Post by Distorted Amber on Apr 9, 2024 6:33:33 GMT -5
“She had nothing in this world but her two hands and her crazy love for Jesus, who seemed, for his part, never to have heard of her.”
― Denis Johnson, Tree of Smoke
Somewhere Midtown
Atlantic City, NJ
05.04.2024
10:27pm
Thin wisps of smoke gently wrap themselves around a bus shelter, from a cigarette partially crushed and left smouldering on the lidded edge of a bin- turned out that people in Atlantic City weren’t even capable of littering properly.
Disrupting the spiralling plumes of translucent grey, Amber Bane-Ryan slipped by the bus shelter's edge, skimming the mottled plexi surface as she avoided another burgeoning crack in the sidewalk disrupting the steady rhythm of converse sneakers on the concrete pavement.
Briefly, and if only out of curiosity, she wondered if the man following her would also notice the cracked pavement- dutifully sidestepping in well tailored leather shoes, far too expensive to be scuffed by an errant lapse of judgement.
It wasn’t as though he’d been subtle. 30 feet back, not so obvious that it might draw attention- never so far that he might be more than a few seconds out of sight. Business casual in neutral colours so painfully generic that a witness might barely recall he existed.
Amber cocked her head slightly- if this were a game, they were both entirely engaged and pushing the patience of the other to its limits. Three blocks back she’d even tried to bait him- ducking down a side alley just to see if he’d bite. Perhaps an amateur would have, bold and reckless, only to be met with a surgically devastating left hand to the throat.
Another opportunity went begging as they passed a gaggle of drunk girls stumbling like baby giraffes in cheap glittering tiaras, a milestone birthday or bachelorette perhaps, although Amber knew they’d past the point of remembering as hair extensions dangled precariously and someone garbled inaudibly between liquor-soaked tears and mouthfuls of vomit on the curbs edge.
Occasional cars passed, but none paid much mind. These were witching hours in a neon glimmering city after all- the time of night where a pause might be taken as an invitation and the word ‘please’ came at the end of a switchblade.
Still, it was peaceful. One of the few solitary moments Amber could steal these days, some semblance of routine crushed between towering concrete and glass. Admittedly though, even the peace afforded by the apprehension of those smart enough to know better, but not smart enough to change it, did little for the silent residual ache lingering in every tattered nerve from her left shoulder to her electrified fingertips
That shoulder had been the reason she’d been so sporadic professionally, an injury that had stolen years from her life and career. While she’d never admit it openly, being sidelined for more than a year had left her bitter and distrustful, watching everything she knew seemingly move on without her as she silently argued with a burning disregard for what fragile tethers she had left to break by coming back.
These days it felt as though she spent more time and effort dutifully trying to negotiate terms of medical clearance, than she got to actually doing anything with it.
In the meantime though, others had gotten brave, their confidence blossoming in the void she’d left- emboldening those that would have otherwise been content remaining spectators to the symphony of successive violence she’d spent almost two decades conducting.
People had gotten brave, but more importantly, they’d got cocky.
Turns out it was far easier to simply pick a fight over social media then backpedal accordingly, the truth brought to light in unflattering ways leaving many tripping over their missing context and misspoken presumptions thinking no one would be willing to hold them accountable.
Hell, the wrestling landscape had become akin to a nursing home full of ageing arsonists, with a lax sense of fire safety. Almost tragic.
Chasing smoke, somehow there was still a sense of surprise when they managed to find fire.
Amber flexed the fingers of her left hand instinctively, as though a building static threatened to tear back through her arm. She told herself she was just relieving pressure, that the sharp pains were simply a lingering hangover and one day soon she might wake one morning without three quarters of her arm tingling numb and semi-responsive.
Still the footsteps lingered behind her, perhaps closer to 20 feet now as she neared her apartment building, half a second off her own pace as leather craftsmanship echoed between the beats of her own rubber laden tread. However it wasn’t the insistent following that had slowed her pace, the steady tempo faltering in momentary indecision nor the tightening of a persistent knot somewhere beneath her sternum that forced bile towards the back of her throat.
Deceptively expensive in the same way a billionaire might wear a white t-shirt and jeans costing more than a three-bedroom mortgage, the midnight navy Volvo XC90 idled with a faint rumbling by the curbside in front of her building, managing to not only look wildly out of place but also block a fire hydrant. Amber chuckled internally, she knew that it wouldn’t even have mattered cause few around here had the bank account to even approach- let alone ask them to move and those that didn’t wouldn’t have wasted their breath anyway.
