wrestler wrapped her prey in a front face lock and bombarded her rapid-fire with fists and knees to the stomach, chest, and face. Still not enough. Alicia stood the smaller woman up, saw she still hadn't caught her breath, and shoved her back-first into the nearest corner. The rookie mounted the bottom ropes and fired piston shots down onto the dazed woman's forehead while the audience counted along.

There were those black and white stripes again. "Come on, out of the corner! One! Two! Three! Four! Fiv-"

Reluctantly, Alicia peeled herself off her trapped opponent before getting herself disqualified. Stay there. I'm not nearly done with you yet, she thought. It was the angriest she had ever heard her internal monologue. Alicia stormed toward her staggering, punch-drunk opponent and threw a massive haymaker. The instant she committed to the swing, the newcomer realized she'd been had. Connie was playing possum. The quick competitor sneaked underneath the shot and stood up behind her towering adversary. The track star hopped onto the middle rope and sprung off, mounting Alicia in a piggyback position, securing another tight Headscissor, and with one massive surge of coordinated strength, Connie Rocket backflipped Alicia headfirst into the mat with a devastating Poisonrana.

The adrenaline was wearing off now. Alicia's arms weighed more than ever, her legs felt rubbery and unresponsive, and Connie Rocket was already back on her feet.

Alicia Goon 014: A rising Star

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Mild violence

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After a solid week of watching Connie Rocket matches from dinner to bedtime, the encounter now felt strangely personal. Alicia held onto her hood with one hand and her gym bag with the other as she walked down the snow-dusted ramp leading to the talent entrance. Her mentor stood by the heavy door, holding it open. Alicia took a deep breath and tried to calm her nerves before making conversation. It didn't work. She was hopeful about the next breath, but alas. Sabrina was getting Alicia With Nerves tonight.

"Hey! Look who it is!" called the veteran into the darkness. For some reason, it always seemed more appropriate to shout in these situations at night. "How you feeling?"

They crossed the threshold into the brightly lit backstage area. The light momentarily stung before the debuting wrestler's eyes adjusted. There was a chair next to the door. She had been waiting. "Nervous," the newcomer said, eliciting a nod from her trainer. "But ready. I wish I could get in there now and just be in it." That comment–or at least the enthusiasm behind it–earned a smile.

"You'll be there soon enough. I'll give you the tour while we're down here. We kind of have an arrangement with The Plunj since we pull in more than half their money, so we've got our own accommodations. There's the trainer's room," said Sabrina, helpfully pointing to a door with a sign that said "Trainer's Room." The two wrestlers rounded the corner and entered a hallway with 10 or so doors approximately split between the two sides. A placard had been affixed to each door, all bearing a name. "Rockstar" Jackie Skinner, Terra Frost, Anne Boulder, Kendra Terminus, and more--all names she recognized and revered. Then the two final doors, side-by-side: Party Girl, and Mr. Cattywampus. She could take or leave the first, and the second one confused her. Both doors and the wall between them were elaborately decorated with pink and yellow hearts. On Party Girl's door was a massive vinyl sticker bearing the Party Girl brand logo--that obnoxiously fluorescent yellow heart with the hot pink chain border. In the center, her annoyingly pink slogan "Get like me!" leaped out in her signature puffy lettering.

"Big names go here. Bust your ass and you'll earn one someday," Sabrina paused to eye Alicia up and down. "Maybe. Past here is backstage and production. And these are the two locker rooms. The roster tends to get a bit cliquey; it's just easier having two," Sabrina explained as she pushed through one of the doors. "Not sure if anyone's here yet, but you can at least get set up." The locker room itself was the nicest Alicia had seen for an arena this size. Well kept locker area, showers, even two individual changing rooms for the more modest bloodsport combatants on the roster. Only one woman was inside, also appearing to be getting set up in the last locker on the right side of the room, way back in the corner.

"Layla!" shouted the veteran wrestler, startling the rookie out of her self-guided visual tour. "Long time no see! I hear you were tearing it up in the UK." Alicia gave the unfamiliar woman across the room a polite little wave. 

The tall, caramel-skinned woman in the back flashed a look of recognition, then a look Alicia couldn't place, which transitioned quickly into a warm smile. "Sabrina! I'm sorry we never got that rematch. I've gotten a lot better."

