Ten years ago, I showed up in the CSWA for the first time, in the professional wrestling business itself, for the first time. I was a twenty year old college student with a chip on my shoulder and a big wooden stick in my hand. First and foremost, I was there to make sure my sister's husband was okay, but beyond that, I had a job to do. Beyond that, I had a job to learn. What I knew about the wrestling business could fit inside a shotglass, and much as I loved Coop, he didn't prepare me very well. Eli was one thing - he was a talented wrestler but he was also six foot nine, and it would be difficult to really mess with him. Plus, he didn't care. Coop's gym was run like a family, and he didn't prepare either of us for just how bloodless and cold the real sport was.
Fortunately, I'm as stubborn as Daddy was on his worst days. My mother said I was the worst of the three McGinnis children when it came to arguments, because I would never let go, not even when I was wrong. It's a good thing Daddy and I never really got into it, because it would still be going on today.
But I digress. With no real model of what I was supposed to do, I had to improvise. Ray S. Cornette was invaluble to me that first year. I knew it was uncharted territory, I knew the history of women in the CSWA. I knew the epic tale of Hortense and the LOVE sisters. I knew the tragedy of Melba Parsons. And I knew the story of a young woman named Miss Hooters. So where did I fit in this madcap landscape? I was too athletic to be the type of woman that Hortense was. I didn't have a fish face or a slack jaw. I wasn't from the backwoods of Parsonsburg. There were no muppets or Midgets in my family tree. That wing of the CSWA Woman wouldn't fit.
Exit out all the FISH FUND poster children, and the only other woman that remained in the CSWA was Miss Hooters. To her credit, she's a beautiful woman, with or without the silicon upgrades. But her style just left a bad taste in my mouth, no pun intended. I first saw her in a tuxedo match against President Poop and stripped most of her own clothes off to win. I watched this display in the locker rooms and the boys were all going crazy, but I didn't. I couldn't. Teri's actions that night told me that she considered her body to be her most valuble asset, that nothing physical or sexual, in public or private, was beneath her to get what she wanted. I was more right than I knew at the time, but that's neither here nor there. The only thing I knew, at the time, was that I couldn't do it. Momma and Poppa McGinnis raised us a bit better than that. The summer before, I practically ran the diner solo while they were in Europe on their twenty fifth anniversary. Alicia and Eli were supposed to help but they ran off to go wrestle, so it was just me and Brian and his pregnant wife and their romantic nights off... and days off... and I'm not going to keep this up because I'll call him and ***** him out. The point, amidst my Angelesque rambling, is that I knew how business worked and knew that if I learned a little about professional wrestling, I'd have something to offer beyond a pretty face.
I think we can agree, without a shred of ego, that I learned a hell of a lot, and I contributed more to the sport in the past decade than any other woman, Melons included.
But Teri was Joey's sister, right? Teri had slept with, and therefore had under her thumb, most of the decision makers, right? Right. Her spot was never in jeopardy. She would never have to worry that someday I'd be escorting Steven Flair to the ring. She would never have to worry that someday I'd be facing off with President Poop in a tuxedo match. Even if these things were offered, I had no interest in them. My primary concern was Eli, and he was a full time job.
It seemed that, woman-wise, the CSWA was a head and shoulders above every other promotion in the world. Miss Hooters and Poison Ivy, two attractive women, were the crown jewels. Hooters was the T and A factor, Ivy was the business predator factor. We stayed out of each others' way for the most part, she was involved with main eventers and I was involved with the midcard, the nutcases, and Hornet. It was no real secret that I didn't like her very much, but I also tried to not let it get in the way of the job we had to do. It was a hard fact to learn, that you're not going to like everyone in the locker room, and point of order, you'll grow to hate a few. But we were on the road three hundred days a year including personal appearances, and you had to be able to pass each other in the hallway without killing each other.
Teri didn't seem to think of it that way. Or maybe I did something to upset her that I don't remember. Whatever the reason, we started to tangle just before Anniversary 1996 with some out-of-the-ring confrontations when Eli wrestled someone she was managing. She knocked me down one night, I caned her and popped her implants another. I see you snicker, but go to the videotaped evidence... it's true.
It was around this time that Hornet and I got together and drifted apart, a trend that would continue until three years ago. Remember that, because it's important.
Eli and I left the business in the spring of 1997, supposedly for good at the time. He had what we thought was a career ending knee injury that seemed to correct itself, albeit temporarily, eight months later. While waiting for a diagnosis, I tried my hand at wrestling myself, had one match against the incomparable Holly Volley to win the EFW World Ladies' Championship, but in doing so, screwed my own knee beyond repair.
