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. Recognition . Click. Click. Click. Click. Rapid clicking sounds of camera shutters fill the air. Resounding with a clattering sound that evokes the feeling of a swarm of cicadas or other annoying pests hovering in the air. Adding to this was the strobe-like repetition of flashing light, evoking more imagery of a midsummer's eve to the mind. Yet
this wasn't the case. Instead,
it was a glamour photo shoot. One starring a woman who
should be the next major name in women's wrestling, Jamie
Hayter. JEUDY THE PHOTOGRAPHER: Yes! Yes! That's it strike a pose for Jeudy darling! Show me that angry face! Good! Now, show me that "I'm a fearsome warrior face!" Oh so fearsome dear! Everyone will know you're the next major star of pro wrestling! JAMIE HAYTER: Oh for bloody fucks sake... Or it would be, except instead of Jamie being photographed by the eccentric, reed thin man (who oddly seems to have an accent similar to and resemblance to 1980s Bronson Pinchot)? It's Drake Maverick, standing posh and proper as he strikes a pose against a white paper background. Having had enough of the farce, Jamie, dressed in her wrestling attire and mink coat (since this was supposed to be about her), storms up and gives a hard *whap* across the head of the smaller man whom even her 5'7" frame towers over. JAMIE HAYTER: If I wanted to waste my time with a bloody clown show, I'd have gone to the circus! You and Pierre here... JEUDY THE PHOTOGRAPHER: Ahem! It is Jeudy the Magnificent Maestro of Beauty! My photos darling are a majestic visual symphony that makes even the plain mouse appear as if she's Helen of Troy! JAMIE HAYTER: *eyeroll* Well aren't you fuckin' special? How about stop wastin' time with Shrimp Dick there and start snappin' shots of the woman who's the meal ticket for both your sorry asses?! Still rubbing his head from the hard blow and wincing at the larger woman's berating words, Drake tries to carefully smooth out the situation while Jeudy looks white as a sheet in aghast horror. DRAKE MAVERICK: N-Now Jamie luv... JAMIE HAYTER: 'Love'? Is my name 'Renee Michelle'? No. So stop tryin' to shove that beak nose up my arse because we aren't 'consummatin' a damn thing Mister "24/7" besides my boot in your bollocks if you don't do your damn job! A large pout forms on Drake's face as his bottom lip begins to quiver and for a moment there looks to be a bit of moisture forming in his eyes. DRAKE MAVERICK: Y'know that's a sore topic, luv. Renee still won't let me live that down. Her 85 year old Granny keeps givin' me the stink eye whenever I... WHOOSH!
Before Drake even realizes what's happened, he's lifted up by the lapels of his coat, feet dangling in the air as Jamie gives him a death stare. Giving a large gulp and swallow, he cautiously lifts his hands up in surrender. DRAKE MAVERICK: N-No need ta get violent, now... The pint-sized Brit is summarily dropped on his ass as Jamie storms off, snatching Jeudy by the ear and dragging him back to the shoot area. Achingly getting up, Drake rubs his rear, muttering about 'no respect' and then lets out a shrill shriek when a finger taps his shoulder. Jamie eyerolls again and makes 'Pierre' focus on his task, while Drake turns around to see Matt Striker there with a camera crew. DRAKE MAVERICK: Oi! Don't bloody sneak up on me like that chap! If I hadn't had me wits, I might have judo chopped chew down ta my size! Matt just stares blankly at Drake in his reaction. MATT STRIKER: ...Right. Drake checks his watch... and then jingles and checks it again, sighing in dismay. DRAKE MAVERICK: Bloody thing broke... just jolly. Well, I know you weren't supposed ta be interviewin' Miss Jamie until later this eve... MATT STRIKER: Well the interview with Momo Watanabe didn't go as long as expected... Matt pauses and mutters under his breath but can still clearly be heard... MATT STRIKER: Stupid midget Jap bitch... DRAKE MAVERICK: Oi! That's not proper gov'nah! This is the 21st century! MATT STRIKER: *gives a heavy sigh* Sorry, it's been a rough day. DRAKE MAVERICK: The proper term is 'vertically challenged'. MATT STRIKER: ... Drake moves right along as he motions for Matt and the cameraman to follow and give them all safe distance from