"Hey, there's still time. And I've watched tapes. I've seen you putting in the work," said Sabrina, genuine admiration in her voice. "And when they book it, you can recount the lights and make sure they're all there." It was a joke, but there was a barb in it.

The raven-haired woman took note of the sting but seemingly no offense. "Who's this?" she asked, gesturing a thumb toward Alicia before realizing the newcomer could probably speak. "Sorry. I'm Layla Navarro."

Alicia shook it as she introduced herself. "Alicia Winthrop." While approaching for the handshake, the new wrestler caught a glance inside the locker. Bundled in a heap on top of a red gym bag was something that looked like a towel. No - it was a mask. Green and silver. "Phenom?!" Her jaw dropped once again. More than starstruck, the rookie almost felt faint. "You- I saw you both- your match was-" she gestured the rest, and although she felt it mostly came across, the rookie eventually found her words. "The first match I ever saw was you two!"

"That's right; I remember you said that," recalled Sabrina with a smile, and then a realization. "Your excursion year must almost be up by now. I bet you're ready."

Layla responded with a complicated little nod. "Yeah. I've enjoyed it, but I'm looking forward to having a promotion to call home," she explained before noticing the newcomer needed to catch up. "I trained with All-Star Joshi Wrestling. The final part of training is spending a year traveling to different promotions to learn all you can before going back to Japan and joining the roster. Hence…" she trailed off, pointing back and forth between herself and Sabrina. Layla finished arranging her locker before shutting and locking it. "Hey, I've got to see Allen and Helene about something before they get too busy. Catch up after?"

"I'm actually heading that way now," replied Sabrina to the woman known as Phenom. She turned to Alicia and indicated the locker next to the traveling wrestler's. "Put your stuff in 39 and start getting ready. If you're booked to fight on the main card, someone from production will call you back, but since you're on the pre-show, you just have to wait in gorilla."

Alicia blinked. "In what?"

"Gorilla position," clarified Sabrina before realizing that she hadn't clarified anything. "It's the spot right behind the curtain leading down the entrance ramp."

"Why's it called that?"

"It's- I'll tell you later. Can you focus? At 6:15, go out those doors and turn left. Go through the black curtains and you'll be in a production area. It'll be dark, but walk past that and look for a desk with a light. It has the book and the run sheet. You can't miss it. Wait there for your cue."

"I don't know what any of those terms are. I'm just going to wait behind the curtain."

"Get yourself prepared, and I'll see you after," instructed Sabrina. She could clearly see the anxiety building in her student. "You've got about an hour. Don't drive yourself crazy waiting back here. If you used to do something before a game to get your head right, this would be the time. You've done everything you can up until this point. It's too late to squeeze anything else in now, so all you can do is be ready."

The former opponents exited the locker room together, leaving Alicia to change into her ring gear in overpowering silence. How did she deal with nerves in hockey? Did she even get them? Instead, she tried to recall the night Langston U pulled off the threepeat–the MVP game. Hat trick, two assists, minimal time in the box. For her, it had been the best game of her life; for the other team that night, it was a tooth-loosening appointment. Heck of a high to go out on, thought the former hockey player.

Her mind's eye wanted to linger on the trophy and the sight of gloves and helmets and sticks tossed aside as she celebrated with her team center-ice. She could still recall the weight as she held the silver cup aloft and circled the rink, basking in the cheers for the prize they had fought for. As much as she wanted to remain there, replaying the moment, her mind's eye had a tendency to wander. She was 11 years old again, standing by the player's bench next to Nicole, the blonde-haired, freckled ace of girls' 12-and-under rec league hockey. Alicia didn't remember the name of the team they played on, but she and Nicole called themselves the Shooting Stars.

At the time, nobody else wanted to practice with Alicia or paid her much regard. Nicole did, though. She saw Alicia's value before anyone else. Their one season together was the reason Alicia stuck with hockey when everyone–including her own parents–wanted her to stop playing. "Ready, Star?" asked Nicole, flashing her braces in a smile before turning to point at a member of the other team. "See number 17?" Alicia saw her. Number 17 was the biggest one on the team–but not in the game. "You get her. I've got everyone else."

"Change!" shouted Coach. Alicia and Nicole clacked their sticks together. The other team was about to see Stars.