It wasn’t the presence of the luxury vehicle, nor the lithe well dressed figures of two more men approaching- one from the opposite end of the street and one from beside the doorway to the building, that left Amber swallowing the creeping bile with a thinly veiled sense of contempt.
It was the blatant gaudy California number plate, one that she had recalled all too easily.
PS91 16. Like Psalm 91:16. "With long life, I will satisfy you and show you my salvation”.
There was no space to pause though, no reason to stop. Still knowingly, she tried to force the creeping realisation from her lips, the one curled into a faint snarl that she passed off as a bemused grin although reproach was never far from the tip of her tongue.
As to why such a figure of influence and theological standing seemed to be deliberately loitering outside her apartment building was quickly becoming far more of a tedious thought exercise that Amber was already refusing to partake in more than necessary.
Business. That was the obvious reasoning, as the rear door nearest to the sidewalk swung open exposing the white leather interior to the noxious smog that was simply the presumptuousness of Atlantic City itself. Amber recalled their ‘business’ arrangement having been resolved however, where a favour owed had been a favour concluded.
Amber shifted her trajectory towards the open car door without breaking step as the men closed in, expressionless and equally generic to the point it might have been startling- like male models from a magazine that you forget about the moment the page turns.
No words were exchanged, only a polite cock of the head from Amber in acknowledgement that there would be none required, a synchronised disingenuous waltz where everyone seemingly knew their place upon sight- even if they fundamentally disagreed with the genre and tone.
Amber pressed her fingertips into the roof edge as she ducked her head, a crude and perfunctory show of defiance likely no one would ever come to appreciate. In exchange, she was met with the heady scent of cologne lingering like a metaphysical brick wall.
Blinking several times, her sinuses stung with a cleanliness, almost sterile under the guise of ocean spray or something equally pretentious derived from a white-washed laboratory and marketed as ‘au natural’.
She could only presume it was cleverly labelled as ‘Aqcua di’ something expensive sounding, if only cause the French language had a peculiar way of making everything seem even more haughty and unapproachable.
Still, it was sickeningly familiar. Musty with a faint breath of mildew or damp socks, like a long lost relative only taking an interest cause their MLM dreams didn’t turn them into millionaires.
It took Amber a second to adjust, the brightness of the interior in such contrast to the jaundiced illumination of the cityscape, while dragging her fingertips across the pristine paint as long as she could with a juvenile pettiness that she’d never apologise for. Perhaps a silent security measure she’d never admit.
“I hope you’ll forgive the disruption to your very busy schedule Ms Ryan, however it seemed as though that this could be one of the few opportunities I could count on your predictability.”
Those last syllables seemed to loiter in the space between them for longer than necessary, a well-practised Southern inflection almost dampening the insinuation to a mild annoyance of excessive formality. Attired as a businessman and meticulously groomed to appear effortless, Reverend Alistair McCrae stifled his snark and fidgeted with the cuff of the white shirt that peeked from beneath a charcoal suit. It seemed the California sun, the type sold in an expensive can, and aestheticians needle had been kinder since they’d last spoken in Vegas, in the wake of oppressive heat and the acrid stench of burning.
Founder of one of California’s most prolific ‘mega-churches’- Reverend Alistair McCrae had deepened his reputation through televangelical charm and an affectation that made salvation and spiritual awakening as monetarily exclusive as green smoothies and Soul Cycle.
Perhaps it made it all the more perplexing that he’d degrade himself to coming here, in search of a redhead who otherwise didn’t want to be found.
“Have you finally managed to cleanse the wealthy side of Southern California of all its sin and disposable income, and stopped by to gloat?”
Amber did little to dampen her acerbic response, the presence of the pseudo-businessman already having worn out what little warmth a welcome might have enjoyed. Clearing his throat, McCrae seemed otherwise undeterred.
“I had always hoped you might find a place among the congregation, even in spite of your continued cynicism- however business demands a more… antiseptic approach.”
Scoffing loudly in mock outrage, Amber shook her head vehemently.
“Business? No, that's not gonna fly this time… We had an agreement, McCrae and despite what you may think, you don’t just get to…”
Amber’s words trailed off as the shock hit her first.
Sharp.
Somewhere along the side of her neck. Stinging, then cold.
