November 2015

"No matter the task, I'm Ronda Ronda Rousey. And we win and lose together."

Shannon just finished watching an episode of "Breaking Ground," an original series on the WWE Network, when she tossed the remote of the Samsung Smart TV on the white marble counter. She had a match tonight at Maryland Championship Wrestling, the most popular independent professional wrestling promotion in the state, and one of the most reputable regional programs in the country. It wasn't her first as she had been training most of the year, and full time for the past six. It was her first match though since being an actual graduate of the school under the same name.

She was booked against Stacey Johnson, a Caucasian brunette who competed as "Stacey Jewel," a seductive character, with a partying gimmick. Johnson had about a year-and-a half of training under her belt; the two were paired together to see if Johnson was ready to start taking her own independent bookings, and if Shannon was ready to begin traveling with the MCW roster to outside bookings affiliated with the company, instead of the usual house matches for their Rage TV show that streamed online, or aired locally on television.

It was early afternoon, and she had about seven hours to kill before bell time; so while Shannon waited to hear any further announcements, she hung out upstairs in one of the facilities' lounges watching the WWE Network.

Wow, how ironic! This fucking show documents the journey of people who are aspiring WWE Superstars, illustrating their struggles, disappointments, and sometimes breakthroughs to making it on NXT. Rousey's been gone a month, yet they're still playing her damn commercials on their network. What makes it even worse, is that she wasn't even on NXT. There was no struggle, disappoint, and breakthrough to record. Because she wasn't there!

I rose from the beige love seat to grab a water bottle from the fridge before sitting down again. The next program took a few seconds to buffer before restarting itself, and the Ronda Rousey commercial played again. 'Win and lose together' my ass. You're a fraud Rousey, but you didn't have to be. I took a sip of water as the WWE Rivalries: Steamboat vs. Flair episode started. I saw the episode 12 times, so wasn't really paying attention. It was more or less background noise as I waited for someone in the staff to give me an update about tonight. Rousey was on my mind at the present moment, and I began talking to the screen as if I were speaking to Rousey herself.

I can appreciate the fact that you weren't just a signee to the company with a nice face and even larger rack. You were more than that. You were better than that. You went to the Olympics and won a Bronze medal in Judo. 'Congratu-fucking-lations,' I said as I clapped my hands slowly. You go from being a Bronze medalist deserving, earning, the right to be called an Olympian to refereeing in pro wrestling. And how? Where were you trained to be a ref? Some random promoted just saw your shiny medal and thought, 'Hmm, you look intimidating. Get in the ring, and count to 3 when I tell you, okay?'

Somehow you make it to the WWE main roster. You then win your debut match-which happened to be for a championship-in under sixty seconds. Why are you wrestling all of a sudden when you only refereed on the independent scene? Hell, you only refereed in WWE! According to multiple reports, apparently you suffered a neck injury of sorts in a horse accident. That's fine, and I can accept that. Lots of people suffer similar-if not more- severe degrees of traumatic injuries that prevent them from pursuing things.

What pisses me off though, is knowing you're well enough to become a wrestler in the WWE after refereeing there; yet were never well enough once you recovered, to go back to the independents and pay dues. No, you'd much rather accept a push just because it's presented to you. Okay, so I've never been to the Olympics, but it's not because I couldn't. I'm sure if it was something I wanted, I'd put the work in to get there. I'm no fucking slouch! I was a collegiate wrestling champion. I powerlifted. And I wasn't the only one who earned their keep. Brock Lesnar, one of the biggest stars of WWE's modern era, was a national high school and NCAA heavyweight wrestling champion; and he still went to developmental! And while we're on the topic of Olympic athletes, Kurt Angle wasn't given the WWF Title in his debut match. He didn't win Bronze, but Olympic Gold, in freestyle wrestling with a broken freaking neck! Angle learned quick, had great people carrying him along the way, but grew into his spot through a push over time!