Nicole hit the ice first, with Alicia in hot pursuit. The goon followed her friend behind the goal and beelined for the puck. Time for Peek-a-Boo. Nicole skated in like she was going to challenge the girl with the puck. Fooled ya! At the last second, her friend turned a tight circle like a revolving door. Alicia shot through the temporary gap like a missile and cleared the poor girl out. Nicole was on the puck and heading the other way. Alicia steered toward the boards and crashed into them bringing herself to a stop. There was 17, crowding the goal, and she brought a friend with her. The blonde Star bided her time making another pair of girls look foolish for trying to keep up.

The big girl pushed off the boards and glass, pounding the ice, hurtling toward her target and her friend, collateral damage. "Clear skies!" shouted Alicia to her friend. That was the signal. Nicole broke off from the laughable attempt at a double-team and headed for the net. The blonde brought her stick up like she was about to take a shot into the crowd. She started her swing just as Alicia smashed into the two defenders like a freight train, sending her victims and herself hard to the ice and skidding towards the boards. She didn't see what happened next, but she heard the siren. Score another one for the Shooting Stars. Nicole raised her stick and skated to center ice as her friends surrounded her. Alicia finally got upright and joined them. Wait. What time was it?

6:21 PM. "Dagnabbit!" grumbled Alicia to herself. She snapped the combination lock shut–the same one she had when she was going through Hard Times. In an unfamiliar place full of faces ranging from inquisitive to indifferent, it felt like she brought a piece of sanctuary with her. She left the locker room and took off at a jog in the direction Sabrina told her.

Black curtain, dark area, table with a light. This was the place. She brushed past production crew dressed in black, some wearing headsets; all of whom had ID badges hanging around their necks. Allen rose from his chair and gave an exasperated shrug, "Hey, don't worry about showing up early for your first day of work or anything,"

Alicia felt her cheeks start to burn. "Sorry! I-"

"Shut up. Stand there," deadpanned the promotion's co-owner, pointing at a mark on the scuffed, rubbery-feeling floor a few feet behind the black curtain.

A member of production with a headset and a clipboard tapped Allen on the shoulder. "Two minutes."

"Thank you," he replied with a nod. There was a long pause before he locked eyes with Alicia, "Ready?"

Something was wrong. "Wait!" she cried, eyes going wide. Allen flashed an even more exasperated look. "What about my entrance?"

"30 seconds!"

Allen looked relieved it wasn't something important. His face contorted into a bemused look. "What? Who the fuck are you? Get out there."

Alicia Goon 013: Violently optimistic

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None in this installment

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The reality of next Friday hung in the air. She had practiced for this, but when suddenly faced with having to follow through, the anxiety threatened to overwhelm her willpower, but she hadn't come this far just to give up now. "Dr. Pupe, can I have next Friday off, please?"

Alicia impressed herself with her bravery, despite having attacked from behind. The dentist's slow, deliberate about-face was either a power play or an attempt at one. After far too long, the young woman saw enough of her boss's face to read his expression. She didn't like the look of those creases. "Why do you need next Friday off?" he asked, deadpan. Sip.

Alicia furrowed her eyebrows. "Are you allowed to ask me that?"

"I don't know. Do you?" asked Dr. Pupe. Alicia shook her head. "Yes, I'm allowed. Why do you need Friday?"

This time she fought back her exasperation. "Personal."

The man with the coif darker than midnight and a mustache like TV static opened his mouth, presumably to press the issue, then hesitated. His scrunched-up expression suggested he didn't want to roll the dice on "personal" actually being too personal. "Look, Sherry's taking the afternoon off that day. I'm going to be short-staffed."

"Sherry is a hygienist!" said Alicia, raising her voice precisely two decibels.

Dr. Pupe cocked his head and put his non-coffee fist on his hip in a pantomime of indignation. "We have a quorum!"

Two decibels more. "Our jobs aren't the same!"

"Stay for the morning." 

Alicia's eyes widened just enough to be noticeable. Gradually, she would express the full extent of her anger, like tunneling through a prison if the walls were made of decorum. "Then me and Sherry would still both be leaving in the afternoon! Please. Please let me take the day." 

The right corner of his mouth lifted behind a curtain of black and gray. The office and billing assistant didn't like it. That was the look of a man about to play his trump card. "Okay, how's this: if I go outside right now and the fern is hanging in the window, you can take the day off. Deal?"

Alicia froze in place, unblinking. "Look, it's really important to me." Another two decibels couldn't hurt.

"You know we have a two-week policy for all vacation requests," said her boss. "That's two full weeks of notice per day requested off. You're giving me one week notice, so you can take a half-day off. That's more than fair."

