Summary: Not everything is perfect among co-workers in the WWF.. but what does an outsider know about any of that? Or, will she even care at all with her apathetic attitude?
Rated: R for some really bad words (in later chapters) and some innuendo.
Disclaimer: Vince McMahon and WWFE owns AAAALMOST everything... but I have some claims! Myself and Mr. Schulze and his five or so lines are copyrighted to me, but Adia, Charlie and Ben own themselves. And also, because she asked, Adia's penname is Adia SB - go read her stuff! It's really good!
The Few, The Proud
by Dezzie-Chan ^.^
Lights flashed all around me, and the feel of the canvas under my feet was so sweetly familiar. I strode to one side of the ring, and jumped up onto the lowest rope, allowing it to bounce slightly under my weight. A few people in the front row began to chant my name, and like a wildfire, it spread throughout the arena, till my name was on everyone's lips. I hopped backwards off the ropes, and ascended a turnbuckle to pose for the opposite side of the crowd, as well. I hoisted my belt up into the air, and tapped the front of it, eliciting a huge cheer from the crowd over the din of my own name. I was the winner; bruised, aching, and sore, but I had done it. I had won my belt. And the people loved it, they had wanted me to win the belt as much as I had! Every moment I was almost down in that ring, the audience had brought me back to life with their cheers and encouragements. I don't think I had ever been happier in my life. This was my dream, this was all I had ever wanted. I just wished to God that the moment I was in would never end...
...and then the chants of my name turned into an annoying buzz, and I sat up in bed, still not sure if I had fallen victim to a chairshot from the disgruntled opponent or if I was a bigger idiot than I thought. Turns out, it was the latter, as I crankily shut off my alarm, and flopped back down onto the bed. I yanked my pillow out from behind my head and covered my face with it.
"Five thirty in the morning..." I mumbled, sleep still evident in my voice. "What did I do to deserve this...?"
I sat up, and took in the posters on my wall (my posters which are basically my wallpaper). The stars pictured in those posters probably had to wake up even earlier somedays, and most times after a night of getting brutally beaten; the WWF Superstars. That caused me to laugh, remembering my dream. What a stupid dream! I had never wanted to be a wrestler... maybe I had always wanted to work with the other wrestlers, but fighting wasn't my thing. I fought better with words.
And besides; what red-blooded woman wouldn't want to work with some of those wrestlers? You have Jeff Hardy, a cutie with a multi-coloured tuft of hair and a daredevil attitude; Edge, a blond Adonis of a man whose immature sense of humor is a real charmer, if not entertaining at the least; Christian, Edge's in character brother (but no less cute) who currently has a jealous streak, but you gotta love it; Scotty 2 Hotty, a bleached blond whose head looks like a bucket of McDonald's fries with a goofy thousand-watt smile; "The Hurricane", a guy who believes he is a living, breathing superhero, complete with cape and painted-on mask; and so on, and so on. I don't think I even named half.
However, for me, Amy Marie King, I was not the stars on stage, but the person who found ways to advertise them. Well... only if you count barbeque sauce as a star, but we'll get into that later. I was working part-time designing logos and catch phrases for an advertisement agency, almost right next door to the college I attend. That way, I didn't have to commute back and forth, I could just walk from class to work.
Personally, I hate my job. I mean, I thought it would be fun to come up with slogans, and draw cute little logos and mascots. I didn't mind the fact I couldn't get them copyrighted as my design, since I didn't have the proper credentials. I just wanted to draw cute little pictures. They could take the credit, I just wanted to have a drawing board and pencil - is that so much to ask? The truth is, after you get to assist your superiors who steal all your ideas, they stick you at the bottom of the advertising pile to do your work individually, and then they'll steal it from you. My first few assignments had been revolving around small family-owned businesses; laundromats, greasy diners, warehouses (since when does a warehouse need a mascot, anyway?!), etc. At the time I was struggling with coming up with a mascot for "Tiki Dan's Barbeque Sauce". The week before that, I had had to make a logo for "Billy Jo Bob's B-B-Q". The month before that, I had wasted three weeks on "Mama Hickory Bar-B-Q Sauce". My boss had this thing about assigning me to food products. Can you guess his favorite? Non-mainstream, family or individually-owned, most likely non-approved barbeque sauces. How many damn barbeque sauces could there be?! And was what I was doing without proper advertising licensing even legal, anyway?
I guess I didn't care. I guess I wanted ... money. And, granted, I did get paid for it.