I'm not angry that you made it to the WWE. I'm not jealous of your success. But what I am stone cold upset about is your bullshit. Your lame, boring, bullshit. Rousey you could've let that background enhance you as you continued to put work in. Rousey, like Angle and Lesnar, you had the potential to be great because you could be! Not because you were presented to be! So fuck you. I'm glad, no I am elated, that you are gone.

There was a knock on the brown wooden door. It was already held open by a grey door stopper on the floor, but the person knocked anyway out of common courtesy.

"Hey uh, they're ready for you downstairs," said a new enrolled student to the training center. He had no ring time yet, but was allowed to hang out and observe the happenings of those who were in the midst of, or recently wrapped up training as he paid in advance. "Or should I be up here recommending a shrink instead? I heard you talking while walking through the hall before I hit this room."

Shannon laughed before responding to him. "Thanks, I'll be right down. No therapist needed. I know how and why I feel the way I do. I'm fine, just thinking out loud."

After finishing her water, Shannon tossed the bottle in the recycle bin before turning off the television monitor and heading downstairs to the conference room.

Sitting at the long black oval table in the conference room were a group of students who were recently trained at the facility, as the veterans of the roster weren't even in the building during this time.

"Alright gang, I have a trio of names for all of you," said Dan McDevitt, owner, promoter, and head trainer at Maryland Championship Wrestling. "Some of you are on the show tonight, some aren't. But these will be the names you wrestle as for as long as you're primarily affiliated with us at MCW. You'll pick one of them to start off with. If for any reason you're not getting over with it, or the staff thinks you need to be repackaged, that's why you have the other two to work with. Once you're given your names, please remain seated because I will call everyone again. You'll tell me which one you've chosen from your list to immediately start being referred to. I will record it in the booking sheet and later in the system files."

Everyone nodded, acknowledging they understood McDevitt.

"Okay, Shannon you're first. You have 'The Bruiser,' 'Guns and Roses,' and 'Egyptian China.' "

Shannon opened up a notes app on her smartphone, and jotted the names down on a blank pad.

Shannon blocked out the rest of the announcements with the names of other people as soon as she heard her own. Immediately she started thinking about where the staff was going; or what they possibly were smoking to come up with what would be the beginning of the rest of her life for the foreseeable future.

'The Bruiser?' What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Beat the shit out of my opponent until they bruise? Not sell anything my opponent does? That worked with The Undertaker because that's how his gimmick was designed. He didn't no-sell early on in his career because he was a dick, but because he was dead! And it made sense! A dead guy's unaffected by your assault. What happens when The Bruiser gets a bruise? Am I suppose to get upset by it? Is that suppose to be my trigger to go on a rampage?

'Guns and Roses?' I mean, okay, legendary band. But how are they using that to package me? By guns are they referring to muscles, and roses because I'm a woman? I don't even like fucking roses. I'm a gardenias kind of girl.

'Egyptian China?' Is he trying to make a racial joke or something? I get that I was born with a tan, but I've never stepped foot in Africa a day in my life! And why would they even lump Egypt and China together like they're in the same continent? You don't need to be a geologist or own an Atlas to know Egypt and China are no where close to each other.

God, these names are shit. I'll be so fucking glad when I'm allowed to choose one for myself.

"So Shannon, what's it gonna' be?" asked McDevitt, who interrupted Shannon's daydream about horrendous gimmicks.

"The Bruiser," Shannon blurted out as she watched him jot it down.

I hate them all really. But hey, if "The Ringmaster" and "Terra Ryzing" could be 'The Rattlesnake' and 'The Game,' dammit The Bruiser was going to one day be someone big too. Hopefully, with an actual first and last name down the road.

With that she left the room to go figure out what she'd wear for ring attire, then grabbed a bite to eat for lunch.

Later that evening

Shannon entered the ring wearing XXL Nike black sweat pants with one leg rolled up and tan Timberland boots. She wore a red short sleeve plaid shirt of the same size with just the collar buttoned, while the rest of the shirt remained open, revealing her black bra and abdomen. She tied two red bandannas around her arms for elbow pads, and wore her hair in two French braids down her back. She hated the boots, and couldn't see how some people wrestled in them or sneakers as they were not only bad for the ring canvas, but hard to fluidly move in. However, it worked with what she felt 'The Bruiser' should look like. If the WWE ever brought back Cryme Tyme and was looking for a sister, 'The Bruiser' was their girl. The only thing she was really missing was a pair of removable grillz and a fitted New York Yankees baseball cap.