It was good enough, or at least it would have to be. Alicia was certain she'd be a bundle of nerves from the moment her head hit the pillow the night before. There was a difference between fighting a losing battle and fighting for a lost cause, after all. "Come on," said the doctor. "I'll sign the request form right now. A half-day's good. And I hope your personal thing goes well. Really."

The two walked to the front to find Maxine tapping away at a stack of invoices. She was breathing heavier than usual and seemed to be sweating. Alicia bent down in concern. "Are you alright, Miss Maxine?"

"I'm fine. Just having a hot flash," said Maxine dismissively. Alicia could see the de facto office manager shoot a glance out of the corner of her eye to enjoy the dentist's uncomfortable reaction. The doctor handed Alicia a vacation request form and pen. She could see the doctor's sixth-grade cursive already at the bottom. Before Alicia could look away, her desk-mate indicated the window next to the front entrance with her eyes. The young office assistant turned. There it was: the most beautiful, hideous, sickly, sunlight-blocking botanical abomination she had ever laid eyes on, hanging obnoxiously in the window like an angel.

"Uh, Dr. Pupe," said Alicia, suddenly losing that careful volume control. "Fern."

He looked towards the entrance, realized what he saw, and froze. He looked like his car just got flattened by a steamroller. She wished she could bottle that moment of defeat and keep it in a little trophy case until she was old and gray, so on her deathbed she could hold it to her trembling lips, sip its nectar, and live a hundred more years feeling this good. 

"So I'll just fill it out for the full day, then?" asked Alicia. 

Incredulity. Utter incredulity. "Yeah, full day's fine," he mumbled under his breath, retreating to the break room.

Alicia placed the sheet in the "vacation requests" tray and sat at her desk. "Thanks, Miss Maxine."

"You're lucky," said the 33-year veteran of the practice. "I only just barely heard you two talking from out here."

Time for the second feat of bravery. Alicia piped up, "You know how I said I went to that pro wrestling show?"

"Back in the spring? Mm-hmm, I remember. Thinking about going again?" asked the senior.

The secret wrestler couldn't help but snicker. "I'll definitely be going again soon," and here came the test of nerves. "I sort of- I, um, am one."

The office administrator gave the conversation her focus as she keyed in the next invoice–just not her full focus. The septuagenarian didn't grasp the implication while asking the obvious follow-up question, "You're a what?"

Alicia popped up from behind her desk and scanned the surrounding office and waiting area for anyone within earshot. She just wanted to get it all out at once, both for herself and to avoid any corners being dramatically rounded. "I am a pro wrestler. I've got my first match next week, and I'm really scared nobody's going to cheer for me. I don't want to be out there all alone. Would you please come and support me from the stands?"

Now the conversation had Maxine's full focus. She turned in her chair and looked at Alicia. It took a moment to process and synthesize the new information. "Um," she said.

"You don't have to," said Alicia, shaking her head. "And if you don't want to, I want you to know that it doesn't hurt my feelings. It gets violent."

"Well," stammered her coworker. "Okay, hon. What time does it start?"

Alicia couldn't contain her ear-to-ear grin. "Thank you!" She stood up from her chair and leaned down to gently hug the woman seated before her. "Seriously, thank you so much Miss Maxine. You're the best. I'll have them save you a ticket, okay? Plunj Arena. 6:30 PM for my match. Ignore the signs saying 7:00. I'm on the pre-show."

* * * * *

Sabrina gave Alicia a hard slap on the shoulder and pulled the much taller woman closer for a half-hug as they headed for the locker room. Alicia and her mentor caught each other's eyes for a moment. She didn't know what to make of the veteran's uncharacteristic stoicism. The instructor broke the silence with some advice, "I know you're going to be full of nervous energy. You might feel like it would help to work off some of that energy. Don't do it. Light workout. You're just getting loose, okay?" Alicia nodded. "Hey. You're going to do great," the shorter woman said reassuringly. "I trained you," she said, backhanding her student's arm to deliver a literal punchline.

The red, cage-style lockers reminded her of high school, except those were blue. Only a few scratches had found their way onto the paint. The interior was one of the more neutral-smelling Alicia had come across. Best of all, it hadn't been broken into. Now it was time to pack it all up. She was going to miss calling this place home. The wrestler wasn't leaving locker number 9 altogether–at least not yet. She had five matches on her provisional contract and 60 days to have them. In the end, her future with the promotion would come down to a pass or fail grade: get signed or wash out. It didn't come down to the number of wins; just how much potential and how marketable a prospect they find a provisional talent.

