Post by Van Zant on Sept 24, 2016 1:32:38 GMT
S T A T E O F T H E U N I O N //
Violet Van Zant came out of absolutely nowhere – literally, and figuratively; from a youth outreach program in West Linn, Oregon for adolescents who were troublemakers with promising potential to be criminals, to an NCAA wrestler by chance, to a professional sports entertainer for RSW. The woman had absolutely no idea where her career was going or how it even got to be the way it was. She never could have imagined that any of this would have been in her stars, if she believed in astrology at all. Violet was never one to plan out her paths in any sense of the word; she decided when she was much, much younger that she would rather sit back and enjoy her life like a movie. Watching it happen, almost objectively, Violet sat back in a mental recliner and enjoyed every up and down that her life had to offer.
The first time, with Hailey Banks, she felt good as any newcomer would. No matter how she won, Violet did what she was paid to do, and that was not only win her first wrestling match in RSW (and, as a matter of fact, in general) but she also put on quite the spectacle for people in the audience who paid to be there. Though the company had recently undergone some wild changes that Violet couldn't care to investigate, she knew she had attracted the attention of the right people – and why wouldn't she? She's been repeating for weeks now that fighting was most certainly a prominent part of her background. All things considered, she chalked her win up to knowing her way around a brawl of any type, and of course, maybe a little bit of beginner's luck. The second time, though, after she defeated Zach Knight on Vendetta, she knew she might have a natural knack for this, too. It surprised her, in all honesty, that at twenty-three she was still finding out things about herself that she would have never suspected.
To look at her, nobody could suspect that Violet had a violent bone in her body. With a penchant for eccentricities, body ink, body piercings, and a rather voluptuous body that doesn't exactly scream "fitness nut", you could, from afar, make a judgment that professional wrestling was not on Violet's to-do list. Then again, getting into turf wars with different gangs, fighting in back alleys, and finding herself amidst some pretty lucrative – but wildly illegal – business opportunities weren't exactly on her to-do list, either.
So, what was on Violets to-do list?
She never had one. She'll never make one, because Violet is under the impression that you can never predict what your life is going to be like five minutes from now, never-mind the bogus five year plan that people set into motion in their minds. A month ago, Violet made one decision that affects the way she lives her life for the rest of the foreseeable future; how could anybody have predicted that?
But, I can tell you what her future looks like. The Bay Area Championship. Now that she had a taste for victory, she only wanted more of it. Providing herself with these challenges week in and week out, seeing how her skills match up with others, a new face to batter every so often and a new set of dreams to crush. How could she give this life up now?
• • •
"Thanks for dragging me out today, Vi," Jordan Almeida, Violet's roommate mused from the driver seat of the car. "I'm really glad I'm doing this."
"Don't mention it."
"No, really. Ever since Kendra and I started dating I feel like I've . . . " Jordan looked down in shame at the bit of a beer gut he was forming, "Let myself go, or something."
"You have."
"Damn, that noticeable huh?"
"Dude," Violet came to life, adjusting in the passenger seat to face Jordan as much as she possibly could while strapped down. "All you guys do when she comes over is play video games and order pizza. She has no fucking job man, she's constantly at our place, she's eating our food – my food, actually – and she uses my fucking shampoo. You know how mad I get when people use my stuff."
"To be fair though," Jordan jets out his hand as if to silence Violet momentarily, "Do you hate that she's always there because she's using your stuff, or because it's Kendra and you guys have literally never gotten along since I've started dating her?"
"A little bit of column A, little bit of column B, a healthy mix . . . A hybrid, if you will," Violet mutters. "Don't you remember the first night you brought her home? She left, and you turned to me and said, 'what do you think?' and I sp—"
"—Spat in my face and said, 'if I ever see that twat again I'll slit her where she stands' and then stormed off with a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos and slammed your door three times."
"Not enough, if you ask me," Violet's expression stayed completely blank.
"Three times isn't enough to slam a door?"
"No, one bag of Doritos isn't enough – take a left here," Violet points to the street sign ahead as Jordan swerves into the turning lane.
The relationship between Violet and Kendra was the polar opposite of amicable, and although Violet and Jordan had gotten along better than any of Violet's former roommates (she's uh, had to filter through quite a few) she felt no remorse for the fact that he was consistently in the middle of their petty banters.
"We've been sort of . . . On the rocks lately anyway," Jordan says, a hint of disappointment hidden in his voice. "Which is another reason why I'm really glad you're making me do this."
"You know what a better solution to your shitty relationship other than joining a gym is? Separating. Forever, even." Violet sounded uninterested, gazing out the window with her chin resting on her fist.