As we were face to face and nose to nose in the stare down, grimacing like we were yelling at each other, I whispered, "Coach said you're working my arm, and winning with a spine buster." Stacey Jewel blew a noisemaker then screamed, "Well let's go!" That was kinda cool. It was her way of acknowledging she understood what I said about where we were going with the match; and character wise, it showed the audience she was ready to be intense. It was pretty smart on her part.

We began the match with me gesturing for her to hit the ropes to try to knock me down with a shoulder tackle. I'm 'The Bruiser' remember? So I'm trying to set the tone as the strong chick even though my opponent is the one with a power move finisher in this match. Hey, I'm not in charge of creative or booking, so I'm rolling with it. Jewel runs into me twice, and I stay up. On the third charge, instead of going for the shoulder tackle, she grabs my arm, for which I'm happy as she's ready to work it right away. Now it's only about three seconds from when Jewel bounces off the ropes to when she grabs my arm; but even in those three seconds I see the way she starts to pivot the ball of her foot, and I sell one of the most beautiful armdrags you'd ever seen. I mean you'd think she was Steamboat and I was Flair from NWA WrestleWar '89. Whether it was instincts or me being a student of the game, I sold that armdrag like a million bucks. It didn't matter that I was only getting twenty tonight.

Now typically unless you're Ricky "The Dragon" Steamboat or Daniel Bryan who likes to do multiple armdrags in a row, following an armdrag you usually get on one knee or squat behind the opponent's back as they sell the impact of you now applying a variation of the armbar on them. This is what Jewel and I executed. I work my way back up to a vertical base, delivering elbows to her abdomen with the arm not being used. As we both get up on our feet I shove her backwards into a set of the ropes. I anticipate on Jewel's return to me she'd kick or hit my arm, possibly even headbutt it, but she doesn't do any of these things. She grabs me in a waist lock, delivers a belly to belly suplex and rolls over for a pin attempt. I don't kick out, but get my shoulder up, emphasizing the arm. As Jewel pulls me up by the hair, I deliver a knee to her abdomen. As she leans forward, I then grab her in a front facelock and before I raise her up for a vertical suplex I say in her ear, "Hey, what are we supposed to be working?" She doesn't respond.

The match continued for another five minutes and on every pin attempt, I got creative with interrupting the count. I'd raise my forearm. I'd raise my whole arm tilting the shoulder up. Even when Jewel applied the Boston crab on me, and the referee asked, "Do you want to continue?" I shouted, "Arm!" The ref shouted back "Stop it!" I couldn't believe this chick who had a good year plus on me in experience, forgot to work the arm! I was trying to help her figure it out, but it was as though she didn't understand my body language. Perhaps Jewel thought I was loopy from an earlier move when I said "Arm" during the submission. The crowd wasn't into our efforts. They started a "This is shitty" chant.

It was time for the finish which was a spine buster. As she hits it, I immediately put my foot on the ropes. Even though I knew this was the finish, I was not going to allow Jewel to beat me without coming back to work the arm. When I heard the referee make the three count, I was confused. The crowd booed and started to throw some plastic cups of what likely contained beer in the ring, and some of it splashed on me. No body parts were worked as the match seemed to have random spots, and my shoulders were counted despite having my foot on the ropes. The match was shit. The fans knew it. The referee knew it. Jewel knew it. Ring announcer Danny Mays knew it. MCW commentators Brent Tarring and Shawn Credle knew it. I knew it. And most importantly, the trainers and staff who booked it knew it. I strongly doubted when I stepped through the curtain, it would be a pleasant paradise.

About half of the talent were in the hall hanging out, reflecting on their matches if they already wrestled; others were in the locker room area either hitting the showers, or changing into their ring gear if they were coming up soon on the card. For the few people that were lurking in the hall behind the curtain, their side conversations suddenly stopped when Shannon walked through. Shannon wasn't an idiot. She had good reason to believe they were probably talking about her and not their own match. Shannon just sensed the terrible feeling she had in her stomach was about to be magnified.

