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It would be Jill McKill vs. Alicia Winthrop in a no-disqualification street fight. The week had somehow dragged and raced by at once, but on the morning of her grudge match, the full-time office assistant and part-time wrestler found herself ahead of schedule for her blood feud.
She woke at 6:30 AM sharp, knocked out three sets of her morning lifts, showered, ate breakfast, read her mail, and packed an extra double Vegemite Brekkie Square for work. Into the trunk went her gym bag alongside a chipped wooden hockey stick with the tape on the handle that had nearly given up. Whereas most of her teammates went with graphite or carbon fiber, Alicia preferred the feel and weight of wood. Plus, if she was going to go to the penalty box for high sticking, she wanted it to count.
The workday faded into the bright lights of skyscrapers against the night sky and the growing silhouette of an arena on the horizon. The engine of the Perletta squealed in pain whenever its owner commanded the gravely ill sedan to speed up. The suffering French automobile pulled to a whimpering, sputtering stop in the back lot of the Plunj Drain Cleaner Arena at 6:44 PM. Maybe when QoW started paying her for matches, she could finally afford to get it fixed. Focus. In the passenger seat rode a plastic bag from Things 'n More containing a brand new combo lock. The wrestling newcomer popped the trunk and piled out of the freezing car into the freezing night air, grabbed her stick and the sports duffel, and headed inside. Nod to the security guard, in through the talent entrance. Not as glamorous as the name made it sound. Traversing the corridors, the newcomer eventually arrived at the locker rooms. Decisions, decisions. For a moment and a moment longer, the indignant rookie considered standing her ground. What's another $14.29 plus tax at Things 'n More?
No. Save it for the ring–and anywhere else the fight spilled.
With a final, angry glance over her shoulder, Alicia pulled open the door and entered the other locker room. The carpet here was a vivid scarlet, unlike the sable of the locker room across the hall she had chosen not to go back to and not been kicked out of. The first locker on the right made the decision for her by being vacant. The towering rookie slung her bag into the open space, and finally got around to that double-take she had meant to do. Yep, that was definitely a title belt laid on the edge of the bench by the door to showers. TV or tag title, from the looks of it. Alica resisted temptation. The first-time hardcore wrestler changed into her ring gear of torn jeans and a hockey jersey and sat on the bench by her locker, stick clutched tight in her hands. The former ace had originally gone with the red and blue from an old offseason league, but decided on one of her varsity years from high school instead - white with yellow accents. If she was going to bleed, she wanted everyone to see.
And where was everyone? Ah. The opening act: a six-way falls-count-anywhere match for the Queen's Decree. No doubt the whole roster would be watching to find out the winner of the annual golden ticket for a title shot. Who's even in the match? Shieldbreaker Mazenda, Party Girl–of course, she's always in these things–Kendra Terminus, um… oh, Phenom, obviously. No idea about the other two. Alicia wished she could hang out in gorilla and watch. Maybe she could, but Sabrina said someone would come to the locker room to get her if she was on the main card. She wasn't about to mess up this debut.
What time is it? 7:05. Had they forgotten? Her eyes turned to that championship belt miles away just 30 feet across the room. The collegiate MVP stared at the prize, stood up, and hoisted the Division II trophy high above her head as she took another lap around the ice. There was Zack. That meant her parents must be sitting somewhere else. Guess he did amount to something, huh, Mom and Dad? The star carved another wide loop around the ice as Ashley and Kris skated up behind her and threw their arms around the soon-to-be graduating assist and hat-trick artist. There was Julia in the goalie pads. Back to center ice. The multiple record-holder handed Ashley the cup, who then handed it to Kris, who then passed it to maybe Ingrid. One by one, the team passed the trophy around.
Coach Ellering waddled unsteadily out to meet the rest of the team with something tucked under her right arm. Alicia joined the rest of the team in swarming the slender 40-something in the Langston University Athletics windbreaker. They had pulled off the threepeat. Without Kelly Beardsley. Without Spinelli. Without Jana Hirsch. They did it. Not the names. Not the national team hopefuls. They did it.
Alicia approached the championship belt. She had been right; it was the TV title. When was the last time it was even defended?
"Any chance I can convince you to flunk all your finals?" asked the redheaded woman with a broad smile as she reached through the crowd to wrap her arms around her "captain-from-the-bench."
The tallest player on the ice returned the hug. "Believe me, I've thought about it," she replied.
