Wednesday, March 10; Afternoon
Hyatt Centric Times Square
Midtown, New York City
It should have been simple.
“There’s no way I’m letting him do this.”
It was just a matter of signing some papers.
“We have a fucking prenup.”
Papers that he’s had for three hundred some-odd days, sat on and did nothing with, as the months rolled along, the lawyers harangued, and the cold war continued.
“He knows the gyms are off goddamn limits.”
Clay Darcy stands ramrod straight, hands folded in front of his Dolce and Gabbana suit, as Lindsay stalks back and forth in front of the polished maple breakfast bar. A vase full of cream colored lilies catches the sunlight from the floor to ceiling windows, casting slivers of rainbows around the suite. He knows, although he won’t say it, that those flowers are running the risk of meeting their maker against one of the walls or the door, just from how heated the Queen of the Ring is at the moment.
As soon as the words fell from Clay’s mouth, that Tyler wanted ownership of her gym in exchange for the divorce, she felt her heart stop cold. This isn’t any ordinary ask, like dividing property or cars or other material items. This is the training facility started by her uncle in Tampa decades ago, where she first cut her teeth in Muay Thai and Jiu Jitsu as a child. That she took over when he suffered his strokes, and kept open after his passing. Expanded its reach across the country to Boston and San Diego, and helped train countless fighters and wrestlers to success under both his system and hers.
DePetrillo’s Dojo is her business, and Lindsay made sure absolutely sure that its property rights would be hers should anything ever happen between her and Tyler Rayne.
In front of the vase, Lindsay’s iPad is propped open, a Zoom meeting in session with her divorce lawyer. Tara Gilson came highly recommended by Clay, not only for her sterling ability to communicate well, but for her confidence and composure under pressure. Tara adjusts her green cat-eyed frames and, when she’s sure Lindsay’s venting has subsided for the moment, cautiously speaks.
“If I may,” she begins, taking a deep breath. “Technically, you’re right. You do have a prenup. And yes, it says that you are the owner of DePetrillo’s, have been the owner of DePetrillo’s prior to the marriage, and would retain those ownership rights in case of a divorce.”
“Then why are we even having this conversation, Tara?” Lindsay spits. “He’s got a bum leg, and his good leg won’t support this bullshit, so tell him to stop being a bitchbaby and just sign the goddamn papers already.”
In the background, unable to help himself, Clay snorts.
“Well, where it gets a little murky, and it’s only murky because of location … is because of the San Diego facility. Really, that’s the only one of the three locations he’s interested in, and the one that he might be able to lay claim to.”
“California’s a community property state, Lindz,” Clay gently adds.
Lindsay stops pacing for the moment as a disbelieving huff escapes from her lips. “Even though I filed for divorce in Florida.”
“Yes,” says Tara. “Unfortunately.”
“This is insane. He has never cared about this until literally this moment.” She recognizes that her voice is rising to a dangerous volume. “Our businesses have always been separate; that’s how we wanted them. He never bought into the ownership of DP’s, I never bought into the Katana’s Point or the Underground Lounge. And now, he wants me to give up part of my family’s legacy in order to be free from him?”
She runs her fingers through her curls, then ever-so-subtly shakes her head.
“I won’t do it.”
Lindsay looks at Clay, shaking her head more vigorously.
“I won’t. He can fuck smooth off. I’m not going to roll over like a dog just because he fucked up a year ago and now he thinks he’s got a card to play.”
She walks over to the table, places her palms on its smooth surface, and leans in toward the camera so Tara can see her face and not her voice from a distance. “I don’t care what you have to do or what you have to say to him and his lawyers, Tara, but this team doesn’t go down without a fight.”
On the screen, the skilled attorney offers the Queen a nod and a smirk. “I’ll prepare for war as soon as I hang up.”
Alright, Delta Farce, make sure you’re strapped into your Power Wheels Humvee good and tight, because we’re about to go on a ride.
I don’t know what kind of number your mother did on you as a child, but I’m guessing it was so good that Dick Clark had a teen introduce it on a dance floor one week. What started out as Lee Best’s dark and twisted fantasy of “Equal Rights,” which was really nothing more than the gratuitous mocking and degrading of women, to your eager continuing of the trend with your treatment of Dawn McGill and Barbie-Q, is about to die a glorious, overdue death.
Try Violent Elitism.
Make no mistake, Steve, I’m down for the scrapping. Always have been, always will be. That’s why I wanted a Fans Bring the Weapons match; because I want the High Octane zealots to have a say in your destruction. That’s why I’m bringing my own gear to the party, too, because you may have had the last laugh going into this match, but I’m going to have the last one coming out of it.
I’ve proven time and time and time again in HOW that I’m not shy when it comes to wielding weapons. Blood doesn’t make me squeamish. I’ve roamed prison yards, fought high above the ring, jumped off guard towers, and even thrown a shuriken or three with deadly precision. Everything I do, Steve, I do excellently. And I know you can’t stand it.
You can’t stand that I’ve stuck around this long. I’m the last outside signee from the inaugural World Title tournament of the Refueled Era that’s still here. Everyone else flaked out, disappeared into the ether, got fired or butthurt and left. The Shitlords of High Octane Wrestling have done a piss-poor job of running out the so-called “Social Justice Warrior,” because it turns out that you all are the fucking snowflakes, not me.
So put that lube on your hand and jerk off.
And while you’re doing that, tell me: when was the last time you held a belt, Steve? I know it wasn’t during the Refueled Era, so maybe you can enlighten me. Was it during the time when Obama was batting away dumb comments about his tan suit? Or maybe when Dubya was in office, choking on pretzels and getting shoes thrown at his head?
Oh, wait a minute.
You’ve….never held a belt in HOW?
I know, that’s real tacky of me, bringing up title reigns. but since you decided to be yet another voice in the chorus of EL OH EL, EL TEE HAD SEX … LIKE AN ADULT …. I figured that was fair game. I’m a functioning human being who interacts with other people out in the great big world, and has a sex life, unlike 98% of the employees of High Octane Wrestling who are sociopaths or socially-awkward gremlins. It’s also fair game because, unlike you, I’ve won titles in HOW. I’ve won titles in this era. I’m also going to keep winning titles in this disasterscape because I’m too fucking good not to. My proximity to gold isn’t because my ex-lover currently holds 10 pounds of it; it’s because I’ve got the talent to obtain it on my own, and I’m overdue to do it again.
I know that makes you big mad, Steve. I’m sure you also pissed your camo colored Pampers in a big bad diaper rage when the Pentagon said that women could try for Army Ranger designation, and when the Boy Scouts said that girls could join.
Janet Jackson once asked her man what’s he’s done for her lately, but I don’t need to even bother posing the question to you. You’re such an abject disappointment that it would be a waste of my breath. Don’t ask questions that you already know the answers to, right? You want to make this about a woman’s place in the world, and trace humanity’s missteps back to when Jane The Smart Shopper/Homemaker Ape didn’t peg John Doe Ape hard enough. Well that’s fine. Go for it. But, that’s not my M.O. I’m not going onto Madison Square Garden to avenge your transgressions against Dawn or Barbie. I’m not going in there to burn bras, or make you a casserole, or put mustache oil on your face.
I’m going in there to humiliate you, in front of GOD and the rest of the Best Alliance.
You want me back in the kitchen, Steve?
I want you out of my fuckin’ house.
Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.