Night.
St. Louis, Missouri.
Lambert International Airport.
Men and women rush past one another, to and from different
terminals. Everyone is in a hurry to get where they're going. It's
not just a new year, it's a new beginning and it's important to make
a good first impression. No one pays attention to the man with a
camera crew, clad in a suit and sipping from a coffee cup. His hair
is slicked back, his face puffy and red like he's coming down from
an all-nighter. Still, he exudes confidence. Matt Striker looks down
at his phone. He nods. It's time. She should be arriving any minute
now.
He sees a flicker of purple among the crowd and quickly hands off
his cup to a man in a WWN windbreaker. Without even half a glance
over his shoulder, he snaps his fingers at a woman in a WWN t-shirt
and she grants his unspoken wish when she places a microphone in his
hand, the WLCW logo featured prominently on the flag. Standing on
his tip-toes, he does his best to get a better look into the sea of
humanity in front of him. Sweat drips off the tip of his nose and he
wipes it away with the back of his hand. Seconds later, there's a
break and he can truly see her for the first time. Wearing a black
t-shirt and pants, overlaid with a purple hoodie, Momo Watanabe
emerges. With help from her hood and messy hair, her face is
obscured. She looks down at the floor, rolling her bag behind her.
No one even looks in her direction.
It's like she's invisible.
She likes it that way.
Striker smiles. Light flickers off his pearly whites.
It's go time.
With no further warning, he strikes out on his own, cutting a
beeline toward the joshi competitor. The crew follows him closely.
Approaching Momo and getting right inside her bubble, he keeps pace
with her as she doesn't acknowledge his presence, let alone stop to
address him. No-selling her lack of interest, he winks at the camera
and gets right into the act, selling it... there's no better
interviewer than Matt Striker and there's no place anyone would
rather be than right here and now, talking to him.
He believes it because he has to believe.
Momo Watanabe, welcome to St.
Louis, Missouri! Welcome to America! On behalf of World League
Championship Wrestling and all wrestling fans around the world, I am
MARKIN' OUT just knowing we're finally gonna get to see your very
specific set of skills right here stateside!
She continues walking with her only change in behavior being to
remove her phone from her pocket and look down at it. She
absentmindedly chews gum. Striker's eyes narrow and he looks over
his shoulder at the cameraman, his hushed tone unable to hide his
level of annoyance.
Am I talkin' to a frickin' wall
here? Is it the language barrier or what?
The camera gently shakes side to side. The cameraman doesn't know.
Matt Striker with WWN here!
Momo, if I may please have a word... the WLCW fans would love to
hear what you have to say. Are you excited to be here? This is your
first real exposure to North American audiences and, hey! This is
streaming live on the World Wrestling Network as we speak-
Momo stops and returns her phone to her pocket. She slowly turns her
head, glaring at Striker through gaps in the dark hair hiding her
features. Her jaw shifts silently as she lackadaisically chews. She
looks past Striker, at the man in the WWN windbreaker... eyeing the
cup in his hand. Giving him a singular nod in such a way that the
purple hood falls back from the top of her head and rests on her
shoulders, she lets go of her bag and steps forward, snatching the
cup out of his hand. The man looks down at his empty hand,
surprised. She turns her gaze to Striker, finally acknowledging him
and validating his existence. He gestures toward the cup with his
free hand.
You know, I can get you your
own. With the COVID-19 situation as it is--
Without a word, she uses her other hand to pop the lid off the cup
and keeps complete eye contact with Striker as she pours coffee on
his shoes. He looks down at the mess below him, then back up at her.
She tosses the cup, allowing it to thump off his chest and then
clatter to the floor. Shutting one eye tightly, she glares at him
hard with the other, sneering as she speaks.
STRIKORU... bitcho.
Striker appears taken aback, placing his hand on his chest. She
tilts her head to the side, a cruel smile appearing. She opens her
mouth slightly, allowing her tongue to loll out over her lip in an
almost playful manner. The gum she was chewing rolls off her tongue,
over her lips, and lands with a near-silent plop in the spilled
coffee. There's a glimmer in her eye. She waves Striker off, showing
him no respect at all.
Nyaaaaaah...
She turns away from him, placing the hood back over her head. She
shakes her head slightly and directs her eyes up and away from him
and the rest of his crew. It looks as though she's listening to
something or someone, but shakes her head again. She doesn't like
what she hears. Striker bites his bottom lip with frustration when
he hears her mumble as she begins to walk away.
...bitcho... Strikoru... nyah.
Seconds later, she's swallowed whole by the mob of travelers.
Striker shakes his head, visibly annoyed. He looks directly into the
camera and uses his hand to gesture beneath his chin.
Cut.
The cameraman's view doesn't waiver. Striker looks pissed.
I said cut. Turn the damn camera
off, man. We can't air that.
He points into the crowd, still oblivious to his existence. The
cameraman argues.
I said we're not airing that.