It suddenly dawned on her this might be the last time she saw Number 9. She scanned the thing, as if trying to memorize it. She spotted a sticker depicting the now-retired La Matadora stuck to the right interior wall. Alicia reached in and peeled the sticker off, trying to keep as much of it intact as possible. The departing trainee unzipped an empty pocket of her gym bag and slipped the used sticker inside.

Discussion between Alicia and Sabrina in the locker room had been mostly words of encouragement occasionally veering into discussion of strategy. They had kept it light throughout. Crucially, they hadn't wandered into the topic that had burdened the rookie's every thought of the fight to come. Alicia stood at the front entrance, about to exchange see-you-tomorrows with the woman who taught her everything. It was her last chance to ask. She refused to let another running shoes vs. lifting shoes kerfuffle happen.

"What if I lose?" muttered Alicia, almost under her breath.

Her mentor shut down the conversation, "Don't go into a match thinking about losing, alright? From now until the end of the match tomorrow, the only thing I want you thinking about Connie Rocket is all of the ways you can beat her." Sabrina's mouth drew up in a smug little smile. "That'll keep you busy a while."

* * * * *

Robert was home. Alicia saw the lights on in the nice side of the house from the street. For once, she enjoyed a safe, well lit walk to the door in the enclosed front porch. Pity it wasn't hers. The young woman stood at the door holding a wrapped box and reached for the doorbell, and then hesitated. She didn't know why. She pressed it, and it played a chime that was overlong and entirely too much. Seconds passed. Several seconds. Hurry up, Robert. It's flipping freezing out. There was a shuffle of feet and the turn of a deadbolt. The door opened.

"Alicia?" the scruffy-haired man swung the door open and stepped aside. "Um, merry Christmas. It's freezing, come in. What's up?"

"Merry Christmas! I'm fighting somebody tomorrow," answered Alicia, handing him a box with audibly shifting contents. Cake Frosting Mondoz had been tough to track down, but Garagesale.net was, unbeknownst to her, the premier internet auction site for purchasing secondhand discontinued breakfast cereal.

It was nice to drop someone else's jaw for a change. "Alicia, thank you. I- I didn't get you anything. I'm sorry. Thank you. I'm sorry. And thank you." It took a moment, but her housemate recovered. "And you've got a match? That's awesome! I've got work tomorrow night, or else I would be there. Do you know who you're fighting? I mean, I won't know who you're talking about, but tell me her name anyway!"

"Connie Rocket," Alicia answered. "She's only been at it a little over a year, but she's good. I mean, at least she can hang."

"Are you scared?" he asked. That certainly got personal quick.

Alicia froze for a moment. She didn't regret keeping it a secret up until she had something to share she had to be proud of, but she also hadn't realized how deeply she wanted someone to talk to about the experience. The wrestler answered honestly, "Not even a little. Let me tell you how I'm going to beat her. How much time you got?" 

"I'm not going anywhere," he said, waving her in. "Come on in and have a seat. Is it alright if I unwrap this?"

"Only if you promise not to share," she said with a grin. Even though her host hadn't, she slipped off her shoes. "So, have you ever heard of a meniscus?"

Alicia Goon 012: Tape delay

Content warning, highlight the hidden text between the lines: 

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None in this installment

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Sabrina shut the door to her office and began searching through an impressive VHS collection which occupied almost the entirety of the two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves against the wall behind her cluttered desk. The office itself was small: enough room to comfortably fit a desk, a couple of chairs, and a filing cabinet, and uncomfortably fit the additional banker's boxes and table with a television and VCR. What parts of the wall were visible had been adorned with posters of past QoW events and framed photos of a young Iron Maiden's greatest triumphs. Framed on a side wall in clear view from both sides of the desk hung the centerpiece: Iron Maiden, face masked in crimson, hoisting the Queen of Queens Championship belt in the center of the ring while a referee raised her hand in victory. "Okay," began the veteran. "Let's talk about Connie Rocket."

