Post by Abby Park on Dec 28, 2012 18:42:27 GMT -6
Every night Abby Park enjoyed nothing more than pouring a cool glass of milk, plopping down on her second-hand couch picked from the the alley where fellow residents tossed their trash, and watching the night's offering of reality-based programming. Not the most glamorous of lives, but one she enjoyed for its simplicity and insipidity.
Tonight the plan was changed.
"No, I'm not coming home," Abby's voice sounded as annoyed as her expression looked. She was sitting on an old chair at the tiny folding table she used as a dining table. A cordless phone straight from the early nineties, was held to her left ear. In her right hand was a rapidly warming can of cheap, convenience store beer. "I have a job now. And even if I didn't I'm not ready to come home yet. I'm not even thirty yet, mom." Abby took a quick sip from the beer. Were she not on the phone, she would've spit the warm liquid back out.
"Abigail, you had your fun. You know we can always use the extra pair of hands and you were so good at picking the tomatoes." Abby's mother, thus far, had done a fantastic job in hiding her disappointment.
"Then hire someone. I'm sure there's some kid who will pick plants for five dollars." Abby should not have called. She knew it would end up this way. The Parks were nothing if not stubborn.
"You're not even going to celebrate the holidays with your family?" now came the guilt tripping. Next had to be the pleading. Or the tears, crocodile or otherwise.
"I sent you a card." Abby took another sip, more out of a desire to have something to squeeze when the conversation took a sour turn than a thirst for beer.
"You know that's not what I meant, Abigail. Listen, we have a nice job lined up for you at the county office. And you know the farm is yours when we..." Pleading. Right on cue.
"Mom, I don't want an office job or a stupid farm." Her words were out before she could correct herself. Quickly, Abby drank from the can; it wasn't emptied but there wasn't much left.
"Stupid? Stupid?" And there came the voice of her father. No doubt he had been listening in the entire time. "This stupid farm is our livelihood. Your livelihood. Your grandfather-"
"Yes, dad, I know the story. Guilt trip me all you like, I'm still not quitting my passion to become a southern belle." Abby stood from the chair, clutching the beer can so hard that it was a miracle it wasn't splitting. She began pacing the area between the table and her couch, her lips stuck in a scowl.
"Passion? Abigail, beating people up is not a passion. It's a crime. There's no honest work in being a bully." Now it was her mother again. Abby pictured her mother on the verge of tears. She was correct.
"Listen to your mother, Abby. There's no future in fighting. Family is a good future."
"Dad, I won my debut match. I'm currently undefeated. If there's no future in that, there's no future in anything," Abby, fed up with pacing, plopped down onto her couch; dust flew up around her as she fell onto it.
"A fluke," her father quickly replied, "Beating one girl isn't indicative of a future."
"It was a man," Abby said, closing her eyes to steel herself.
"Still a fluke!" came the response from her father.
Abby opened her eyes in shock. That response had been...unexpected, to say the least.
"Listen, Abigail," her father continued, his voice low and parental, "Your mother and I know how tough you are. Hell, we spent most of your high school years apologizing to the PTA. You had your fun as a kid, alright? It's time for you to come home and grow up."
Abby didn't know how to respond. She stared at the blank television screen, crushed beer can in hand.
"And it's time for you to let me go," Abby said finally. "There isn't enough room in my life for two loves."
Before her parents could respond, Abby clicked off the phone and threw the can at a wall, splashing what beer was left onto the floor. The phone immediately rang once more, but no more words would be exchanged that night.
'Grow up'. Abby was oh-so-familiar with that term. Ever since the first time she heard it, Abby hated it. Hated the implication that she was still a child, hated that people thought so little of her, hated that every time someone told her to grow up...they were right.
Abby grabbed the remote sitting on the arm of the couch and flipped on the television. There was no milk, but it would have to do for tonight. The phone continued to ring but Abby barely heard it over the increasing volume of the reality programming currently displayed in front of her eyes.
~~~~~
Carrying a lawnchair under her left arm, Abby walks infront of an Exodus Pro banner with a grin on her face. Her short, boyish hair is even more disheveled than usual and her clothing seems to have even more holes. Were she not cradling an Exodus Pro microphone in her right arm, she could easily pass for some homeless vagrant lost on a trip to the soup kitchen. In the direct center of the banner and the view of the camera, Abby sets up the chair and sits down, leaning back as if the lawn chair was her own little throne.
"This is the part where I tell you 'I told you so'. I'm not going to do that. I'll let my grin speak for me in that regard."
Abby removes the mic from her mouth and grins into the camera. The grin comes close to becoming full-on laughter, but Abby shows the proper restraint before again placing the mic in front of her lips.
"I wanted to make a splash. I didn't do that. I made a dive. What happened with me and my opponent was nothing. It's probably forgotten. I was in the damn match and I couldn't tell you what happened. Other than the inevitable, of course. I would've preferred someone...worthwhile, but I'm not the one who calls the shots. Not yet, anyway. The ones who do are showing that they are inept at their profession. How, you ask?"