Begrudgingly, I got out of bed, and rubbed the remains of sleep from my eyes. I had another fun-filled day of Tiki Dan to attend to, and laying in bed wishing for a more glamorous job wasn't going to help. I fumbled in the still mildly dim morning for my lamp, silently cursing the unfairness of it all. Upon finding the lamp's on switch, I was half-blinded by the sudden flooding of light, and squinted away from it.
"Dammit!" I cried, sitting up and adjusting myself to the brightness, still squinting.
To help me wake up, I flipped on my radio. Luckily, it wasn't a commercial, like it normally was. Commercials made me think of ... work. Ugh. Instead I was greeted by Incubus, and I found enough good humor to hum along with it as I set about making my bed.
It really wasn't fair. You'd think an advertiser could wake up at leisure, but no, not me. I had a deadline, and if I didn't use all the time available, I was going to get hammered for it. Maybe I was being a brat, but I really didn't care. At 20 years old, I was still allowed to be a brat. I browsed in my closet for some suitably "I don't want to be here" clothes, and grabbed a brush off my nightstand as I headed for the bathroom.
As I brushed my hair in the mirror, my mind wandered back to my dream. How cool would it be to design a "Just Bring It" shirt? Or a Hardy Boyz pendant? Or a Y2J jersey? I shook my head, and lightly set the brush on the sink counter, propping my chin in one hand. I could forget about ever doing anything that cool. Besides, I was majoring in computer graphic imagery, and as soon as I got my degree, I was out of that two-bit advertising agency (where I couldn't even get credit for my own work) for good!
It was in that angry mind-set, in a worn Amador Valley sweatshirt and a portfolio of scribbled would-be Tiki Dan sketches that I set off on possibly the best day of my so-called career.
Author's Note: Okay, this is my first WWF fic.. and I'm not sure how great it is. I had a weird dream about it, and had to follow through... This first chapter doesn't have much to do with wrestling, but I'm really just trying to test this way of writing, as serious stuff like this isn't my most popular style... Yes, I really am the girl (Amy) written in here, although I'm not 20.. that's just for story's purposes. The next chapters start to involve the WWF characters, so please, gentle people, be patient... Please, please, PLEASE R&R and depending on that, I'll see how quickly I can get Chapter 2 up. Thanks!
Rated: R for some really bad words (in later chapters) and some innuendo.
Disclaimer: Vince McMahon and WWFE owns AAAALMOST everything... but I have some claims! Myself and Mr. Schulze and his five or so lines are copyrighted to me, but Adia, Charlie and Ben own themselves. And also, because she asked, Adia's penname is Adia SB - go read her stuff! It's really good!
The Few, The Proud
by Dezzie-Chan ^.^
Lights flashed all around me, and the feel of the canvas under my feet was so sweetly familiar. I strode to one side of the ring, and jumped up onto the lowest rope, allowing it to bounce slightly under my weight. A few people in the front row began to chant my name, and like a wildfire, it spread throughout the arena, till my name was on everyone's lips. I hopped backwards off the ropes, and ascended a turnbuckle to pose for the opposite side of the crowd, as well. I hoisted my belt up into the air, and tapped the front of it, eliciting a huge cheer from the crowd over the din of my own name. I was the winner; bruised, aching, and sore, but I had done it. I had won my belt. And the people loved it, they had wanted me to win the belt as much as I had! Every moment I was almost down in that ring, the audience had brought me back to life with their cheers and encouragements. I don't think I had ever been happier in my life. This was my dream, this was all I had ever wanted. I just wished to God that the moment I was in would never end...
...and then the chants of my name turned into an annoying buzz, and I sat up in bed, still not sure if I had fallen victim to a chairshot from the disgruntled opponent or if I was a bigger idiot than I thought. Turns out, it was the latter, as I crankily shut off my alarm, and flopped back down onto the bed. I yanked my pillow out from behind my head and covered my face with it.
"Five thirty in the morning..." I mumbled, sleep still evident in my voice. "What did I do to deserve this...?"
I sat up, and took in the posters on my wall (my posters which are basically my wallpaper). The stars pictured in those posters probably had to wake up even earlier somedays, and most times after a night of getting brutally beaten; the WWF Superstars. That caused me to laugh, remembering my dream. What a stupid dream! I had never wanted to be a wrestler... maybe I had always wanted to work with the other wrestlers, but fighting wasn't my thing. I fought better with words.