A flooding cold that sunk into her veins, creeping through every nerve and freezing them solid- she barely managed to choke out her astonishment and fury before her body seemed to independently slump against the leather interior, jaw hanging open slightly in indignation, head lolled while McCrae gently brushed the hair from her face.
“My apologies, of course. It’s just easier this way…”
******
“Parasitic succubus, huh?
You sound like a 20 year old neckbeard who just discovered an online thesaurus. Although this painful habit of you using terms and pretending you know what they mean is wearing a little thin- tell me, am I a succubus cause of who I’m affiliated with… or because they picked me over you?
Truth is, you just want someone to blame and here I am. Someone to pin your insecurities to, to shift focus off the fact that no-one wanted you. Trust me, envy really doesn’t look good on you darl- but then again, neither does gold which probably explains why you haven’t had any in awhile.
That's the difference between us- you’re in desperate need of a crutch where I’ve done as much standing on my own as I have working with Knox.
See I’m a former PWV World Champion. You just came up short. A multi-time world champion across numerous companies. People don’t remember the last time you held gold. I mean, I’ve won more tag titles with more partners than you have in your rotating rolodex of sycophants still telling you that you’re a ‘game changer’.
Fact is, only game you’ve changed recently was how to absolutely cock up a social media backtrack in the face of concrete #TactFacts and a strong case of FOMO
Still, you came looking for smoke. Except you forgot there's a fire that comes with it- seems like the fumes went straight to your head. And stayed there.
A dog determinedly chasing a car, chewing on fumes you got yourself convinced you were onto something important. But now, the car has stopped and you haven’t the faintest clue what to do with it except stare and bark till it starts moving again.
You didn’t want a fire on your doorstep. You certainly didn’t really want my attention, in the same way a dog doesn’t really want a car.
Except you’ve got it now.
And still all you can do is whine.
When it comes down to it Larry, I’m everything you ever said I was and everything you wish I weren’t. I’ve excelled in this business in spite of you and everyone like you, I’ve been successful against everything you believe.
So when it comes to this fall count anywhere match, when it comes to Friday night- I won’t only just assure you and the TPW faithful, I won’t even just assure Maxwell Mason Stone, but assure your wife, Mrs Tact as well that you go out in a way befitting, arguably, the best years of your life. A way that she might not be so ashamed of sharing your surname.
At the end of another, better, womens boot.”
― Denis Johnson, Tree of Smoke
Somewhere Midtown
Atlantic City, NJ
05.04.2024
10:27pm
Thin wisps of smoke gently wrap themselves around a bus shelter, from a cigarette partially crushed and left smouldering on the lidded edge of a bin- turned out that people in Atlantic City weren’t even capable of littering properly.
Disrupting the spiralling plumes of translucent grey, Amber Bane-Ryan slipped by the bus shelter's edge, skimming the mottled plexi surface as she avoided another burgeoning crack in the sidewalk disrupting the steady rhythm of converse sneakers on the concrete pavement.
Briefly, and if only out of curiosity, she wondered if the man following her would also notice the cracked pavement- dutifully sidestepping in well tailored leather shoes, far too expensive to be scuffed by an errant lapse of judgement.
It wasn’t as though he’d been subtle. 30 feet back, not so obvious that it might draw attention- never so far that he might be more than a few seconds out of sight. Business casual in neutral colours so painfully generic that a witness might barely recall he existed.
Amber cocked her head slightly- if this were a game, they were both entirely engaged and pushing the patience of the other to its limits. Three blocks back she’d even tried to bait him- ducking down a side alley just to see if he’d bite. Perhaps an amateur would have, bold and reckless, only to be met with a surgically devastating left hand to the throat.
Another opportunity went begging as they passed a gaggle of drunk girls stumbling like baby giraffes in cheap glittering tiaras, a milestone birthday or bachelorette perhaps, although Amber knew they’d past the point of remembering as hair extensions dangled precariously and someone garbled inaudibly between liquor-soaked tears and mouthfuls of vomit on the curbs edge.
Occasional cars passed, but none paid much mind. These were witching hours in a neon glimmering city after all- the time of night where a pause might be taken as an invitation and the word ‘please’ came at the end of a switchblade.