For once, Alicia felt like she could chime in on a subject alongside Sabrina with a similar depth of knowledge. "I've followed her! She was a big track star in Japan before she joined the main roster last year, right? She just came back from a knee injury-" 

Sabrina's unimpressed interjection cut the biography short, "Alicia. That's stuff I expect you to know. That's something a fan would know. When you're fighting someone, I want you to know her better than family," said the trainer. Alicia made a wry grin at the word choice. "For example, what kind of knee injury was it? How're you going to attack it?" Sabrina found the video cassette she had been looking for and pushed it into the VCR.

Cold reality hit the new wrestler in the face like a bucket of water and a baseball bat. Alicia knew she would be hurting people and getting hurt, but this felt different. "Wait. You want me to target the knee she injured? I'm not sure that's okay with me." Despite not knowing quite how Sabrina would react, Alicia thought she had a pretty good clue–it turned out that clue wasn't for this case.

A hearty fit of belly laughter burst from the veteran, and she held up a finger to indicate she needed a moment to contain herself. "That's dumb," she laughed again. For a moment, Alicia felt like she had throughout that month Sabrina antagonized her. "Okay, so let's get serious. After this I'm going to teach you how to do a Figure Four Leglock. You know what that is, right?" Alicia nodded. "First off, like I said you need to know the woman you're fighting. 'Track star in Japan' doesn't begin to cover it," continued the trainer. "All kinds of sports, laundry list of records. Good at everything. She does the heptathlon. Know what that means? Six events."

"Seven," Alicia corrected.

Sabrina shot her a watch-it glare. As a joke, Alicia assumed. Hoped. The trainer continued "You know she's half-American and half-Japanese, but did you know she was scouted in the US in high school? And it wasn't just 'a knee injury;' she tore her meniscus. There, that's your homework done. Next time, I expect you do it." Alicia could feel the heat rise in her face again. Sabrina smiled to herself as she continued, "now for my favorite part: tape."

Alicia groaned silently to herself. Nothing had sucked the fun out of hockey like tape days. She hated fighting to stay awake in a dark room while the same minute or even few seconds of film replayed over and over, ad infinitum, soundtracked by excruciating analysis alchemizing something so fluid into something clinical. Coach wasn't there in the moment, and the former hockey player hardly saw the value in calling out a flaw three days later with the benefit of hindsight and a bird's eye view. The game's played on the ice, doofus!

"I want to start by showing you Connie Rocket vs. Daisy the Berserker and Connie Rocket vs. Lady Gallows, then we'll get into some other matches," explained the seasoned wrestler. "I know you can probably tell me Connie's moveset pretty much, but do you know how she lands it? It's not just because she's fast," she said leaning forward in her chair, getting into the lecture. "And she's not just quick--she's sudden. She's going to harass you, she's going to hit you, and she's going to hurt you. But she's five-eight, maybe 145? She can't beat you that way. To win the match, she has to take risks. She wins by tipping those risks in her favor by getting her opponent to make mistakes, and then she capitalizes. Watch. Here's an example of what not to do."

Sabrina fast-forwarded through the elaborate ring entrances and pressed play on the VCR as the two women exited their corners. Connie Rocket removed and tossed aside a red sweatband from her forehead as she circled her opponent, freeing her short, boyish black hair and wore red track shorts with a pair of white stripes down the side and a yellow sleeveless track shirt with "ROCKET" printed in flaming letters from a red and white rocketship taking off. The smaller woman looked to be even younger than Alicia. Her bright red and white boots had been designed to looked like rocket boosters, complete with orange flames.

"We've got a stacked card, so we're right into the action tonight on Friday Night Warzone," came a voice from the TV Alicia recognized. "I'm Helene Rivera, joined tonight at the booth by Christopher Michaels. There's the bell, and here comes Connie, hot off the blocks! Daisy the Berserker closes the gap. She wants a test of strength, and Connie does not seem to be interested."

An unfamiliar male voice that sounded like it belonged to an adult child star spoke up next, "She may have been cast out of the co-op she once called home and exiled from her homelands of Portland, Oregon for renouncing peace and love, but now she lives only for pain, and she's all Connie's problem tonight. Especially following that loss to Trace Roote last-" Sabrina muted the television, rolling her eyes.

The lean but muscular Connie Rocket danced at a distance just outside of her opponent's wingspan. Whenever Daisy tried to engage, the nimbler combatant would slip under, through, or around the larger woman, resetting the situation. The decorated athlete spent the first minute literally running circles around her opponent, and it was clearly beginning to sour the anti-pacifist's mood.