Unlike Eli's, the seven inch long scar on my right knee means 'You can walk, but you can't wrestle.' And aside from an occasional gimmick deal, I haven't.
When we returned, Teri was still hanging around. She was part of the announce crew, and was an integral part of the last gasp of Ray S. Cornette's CORPORATION. It's hard to argue with the success that PLR brought. I was happy, because she's a very well educated woman and very intelligent, and it seemed like she was finally showing the world that there was more to her than big blonde hair, silicon boobs, and a little tiny nose. I could've been friends with that Teri, given enough time.
On the other hand, my time away from the sport seemed to perpetuate the Legend of the Psycho *****. Mock me, but the kids at Coop's during that time kept asking me how they could improve. The CSWA brass kept in touch with me, asking me cursory but in-depth questions about the direction of the product, up to that night in July when everything folded in on itself. And when Eli and I came back in style, the mob of people surrounding us was flattering, to say the least.
I also started to talk to Hornet again, and old feelings came back in spades. He went out after the explosion at Fish Fund Park Arena, the only time in my life I ever wanted to hug Teri - when she was legitimately concerned about Timmy's wellbeing. In the weeks to follow, I think Hornet got visits from half the roster, most of whom wanted to talk about themselves and where they wanted to go. I went in there practically every day I could, and filled him up with gossip. Gave him the rumors that I knew were true. Actually gave a crap about him. And when he told me his heroism was buried under a ton of bricks at Fish Fund Park Arena, so to speak, and he wanted me with him, I said yes. The only thing I regret from that point on was that for the first and only time in our lives, Eli and I were on opposite sides of the fence.
As far as Teri goes during this time, the CORPORATION slowly fell apart as Billy Starr left the company, Joey and Peyton fell into a bit of a slump, Ray's health problems worsened, and Love, Powers, and Radder swallowed their spotlight. They deserved it, but with Sweet Melissa taking the 'pretty face in the corner' role that Teri revolutionized, there was no real need for her as a manager. And with Buckley's revolving door of color commentators, there was no need to have her at the table. I don't know where she was or what she was doing for those few months, but somewhere along the way she slept with Hornet.
Stop right there.
I don't know what kind of relationship they might have had before I came along, and I don't care. Hornet claims that things were always only professional between them until that first night in Greensboro, and he may be lying, but I don't care. You look the way Teri does, and you can have any man you want. You put out the way Teri does, you can have any man you want. Teri didn't love Hornet. She may not have even liked him. All that mattered to her was that she and I never got along, and she saw an opportunity to hurt me.
Newsflash, men: You mean nothing to Teri Melton. You're nothing but an opportunity and a bankroll.
It was back on, but I didn't care. Eli had won the World Championship at Anniversary 1999, and all eyes were on us. I think it's safe to say we rewrote the rules of what a CSWA champion is supposed to do to get cheers. Teri disappeared again following Anniversary, and wouldn't show up again until much later in the year, as the 'American Woman.' She made a lot of noise but very little impact, which was fine by me. I made a sort of professional peace with Hornet, but vowed to keep things on that professional level. It worked until the week before Anniversary 2000.
In retrospect, the ClaimStakers was the wrong thing to do. In retrospect, particularly after the time I spent in the front office of the fWo, I know what it means to run a wrestling promotion and what sacrifices have to be made. And I'm convinced that Merritt (That's right - censor me HERE, Tard) felt the money he paid Hornet was worth the various stresses and situations he found himself dropped into. I'll always be grateful for forming that alliance, not just for kicking Eli and I out of our vicious cycle of mediocrity, not just for bringing Hornet and I back together, but for reintroducing me to Mike Randalls. Mikey is one of the closest friends I've made in this business, up there with Craig, Rudy, Deac, Lindz, Tempest... and Eli. The big regret was punking out Deacon to make our point, and throwing the 'pity party' in the middle of the ring. That sort of thing is best left to closed-door meetings where you don't embarrass yourself or the company.
Somehow, Teri found herself on Troy Windham's arm during this time, and since Troy and Eddy were the two schmucks intent on thwarting the CSers, we clashed... yet again. Kind of. The match was on for about seven seconds when she dropped the bomb.
Pregnant... with Hornet's kid.
Yeah, the dreaded P word, and I don't mean Paul. The ClaimStakers fell apart because I couldn't be around Hornet and Eli wouldn't leave my side. The year culminated with Eli and Troy nearly killing each other, Evan Aho defeating Hornet to retain the belt, and Teri standing there next to Merritt himself, announcing that she wasn't pregnant, she swerved us all so Merritt could get the psychological high ground on the already - splintered ClaimStakers, and she was now a part owner in the company, an Executive Vice President, and therefore technically my boss.