Abby leans forward in the chair, eyes staring directly center, unblinking.
"They're putting me against a god damn loser."
Abby again leans back, though she continues to peer at the camera, brows furrowed.
"Yes, that is what Kallie Karter is. She lost. I didn't. She was a loser. I was a winner. I was always taught that the winners had no business with the losers. Seems someone skipped that class. Now, don't get me wrong, losers have their place. Granted, that place is as a stepping stone for us winners, but still. My opponent lost to a freak in a Halloween costume. She lost to someone who couldn't entertain children at a birthday party. Now, you tell me: how is that a good match for me? A loser should go with the other losers."
Abby finishes her little speech and begins rustling in her jeans.
"Now," she says with a slight grunt as she struggles to find what she is digging for, "I have something to say about some other members of this fine promotion."
Lifting off the chair, Abby pulls out a folded sheet of looseleaf paper. She sits back in the chair as she unfolds it and holds it up to her eyes.
"First, to Rufus Frost or whoever runs this thing. What the hell are you thinking putting me up against Karter? I'm better than that. You're not that old, are you? Dementia kicks in early, does it?"
Abby shifts her weight in the chair, clears her throat, and continues.
"Daisuke Iwakuma. What you did was cowardly. What happened to that code you guys have? Your little display in the ring? Cowardly. I hate cowards. Know this and know it well: Once I finish humiliating my loser of an opponent, I'll set my sights higher. It is up to you if you want to be in those sights or if you'll be a coward and let some other poor fool take the bullet."
Abby pauses, leaning her head down to better show the anger in her eyes.
"Next up is Johnny Cannon. Impressive showing in your match, Johnny. Can I call you John? I'm going to call you John. Out of everyone, you are someone I am itching to go toe to toe with. You actually look and act like you can put up a decent fight. I like that. Just know that you're officially on my list. I've got nothing more to say to you. Anymore positivism and I'll start smiling."
Abby moves the paper further up her hand so she is staring at the bottom of the list.
"Lastly, to Fiona Rourke. No, no, this isn't going to be some silly personal hype up thing where I put you on a pedestal. In fact, I just want to say congratulations. You won. I do have a question for you, though."
Abby coughs twice.
"Are you able to win without aid from a...higher power?"
Abby coughs once more and crumples the paper, casually tossing it aside like a common litterbug.
"Time will tell, of course, but I'm not interested in you. In fact I am hoping that John Cannon humiliates you. Because then, when I do work my way up to him, I'll be able to say that I beat the man who beat the 'best'. We all have our goals."
Abby stands from the lawn chair, dropping the mic onto the seat. Without another word, she leaves, letting the Exodus banner linger in silence.
Tonight the plan was changed.
"No, I'm not coming home," Abby's voice sounded as annoyed as her expression looked. She was sitting on an old chair at the tiny folding table she used as a dining table. A cordless phone straight from the early nineties, was held to her left ear. In her right hand was a rapidly warming can of cheap, convenience store beer. "I have a job now. And even if I didn't I'm not ready to come home yet. I'm not even thirty yet, mom." Abby took a quick sip from the beer. Were she not on the phone, she would've spit the warm liquid back out.
"Abigail, you had your fun. You know we can always use the extra pair of hands and you were so good at picking the tomatoes." Abby's mother, thus far, had done a fantastic job in hiding her disappointment.
"Then hire someone. I'm sure there's some kid who will pick plants for five dollars." Abby should not have called. She knew it would end up this way. The Parks were nothing if not stubborn.
"You're not even going to celebrate the holidays with your family?" now came the guilt tripping. Next had to be the pleading. Or the tears, crocodile or otherwise.
"I sent you a card." Abby took another sip, more out of a desire to have something to squeeze when the conversation took a sour turn than a thirst for beer.
"You know that's not what I meant, Abigail. Listen, we have a nice job lined up for you at the county office. And you know the farm is yours when we..." Pleading. Right on cue.
"Mom, I don't want an office job or a stupid farm." Her words were out before she could correct herself. Quickly, Abby drank from the can; it wasn't emptied but there wasn't much left.
"Stupid? Stupid?" And there came the voice of her father. No doubt he had been listening in the entire time. "This stupid farm is our livelihood. Your livelihood. Your grandfather-"
"Yes, dad, I know the story. Guilt trip me all you like, I'm still not quitting my passion to become a southern belle." Abby stood from the chair, clutching the beer can so hard that it was a miracle it wasn't splitting. She began pacing the area between the table and her couch, her lips stuck in a scowl.
"Passion? Abigail, beating people up is not a passion. It's a crime. There's no honest work in being a bully." Now it was her mother again. Abby pictured her mother on the verge of tears. She was correct.
"Listen to your mother, Abby. There's no future in fighting. Family is a good future."
"Dad, I won my debut match. I'm currently undefeated. If there's no future in that, there's no future in anything," Abby, fed up with pacing, plopped down onto her couch; dust flew up around her as she fell onto it.