"What about you?" Jordan glanced over at her, inquisitively. "Why don't you ever bring anyone home?"
"I am the poster-child for anti-social, unlikeable and selfishly undateable people everywhere," Violet smirks, almost proud of this feat. "Nine times out of ten, people are a wild disappointment."
"What about the one time out of ten?"
"That's me, looking in the mirror in the morning."
"Zing!" Jordan held out his fist as Violet reciprocated, giving him props.
He pulled into the parking lot of All-Phase Wrestling. Violet recognized a few of the cars in the parking lot – if you want to know who the "dedicated" crew is, you watch who comes out to train on a Friday night. Where the less serious competitors or people who just train for fun would be out partying or staying home with their friends and family, the die-hard NCAA wrestler's would be here late Friday night, early Saturday morning, late Saturday night and early Sunday morning. These guys had no off-season.
"I'm nervous," Jordan chuckled in disbelief, looking over at Violet and wiping the sweat from his palms off the steering wheel.
"Don't be, dude," Violet's lip curled up into a side-smile, trying to be supportive of her roommate that was slowly becoming one of her only friends. "Martin's a great guy. Intimidating as hell at first, but that's only because . . . I don't know, I feel like as an old wrestler you have a certain mentality that anybody coming into your gym is an investment. If you're not serious about this, let's turn around, because I'm not staking my reputation on you if you're going to pussy out of this. If you're going to be serious and you want to train your ass off, Martin is your guy. But I'm telling you now he's going to try to scare you away because he needs to know you're there for the right reasons."
Jordan sighed, more of an exhalation that signalled he had a big decision to make. Jordan always pointed out to Violet that he envied her for having these types of accomplishments under her belt. Jordan played sports, but nothing with any sort of formal graduation system to measure your success. Plus with sports, everything seemed to be a 'team mentality'; he was beginning to question if he had what it took to be successful at something on his own.
"That's all it is," Violet patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. "If you want the help, show him you want it. If you don't, turn the car around. These guys aren't just wrestling coaches, man. They're life coaches. They invest in you and they tell you what to eat, when to eat, they pick you up when you're down, they're constantly feeding you positivity. It's almost like having a second dad, but only on six days a week from 7 to 8 at night."
Jordan laughed, shutting the car off and preemptively placing his hand on the door handle. He looked to Violet for any more last-minute inspiration.
"Look," Violet took her seatbelt off and turned completely in her seat to face Jordan. Her tone was slightly more serious when she said, "I don't know how to open up about this sort of shit, but, I don't know where I would have ended up some days if it weren't for Martin. After I went to court I wasn't allowed to go home and I didn't want to go to jail. If I wasn't forced to be here under Martin's care, there's a solid chance I would have been homeless. What I'm trying to say is that the guy has a massive heart and a soft spot for people who are trying to better themselves. All you have to do, is put in the effort and show him that you want to be there. He saw potential in me when I started taking control of the mats, and even though anybody else saw me as a delinquent, Martin saw me as a wrestler . . . Somebody to invest in. Time, money, training . . . He let me sleep on the floor in the gym when I didn't have a home. Eventually he got me on my feet. So, I'm not sure if this helps but I just want you to know that you have nothing to be scared of. This shit can change your life."
Jordan nodded. He seemed to be more amped up than he was when they arrived at the gym. He sat in silence for a second, looking down at his lap. Violet patiently waited, cocking an eyebrow as she practically watched the thoughts flow through his mind.
"Let's do it."
Violet nodded as the two of them in tandem got out of the car and headed towards the entrance to All-Phase Wrestling. When they walked in, all they could hear were the sounds of guys hitting the mats, and Martin's loud, overpowering, guttural voice barking commands and names of holds or throws that sounded foreign to Jordan, but nostalgically familiar to Violet. It made her smile.
"What're you doin' here, superstar?" Martin Ptsazek slaps Violet on the back with a hearty chuckle, the same way he would greet his male wrestlers.
"Hey Martin," Violet motions over to Jordan, who seemed preoccupied staring at the framed black and white photographs that lined the walls of all the past and present Champions. "I've got some new blood for you. This is Jordan, my roommate."
"Nice to meet you, son," Martin outstretches his hand for Jordan to shake.
"You too, Sir," Jordan takes his hand and grips firmly, but respectively.
"So, you lookin' to wrestle for fun? Or you lookin' to compete, boy?" Martin got down to brass tacks right away.
"Uh," Jordan anxiously rubs at the back of his neck, "I'm not really sure. Right now I'm just looking to get into shape. I guess we'll see where it goes from there."
