Post by Van Zant on Aug 26, 2016 3:26:34 GMT
E N T E R V A N Z A N T . . .
• • •
"Show me how to teach the mind, show me how to reach the blind – LAWD GIMME A SIGN!" Violet eloquently raps the chorus to DMX's hit, "Lord Give Me A Sign" on her walk home from the gym to her shared apartment in downtown West Linn. It was one of her favourite "pump up" songs; music was a source of sanity for her, and there were few things she treasured more than her journey home while blasting some of her favourite tunes. Violet found peace in solidarity, found peace in the gym, but the peace was often short-lived when mandatory interaction with other living beings occurred, and thus she tried – aggressively – to avoid it at all costs. "Life or death, live or die, I WILL NEVER LIVE A LIE – I'M GON' GET THERE CAUSE I TRY, I WON'T QUIT UNTIL I DIE, I'M GON' MAKE IT WRO–" Violet nearly trips mid-lyric, stumbling over an outstretched foot of a homeless woman perched lazily with her back against a dumpster.
"Excuse me, miss? Would you happen to have some spare change so that I could buy a ho–"
"A hot meal?" Violet interrupts, a sly smirk crossing her face as she crosses one foot in front of the other, slowly making her way back towards the woman.
"Yes," The woman chimes, a hint of intimidation in her voice; you can tell she's had many people tell her where to go, but she keeps trying to make a decent dollar for herself. "I've not eaten in three days, I'm very hungry and I only have a little bit of change."
"Mm," Violet hums, a non-committal nod in response. She finds herself standing over the woman until she crouches down, coming face-to-face with the stranger. Quizzically she glances over the woman from head to toe, her face scrunching violently when she notices the track marks on the woman's arm. "And what are those?"
"Oh, well . . . Before I lost my home, I was an addict. I've been clean for a month or so, since I've been on the street. I left my boyfriend, he was ab–"
"Abusive?" Violet smirks, the corners of her lip turning up in an almost Joker-style fashion. "And your child was taken from you by Social Services because your neighbours heard the commotion, and while you defended yourself in a drug-induced haze from the sickening blows of your overpowering and unstable significant other you then had to listen to your daughter's cries as she was plied from your arms and taken into custody."
". . . How did you know?"
"Fuck, lady," Violet huffs, smacking her forehead with an open palm. Exhaustingly, she adds, "This boring story writes it's-fucking-self!"
Her temper a-blazing, the woman flinches as Violet punts the cup of loose coins, the sound of scattering change echoing through the downtown streets.
"When I walk by here tomorrow night, I expect a good story. Make it real heartfelt, or you get sweet fuck all outta' my pocket, I'll tell ya that much for free," Violet turns her back on the woman who had cowered in fear, pulls a cigarette from the pocket of her jet black petticoat and lights it, inhaling deep as she shoves her hands into her pockets. She begins walking in the direction of her apartment, replacing her earphone and with an audible harrumph, she says, "Now I have to start it over again."
Walking the downtown streets of West Linn would be problematic for younger women if they weren't Violet – Violet was an experienced NCAA wrestler at this point, and she had a sociopathic confidence about her that radiated like a vibrant aura; like a blissful obliviousness to the world around her. She wasn't far from her apartment now, but the closer she got, the more her skin started to crawl. . . Her roommate, Jordan, had a tendency to invite unwanted guests* (*read: his obnoxiously loud girlfriend, Kendra, and/or slimy bandmates) and each time she turned the key to her door, she slipped into a homicidal rage when she could hear their voices echoing through the apartment. When she reached her apartment, she sluggishly dragged her Demonia platforms up each step, reluctant to come to the realization that Thursday nights were Kendra's nights off, and she would most likely be spending the night. Gripping the door knob and resting it there momentarily, she shut her eyes and took a deep breath, readying herself for the inevitable disappointment on the other side.
"Welcome home, grumpy-pants," Kendra's voice made the hairs on the back of Violet's neck rise; the tone was just so condescending.
Violet stood in silence, her eyes narrowing in Kendra's direction, her fists balling, her stiletto-tipped fingernails digging into her palms and her teeth gritting. "My home. Not your home."
"Might as well be my home, I pretty much live here by now."
"You don't say," Violet said almost in passing, her voice was monotone as she avoided eye contact with the short and sassy redhead, slinging her gym bag into a vacant corner of the apartment and heading into the kitchen where Jordan was preparing a late night snack.
"Yo fam," Jordan pipes out through a mouthful of McDonalds, "Want some Cheese Dreams?"
Violet cringed, she wasn't sure which was more disgusting – the sound of a 'cheese dream', or the sight of the mangled french fries mixing with the enzymes in Jordan's saliva; she could practically see the scientific process of digestion occurring as he spoke.
"Please explain to me in 10 seconds or less what a 'Cheese Dream' is," she said, making it a point to stress her disinterest in the current conversation.
"You take half of a bun, melt cheese on it, and then stick a few pieces of bacon on the cheese," Jordan sounded incredibly excited about his late night (and probably half-baked) cuisine, "So do you want some?"
"What I want," Violet exhales in unison with the fridge door slamming shut once she retrieved a bottle of red she had been chilling earlier, "Is for Kendra to get hit by an oncoming freight train at full speed,"
Jordan stopped mid-prep, looking up to meet Violet's gaze as she winked at him and turned on her heels to walk out of the kitchen, bottle of red in hand.
"But . . . " She adds, her voice echoing down the hallway to the bedroom, "People in hell want ice-water, I suppose."
"So . . . Is that a no on the cheese dream?"
The door to Violet's bedroom slams shut – this seemed to suffice as a response.