"A fluke," her father quickly replied, "Beating one girl isn't indicative of a future."
"It was a man," Abby said, closing her eyes to steel herself.
"Still a fluke!" came the response from her father.
Abby opened her eyes in shock. That response had been...unexpected, to say the least.
"Listen, Abigail," her father continued, his voice low and parental, "Your mother and I know how tough you are. Hell, we spent most of your high school years apologizing to the PTA. You had your fun as a kid, alright? It's time for you to come home and grow up."
Abby didn't know how to respond. She stared at the blank television screen, crushed beer can in hand.
"And it's time for you to let me go," Abby said finally. "There isn't enough room in my life for two loves."
Before her parents could respond, Abby clicked off the phone and threw the can at a wall, splashing what beer was left onto the floor. The phone immediately rang once more, but no more words would be exchanged that night.
'Grow up'. Abby was oh-so-familiar with that term. Ever since the first time she heard it, Abby hated it. Hated the implication that she was still a child, hated that people thought so little of her, hated that every time someone told her to grow up...they were right.
Abby grabbed the remote sitting on the arm of the couch and flipped on the television. There was no milk, but it would have to do for tonight. The phone continued to ring but Abby barely heard it over the increasing volume of the reality programming currently displayed in front of her eyes.
~~~~~
Carrying a lawnchair under her left arm, Abby walks infront of an Exodus Pro banner with a grin on her face. Her short, boyish hair is even more disheveled than usual and her clothing seems to have even more holes. Were she not cradling an Exodus Pro microphone in her right arm, she could easily pass for some homeless vagrant lost on a trip to the soup kitchen. In the direct center of the banner and the view of the camera, Abby sets up the chair and sits down, leaning back as if the lawn chair was her own little throne.
"This is the part where I tell you 'I told you so'. I'm not going to do that. I'll let my grin speak for me in that regard."
Abby removes the mic from her mouth and grins into the camera. The grin comes close to becoming full-on laughter, but Abby shows the proper restraint before again placing the mic in front of her lips.
"I wanted to make a splash. I didn't do that. I made a dive. What happened with me and my opponent was nothing. It's probably forgotten. I was in the damn match and I couldn't tell you what happened. Other than the inevitable, of course. I would've preferred someone...worthwhile, but I'm not the one who calls the shots. Not yet, anyway. The ones who do are showing that they are inept at their profession. How, you ask?"
Abby leans forward in the chair, eyes staring directly center, unblinking.
"They're putting me against a god damn loser."
Abby again leans back, though she continues to peer at the camera, brows furrowed.
"Yes, that is what Kallie Karter is. She lost. I didn't. She was a loser. I was a winner. I was always taught that the winners had no business with the losers. Seems someone skipped that class. Now, don't get me wrong, losers have their place. Granted, that place is as a stepping stone for us winners, but still. My opponent lost to a freak in a Halloween costume. She lost to someone who couldn't entertain children at a birthday party. Now, you tell me: how is that a good match for me? A loser should go with the other losers."
Abby finishes her little speech and begins rustling in her jeans.
"Now," she says with a slight grunt as she struggles to find what she is digging for, "I have something to say about some other members of this fine promotion."
Lifting off the chair, Abby pulls out a folded sheet of looseleaf paper. She sits back in the chair as she unfolds it and holds it up to her eyes.
"First, to Rufus Frost or whoever runs this thing. What the hell are you thinking putting me up against Karter? I'm better than that. You're not that old, are you? Dementia kicks in early, does it?"
Abby shifts her weight in the chair, clears her throat, and continues.
"Daisuke Iwakuma. What you did was cowardly. What happened to that code you guys have? Your little display in the ring? Cowardly. I hate cowards. Know this and know it well: Once I finish humiliating my loser of an opponent, I'll set my sights higher. It is up to you if you want to be in those sights or if you'll be a coward and let some other poor fool take the bullet."
Abby pauses, leaning her head down to better show the anger in her eyes.
"Next up is Johnny Cannon. Impressive showing in your match, Johnny. Can I call you John? I'm going to call you John. Out of everyone, you are someone I am itching to go toe to toe with. You actually look and act like you can put up a decent fight. I like that. Just know that you're officially on my list. I've got nothing more to say to you. Anymore positivism and I'll start smiling."
Abby moves the paper further up her hand so she is staring at the bottom of the list.
"Lastly, to Fiona Rourke. No, no, this isn't going to be some silly personal hype up thing where I put you on a pedestal. In fact, I just want to say congratulations. You won. I do have a question for you, though."
Abby coughs twice.
"Are you able to win without aid from a...higher power?"
Abby coughs once more and crumples the paper, casually tossing it aside like a common litterbug.
"Time will tell, of course, but I'm not interested in you. In fact I am hoping that John Cannon humiliates you. Because then, when I do work my way up to him, I'll be able to say that I beat the man who beat the 'best'. We all have our goals."
Abby stands from the lawn chair, dropping the mic onto the seat. Without another word, she leaves, letting the Exodus banner linger in silence.