Do you wonder why I started spending less time writing these for the CSWA and more time writing these for the fWo? I didn't like the thought that Teri F'king Melton had a say in what I wrote. She'd already done her best to take my dignity by taking my man, and now she could take away the one thing that meant more to me than anything else next to my family - my voice? I don't think so.
On a personal note, three months after Teri became my boss in the CSWA, Sean and I finally got together after a year and a half of nervous flirting. So it all worked out in the end.
Merritt also gradually removed Teri from any and all active control over anything I deigned to do in the CSWA. I'd like to think it was because he knew why I stopped showing up for work, and he admitted to being impressed with some things in the fWo that he'd traced back to me. Maybe that's why Teri has turned her verbal venom up so high in the past two years. She had the upper hand in the CSWA - she was my boss. She was a high powered executive, a position she no doubt earned on her back, and she had direct control over a loudmouthed worker bee that she already hated. When Silver Fox started to seriously collaborate with me to run the fWo, maybe she saw that I was working my way up with sleepless nights, bad coffee, and egomania. Maybe she felt threatened, at long last, by the fact that any woman worth her salt in this business learned her craft by watching and listening to me. Maybe she knows she's getting older, and she won't be able to get her way with a body that's deteriorating holding onto a pair of big-ass honkin' implants that don't. Maybe she's finally realized that the age of the vapid blonde with little to offer the business but bare skin is long since over and she's looking at an entire generation who can replace her in seconds.
Maybe all of the above, maybe none of the above. The only thing I know for sure is that when I broke Teri's nose in Denver, it was ten years of rage, anger, and frustration coming out. It was techincally the first official blow in the longest sustained feud in recent history in this sport. And if Teri is serious, that she wants a match with me at CSWA17, then this one's for all the marbles.
(FADE-IN: "The American Woman" Teri Melton, wearing a bright pink ruched mesh dress from Victoria's Secret, two sizes too small, and anklewrap stiletto heels. The bandage on her nose, courtesy of Ivy, was colored pink to match her outfit.)
TERI MELTON: If a tree fell in the forest, Ivy, my dear, would anyone hear?
Would anyone care?
I know you would you little *****, because the best moments in life, are the ironic. Seeing an acre of land MOWED down to make room for a new Pet emporium, or pretty new shopping center, where lovers of behavior psychology can dine for years. Those are the real moments worth cherishing. That’s honest evolution. You’re a rarity, McGinnis, and if homely ever swings back in style, a timeless classic.
But I’m young, and tighter than you were on the day you were born. The Earth you walk, it’s my Skull Island. Beauty kills the beast every time, McGinnis, knocks your **** over like dominos, and leaves you outcast to a high-speed connection and empty page to cry about having to watch everything you ever had to turn a man’s head fall in slow-motion, as I took it all away.
You’re a pet, Ivy.
Men watch you plug in a lamp and call you one of the Crew.
Men ask which color of tights works best on a given night, and you’re ‘Creative.’
I eat men for breakfast, precious. What that means is, I control the world, more or less, and wherever there’s a dick swinging it’s mine via MIND CONTROL.
Maybe you like the pat on the back, “Good Girl” routine. Maybe it’s got you out of the stinkin’ ass gyms, and sexual favors to old men for bread, but don’t fool yourself. With Eli retiring, that’ll be your life again by month’s end.
If only you’d served your Queen better.
If only you’d fallen in line with all the other Homely Butch Does and registered yourself to do my bidding, which you can't do at JcPenny's by the way…you could’ve supported yourself well and worked properly to buy that cock shaped vibrator you saw in a shopping window on Times Square.
Dislike doesn’t suit us well.
It’s not that, McGinnis, it’s more…you’re a bore.
A toy God presented me as a spoil, but as a man, naturally he knew nothing of what'd please me.
I wrestled the man of your dreams away, and threw him back for immunity and a blank check. I know, you’re the girl who would’ve wrapped her head around a brick wall for fifty years to please Paul. Personally, I’ve gotten more out of a bottle of wine and a low-rent apartment washing machine. But, your tastes, Ivy, rest solely with what you’re able to acquire.
In other words, you’re a step above the monkeys that were shot into space to potentially save human lives. But, they could push the right buttons. Can you say the same?
But you have the NERVE, the GALL, to strike your Queen and break this perfect nose! One last fight. One final night.