• • • O N C A M E R A • • •
"Welcome to my dark little corner of the universe," Violet begins, her jet black lips revealing nothing but pearly whites on the inside. "I would be Violet Van Zant – Veezy, if you want to get personal. I'd prefer it if you didn't, though," She swigs from the bottle of red beside her; tonight just didn't call for glasses. "So, this is it, huh? Ready Set Wrestle . . . "
She nods, rubbing her hands together as they're clasped in her lap, sitting cross-legged at the edge of her bed.
"I do things real here in West Linn. People around here know me. People on the streets know me. People all around know Van Zant. I know there's going to be a huge target on my back, there always is – but I've been taught to strike from all angles. We didn't have a 'professional wrestling' scene growin' up here," She put "professional wrestling" in air quotations, "But we had street fights. We had gangs. We had a lot of poor, unfortunate kids watching their own backs, surviving and supporting their family the only way they could. We didn't have scripts, or live shows. We never needed an audience to fight."
She unzipped the top of her knitted sweatshirt to reveal the scarification on her chest; from a glance it looks like any one of her many tattoo's, but leaning in closer, you can see the long, jagged lines and raised, pinkish scar tissue.
"I've had a real fucking shit-storm of a life, so let me tell you how pleased I am that this opportunity came along when it did – when you're used to dodging knives in a back alley, and somebody comes along and says, hey, we'd like to pay you to perform athletically in a safe environment in front of a live audience . . . You take the deal. You take the deal as your one way ticket out of West fucking Linn Oregon, and your one way ticket out of your downtown apartment with your shit-for-brains roommate and the equally shit-for-brains, portable cervix he calls a girlfriend."
Smiling wickedly now, Violet traces her index finger along the rim of the wine bottle, rubbing the crimson liquid between her fingertips and letting it air to taste.
"I don't know the 'ins and outs' of this business," Rolling her eyes as she puts "ins and outs" in air quotations once again, "You could even say I'm new to it. But here's the secret and I'll tell ya – whatever the fuck it is that I'm in for, I can take it nine times out of ten. And boy I can't wait to hear the fuckin' smoke you kids are blowing out of your asses these days. When you've had an upbringing like mine, and you have a real, tangible history of really fighting . . . Getting into a ring with a couple of naïve twats who are on this . . . spiritual journey to fame and fortune, to becoming a superstar with an inevitable future that screams 'addicted to pain-killers, fat, lazy and poor by 35', doesn't seem quite so intimidating in comparison. I guess in so many words, I'm here to fuck up your futures. Kill your dreams, even."
"I''m ready," Violet's voice was cold and nonchalant, completely detached. "Challenge me, make me beg for mercy. I'm praying for the day where I meet somebody who can match me, somebody who can take my shots and throw a few of their own. It's been a while since I've fought, and my knuckles are just aching," She outstretches her hands in front of her, staring down at her scarred and bruised hands. "Forget everything you know about everyone here; none of that matters now. This is Van Zant."
• • • E N D • • •
"Welcome to my dark little corner of the universe," Violet begins, her jet black lips revealing nothing but pearly whites on the inside. "I would be Violet Van Zant – Veezy, if you want to get personal. I'd prefer it if you didn't, though," She swigs from the bottle of red beside her; tonight just didn't call for glasses. "So, this is it, huh? Ready Set Wrestle . . . "
She nods, rubbing her hands together as they're clasped in her lap, sitting cross-legged at the edge of her bed.
"I do things real here in West Linn. People around here know me. People on the streets know me. People all around know Van Zant. I know there's going to be a huge target on my back, there always is – but I've been taught to strike from all angles. We didn't have a 'professional wrestling' scene growin' up here," She put "professional wrestling" in air quotations, "But we had street fights. We had gangs. We had a lot of poor, unfortunate kids watching their own backs, surviving and supporting their family the only way they could. We didn't have scripts, or live shows. We never needed an audience to fight."
She unzipped the top of her knitted sweatshirt to reveal the scarification on her chest; from a glance it looks like any one of her many tattoo's, but leaning in closer, you can see the long, jagged lines and raised, pinkish scar tissue.
"I've had a real fucking shit-storm of a life, so let me tell you how pleased I am that this opportunity came along when it did – when you're used to dodging knives in a back alley, and somebody comes along and says, hey, we'd like to pay you to perform athletically in a safe environment in front of a live audience . . . You take the deal. You take the deal as your one way ticket out of West fucking Linn Oregon, and your one way ticket out of your downtown apartment with your shit-for-brains roommate and the equally shit-for-brains, portable cervix he calls a girlfriend."
Smiling wickedly now, Violet traces her index finger along the rim of the wine bottle, rubbing the crimson liquid between her fingertips and letting it air to taste.
"I don't know the 'ins and outs' of this business," Rolling her eyes as she puts "ins and outs" in air quotations once again, "You could even say I'm new to it. But here's the secret and I'll tell ya – whatever the fuck it is that I'm in for, I can take it nine times out of ten. And boy I can't wait to hear the fuckin' smoke you kids are blowing out of your asses these days. When you've had an upbringing like mine, and you have a real, tangible history of really fighting . . . Getting into a ring with a couple of naïve twats who are on this . . . spiritual journey to fame and fortune, to becoming a superstar with an inevitable future that screams 'addicted to pain-killers, fat, lazy and poor by 35', doesn't seem quite so intimidating in comparison. I guess in so many words, I'm here to fuck up your futures. Kill your dreams, even."
"I''m ready," Violet's voice was cold and nonchalant, completely detached. "Challenge me, make me beg for mercy. I'm praying for the day where I meet somebody who can match me, somebody who can take my shots and throw a few of their own. It's been a while since I've fought, and my knuckles are just aching," She outstretches her hands in front of her, staring down at her scarred and bruised hands. "Forget everything you know about everyone here; none of that matters now. This is Van Zant."
• • • E N D • • •