Still, it was peaceful. One of the few solitary moments Amber could steal these days, some semblance of routine crushed between towering concrete and glass. Admittedly though, even the peace afforded by the apprehension of those smart enough to know better, but not smart enough to change it, did little for the silent residual ache lingering in every tattered nerve from her left shoulder to her electrified fingertips
That shoulder had been the reason she’d been so sporadic professionally, an injury that had stolen years from her life and career. While she’d never admit it openly, being sidelined for more than a year had left her bitter and distrustful, watching everything she knew seemingly move on without her as she silently argued with a burning disregard for what fragile tethers she had left to break by coming back.
These days it felt as though she spent more time and effort dutifully trying to negotiate terms of medical clearance, than she got to actually doing anything with it.
In the meantime though, others had gotten brave, their confidence blossoming in the void she’d left- emboldening those that would have otherwise been content remaining spectators to the symphony of successive violence she’d spent almost two decades conducting.
People had gotten brave, but more importantly, they’d got cocky.
Turns out it was far easier to simply pick a fight over social media then backpedal accordingly, the truth brought to light in unflattering ways leaving many tripping over their missing context and misspoken presumptions thinking no one would be willing to hold them accountable.
Hell, the wrestling landscape had become akin to a nursing home full of ageing arsonists, with a lax sense of fire safety. Almost tragic.
Chasing smoke, somehow there was still a sense of surprise when they managed to find fire.
Amber flexed the fingers of her left hand instinctively, as though a building static threatened to tear back through her arm. She told herself she was just relieving pressure, that the sharp pains were simply a lingering hangover and one day soon she might wake one morning without three quarters of her arm tingling numb and semi-responsive.
Still the footsteps lingered behind her, perhaps closer to 20 feet now as she neared her apartment building, half a second off her own pace as leather craftsmanship echoed between the beats of her own rubber laden tread. However it wasn’t the insistent following that had slowed her pace, the steady tempo faltering in momentary indecision nor the tightening of a persistent knot somewhere beneath her sternum that forced bile towards the back of her throat.
Deceptively expensive in the same way a billionaire might wear a white t-shirt and jeans costing more than a three-bedroom mortgage, the midnight navy Volvo XC90 idled with a faint rumbling by the curbside in front of her building, managing to not only look wildly out of place but also block a fire hydrant. Amber chuckled internally, she knew that it wouldn’t even have mattered cause few around here had the bank account to even approach- let alone ask them to move and those that didn’t wouldn’t have wasted their breath anyway.
It wasn’t the presence of the luxury vehicle, nor the lithe well dressed figures of two more men approaching- one from the opposite end of the street and one from beside the doorway to the building, that left Amber swallowing the creeping bile with a thinly veiled sense of contempt.
It was the blatant gaudy California number plate, one that she had recalled all too easily.
PS91 16. Like Psalm 91:16. "With long life, I will satisfy you and show you my salvation”.
There was no space to pause though, no reason to stop. Still knowingly, she tried to force the creeping realisation from her lips, the one curled into a faint snarl that she passed off as a bemused grin although reproach was never far from the tip of her tongue.
As to why such a figure of influence and theological standing seemed to be deliberately loitering outside her apartment building was quickly becoming far more of a tedious thought exercise that Amber was already refusing to partake in more than necessary.
Business. That was the obvious reasoning, as the rear door nearest to the sidewalk swung open exposing the white leather interior to the noxious smog that was simply the presumptuousness of Atlantic City itself. Amber recalled their ‘business’ arrangement having been resolved however, where a favour owed had been a favour concluded.
Amber shifted her trajectory towards the open car door without breaking step as the men closed in, expressionless and equally generic to the point it might have been startling- like male models from a magazine that you forget about the moment the page turns.
No words were exchanged, only a polite cock of the head from Amber in acknowledgement that there would be none required, a synchronised disingenuous waltz where everyone seemingly knew their place upon sight- even if they fundamentally disagreed with the genre and tone.
Amber pressed her fingertips into the roof edge as she ducked her head, a crude and perfunctory show of defiance likely no one would ever come to appreciate. In exchange, she was met with the heady scent of cologne lingering like a metaphysical brick wall.
Blinking several times, her sinuses stung with a cleanliness, almost sterile under the guise of ocean spray or something equally pretentious derived from a white-washed laboratory and marketed as ‘au natural’.
She could only presume it was cleverly labelled as ‘Aqcua di’ something expensive sounding, if only cause the French language had a peculiar way of making everything seem even more haughty and unapproachable.
Still, it was sickeningly familiar. Musty with a faint breath of mildew or damp socks, like a long lost relative only taking an interest cause their MLM dreams didn’t turn them into millionaires.