Alicia knew the Berserker was no slouch, except for her posture. Standing six-foot even and almost 180, the bruiser cut an intimidating figure even before the black-and-red warpaint and the dried, dead flower tucked behind her left ear. She wore a severe look on her face and had grown more aggressive in her pursuit each time Connie eluded her. Suddenly, the formidable warrior swung out the toe of her platform fur boots emblazoned with an upside-down peace symbol drenched in blood. Bad call. Connie was ready for it.

The smaller woman caught Berserker's kick in one hand and kept a tight hold on the limb. In one swift motion, the smaller wrestler ducked underneath Daisy's leg, slipped behind her so they were standing back-to-back, then leaped up and wrapped her arms around her larger opponent's neck while falling to the mat with a picture-perfect Neckbreaker. The Rocket managed to get to her feet faster than her opponent. Daisy rose to her knees. Connie faked high with a kick to get the Berserker to raise her arms, then delivered the kick low, doubling the powerful woman over. Connie rushed the ropes perpendicular to the reformed pacifist, ricocheted off, and struck the coughing woman in the side of the head with a running knee. Sabrina paused the footage.

A perplexed look washed over Alicia's face. "I don't get it. What was she supposed to do? Connie wasn't going to lock up," she questioned.

"Zerker didn't need to lock up. She wanted a test of strength or a collar and elbow, but when Connie wasn't buying--and she won't for you either--Daisy needed to change her plan. She could've hemmed Connie into a corner and made her fight to get out. Make sense?" Alicia nodded. Like Connie's opponent, she realized she had fixated on the solution that seemed obvious instead of looking for the correct one. Seeing no further questions, Sabrina fast forwarded to the next teachable moment and hit play. "Watch this next part. She has Connie dead to rights and look what happens." 

"Dead to rights" was an understatement. Daisy was in complete control of the match, having snuffed out an attempt at a top-rope move by the track star. The Berserker now stood on the middle rope in the corner with her smaller opponent slung upside-down over her shoulder. The anti-hippie powerhouse leaped from the middle rope, sat out, and drove the crown of Connie's head straight down into the canvas with an Avalanche Brainbuster. Connie Rocket instantly crumpled to the mat in a heap, practically motionless. Despite having the upper hand, the woman in bell-bottom fur leggings was in no condition to try and pin her destroyed opponent right away, clearly spent from the match.

Zerker rose to all-fours and tried to crawl to her opponent for the pin, but somehow the ailing athlete managed to roll listlessly out of the ring under the bottom ropes to find refuge on the floor. The larger combatant crawled just behind Connie, who somehow always remained a fingertip away from her opponent before she tumbled out of reach. Daisy the Berserker remained in hot pursuit, however. She crawled over to the edge of the ring where Connie fell and leaned over the ring apron, reaching down and snatching greedily for her opponent. It was exactly what Connie expected her to do.

With all of her strength, the heptathlete sprang off the floor and wrapped both arms around the back of her opponent's neck. The Rocket took two quick steps toward the crowd barricade and dropped to her back, pulling Daisy out of the ring forehead-first onto the thin padding below with a devastating Cutter. Now on the outside, both women now had 20 seconds to return to the ring or be disqualified. Rising to their knees, the two traded haymakers, with the powerhouse getting the better of the exchange. Daisy grabbed the Rocket by what looked like both ears and blasted her with a powerful headbutt. She rose to her feet and tossed Connie back into the ring under the bottom ropes and followed close behind. The vegan barbarian rose to her feet and picked Connie up for another headbutt. Just before impact, Connie grabbed the back of the larger woman's head while dropping to the mat in a seated position, causing Daisy's chin to slam hard into the top of the smaller woman's head and stunning the Berserker.

Connie rolled onto her back while keeping a firm grip on her opponent's head and lancing both feet up into the warrior's sternum, tossing the larger woman up and over and onto her back, completing the combination attack Connie dubbed "Rocket Fuel."

Seemingly running on pure adrenaline, the track star kipped to her feet, springing upright hands-free, raced to the nearby corner, and vaulted to the top rope. Alicia knew what came next. The half-Japanese woman leapt off the top rope, performing the finishing move aptly named "T-minus-3"--a Corkscrew 450 Splash landing hard across her opponent's ribs--and securing a pin while the referee delivered the three-count, declaring the worn-out track star the victor.