Jamie's photo shoot... and her wrath. DRAKE MAVERICK: I'm guessin' ya want ta ask how Miss Jamie will be the FIRST and ONLY WLCW Women's Champion! MATT STRIKER: Actually, I first wanted to ask... DRAKE MAVERICK: Roight! I'll tell ya how! Under my expert guidance and sage wisdom? Miss Jamie will rise ta the top! No longer will she be forced to remain in the shadows! No longer will she be forced to smile and be a jolly cheerleader for those who have a thimble's worth of talent and personality in comparison! No more bein' forced to deal with the scraps and leavins because some powers that be can't see the prize they have in front o' them! MATT STRIKER: ...Are you talking about Jamie or yourself? DRAKE MAVERICK: ...Yes. Drake stalls mid-step, looking pensive as his face scrunches up and he looks in the air at... well, the ceiling basically. Eventually his shoulders slump and his head lowers. Then with a deep, exhaled breath, he straightens himself up and proceeds on to a corner where 'catering' is. Which is basically a cheap folding table with a grocery market tray of three-day old deli cuts. DRAKE
MAVERICK: As I was sayin'? Miss Jamie will rise
to the top! Them Joshi girls are quick, agile, and can
actually be pretty fierce buggers, but Miss Jamie's got a
history of whompin' on 'em in Stardom! Miss Jamie's so great
and grand that she went to -their- home, their -turf-, and
properly stomped their bloody heads in! Matt pauses as he starts to think on that point. MATT STRIKER: There are a lot of Japanese women in WLCW, aren't there? Are Charlotte, Becky, and the rest doing like Sting at the end of WCW and just making money off guaranteed contracts? Drake looks at Matt like he just said the most ridiculous thing ever. DRAKE MAVERICK: Ya really think that ol' curmudgeon McMahon gave guaranteed contracts to any bloke not named Cena, Reigns, or Lesnar? You worked there once! MATT STRIKER: ...point. Drake nods in satisfaction and resumes his 'advocating' speech. DRAKE MAVERICK: The fact remains that no one is gonna get in our... err... -her- way! It starts wit' this first match! Watanbe Momo... *big grin* see what I did there? Said it proper Japanese like... is someone Miss Jamie knows well. They've trade blows before and while this... strange emo girl act... MATT STRIKER: *mutters* That's one way to put it... DRAKE MAVERICK: Might throw others off? It won't faze Miss Jamie. Her plan is to go in there, and knock the bloody heads off of every woman in her way to the top! That starts with Watanabe Momo, Julia Hart... which... is she, you know... a -Hart-? MATT STRIKER: Despite all the nepotism in wrestling? Surprisingly no. Drake gives a sigh of relief, then quickly tries to mask it. DRAKE MAVERICK: Well as I was sayin'! Miss Jamie will climb the mountain and take her throne as the one true Queen of the Realm! The pint-sized advocate, clicks his heels sharply together as he takes a military-like posture with one arm hooked behind his back at a 90-degree angle and his chin raised high in the air. DRAKE MAVERICK: Like a proper British woman! JAMIE HAYTER: DRAKE! Jamie
rushes in like a freight train, slamming Drake hard against
the wall as she looks absolutely furious. Raising her fist,
she looks almost ready to smash his face in but takes a deep
breath and backs off. Pacing back and forth, she seems to be
trying her best to control her anger. But it gets the best
of her and she smashes her elbow into Drake's throat,
pinning him against the wall and cutting off his air. Desperately
does the smaller man claw at her muscular forearm as she
bores her green eyes into his skull. As she speaks, there's
a trembling rage in her tenor. JAMIE HAYTER: Why, did that stupid twat of a photographer, just tell me the most 'glamour' pics he's ever done? Is for his Great Aunt Cecile's Senior Cribbage Team Calendar?! Drake's face quickly turns red as he gasps and chokes, trying to get in any oxygen. Getting frustrated, Jamie slams her fist against the wall next to Drake's head. JAMIE HAYTER: Fuckin' answer me! MATT STRIKER: Uh... he can't when you're cutting off his air supply and choking him to death. Which, I don't think is a good idea since we're... you know... sorta filming. A
withering glare comes from Jamie but she backs off.
