▶Peacocks are known to wander into traffic, and even fly into a predator's enclosure.
“Good morning, welcome to the Radisson Blu, London Canary Wharf,” says the chipper woman at the concierge desk, “How may I help you today?”
“Hi,” I say, all smiles and sunshine despite the fact that I’ve slept about three hours the past two nights. “Checking in, Mariella Flurstein.”
She nods, and puts her attention on the computer. “All…right… Ms. Flurstein, we have you booked for a river view room with a king bed. If I may see your photo ID and put a card on file for incidentals, you’ll be good to go.”
I thank her, take my key, and find the elevator. My bag is refreshingly light: my mom’s keyboard player was in Munich with his side project four days ago so I asserted “chosen family niece” privileges and dumped all the laundry I wouldn’t need anymore onto him.
“Afternoon,” says a guy who joins me at the elevator. He doesn’t have an accent I can place; probably mid-atlantic American.
“Hi,” I say. “How are you?”
We’re a great study in contrast: he’s wearing a business suit with a really nice watch and shoes, an overcoat, and a laptop bag. I’m in a loose tank top over a sports bra, black jeans that have been washed so many times that they’re practically gray, and doc martens that I’ve had probably since my feet decided at sixteen that they were size 7.
He gives me a dismissive look as we both get on the elevator; he presses the button for the sixth floor, and looks at me.
“That’ll do,” I say.
He seems… confused.
We get off the elevator together, and walk down the hallways like synchronized swimmers, until we manage to stop at almost the same place. Opposite sides. I’ve got the river view, he doesn’t. He looks at me again, confused.
“View’s even better on this side,” I say, closing the door on his shocked expression.
I drop my bag on the bed, and look at it longingly. I could sleep for a full day, I think.
But I don’t.
Instead, I look out the window, at my target. I have a great view of the Thames from here. Across the river, right in my sights, is the O2 Arena.
One more stop to make before I rest.
“I was technically homeless until I was four years old.”
“Technically, because I had no place to really put down roots and have a normal childhood. My dad was winding down the full time portion of his wrestling career, and my mom was ramping up her music career. They barely saw each other for those four years, because they were doing their best to make a difference. I spent those years with my mom for practical reasons: she had six other people on the bus with her who could help out.”
“The bus was my first home, my first classroom, my first sanctuary. I had everything I needed except kids my own age to interact with and socialize… but I didn’t realize that until much later. I had five uncles - my mom’s bandmates and their driver. And they were amazing.”
“For entertainment, the guys had rigged up a small TV with a really old video game system, a Sness, or something. I don’t know, I was never really a gamer. But they would spend hours beating each other up, virtually, with games like Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat. They thought it was adorable how I wanted to play with them, and I actually got pretty good for a four year old.”
“There was one boss in Street Fighter, I remember this vividly: his name was Vega. The stage music was frantic and stress inducing. He had a six pack for days, was a vain pretty boy, and moved like lightning. One night, for like… hours… they worked at beating him and nobody ever could.”
“I asked to try. Hands barely big enough to hold a controller. But I didn’t know I was supposed to be intimidated by this boss character, so I made my selection, Chun Li, and I went to work. It took almost the entire time for both rounds, but I managed to get past him.”
“A badass woman with thick thighs, beating the shit out of a vain pretty boy with abs and a mask.”
“This seems relevant today.”
“Wow.”
Yeah, I said it.
I’ve actually never been inside the O2 before. I’ve been in Wembley plenty of times; my dad wrestled there twice and my mom’s lone stadium tour saw them manage a sellout, but her band has always felt most comfortable in the large ballroom/small arena venues.
I’m the first, and possibly only member of my family to work this building. I feel the same kind of rush that I did when I became the third member of my family to headline a sold out show at Madison Square Garden.
“Ms. Flair?”
A small man with thick glasses and a backwards newsboy cap approaches. I nod my assent and shake his hand.
“Good to see you,” he says, “I’m Philip, I’m coordinating the pyrotechnics and entrance effects for all of the athletes this weekend. I appreciate your coming down, this shouldn’t take too long - we just want to make sure we have the appropriate setup for what you all want.”
“That’s cool,” I say, walking down the stairs towards the ring. The crew is working on the ring; you’d be surprised how many injuries happen because the ropes are too tight or too loose. We might be fighting for our lives in there, but we don’t need external help to hurt each other. “I don’t really do pyro, though. Just my song and my overly exuberant walk to the ring.”
He shrugs. “Orders from Rishel. Everyone gets pyro.”
I laugh. “Closing up shop, he’s really living that ‘I want the last check I ever write to bounce’ style. Okay, fair enough. Ummm… I dunno. Watch the entrance for my last match and surprise me?”
I get a thousand yard stare. I’m not surprised, I’ve just made his job infinitely easier and infinitely harder at the same time.
