Post by Rachel on Jun 10, 2007 21:39:09 GMT -5
She was tired, oh so very tired of being looked at differently because she was a woman. She was known as the first woman to become the XVI Xtreme Champion. So what? What did the gender box that she checked on her voter registration card matter? She was tired of the delicate way some men sidestepped the issue of being in the ring with her. Some men, men like Bryan Variety. Men who couldn't think their way out of a maze before a lab rat could. Men who spent more time in front of a mirror than she did.
That's how she reasoned with herself when she saw Variety's latest little speech to the 'beloved' fans. He said foolish things, like he would be under the radar of feminist groups across the world if he were to make a comment in any direction about the match. Well, she didn't care that he was afraid to be attacked by the few, the proud, the sexually confused women who felt that they had to assert their authority because they didn't want the world to know that they put their makeup on exactly the same way as the next female.
As far as Rachel was concerned, Variety was nothing more than a cocky little punk, who was just waiting to get what he had coming to him. You're only allowed to be cocky if you have what it takes to back it up, and so far he hadn't displayed that characteristic in any way. What was it that he could do? Cook? Well, let him have that little victory, she never was much of a chef, Matt Szaban would have first hand experience at that fact.
Rachel crossed her white carpeted living room and leaned down to the television set mounted on a large entertainment system. She pressed the little button, turning off the television, silently cursing her daughter for once again losing the remote control. Her long brown hair bobbed behind her in a bun as she then made her way to the kitchen and reached into the fridge, removing a Dasani water bottle. The fridge door slammed shut behind her as she crossed the living room once more, her destination the staircase.
At the stop of the staircase, she made a quick left and found herself in a room with peach colored walls and a large, bay window. The window had a great view of acres and acres of green grass and plenty of horses grazing the fields. The entrance gave way to a room that appeared to be a personal home gym. A treadmill sat in one corner, a Bowlfex in another, and several other pieces of machinery filled the room. Not far from the window, a large punching bag has been hanged. While blow-by-blow, fist-for-first, all out brawling wasn't exactly Rachel's normal style, a punching bag is sometimes a handy thing to have, in the instance of a fit of anger.
Rachel lifted a pair of gloves off of a nearby shelf and slipped them onto her small, yet far from delicated hands. Anger feuling her, Rachel let all of her frustrations into the punching bag. She threw fist after fist, a left, a right, a right, a left. With no particular order or method, Rachel unleashed all of her fury, all of her rage, all of her pent up frustrations into this piece of gym equipment. It wasn't long before sweat dripped from her face, slipping down her forehead and across her cheeks. And then...
She stopped. Every ounce of her had been poured into this fight against an inanimate object. A fight for freedom from this stereotype.
She was exhasuted, but finally relaxed, finally at peace. She was ready to show the world that no part of her, body, soul, or mind had been left in that ring with Calaz at Highway to Hell. She was ready to become the Queen of the Ring.
That's how she reasoned with herself when she saw Variety's latest little speech to the 'beloved' fans. He said foolish things, like he would be under the radar of feminist groups across the world if he were to make a comment in any direction about the match. Well, she didn't care that he was afraid to be attacked by the few, the proud, the sexually confused women who felt that they had to assert their authority because they didn't want the world to know that they put their makeup on exactly the same way as the next female.
As far as Rachel was concerned, Variety was nothing more than a cocky little punk, who was just waiting to get what he had coming to him. You're only allowed to be cocky if you have what it takes to back it up, and so far he hadn't displayed that characteristic in any way. What was it that he could do? Cook? Well, let him have that little victory, she never was much of a chef, Matt Szaban would have first hand experience at that fact.
Rachel crossed her white carpeted living room and leaned down to the television set mounted on a large entertainment system. She pressed the little button, turning off the television, silently cursing her daughter for once again losing the remote control. Her long brown hair bobbed behind her in a bun as she then made her way to the kitchen and reached into the fridge, removing a Dasani water bottle. The fridge door slammed shut behind her as she crossed the living room once more, her destination the staircase.
At the stop of the staircase, she made a quick left and found herself in a room with peach colored walls and a large, bay window. The window had a great view of acres and acres of green grass and plenty of horses grazing the fields. The entrance gave way to a room that appeared to be a personal home gym. A treadmill sat in one corner, a Bowlfex in another, and several other pieces of machinery filled the room. Not far from the window, a large punching bag has been hanged. While blow-by-blow, fist-for-first, all out brawling wasn't exactly Rachel's normal style, a punching bag is sometimes a handy thing to have, in the instance of a fit of anger.
Rachel lifted a pair of gloves off of a nearby shelf and slipped them onto her small, yet far from delicated hands. Anger feuling her, Rachel let all of her frustrations into the punching bag. She threw fist after fist, a left, a right, a right, a left. With no particular order or method, Rachel unleashed all of her fury, all of her rage, all of her pent up frustrations into this piece of gym equipment. It wasn't long before sweat dripped from her face, slipping down her forehead and across her cheeks. And then...
She stopped. Every ounce of her had been poured into this fight against an inanimate object. A fight for freedom from this stereotype.
She was exhasuted, but finally relaxed, finally at peace. She was ready to show the world that no part of her, body, soul, or mind had been left in that ring with Calaz at Highway to Hell. She was ready to become the Queen of the Ring.