"You left behind a good example to follow. Kris really grew this season under you. She'll be ready to lead next year," said Coach, beaming as she handed an engraved wood and gold plaque to the departing veteran. "This is from the whole team. Everyone." Alicia looked at the award in her trembling hand: "Division II Collegiate Sports Cup MVP 1999 - 2000." The misty-eyed MVP embraced her mentor, leaned down, and took a closer look at the belt. Worn, black leather strap, rectangular silver plate inlaid with gold and steel, "Queens of War TV Champion" stamped on the face in red steel. She traced her fingers over the lettering. Someday, she would be worthy to hold something like it. She placed her hand against the faceplate.
"Thank you, Coach E," Alicia half-shouted over the cheers. "Seriously, thank you for everything."
"It's been a heck of a ride, hasn't it?" Coach E turned to face her star forward, lips curled back in a snarl, teeth bared, bloodshot, pitted, sleepless eyes staring pure hate from behind a filthy, matted black mane of greasy hair. Through the doorway and just inside the shower area, between the nearest curtain, peered a tall, gaunt woman from behind sinister eyes that wept violet. The rookie's breath caught in her throat as she stumbled, backpedaled, fled for sanity. In her suddenness, Alicia batted the title belt onto the ground with a clatter that caused the sneering menace on the other side of the curtain to straighten. "I-!" gasped the rookie for an excuse as she tripped and stumbled onto her backside.
"Alicia!" called a voice from the hall.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" screamed Alicia without sound.
"You're needed in gorilla," he called. "You're almost up."
Alicia merely nodded as she dragged herself backward. The Mother of Nightmares leered in similar silence from behind the curtain, her pallid, sagging features knotted with contempt. The young wrestler rolled to her hands and knees, crawl-scampered to the rugged wooden hockey stick leaned in her corner, pulled herself to her feet, and bolted out the door and into the hallway. Breathe. Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, that's too many. There was the black curtain, and behind it, the safety of a dimly lit backstage area full of dark corners. The frightened rookie checked behind her. Had she been followed? Past the table with the book and the runsheet. Wait.
She doubled back. "Allen, can you have Guy announce me as something else?"
The magenta-clad co-owner covered the microphone of his headset. "Yeah. Hurry up, what is it?"
"I'm Alicia 'The Goon' Winthrop." The man in charge of backstage gave her a quick nod. The young rookie pushed through a group of wrestlers in various states of civilian clothes and ring attire and took her mark and watched the action in the ring unfold on a nearby monitor.
Kendra Terminus ran across the ring holding a ladder, smashing into two of her opponents and sending them hard to the mat. Oh, right: Lillian Baxter and Texas Rose were the other ones involved. Kendra dropped the ladder, clutching her forearm and chest, having not fully escaped the impact unscathed. In raced the Shieldbreaker from behind, who dropped low and threw her shoulder into the back of Kendra's knee with a chop block. The woman with purple and white hair dropped to the mat clutching at her leg, writhing in pain.
Shieldbreaker Mazenda seized upon the opportunity, grabbing both Baxter and Rose off the mat and hurling them out of the ring. The fiery-haired valkyrie then turned to face her remaining injured opponent. Smiling, she reached down, grabbed Kendra by the nape of the neck, but then turned her attention momentarily to the top of the entrance ramp in search of the cause for the sudden roar from the crowd. It looked like Party Girl wanted to show a precariously perched Phenom her favorite party trick: a running dropkick to the face with a folding chair. The celebrity leapt high into the air at full speed, held the chair out in front of her, and lanced it into her target's skull with both feet. With a hideous crash of metal and bone, Party Girl and the folding chair collided with Phenom, propelling both combatants off the side of the stage and through a pair of tables set up on the floor below. The millionaire jet-setter's motionless body lay atop her green-masked landing pad among the splintered wreckage. A second referee slapped the filthy arena floor as he counted the pin: "One! Two! Three!" Falls count anywhere.
Ding ding ding. "And your winner of the 2004 Queen's Decree: PAAAAARRRRRRTYYYYYYY GIRRRRRRRLLLLL!!!!!"
Alicia's main card debut would have to be delayed while they brought out the stretchers. The former hockey player spent the extra minutes pacing backstage while the gathered crowd of wrestlers backstage filtered back to the locker rooms. The rookie peeked through the curtain again. Everyone was out of the wreckage and the ringside area had been cleaned up. They'd be calling her down to the ring any minute. She regretted finishing the entire bottle of H-Twenty in the car. Then she almost really regretted it.
