Post by Van Zant on Sept 21, 2016 3:45:27 GMT
B O R N V S. B R E D //
April 14th, 2008 | All-Phase Wrestling | West Linn, Oregon
Week two. Violet Van Zant had been thrown to the wolves at All-Phase Wrestling, one of the most popular training gyms in West Linn. She was fifteen, participating involuntarily in their youth outreach program for troubled adolescents. Violet was no stranger to the police, and after committing petty offences the police kept an eye on the repeat offender, only this time, they weren't so prepared to catch the young blonde dominating what would turn out to be an underground source for betting and fighting. It was then that the West Linn police force decided to nip what could be a potential criminal problem in the bud.
"How're ya doin, Martin?" Constable Peters casually waltzes into the gym, hands gripping at the sides of his belt.
"Officer Peters," Martin Ptsazek greets the man in uniform, "What can I do for ya?"
"Just doing our monthly check-ins," Peters leans over the front desk, resting his gut against the glass encasement housing the Championship belts that've come home with the fighters. He looks beyond Martin, noticing a few of the outreach kids hitting the pads. "How are the kids?"
"Eh," Martin gives a non-committal shrug, "Some are lost causes. Most of 'em are lost causes, actually. Got one or two that are making some progress. You know how it works."
"Bet that Van Zant girl feels right at home . . . " He chortles, his tone condescending as if he would bond with Martin over the children's pasts.
"Y'know somethin'," Martin turns around to look past the half-wall that separated the front desk from the main dojo, spotting Violet grappling with another kid. "The girl has a knack for it, I tell ya," Martin says almost defensively. "She's been very well-behaved, disciplined, punctual . . . Shit, she might be my best student."
"Uh huh," Officer Peters says dismissively, looking down at his cell phone and then back up at Martin. "We'll see how long that lasts. I gotta take this, I'll be back in a few weeks. You take care, Marty."
//
"Well Zach, you tried."
Violet smirks, tapping her jet black nails against the arm rest of the chair she was sitting in.
"I appreciate your heart. I do. But for fuck sakes, give it a rest. You're intimidated and everybody within earshot can hear it in the way that you've managed to overanalyze every aspect of this uh, 'match' – if that's what you're keen on calling it. We'll do things your way."
Violet got comfortable, placing one leg over the other and crossing her hands in her lap.
"You know, in a lot of ways, we're very similar. We're also fundamentally different. We're similar in the way that we have a very strong work ethic whether you've accepted it or not; the fact that we've both worked for what we have whether it was spoon-fed to us, or not. Coming down a generation of wrestlers was beneficial to you in your career, and I have no qualms with your pride interfering with your inability to swallow that fact. But me? I was a lone wolf, my dear. Thrown into a lifestyle because of poor choices I made, and finding out that I had a very, very natural knack for dislocating people's joints."
The recollection of her more notoriously violent sessions in the gym brought a smile to her pale complexion.
"Everybody wants to forget that, though. Nobody wants to acknowledge that part of my history, because you know it's a fucking threat to your 'legacy'. What would happen to your legacy if the lead pipe-wielding NCAA champion took everything you worked for, and shit on it? What happens to Zach Knight then? What happens when you have to leave Vendetta with your tail tucked between your legs because you, just like Hailey Banks, discredited the fact that a fighter is a fighter. You can pretend to be the best professional wrestler in the world, but at the end of the day, Violet takes home the win . . . And a little chunk of your hand-me-down pride."
Violet leans forward, hands clasped together, elbows resting on her knees.
"If you want to know what I think is in front of me, Zach, I'll let you in on it and I beg you to prove me wrong at Vendetta. A scared, intimidated little boy with a deep-rooted issue that he never amounted to anything by himself. Prove me wrong. I dare you."
"How're ya doin, Martin?" Constable Peters casually waltzes into the gym, hands gripping at the sides of his belt.
"Officer Peters," Martin Ptsazek greets the man in uniform, "What can I do for ya?"
"Just doing our monthly check-ins," Peters leans over the front desk, resting his gut against the glass encasement housing the Championship belts that've come home with the fighters. He looks beyond Martin, noticing a few of the outreach kids hitting the pads. "How are the kids?"
"Eh," Martin gives a non-committal shrug, "Some are lost causes. Most of 'em are lost causes, actually. Got one or two that are making some progress. You know how it works."
"Bet that Van Zant girl feels right at home . . . " He chortles, his tone condescending as if he would bond with Martin over the children's pasts.
"Y'know somethin'," Martin turns around to look past the half-wall that separated the front desk from the main dojo, spotting Violet grappling with another kid. "The girl has a knack for it, I tell ya," Martin says almost defensively. "She's been very well-behaved, disciplined, punctual . . . Shit, she might be my best student."
"Uh huh," Officer Peters says dismissively, looking down at his cell phone and then back up at Martin. "We'll see how long that lasts. I gotta take this, I'll be back in a few weeks. You take care, Marty."
//
"Well Zach, you tried."
Violet smirks, tapping her jet black nails against the arm rest of the chair she was sitting in.
"I appreciate your heart. I do. But for fuck sakes, give it a rest. You're intimidated and everybody within earshot can hear it in the way that you've managed to overanalyze every aspect of this uh, 'match' – if that's what you're keen on calling it. We'll do things your way."
Violet got comfortable, placing one leg over the other and crossing her hands in her lap.
"You know, in a lot of ways, we're very similar. We're also fundamentally different. We're similar in the way that we have a very strong work ethic whether you've accepted it or not; the fact that we've both worked for what we have whether it was spoon-fed to us, or not. Coming down a generation of wrestlers was beneficial to you in your career, and I have no qualms with your pride interfering with your inability to swallow that fact. But me? I was a lone wolf, my dear. Thrown into a lifestyle because of poor choices I made, and finding out that I had a very, very natural knack for dislocating people's joints."
The recollection of her more notoriously violent sessions in the gym brought a smile to her pale complexion.
"Everybody wants to forget that, though. Nobody wants to acknowledge that part of my history, because you know it's a fucking threat to your 'legacy'. What would happen to your legacy if the lead pipe-wielding NCAA champion took everything you worked for, and shit on it? What happens to Zach Knight then? What happens when you have to leave Vendetta with your tail tucked between your legs because you, just like Hailey Banks, discredited the fact that a fighter is a fighter. You can pretend to be the best professional wrestler in the world, but at the end of the day, Violet takes home the win . . . And a little chunk of your hand-me-down pride."
Violet leans forward, hands clasped together, elbows resting on her knees.
"If you want to know what I think is in front of me, Zach, I'll let you in on it and I beg you to prove me wrong at Vendetta. A scared, intimidated little boy with a deep-rooted issue that he never amounted to anything by himself. Prove me wrong. I dare you."