She read numerous wrestlers' biographies about all sorts of things that they received locker room disapproval or dissatisfaction for, also known as 'heat.' If you portrayed a heel persona on-screen, heat was essential. However backstage, heat was never a good thing. Sometimes it was legitimate. Sometimes it was petty. Sometimes it was because of something you said. Sometimes it was because of something you did, or didn't do. You could have heat with management. You could have heat with the wrestlers. Depending on who your name was and your relevance in the company, you could have heat with both. The bottom line was that heat was scorching, and it was never something you wanted to have behind the scenes. Unfortunately for Shannon, she lost her heat virginity the moment she stepped through the curtain.

Typically in some wrestling companies, in the WWE at least, heat was usually resolved in an event called Wrestler's Court. Just like a typical trial, there were plaintiffs, defendants, lawyers, and a judge. The plaintiffs and defendants were the two people on each side of the disagreement. Each wrestler could decide if they wanted to be represented by another wrestler as their lawyer, or if they would rather represent themselves. The judge was always the most senior member of the active roster.

In most cases, The Undertaker had the role of judge. Although Shawn Michaels had more seniority in the company than The Undertaker, he usually dealt with his heat with Vince McMahon directly. During the brand split in 2002, The Undertaker remained judge for Wrestler's Court on the Smackdown! roster, while sometimes Triple H, or Shawn Michaels would serve as judge for the Raw roster. The trials would take place before the shows would start, and after each side made their case, the judge would make a decision. While that decision was supposed to be the end of that heat as it was resolved, sometimes people held grudges.

Right now, Shannon wasn't in the WWE. She was in MCW, and did not have the privilege to have an option of being represented by anyone. Nor did she have the right to request to speak in private. She hadn't even made it halfway through the hall before McDevitt met her.

"What the hell was that Shannon? What did you think you were doing?" asked the 6'3, Caucasian, 245 pounder, who competed under the ring name "Corporal Punishment," and was a top heel in the Mid-Atlantic and Eastern regions of independent promotions in the U.S. during the mid to late 1990s.

His face was fuming red, and his nostrils started to flair. Shannon looked down and noticed his right hand was clenched with some keys, and the left had a medium-sized duffel bag. She had no idea if this was going to be a brief conversation or not. It seemed rather strange though to bring those items with him if he was about to give her a tongue lashing.

"I uh, I um, the arm. You said to work it," she responded. Shannon was correct technically. She also knew what the finish was though, and did not allow that to occur smoothly. "I was trying to get her to work the arm."

"No! No you weren't!" he repeated, with the volume seemingly increasing the second time around. "What you were doing was being arrogant and selfish! Are you asexual Shannon?" he asked.

"What? No," she said squinting her eyes, not having the slightest idea of where he was going with that statement. More people who were in the locker room area preparing for their match started to come out and gather around the hall, catching the show that Shannon really wished she too was a spectator of, instead of having the starring role.

"Neither is your goddamn opponent!" He screamed. "You can't put on a match by yourself! If I or anyone else on staff picks a part for you to work, you work it. But if someone forgets a spot, you go around it, continue to call the shit on the fly, and then work toward your finish!"

Shannon could hear some of the roster snickering behind her. She let out a breath. It was the only thing she felt she had direct control of. She sure as hell didn't have any over McDevitt.

"You think you're hot shit because you had a match with Bayley a couple of months ago on her way to NXT? Is that what you think?" He asked, still angry.

Shannon hesitated before she responded. The laughs were getting a bit louder, but McDevitt was not distracted by them.

"You said it was cool that I got the match with her. You said I was rea-"

"Newsflash," he cut her off. "You didn't go over. She did. You were the jobber. You did the honors," he said pointing to her chest for emphasis every time he said the word you. "You think you matter because we let you have that match with her? You're a fucking nobody, that's who you are! You are the shit on the bottom of my shoe! No one's scouting your ass right now! There are a million of prospects all around the world who think because they have a level of skill, they're something special. That only takes you so far."