And besides; what red-blooded woman wouldn't want to work with some of those wrestlers? You have Jeff Hardy, a cutie with a multi-coloured tuft of hair and a daredevil attitude; Edge, a blond Adonis of a man whose immature sense of humor is a real charmer, if not entertaining at the least; Christian, Edge's in character brother (but no less cute) who currently has a jealous streak, but you gotta love it; Scotty 2 Hotty, a bleached blond whose head looks like a bucket of McDonald's fries with a goofy thousand-watt smile; "The Hurricane", a guy who believes he is a living, breathing superhero, complete with cape and painted-on mask; and so on, and so on. I don't think I even named half.
However, for me, Amy Marie King, I was not the stars on stage, but the person who found ways to advertise them. Well... only if you count barbeque sauce as a star, but we'll get into that later. I was working part-time designing logos and catch phrases for an advertisement agency, almost right next door to the college I attend. That way, I didn't have to commute back and forth, I could just walk from class to work.
Personally, I hate my job. I mean, I thought it would be fun to come up with slogans, and draw cute little logos and mascots. I didn't mind the fact I couldn't get them copyrighted as my design, since I didn't have the proper credentials. I just wanted to draw cute little pictures. They could take the credit, I just wanted to have a drawing board and pencil - is that so much to ask? The truth is, after you get to assist your superiors who steal all your ideas, they stick you at the bottom of the advertising pile to do your work individually, and then they'll steal it from you. My first few assignments had been revolving around small family-owned businesses; laundromats, greasy diners, warehouses (since when does a warehouse need a mascot, anyway?!), etc. At the time I was struggling with coming up with a mascot for "Tiki Dan's Barbeque Sauce". The week before that, I had had to make a logo for "Billy Jo Bob's B-B-Q". The month before that, I had wasted three weeks on "Mama Hickory Bar-B-Q Sauce". My boss had this thing about assigning me to food products. Can you guess his favorite? Non-mainstream, family or individually-owned, most likely non-approved barbeque sauces. How many damn barbeque sauces could there be?! And was what I was doing without proper advertising licensing even legal, anyway?
I guess I didn't care. I guess I wanted ... money. And, granted, I did get paid for it.
Begrudgingly, I got out of bed, and rubbed the remains of sleep from my eyes. I had another fun-filled day of Tiki Dan to attend to, and laying in bed wishing for a more glamorous job wasn't going to help. I fumbled in the still mildly dim morning for my lamp, silently cursing the unfairness of it all. Upon finding the lamp's on switch, I was half-blinded by the sudden flooding of light, and squinted away from it.
"Dammit!" I cried, sitting up and adjusting myself to the brightness, still squinting.
To help me wake up, I flipped on my radio. Luckily, it wasn't a commercial, like it normally was. Commercials made me think of ... work. Ugh. Instead I was greeted by Incubus, and I found enough good humor to hum along with it as I set about making my bed.
It really wasn't fair. You'd think an advertiser could wake up at leisure, but no, not me. I had a deadline, and if I didn't use all the time available, I was going to get hammered for it. Maybe I was being a brat, but I really didn't care. At 20 years old, I was still allowed to be a brat. I browsed in my closet for some suitably "I don't want to be here" clothes, and grabbed a brush off my nightstand as I headed for the bathroom.
As I brushed my hair in the mirror, my mind wandered back to my dream. How cool would it be to design a "Just Bring It" shirt? Or a Hardy Boyz pendant? Or a Y2J jersey? I shook my head, and lightly set the brush on the sink counter, propping my chin in one hand. I could forget about ever doing anything that cool. Besides, I was majoring in computer graphic imagery, and as soon as I got my degree, I was out of that two-bit advertising agency (where I couldn't even get credit for my own work) for good!
It was in that angry mind-set, in a worn Amador Valley sweatshirt and a portfolio of scribbled would-be Tiki Dan sketches that I set off on possibly the best day of my so-called career.
Author's Note: Okay, this is my first WWF fic.. and I'm not sure how great it is. I had a weird dream about it, and had to follow through... This first chapter doesn't have much to do with wrestling, but I'm really just trying to test this way of writing, as serious stuff like this isn't my most popular style... Yes, I really am the girl (Amy) written in here, although I'm not 20.. that's just for story's purposes. The next chapters start to involve the WWF characters, so please, gentle people, be patient... Please, please, PLEASE R&R and depending on that, I'll see how quickly I can get Chapter 2 up. Thanks!