"Good enough," Martin doesn't miss a beat, launching paperwork over his shoulder at Jordan. "Fill this out for me, will ya'?"
Jordan slumps over the glass counter, filling out the essential paperwork and the endless Q&A about his family's health history. Martin leans against the glass, arms folded across his chest and stares intently at Violet.
"How'd it go this week? You get one up on the ol' guy?" Martin snickers.
"I did," Violet smirks back.
"Atta girl. You use a lead pipe or what?"
"Nah, not this time."
" . . . Gave the dude a good ol' fashion low-blow and eye poke instead," Jordan pipes up from behind the two.
"Well now," The intonation of Martin's voice signalled a pique in interest, "That doesn't sound like the combination I taught ya'."
"It certainly isn't, but you always did yell, 'GET CREATIVE WITH IT!', 'MAKE IT YOUR OWN', 'CUSTOMIZE IT, VAN ZANT, CUSTOMIZE IT!'" Violet used her best raspy impression of Martin yelling, an homage to when she was strictly under his training.
Martin chuckled, grabbing Violet and putting her in a playful headlock, "Customize this, you stubborn little shit."
"I could counter this easily, you know, but I don't want to embarrass you in front of your future Champ," Violet playfully shoves herself out of the hold, nodding her head over to Jordan who was focused more on his paperwork than the conversation.
"Future Champ, huh? I don't know about that. The kids come through here now and it's just . . . " Martin sighs, shaking his head with his eyes closed, "Not the same. This generation, they're lookin' for instant gratification. Not a damn kid these days has any perseverance. They want to train for a week, maybe two, and head to Regionals," Martin scoffs, shaking his head some more. "It's a damn disgrace. I got two, maybe three guys that come through here on weekends – Paul and Josh down there," Martin points to the mats where a few guys are practicing drills, "And Kyle, but other than them I got nobody who wants to put in the work all damn week."
"Because kids are raised to be spoiled fucking ass-wipes, now," Violet says, matter-of-factly. "Kids are given everything they want without having to work for it. I know, I see it all the time. Everywhere you go."
"It's bullshit," Martin exclaims, holding his arms out to his side as if he were shrugging, "They come in here with their fucking iDroids or whatever the hell ya call 'em, cellular phones . . . And they're more entertained by recording themselves wrestling than actually learning the damn technique!"
Stressed out just talking about it, Martin buries his face in his palms.
"You were a criminal, but at least you had the determination to get something done."
Violet snorts, hearing the sentiment that only Martin could provide through the backhanded compliment. "I just liked the fact that somebody put a challenge in front of me, and I tackled it. I liked problem-solving. This time it was just . . . legal."
"I know ya' did, kid," Martin smiled, reminiscing on the fourteen year-old Violet Van Zant hitting the mats for the first time with her bleached blonde hair and thick eyeliner. "That's why you're gonna do well, wherever ya' go. You trained hard and you trained long, I gotta give ya' that. There wasn't a day where you weren't on the mats drilling or sparring."
"Hey man," Violet shrugged, "You give me a place to hurt people for free and you bet your ass I'll take the offer any day that ends in 'Y."
"Don't I know it. You're the last of your generation, Violet. I mean it when I say you're gonna do well. Even if it's that 'pro-wrestling' garbage," Martin rolled his eyes, a true old-timer defending his art, "You were a champion before and you have what it takes to be a champion in anything you want. I have no doubt in my head. Now, you know how I feel about it, but you know I'll support every damn thing ya' do, kiddo. You know you always have a home here, too. Just don't forget that."
"I appreciate that, Martin."
Violet put her arm around her coach and personal mentor, pulling him into her side. Violet wasn't always great with expressing how she felt, but Martin knew that, and knew that when Violet said she appreciated something, the chances are that it meant much more to her than she could convey. In this case, that much was very true.
"How're you doin' over there, new blood?" He yelled over to Jordan, who stacked his completed paperwork into a neat pile.
"Good to go, Sir."
"That's what I like to hear," Martin handed Jordan a pamphlet when he took his paperwork from his hands, "This is your schedule. Monday to Friday night, 6 to 7 is beginner classes. From 7 to 8 is advanced conditioning, if you're brave enough. Violet stuck it out for two hours a night, so I'm sure you could do it."
"She's a lot tougher than me, I think," Jordan nudged Violet in a brotherly fashion. She rolled her eyes in response.
"You got that right. I'll see you on the mats, new blood," He shakes Jordan's hand before turning his attention to Violet, pointing at her. "Remember what I said."
"Will do," Violet nods in agreement before turning to Jordan.
"Let's make like a fetus and head out, new blood."