Immediately, Drake crumples to the ground, gasping and
clutching at his throat as he works to suck in gulps of air.
Jamie just crosses her arms under the bust and waits,
tapping her foot impatiently. DRAKE MAVERICK: 'T-T-Twas... best... co-could... aff-afford... The pint-size Brit manages to wheeze out which just makes Jamie more furious as she motions as if to slug him but remembers Striker and crew are there and turns her fury on them. JAMIE HAYTER: The fuck you wankers lookin' at?! Storming off, Jamie returns minutes later, now dressed back in casual clothes. Looking down at the still gasping Drake, she just sneers. JAMIE HAYTER: I left my ring attire and the mink coat in that broom closet you supposedly called a 'dressing room'. My shite better be back in the hotel room by tonight, -cleaned- fuckin' immaculate, or the first thing I stomp in WLCW won't be some daffy cunt's head but your fuckin' balls! Brushing by Striker with a hard shoulder that nearly knocks him over, Jamie walks off giving a middle finger to both behind her. JAMIE HAYTER: Fuckin' gits. MATT STRIKER: ...and she's supposed to be a 'Face'?! Hours later. Jamie sits in her hotel room,
overlooking the city of St. Louis. Judging by the
so-so audio and sorta shaky camera, plus Jamie's arm
appearing to extend off the screen, it looks like
she's doing the filming on her smartphone as she turns
toward the camera. JAMIE HAYTER: Well that was some fuckin' embarrassin' shit, wasn't it? Already off to a peachy start! Rolling her eyes, she turns back toward the window and the view outside. JAMIE HAYTER: I was going to say this in Japanese so there's no misunderstanding but... Jamie turns to the camera smirks. JAMIE HAYTER: *gives a middle finger* Quite frankly, you can fuck right off Watanabe Momo. You, Syuri, Misao, and all those daffy cunts I thought I left behind in Japan. But you know what? Sasha Banks, Sonya Deville, Tiffany Stratton? They can fuck right off as well. She turns back to the window again, looking reflective in her thoughts. JAMIE
HAYTER: That said, perhaps you'd get it most
of all, Momo. I saw that 'interaction' you had with Striker.
Apparently fuckin' edgelordin' is all the rage I hear now
amongst the Joshi. We'll see how that works out for you, but
in meantime, I think you at least get what it means to feel
the way I do right? That's what I saw on your pissy little
emo face. A look of anger forms on her features as she keeps her gaze outward. JAMIE HAYTER: Fuckin' beloved in Japan! Supposedly have so many friends, allies, and other bullshite... and yet it amounted to fuckin' nothin', did it? Did Tony Khan call me because I'm the hottest fuckin' thing around? No. He called me because I buddied up to Britt Baker who was his big starlet. Brought in to be her muscle. Just another side piece along with that tart Rebel. Turning toward the camera, she points to herself as her anger rises. JAMIE HAYTER: No fuckin' recognition of the titles I've won! No acknowledgement for my skills besides the fact I can carry even a worthless cunt like Red Velvet and make her look somewhat competent! Calming herself, Jamie just gets a wry smile. JAMIE HAYTER: At the same time, there might be somethin' a bit fun about tradin' blows with you again. At least I know you'll give me a proper scrap. That arsemonger cheerleader ain't worth a damn and as for my partner... Jamie just shrugs her indifference. JAMIE HAYTER: I suppose it's up to us to put on a proper show, right? A loud knocking from somewhere inside the room is followed by a partially muffled voice. DRAKE MAVERICK: Please Miss Jamie! Let me out of this closet! This is quite uncalled for! I said I'd do better! Jamie rolls her eyes and gives an
eyebrow wag at the camera. JAMIE HAYTER: See you at Vengeance, cunt. Fade. 000 | 000 | 000 |