"See? Zerker had all day to figure out what she was going to do, but she got in a rush and she paid for it. She wants you to chase her, and if you do, she will embarrass you and keep embarrassing you until you lose," explained the instructor. "Okay, so now I'm going to show you her versus Lady Gallows, and what you can do to Connie if she doesn't get in your head."

"Wait," interjected Alicia, listening to the pit forming in her stomach. "That's the match she got hurt. I-" she paused, "I saw it the first time."

"You'll need to get used to it sooner or later." Sabrina hit play.

* * * * *

Finally, Alicia found herself in the part of the building where she felt most comfortable, especially since it was about to be her turn to apply the Figure Four rather than receiving it. Teacher and student stood facing each other in the middle of the ring. Alicia dropped down and lunged at her trainer. Alicia shot the legs, wrapping her arms around Sabrina's thighs and pulling her legs out from under her, knocking the smaller woman to the canvas. The rookie grabbed the trainer's boots, and her mentor talked her through the rest. "Right knee flush to the back of my left knee. Release the right foot with your left hand, step over… keep turning, face me. Now grab the foot with your free hand, step into place, fall back, and apply downward torque with your leEEEGGS! Hey!" shouted Sabrina.

Alicia wished she hadn't laughed–at least not as loudly as she did. "Wow, that really works!" she exclaimed cheerfully. "All I have to do is just tense up and torque like-"

"HEY!" the trainer protested again, louder and angrier than before. "Alright, this is how you learn." She grit her teeth and shifted her weight, sort of rocking her entire body from left to right, gradually picking up momentum.

Alicia had seen this before. "Hey! Wait wait wait wait wait Sabrina I was joking!" She groaned in pain as Sabrina rolled the both of them onto their stomachs, reversing the move, and allowing her to bridge up on her arms to shift even more pressure onto Alicia's thigh and knee.

"Do you think you should've maybe waited until I got to the part about reversals?" asked her mentor.

The remorseful rookie slapped the mat and winced in pain, "I'm sorry! Yes! Give! Give!" Sabrina released the hold, and Alicia immediately rolled onto her back clutching her knee.

"You realized you were beat, and what did you do? You gave up. Connie will do the same. Trust me. You're not going to hurt her worse than she can handle. She'll tap out before you do any permanent damage." Alicia found it oddly reassuring. "By the way, I got you something for your match. Remind me to give it to you after, okay?"

* * * * *

The winter had been as long as it had been cold: very. The newly christened wrestler dreaded the jog from her powder blue sedan to the door at the bottom of those six concrete steps. Not that the upholstered interior of the Perletta was terribly warm to begin with. The car choked and sputtered as it sat in idle. Alicia killed the engine to be safe. At least she wouldn't literally be paying her dues any more - just in every other sense. In a couple of months, she could probably afford to get the car fixed. She turned up the collar of her white wool coat, pulled up her hood, and made a break for home. The young woman was thankful the snow had been sparse throughout the colder months, meaning her walks thus far from the car hadn't been harrowing; merely treacherous.

She breezed past the bushes. Over a month of below-freezing temperatures meant the jagged wooden tendrils of branches raking her flesh in the bitter cold were at least spider-free jagged wooden tendrils. Once inside, she breezed through the evening routine: shower, eat, brush, bed. Mostly breezed, anyway. It was between the third and fourth steps that Alicia got stuck.

On top of the white, wooden dresser by the bed sat a Langston University picture frame containing a photo of her with the team, hoisting the Division II Collegiate Sports Cup. That was the MVP game; the proudest night of her life. Four-and-a-half-years seemed an eternity ago. Next, she opened the closet door, pushed back the work and casual clothes to reveal the second, lower clothes rack hidden behind the first because the architect who designed the house was a trickster gnome. Next to the workout clothes hung a lifetime of game and practice jerseys, which she promised herself she'd Someday find a use for. The infamous "Someday," known associate of the elusive "Tomorrow."

Alicia peered into the gym bag by her bed and withdrew a red wrestling singlet. It wasn't flattering, but it was functional. Except for the color, it looked almost identical to the one Sabrina wore as Iron Maiden. She placed the singlet on a hanger and put it on the rack it next to her championship jersey. It was a breathtakingly thoughtful gift from someone from whom Alicia had never seen nor expected such a gesture. Becoming a wrestler had been one of the hardest things she had ever done–maybe the hardest–but it never seemed impossible. She thanked Sabrina for that. Alicia felt ready. She was ready. Next Friday couldn't come soon enough.