She made me look ridiculous! Delete it! We'll just interview someone
else. Is the Honky Tonk Man on this flight? No? What do you mean,
"why would the Honky Tonk Man be on a flight from Japan?" I don't
know, genius, why would the Honky Tonk Man have a contract with a
global wrestling company in 2022!? I don't make the rules, Chip.
What kind of friggin' name is that anyway--
But they did air the "interview" on WWN.
Worse, it got over one million views.
And Matt Striker did indeed look ridiculous.
Drip.
Drip. Drip.
Droplets of water fall from the faucet and crash with all the force
a drop of water might muster before it meets its final end in the
vast open sea of the tub below. The footage is grainy, like
something ripped from an old, worn out VHS tape. The fluorescent
light buzz overhead... and those same lights flicker, giving a
chaotic, almost manic ambience to the hotel bathroom. The camera
focuses on the faucet, zooming in closer and closer until we can't
tell if we're looking at a faucet at all--
--and then we hear her voice.
The young woman's voice is soft with shrill annoyance at the end of
her words. Speaking in Japanese, words appear at the bottom of the
screen in dull yellow text, allowing the WLCW fans to share her
thoughts in a way that she wasn't willing to share with Matt
Striker, an important man with his expensive suit.
"People in Japan say... Momo, you will be on your own."
The camera slowly
pans upward, away from the faucet, finally settling on the sink and
the mirror above it. Staring into the mirror, we see Momo Watanabe,
black hair hanging in front of her face, soaking wet. Water drips
from her hair, down her chin into the sink below.
"They
say... that America is harsh and that it will be the ultimate test.
It will not just test my skill, but it will test my spirit. I am
told that I will need to make friends if I am to survive... but I
had friends in Japan. I had many friends in Japan... and one by one,
they hurt me."
The light flickers,
darkness.
"Friends let Watanabe Momo down, time and again."
The lights flicker
back on, revealing Momo suddenly gripping the sides of her head,
pulling at two handfuls of hair, gritting her teeth before leaning
forward, silently screaming at her reflection and--
"Watanabe Momo does not want friends."
--darkness, again.
"Watanabe Momo does not need... friends."
Light.
"I
want to be the best."
Clad in a black
t-shirt and athletic shorts, Momo cowers in the corner of the
bathroom, sobbing. Holding her arms tightly to her body, she looks
down at her hands, fingernails painted black, and clenches them into
fists before shutting her eyes, allowing tears to roll down her
cheeks. Her body hitches violently as the buzzing of the fluorescent
lights intensifies.
"Friends do not want to see you succeed."
Darkness.
"Friends want to hold you back."
Light.
"Watanabe Momo will not be... held back."
Sitting upright in
the corner, she stares straight ahead with wet hair clinging to her
face. Her eyes are narrowed, darkened by shadow. The drip-drip-drip
sound remains prevalent.
"With
this new adventure, Watanabe Momo's future will not be determined by
Queen's Quest or Oedo Tai... the blessing of Shirai Io means
nothing. She is a bitch and a liar, okay? I was not the Ace she
prophesied. I was nothing more than a stupid little girl... and
everyone laughed at me behind my back and treated me like a stupid
little girl. It was humiliating, but that was not the bad part."
Drip-Drip-drip.
"The
bad part is how I let them get away with it for so long, before I
did anything about it... before I struck out on my own, began my own
quest... that is what this is. World League Championship Wrestling
is my new beginning... it is where I will make my mark."
There's a flicker,
then darkness.
"I
will not allow them to laugh at me anymore. I will fight them."
Light streams into
the main area of the hotel room as the bathroom door creaks open.
Momo Watanabe steps out, toweling off her damp hair. She approaches
one of the twin beds. There's a click and shudder as the heater
kicks on and begins producing warm air. Momo throws the towel in the
floor.
"I
will hurt them."
She sits on the edge
of the bed, staring at a painting on the wall. It's a man in a canoe
with a dog. Momo tilts her head to the side, admiring the man's
floppy hat. It's cute, she thinks to herself before turning her gaze
to the pillow at the head of the bed.
"I
will win."
She grips the pillow
with both hands and lifts it.
"No
friends. In life, you must fight for yourself. No one will save
you."
The lights flicker,
and the heater clicks loudly again. Darkness.
"Loneliness is the ultimate weapon."
Light. Momo buries
her face in the pillow and screams silently.
"When
you can only count on yourself, yourself is all you have to count
on."
She lowers the pillow
from her face... she appears... distraught--
"Tell
me--"
--and then she
laughs, a whining, high-pitched laugh.
"--tell me--"
It reeks of
desperation.
"Tell
me about the loneliness of good."
She looks up at the
ceiling fan above. Smiling, her breath is labored as she clutches
the pillow in her fists. She holds it tightly against her. She
cackles and falls back on the bed, still staring up at the ceiling
fan. She imagines her enemies swinging from it.
She imagines herself hanging from it and feels warm and tingly
inside. With light twinkling in her eye, she whispers in Japanese
from her place on the bed:
"...is
it equal to the loneliness of evil?"
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