“I don’t really surprise people with fire,” he says, which makes sense.
“Okay,” I say, nodding. “Give me a minute, I’ll figure something out.”
I slide into the ring and look around at the empty seats. I jump, once or twice, feeling the slight give in the mat as I land. The ring crew is still working on the ropes so I don’t run them, but I go to the center, and I lay down and look up at the house lights.
My dad used to do this before a big match. He told me he was getting a feel for the air in the arena and trying to understand the pulse. I never understood what he was talking about; buildings don’t have pulses. The people provide the pulse.
But right now, I’m starting to get it. The lack of pulse is a pulse all it own, and the relative silence is telling a story that the fans will simply turbo charge when the time comes. I close my eyes, and I could probably fall asleep right here. The rhythm of the work going on around me brings me back to my childhood and the sound of an afternoon nap.
“Hey Champ,” calls a familiar voice. I open my eyes and roll to my stomach, face to face with Caledonia, standing outside the ring, a camera and a woman with a microphone standing next to her.
“Hey, Champ,” I repeat, rolling out of the ring. Cali gestures for the interview to take five as I give her a hug. “When did you get in?”
“This morning,” replies Caledonia. “You?”
“Just now. Checked into my room, came straight here. They want to give everyone pyro. I don’t know what to do with my hands in this situation.”
Caledonia laughs. “Tell them to add your pyro to Holmes’ display. He should feel like a winner at least once at Crossed Lines.”
I shake my head and wag my finger in the number one contender’s face. “Don’t say that, girlypop, you’re gonna jinx it. You really want me to stand here and tell you to save all your fireworks for the end of the match when you’re holding Ripper’s title above your head?”
She smiles. “Fair enough.”
I look around the arena with her. “But it’s cool to think about, isn’t it? How awesome would it be if you get Ripper to say it, and you’re in the ring celebrating with a title belt, and I come out to congratulate you with a title belt. Daydreaming, sure. But it’s never a bad idea to visualise your positive outcome.”
“If that happens,” says Cali, “I’m going to hold you to it.”
“Honestly, you know what this reminds me of?” I ask. “Elisha. Do you remember Elisha?”
She winces, and mentally I chastise myself; Elisha had thrown her husband off the top of a Tower, breaking his spine and setting a very long and painful series of events in motion for her. But she recovers quickly. “Distinctly,” is all she says, but she thankfully doesn’t sound annoyed with me.
I nod my understanding. “Fair,” I reply, acknowledging her history, “But at the time, all I remember was the attitude of ‘The new girl shows promise, but she’s about to face the dragon.’ We already broke this horse’s leg, I feel like I’m just showing up with a shotgun to finish the job. But at the same time… I don’t think it’s ever a smart move to assume victory before the final three.”
Caledonia considers this for a moment. “You know, I’ve been in the ring with you. I’ve been in the ring against you. I’ve beaten you, and I’ve lost to you. One thing I’ve learned?”
She pauses.
“Never… ever… bet against MJ Flair.”
The soon-to-be (we hope) new World Champion taps her knuckles against my stomach and returns to the camera and her interview. She’s given me something to think about.
And she’s given me a second wind.
“Peacock Jerry, I want you to listen closely to Mijjy Flair right now: you have something I desire.”
“No, it’s not the CWF Paramount Championship, although I’ll never say no to holding a Championship Title with honor and dignity.”
“No, Jerry… it’s your head. You see, I’ve got a bit of a reputation in this company for taking an unkillable monster and mounting their severed head on my wall. And even though your reputation as an unkillable monster has become… somewhat tainted… over the past few weeks, you’ll still be a wonderful addition to my collection.”
“You’ve probably heard of the Institute. Big scary corporation-cum-mystical death cult that decided to sit on the CWF’s face during my first run with the company. They terrorized the Highlanders worse than you ever did. They struck fear into the hearts of the heroes who were doing their best to make a mark in the Modern Warfare tournament.”
“And then I showed up, and I turned their plans inside out. I faced their dragon during the third round. Elisha, the Moonchild.”
“You did not hear that incorrectly. Moonchild. Moon. Child. The same name Bastion gave to the Childlike Empress from the Neverending Story. The Municipality really wanted me to quake in my boots against the edgelord version of Pretty Pretty Princess, and it ended badly for them. After that, they tried to stay relevant, but I don’t believe anyone ever took them seriously again.
“Jacehole Valentine. Ryan Sunset. Silas Artoria. The pillars of the company that were either supposed to be scary as hell or tenacious as hell. Only Silas ever truly got one over on me, and he unfortunately couldn’t replicate it when the title was on the line.”
“And then we come to you. Peacock Jerry. Yellow Dog. The House of Balloon Knots.”