McGinnis, you haven’t brought me much enjoyment, but at CSWA17 I’m going to ***** slap the homely out of your cheeks, make you bow and wash my feet…all BEFORE THE OPENING BELL!
I’d like to believe there’s a diamond somewhere lost in the burly demeanor and jungle that you pass off as armpit hair. My parting gift, baby, is an inexpensive make over.
Have your nails ever been done?
Be fair and give me a heads up on the work that has to be done. Can I do it myself, or must I call in a TEAM of doctors on my cell phone list.
Push a button. Pull a lever. You don't understand any of it, and then you die.
Is that what you think creative is all about? What working backstage for a living is all about? I understand, you've never been creative a day in your life and the only work you do is trying to block out the memories of your romp with the Poopman when you heard he was getting pushed to the main event, but go with me on this.
What, exactly, do you do for this company? Do you do anything besides sit there in the office staring at the walls and pull at your nostalgia pops every few months? Yes, you eat men for breakfast and control their mind through their dicks. Lovely.
You are the mistress and commander of dicks, Melons. You've had your hands on more than the guy who wants them to turn their heads and cough. But what does that have to do with professional wrestling?
You were the ultimate sex symbol for the sport back when Missy Hyatt was more than eighty percent human skin and have tried to get back to that point for the past decade when you realized an accidental-on-purpose slip of the nip was an also-ran next to a Singapore Cane and a bad attitude.
I don't blame you for the choices you made. When you had no cards left to play but your body - when it was all you had left to sell, you did what you had to do to survive.
No, I don't do my nails, Melons... there's not enough hours in the day. When a CSWA Vice President like yourself does ****-all to keep the company afloat, those of us who actually care what happens to the company, like myself, like Sammy, like Rudy... have to pick up your slack. Do you even need an office to be an ornament, Teri? You're a prop. You're a trophy wife who never got the ring.
I already broke your nose, Melons... there's more to come at CSWA17. The only thing you have left is your deteriorating looks... so we'll speed mother nature along just a bit with the knuckles on my fists. You're more than just a pretty face, Melons... you're a shallow soul without a single marketable skill that you can show on network TV.
What I do to you is going to be the biggest car accident the CSWA has ever seen. Violent and ugly... but impossible to turn away from.
Twelve years of using your fake body parts to get what you want is gonna come crashing down... and I may just pop 'em again for good measure.
(FADE-IN: Teri Melton, wearing a white lace bra, skin-tight green jodphurs and ****-me boots. She cracks a riding crop into her palm several times.)
TERI MELTON: I do nothing for this company, why?
Honey, blue collar’s only for the ones who don’t choke on the taste. I’m an idealist. See: There are two types of people in the world. Those who build through hard labor, and the beautiful people who walk on their backs and crack the whip when direct eye contact is made. Let’s take a minute to remember who you are, again.
You’re a set of dirty nails even Jersey was ashamed to have. Your daddy wanted a boy, so you spent Saturday after Saturday under the hood of his car hoping, maybe, he’d say the three words I hear every day by bus loads of men.
As a result, you don’t have a ****ing idea of who you are, or who’s good for you. A man says he wants to see you in a dress, and your legs spread like the Red Sea. You’re a self-destructive little *****, Ivy. You’re the tragedy notes in a Woody Allen film. The comedy’s how I see you.
You’re the woman who finds it charming to wear your boyfriend’s underwear.
Congratulations, babydoll, you taught yourself to read. But let’s not pretend working in the wrestling business is organizing Live8, or bringing in an assembly line that saves a small town. It’s a violet circus, McInnis. A place that allows a Jersey Princess to smile and gain the ****-all power you’ve been searching for since Day One.
You hate me because you have to sweat, and I don’t.
You’re so trivial, Ivy. Anal's a good color on you.
If you HAD anything to offer, I’d crunch the numbers and find a role for you, but even a Goddess struggles with a mutt who’s seeking legitimacy in the wrestling game. A handful of virgins with social deficiencies respect what you do. Wonderful, baby. How’s that working out for you?
And then we die, as you so eloquently mused.
ANYTHING I want, it’s mine, Ivy.
If you think being hateful ***** in the ring will change that, think again.
The only way people of your class get even is by strapping bombs to your chest and blowing up Subways full of people.
I’m Beautiful. The woman in control, and completely satisfied with who she is.
You’re Poison Ivy.
You might as well die at ANNIVERSARY. You SHOULD’VE died that night in Coop’s. Maybe then, precious, a few of those virgins would’ve jacked off to martyrdom.
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