In the shadows between a scaffold and a pile of crates stacked two high, she was there. A gargled whisper from a figure in the dark, "Alicia…" Wild eyes, teeth bared, crooked grin. The tall silhouette leaned through the gap in the production equipment. They locked eyes with each other. "Alicia Winthrop." The figure in the shadows reached up with one gnarled, trembling finger, pointed to the side of her neck with one jagged, yellowed nail, and then snapped her jaws shut.
"Alicia," barked a stagehand.
"Haaaaahhhhh?" came the sound-like reply.
"You're out there in five," said the man in the black cap.
"Minutes?" asked Alicia.
"No." Shove.
The rookie stumbled through the curtain. For a moment, she felt alone, but confidence surged through her veins as she felt the familiar weight of her long-time favorite weapon of mayhem in her hand. It then instantly evaporated when she saw the size of the crowd and realized what 8,136 eyeballs felt like. She'd have to get used to it sometime. Deep breath. The announcer began the main card match introduction. "The following no-disqualification street fight is scheduled for one fall-"
"One fall!" echoed the crowd.
"-With no time limit. There are no count-outs, no rope breaks, and anything goes. Pinfalls and submissions can only take place inside the ring." Alicia stared into the crowd, clutched the lumber tight in her right hand, lifted it, and slammed the butt end of the stick into the stage, dispelling the silence.
Bang.
She lifted her stick and slammed it down again. Again, and again, and again, picking up speed, until a few fans, and then some, and then more clapped and stomped in time with the quickening rhythm. "Approaching the ring first, hailing from Longstat, Minnesota and weighing 193 pounds, she is ALICIA 'THE GOON' WIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNTHROOOOOOOOP!!"
Alicia's pulse quickened as cheers–actual, honest-to-goodness cheers–swelled from the crowd. As the pounding reached a fever pitch, the former hockey player grabbed the stick in both hands, helicoptered it overhead, and slammed the blade of the stick onto the stage, squared up to the ring, and fired off a massive slapshot as a roar ripped through the crowd. The Goon stormed her way down the ramp towards the ring, reaching out and high-fiving screaming, enthusiastic fans the entire way. The powerhouse took one big step up onto the ring apron, vaulted up and over the ropes, and took her corner.
A hush briefly settled over the cool arena air--almost long enough to get comfortable--before a booming military march blared over the arena speakers. The woosh of fighter jets raced overhead as the music transitioned to a guitar-heavy rock anthem. To the right of the entrance, then the left, the concussion and fiery backdraft of a pair of deafening explosions rattled the building. Finally, through the curtain stepped Alicia's self-appointed menace: the five-foot-nine-inch-long blonde mean streak known as Commander Jill McKill. Close behind marched the Two-Woman Army of "One Shot" Jaime Carlyle and Bridget Slaughter, filling out the remainder of the three-woman faction known as The Reinforcements. Alicia hoped that tonight they wouldn't live up to the name.
The petite Jaime Carlyle carried a steel chair with a camo paint job. The Commander snapped a sharp about-face to her Army, gave them a crisp salute, and dismissed them to the back. The sniper tossed her commanding officer the chair before following her squadmate back through the curtain. Jill, dressed in camo pants and a black crop top, pretended to reach for a hand grenade at her hip, pulled the pin, and threw the ordinance high into the air. A blinding flash of pyro exploded halfway down the entrance ramp as two parallel rows of squibs went off down the ramp to the sound of gunfire.
"Her opponent, hailing from Santa Rita, Guam and weighing in at 156 pounds," shouted the announcer over the chaos. "She is the leader of The Reinforcements. She is the Mastermind. She is COMMMMMAAAAANNNNNNDERRRR JILLLLL MCKIIIIIIIIIILLLLLLLLL!!!!!"
The wrestler in camo pointed at the ring before taking off at a sprint down the ramp. She threw the chair into the ring under the bottom rope and leaped up and over the second cable behind it. The Commander landed in a combat roll, picked up the chair, held it up to her shoulder like a machine gun, and pretended to empty a magazine into the WarMachine video display as her name appeared in bullet holes. Finally, the wrestler in fatigues brought the back-rest of the chair up to her lips and blew on it like a smoking barrel. She then rose to her feet, removed her shades, and tossed them aside. McKill marched to her corner and stopped, turned, and raised her hand high to her brow, seemingly saluting her opponent. She then lowered her arm along with three of her fingers, giving Alicia a salute of a different kind.
The goon smiled as she clutched the hockey stick tight in both hands. It was good to be back.
Ding!
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