“You were untouchable for a while, Jerry. You really owned the CWF for quite some time, and you managed to gain victories over so many amazing athletes.”
“But.”
“There’s always a but, isn’t there.”
“How many of those victories; how much of that legend, did you do on your own? Because you’ve won exactly two matches without a partner or three, and I honestly have to wonder how much of your CWF World Tag Team Title reign is due to your efforts, and how much is due to Freddie Styles.”
“Because I know how good Freddie is. I’m unconvinced on how good you are.”
“I don’t know what it is about me, Jerry. There’s a scary dragon running around, filling the athletes here with a respectful mix of fear and awe. I step into the ring with them, and all of a sudden… nothing. The Emperor Wears No Clothes.”
“Am I wrong? What have you accomplished in this company since we first stepped into the ring against each other, Jerry? That Paramount title around your waist?”
“Bitch, please.”
“There but for the grace of a non-title match stipulation, Dangerous Dan would be in your spot.”
“Ultimately, Peacock Jerry, what this match is about is respect. Not for each other, obviously: you’ve shown me nothing but disrespect and likewise. No, this is about respect for the CWF and its legacy.”
“Because the doors are closing in sixty days, Peacock Jerry. Because this company deserves to have its final Champions be athletes who show proper respect to the sport’s possibilities.”
“Because your arrogance has been revealed to be a shield to cover your incredible lack of ability when forced to stand on your own. Or when you’re partnered with that anchor around your neck.”
“I think I’ve finally figured out why you call your weird fetish club The House of Balloons. Much like a balloon, you’re full of hot air, you explode under too much pressure…”
“...and when I drop you, you land on the ground with a thud.”
Two hours later, I’m sitting at The Joint, for one of the only pre-match rituals that has survived with me from my first years in the business as an underaged delinquent: barbecue before a big match.
“Good afternoon, luv, my name is Moira, what can I get you today?”
I scan the menu quickly. “Nice to meet you, Moira. I’ll do… Oh boy. The sixteen hour smoked pulled pork sandwich, dirty fries, and a pint of Guinness, please.”
“Thank you,” she says, taking the menu and scooting away. I quickly pull out my phone to search for a reminder on tipping etiquette in England; I’ve never been to this country in a situation where I was paying the bill.
She quickly returns with my pint, and I continue to doomscroll, reading show predictions, attendance reports, commentary on why Ripper and Jerry should win, because men are better at fighting than women, all reports to the contrary.
“You’re always eating,” says a familiar voice. I look up and smile as Tara Robinson takes a seat across from me. “Glad to know some things never change.”
“Hey girl,” I reply, leaning over to hug her. “How’d you know I’d be here?”
“Caledonia. I asked her where you went off to, she said she wasn’t sure, and I asked her where’s the closest barbecue restaurant. Simple.”
“She knows me,” I say, sipping my pint, continuing to doomscroll.
Tara sits with me in silence for about six seconds. “So. Why you sitting here alone?”
“I’m not, I’m sitting with you.”
“Girl. There’s an entire roster that’s half looking to retire and half wondering if they’ll ever work again. They could use some guidance from a veteran who’s been around who’s still young enough to relate.”
I shrug. “Yeah… but who? How? All of my friends from the old days are gone, for the most part. Caledonia’s preparing for the biggest match of her career. Mia is testing the bounds of reality. I have somehow never had a single conversation with any member of the Unstoppable Force Dozens or the Danger Boiz, despite the fact that Dan should be the one defending the Paramount Title at Crossed Lines. The rest of the people in this company… either they don’t want to take the time to get to know me, or they don’t think they need to. Where’s Shadow? Tax? Freddie? Duce, rest in peace, brother.”
I take a drink. “It’s just me, girlypop. And you.”
The waitress takes the opportunity to deliver a bright pink, fizzy glass to Tara. She evidently ordered before sitting down; I can smell it from here. Grapefruit Jarritos and vodka, in a glass filled with ice. “I think you’re gonna win the belt at Crossed Lines, MJ,” she says, quietly.
“Thanks,” I say, nodding.
“And I think… you’re never going to get a fair opinion of your career by professional wrestling’s mainstream, they’re going to be comparing you to your dad unless you ultimately win more titles than him. Which isn’t fair.”
She sips from her straw.
“Just in case nobody ever thinks to say it to you, I want you to know I appreciate what you’ve meant to the sport in general, and the CWF in particular. They’re lucky to have had you.”
Tara gets up, just as my food arrives. “Someone needed to tell you that,” she continues.
“Hey,” I say. “Hold up?”
Deep breath. It’s been a long time since I connected with anyone but Cali and Eris in this sport, even an old friend can grow apart.
“Want to compare this to the classics we used to get in Nashille?”
A smile grows on Tara’s face. “Yes. Yes I do.”
Even in the face of oblivion… a garden can grow.