It took Amber a second to adjust, the brightness of the interior in such contrast to the jaundiced illumination of the cityscape, while dragging her fingertips across the pristine paint as long as she could with a juvenile pettiness that she’d never apologise for. Perhaps a silent security measure she’d never admit.
“I hope you’ll forgive the disruption to your very busy schedule Ms Ryan, however it seemed as though that this could be one of the few opportunities I could count on your predictability.”
Those last syllables seemed to loiter in the space between them for longer than necessary, a well-practised Southern inflection almost dampening the insinuation to a mild annoyance of excessive formality. Attired as a businessman and meticulously groomed to appear effortless, Reverend Alistair McCrae stifled his snark and fidgeted with the cuff of the white shirt that peeked from beneath a charcoal suit. It seemed the California sun, the type sold in an expensive can, and aestheticians needle had been kinder since they’d last spoken in Vegas, in the wake of oppressive heat and the acrid stench of burning.
Founder of one of California’s most prolific ‘mega-churches’- Reverend Alistair McCrae had deepened his reputation through televangelical charm and an affectation that made salvation and spiritual awakening as monetarily exclusive as green smoothies and Soul Cycle.
Perhaps it made it all the more perplexing that he’d degrade himself to coming here, in search of a redhead who otherwise didn’t want to be found.
“Have you finally managed to cleanse the wealthy side of Southern California of all its sin and disposable income, and stopped by to gloat?”
Amber did little to dampen her acerbic response, the presence of the pseudo-businessman already having worn out what little warmth a welcome might have enjoyed. Clearing his throat, McCrae seemed otherwise undeterred.
“I had always hoped you might find a place among the congregation, even in spite of your continued cynicism- however business demands a more… antiseptic approach.”
Scoffing loudly in mock outrage, Amber shook her head vehemently.
“Business? No, that's not gonna fly this time… We had an agreement, McCrae and despite what you may think, you don’t just get to…”
Amber’s words trailed off as the shock hit her first.
Sharp.
Somewhere along the side of her neck. Stinging, then cold.
A flooding cold that sunk into her veins, creeping through every nerve and freezing them solid- she barely managed to choke out her astonishment and fury before her body seemed to independently slump against the leather interior, jaw hanging open slightly in indignation, head lolled while McCrae gently brushed the hair from her face.
“My apologies, of course. It’s just easier this way…”
******
“Parasitic succubus, huh?
You sound like a 20 year old neckbeard who just discovered an online thesaurus. Although this painful habit of you using terms and pretending you know what they mean is wearing a little thin- tell me, am I a succubus cause of who I’m affiliated with… or because they picked me over you?
Truth is, you just want someone to blame and here I am. Someone to pin your insecurities to, to shift focus off the fact that no-one wanted you. Trust me, envy really doesn’t look good on you darl- but then again, neither does gold which probably explains why you haven’t had any in awhile.
That's the difference between us- you’re in desperate need of a crutch where I’ve done as much standing on my own as I have working with Knox.
See I’m a former PWV World Champion. You just came up short. A multi-time world champion across numerous companies. People don’t remember the last time you held gold. I mean, I’ve won more tag titles with more partners than you have in your rotating rolodex of sycophants still telling you that you’re a ‘game changer’.
Fact is, only game you’ve changed recently was how to absolutely cock up a social media backtrack in the face of concrete #TactFacts and a strong case of FOMO
Still, you came looking for smoke. Except you forgot there's a fire that comes with it- seems like the fumes went straight to your head. And stayed there.
A dog determinedly chasing a car, chewing on fumes you got yourself convinced you were onto something important. But now, the car has stopped and you haven’t the faintest clue what to do with it except stare and bark till it starts moving again.
You didn’t want a fire on your doorstep. You certainly didn’t really want my attention, in the same way a dog doesn’t really want a car.
Except you’ve got it now.
And still all you can do is whine.
When it comes down to it Larry, I’m everything you ever said I was and everything you wish I weren’t. I’ve excelled in this business in spite of you and everyone like you, I’ve been successful against everything you believe.
So when it comes to this fall count anywhere match, when it comes to Friday night- I won’t only just assure you and the TPW faithful, I won’t even just assure Maxwell Mason Stone, but assure your wife, Mrs Tact as well that you go out in a way befitting, arguably, the best years of your life. A way that she might not be so ashamed of sharing your surname.
At the end of another, better, womens boot.”