"Coach I was just trying to remind-" she was cut off again. It wasn't that she wanted to have a verbal war with her trainer. She just felt like he was treating her as though she walked into the match with malice intent from the beginning when she didn't.

"What you were doing was being cocky, trying to show your opponent up when you're in the match together," McDevitt corrected Shannon. "And what you ended up doing instead having her look bad, was make yourself look like a jackass! You shit on her. You shit on the fans who paid to be loyal to their local independent promotion. You shit on this roster. And most importantly you shit on me!"

Shannon needed a distraction as it appeared this talk was far from over. She started to undo the tape on her wrists.

"Where do you want to be, huh? I mean ultimately, where do you want to go?" Shannon just stared at him. She obviously wasn't deaf, but was frightened to even mumble a sound. "Answer me!"

"The WWE," she said, finally caving with a response. He demanded one. She didn't know if she was going to be slammed against the wall. She certainly would have deserved it she thought, as she was starting to understand the magnitude of her mistake.

"Right," he answered. "Lita and Mickie James both trained here and had great careers there. But you know the biggest difference between them and you?"

Shannon shook her head. She didn't want to, or even mean to. It just happened instinctively as she felt like she was a school child in the principal's office about to face expulsion.

"Muthafuckin' discipline," he replied. "You're not going to have many matches, certainly not in this promotion, as long as I'm in charge with that kind of behavior. Since you're low on the card, if you were in the WWE you'd probably be fired on the fucking spot because you'd be a waste of roster space!"

McDevitt's words felt like a machete piercing her chest as Shannon's heart sank. All she could do was look on. The tiny hint of brown surrounding her green eyes was darkening as she sought to resist another interruption or outburst. This was her passion, her dream, her everything. Shannon thought she was talented. No, Shannon knew she was talented. Because she always received good praise most matches she was booked in.

But her trainer was talking down on Shannon like she was some very, very, green student unfamiliar with how the sport or business worked. Shannon certainly wasn't an egotist by any stretch of the imagination, as she'd always asked her superiors: opponents, coaches, agents, what she could do or stop doing to get better; yet at the same time, she knew she wanted this, and was damn good at it. Maybe he was breaking her down to build her back up.

"But I'm not gonna' do that. I don't want a goddamn apology from you as that does absolutely shit for me and this promotion! Here," McDevitt said as he tossed the duffel bag and keys at Shannon, who caught them against her chest. "When the last match is over, I want you to shake everyone's hand that walked through that curtain tonight, and apologize to them for fucking up a show they were a part of."

"What's with the bag and keys though? What am I supposed to do with this?" She asked.

The laughs from the remaining people in the back stopped, as they were no longer entertained by the verbal smackdown, but legitimately interested in what punishment Shannon would receive. It wasn't a matter of if, but what fate she'd suffer.

"You're going to run the ropes for 60 minutes non-stop. I don't care if your tongue hangs out like a damn thirsty dog. You will not stop until the stopwatch reaches triple zero. And in that bag are tools. When you're done, you're going to single-handedly take the show ring apart and lock up. You can run the ropes in the practice ring."

Shannon unzipped the bag, and examined its contents.

"Coach, there aren't any gloves in here. I'm going to get callouses on my hands really bad," she replied. She accepted her fate and wasn't going to make an effort to get out of it. But if possible, wanted it to at least be a civil experience.

"That's not my fucking problem," her trainer said unaffected by Shannon's appeal for him to be lenient on the punishment.

Shannon shook her head as she stared at the tools again and mumbled, hoping McDevitt didn't hear as he began to walk away. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

McDevitt turned around immediately and said, "Make that 90 minutes, and I will have an assistant coach in there with you, monitoring your every fucking move ensuring you complete all tasks!"

Shannon was embarrassed, Shannon was upset. But most importantly Shannon was disappointed in herself. She not only wanted to be a great wrestler, but a great person. Confidence, not cockiness, gratitude, not entitlement, were core values that she strived for and always wanted to keep in perspective on her journey, whether she eventually made it to the WWE or not. She seemed to lose sight of that in her match tonight, and didn't want to feel the way she did now ever again.

