Forged Steel's Wrestling Journal

Entry 14

I have to draw the curtains before bed at night. Apparently being this far north means that the sun sometimes doesn’t set for days at a time. It’s actually quite peculiar and fun to go for a midnight run under full daylight. I’ve also joined Iron at the gym a few times. Although she’s nearly triple my age, she’s still a monster. She’s the only non-talent I’ve worked out with who has kept up with me without me having to sandbag.

My first week consists of just workouts and promos, the latter of which is obviously a much different tone than I’ve had to take yet. My first few ones I fried my brain trying to think of things to say before Iron cut me off, telling me that I won’t last long at all at that pace. I need to not be afraid of cliches and “cheap pops.” Yes they can be stupid, but that’s why you don’t rely exclusively on them. Mix them in with the unique material.

Because TV is still a few days away, my first match is a 30 minute draw with another hot shot, Flash Sentry. He got a little stiff, but one hard forearm blast to his face got him to calm down a bit. He apologized for wrenching too much after, and I apologized for the blow. The crowd looked rather small, the bottom level at I’d guess 80% capacity and the upper level was maybe around half full. Quite odd, especially compared to the large crowds I’m used to.

That isn’t to say the atmosphere was dull, the ones who showed up were deeply invested in the action. Asking around, most dodged the question but Iron was fearless. She says, of course with no one else around, it’s because things have become stale. Business was down, so Head came to the territory. He revitalized it for a while, but being champion meant he couldn’t lose. As a result he’s beaten almost anyone who can credibly challenge him.

This conversation was over drinks, Iron seems to like me. She says it’s because lately her territory has come to be known as where careers go to die. Not only was I the only outside talent to come, I was the only one who wanted to overwhelmingly come in. Iron’s also very impressed that I’m willing to go into such a high pressure situation, but also to do so in an unfamiliar role, and with the single largest player in the business.

It’s not withering up here because Head wants it to, far from it. The issue he has now that hasn’t been in the past is that he’s the world champion, so he cannot lose the title, even if for a week. A world champion does not have to honor a loss in a title match that was not approved by the Conclave, and a promoter can face severe reprisal for even asking him to do so. It all goes back to not making the belt holder look like a chump.

The bar closes for the evening, Iron refuses to let me pay. I get back to my room and as I start to get comfortable, reception calls. Headcrusher wants to meet, so I ask him to come to my room. His handshake is not unlike a vicegrip as he walks in. Head congratulates me on a good first match, wearing what has to be a 10 grand suit.

Sure enough, he is about my size in build, though I am notably taller than him. I keep quiet and listen as he talks, mostly about how he hopes that I live up to what he’s heard of me, and about Papa. Head has been wrestling for 15 years, and has worked a few programs with Papa, and starts to compare myself and Papa. I say that with all due respect, I’m not my father, and that many have said I’m better.

Of course this gets an odd look, so I shrug and say that it’s what others say and that I’m only better on the amateur side. He seems a bit unconvinced in this regard too, so I decide to go over my accomplishments. Six consecutive national championships and seven in eight years, two gold medals in freestyle at the equestrian games, and my final year of university I did not surrender a point in the national tournament.

I do not tell him my greatest accomplishment, I don’t tell anyone that. Head even seems quite impressed with my resume, and with a handshake he leaves, saying to remember that pro is different from amateur and that he’ll be seeing me soon. He leaves and it’s just me, the sun deciding to set tonight and giving way to the Northern Lights. Since I have the rest of the week off, I get myself a drink and go outside to watch.

I don’t tell anyone my greatest accomplishment because no one would believe it, also that I’m honestly not too proud of it. It’s one thing that I’ve kept even from Zecora. Sister knows, Papa was there, as was Gryphus, and a few members of Papa’s class. I told the police in a statement, but that was the only time. Also because it scares me and is painful to relive.

A pony who claims to have wrestled with a dragon will be treated with derision. It’s almost certainly a lie, and on the off chance that it’s not a lie it was either a juvenile dragon or one so old as to not put up hardly any fight. Those are just the ones who live to tell about it, almost all ponies who have picked a fight with a dragon that wasn’t juvenile or elderly were killed.

He was an insubordinate student at Papa's wrestling school. A former warrior for one of the more infamous eastern clans, and I just a 16 year old amateur wrestling stand-out. He was the only student Papa admitted who was bigger than even him. He was also by far the most toxic personality that Papa had seen in his 40 years of wrestling. The dragon was a shunned, vilified former warrior of his clan. He was also a heavy steroid user, which everyone knew had only made him even more insufferable.

He ran his mouth all the time, and eventually refused to take orders from us 'inferior' ponies. When Pa expelled him, he threatened all of us. He tried to attack Papa, but it took the entire class, Gryphus included, holding him back to get him to submit. Right before leaving he looked right at me and said that Sister would be his concubine. There are certain things one does not say about my family, and especially not to my face.

I stood my ground defiantly in front of him. When he reached out to scratch me, I threw him head first into the door, then to the ground. According to Papa, Gryphus tried to break us up, but Pa held him back for his own safety. I cannot remember any of it, only the small bit that Papa has said of it, except for the aftermath. I was told the fight lasted for 11 minutes and that the doctors said that I should have died, if not for what wounds I had then from the blood loss.

When the fight ended, I needed 32 staples, 144 stitches, an operation to reattach the muscles in my left arm that he had bitten clean off the bone, and the police had to forcibly pull his claws out of my body from him trying to gore me. When I stood up for the first time in the hospital I had noticed a mark adorning my body, a set of shackles.

It’s known to all ponies that we all have a special talent, one that we do better than anything else. I found out that day, as represented by the mark I’ve worn above my leg since the fight, that my talent is submission holds. Mine are inescapable if I clamp down, and you will either ask mercy or black out in a futile attempt to get free. The dragon is now nearly mute and rotting in some Gulag back home, never to walk free for the rest of his life.

I had thoroughly humiliated him, not once but twice. First by making him do the most disgraceful thing a dragon warrior could ever do, one thing that a warrior would die before doing, I made him beg me for mercy. After he had, I wrenched my chokehold deeper and made him black out which had also crushed his vocal cords in the process. As the cherry on top, he was sentenced to a lifetime prison term with no parole in a maximum security environment.

I do not tell this story because no one would believe me even with the scars I still bear from the encounter, and that by all accounts I should have died. Many times I awake wondering how I lived. I still have nightmares of the fight, even though I have no distinct memory of any of it. Many nights I awake from nightmares where the fight is occurring, and sometimes even nightmares where he is just about to kill me.

Sometimes I wonder why I bring so much trouble upon myself being so zealously defensive of Sister, especially when I know that she really doesn’t need or want me to be. My fear is that one day I will go too far, reacting to nothing, and she will disown me. All my sorrow, fears, and doubts about my stay here are a large contrast to the breathtaking spectacle of the Northern Lights.

I glance inside at a clock and find out that I’ve been sitting out here for three hours now. I don’t think the temperature has changed at all since I’ve arrived, being almost the same during the day and the night. The still night air helps lose track of the time, since I don’t feel the normal cold late night winds that usually roll through. I could fall asleep watching the sky, but elect to go to bed anyways. I only hope that I can have a pleasant dream to contrast the terrible flashback that I suffered.