She remembered her favorite wrestler, Triple H, telling the story on a DVD about how he was punished, buried, and held back for breaking kayfabe nineteen years ago. Vince McMahon assured him that he saw talent and great promise in him; and that there would be a moment where he'd shine. But then and there was not the time. For what he did, he would have to "learn how to eat shit and like the taste of it. And for a while, it would be a lot of shit."

This was her shit. It certainly pissed her off reading about moments where the untouchable Ronda Rousey would be rewarded for her behavior with championships and endorsement deals rather than be disciplined for it. Yet, here was Shannon, sore and tired, smelling of beer when she didn't even drink, panting well after midnight, gathering blisters and callouses, taking an entire ring a part all alone for her one and only mistake at MCW. It would never happen again, that was for damn sure.

Author's Notes: In most cases unless otherwise specified, blocks of dialogue or events in italics will be from the first person point of view. The entire story is not in first person, but third. However, there will be moments of events that are in first person. Lastly, I only own the original character of Shannon Storm and the fictional minor characters I make up throughout the story. I do not own anyone who has worked for any promotion-independent or public-past or present. I'm a mark for it all, and my goal is to illustrate that love.

Reviews are welcomed, reviews are encouraged, and reviews are appreciated. All I ask is that you have fun, be as long or as short as you like, and comment on something about the story. While comments like "This is great. Please update" are appreciated, I'd like to know what you think is "great." The same goes for criticism. If there's something you hate, it's all good. But rather than going, "This is awful," I'd rather you state what you dislike. Trolling or spamming comments on reviews will not be tolerated; and those coming from guest accounts will be deleted.

Face of Shannon Storm: Supermodel Tyra Banks

Faces of Shannon's parents: Taraji P. Henson and Terrence Howard from Fox's hit show, "Empire"

Updated Author's Note for May 25th, 2017:

"It has been brought to my attention that events in the surrounding AU of the Broken Arrow story have been intentionally and suddenly changed by its author. It is in this world where WTS serves as a prequel into the introduction of Shannon Storm, who makes her way into the Broken Arrow story. The author has done so due to a long falling out about their deliberate refusal to retain commitments (and give proper acknowledgement to contributors, including myself and others) of actual written plot ideas, scenes, and chapters, set in stone and agreed upon well over two years ago. As a result, what you folks are reading in Weathering The Storm remain true to the original intended creative as it pertains to core events regarding Shannon's foil, Ronda Rousey. Anyone reading WTS prior to the Spring of 2017 has had the opportunity to see the world as originally landscaped if they checked out Broken Arrow back then.

Unfortunately, for those of you who are new to WTS and are referring to actual Broken Arrow chapters currently as we speak, (reading it and WTS simultaneously), the author's backhanded tactics of altering and reversing history may seem both confusing, and classless. I wouldn't disagree with you. I however, do not intend to plan literary whack-a-mole with this project.

Rather than revising stories and profiles to satisfy a bruised ego like a former collaborator of mine has done, I will continue to take the higher road. I will complete WTS (and it's sequel) as intended from certain core events outlined and finalized in 2015. No need to worry about me disguising doing substantial edits as adhering to a new, polished, standard of grammar and punctuation, when what I really am doing is deceptively changing PLOT and/or CONTENT. If that's what I was actually doing, I would just come out and say so; rather than conveniently update my profile again removing the acknowledgement of what I just did once I completed my true objective. The author of Broken Arrow is aware I assisted with grammar and punctuation errors for them before they uploaded chapters of that story; in fact, it was per their request for me to proofread. And that's IN ADDITION to the literal content I contributed. So I know for a fact that was merely an excuse for them to return to the story and make changes out of spite.

For those of you who have enjoyed, and continue to enjoy WTS, I thank you for dropping by for as long and as often as you have. I welcome you to remain on the ride. For those who would rather depart, that too, is your choice. Either way, WTS will march on.