My life has always been hard. Ever since I could remember, people felt I wasn't worthy enough to be in this messed-up realm of a world. The different worlds of society blocked me from entering. It is not the worst life, but it damn well gets up to that point sometimes. Things changed when I turned sixteen last summer. People changed for the worse; junior year in high school started out very difficult. Not that anyone would notice.
As I have said, my life has always been hard, but things changed and got worse. Why, do you ask? Because I am a hard-core, die-hard WWF fanatic. People keep telling me "It's not real" and "How can you support such nonsense?" "I know it's fake, so stop telling me," I reply to them, but people don't learn.
Then there came times when I had to actually use meaningful words, and a couple times, I had to use violence. Like one time, I was at a back-to-school party at a friend's apartment this past summer. I was enjoying myself, and some punk kid shouts out at me from the park area just a few hundred feet away, "The Undertaker sucks!" He had seen the Undertaker shirt I was wearing, though it was pretty hot out to be wearing it. I didn't say anything to him; just went on partying.
Throughout the night, this kid kept harassing me with those words. My friends were telling me to go and beat his ass, but I calmly replied that taking fifteen seconds out of my time wasn't worth him. Finally, it was dark, and I decided to spend the night. The kid comes up to me when I was outside, trying to clean up while my friend was taking the leftover food inside. He has a group of little kids behind him; to make him feel backed-up or whatever, I guess. He said, "The Undertaker sucks, and Steve Austin rules all!"
I had enough of his ramblings, so I replied, "Listen, jerk. The Undertaker does not suck." The kid just stared at me, and said, "He does too suck. If he doesn't suck, then why is Austin the champ?" This guy was giving me a headache! Anyway, I replied, "Where would your precious "Stone Cold" be if not for the Undertaker, huh? The man has worked for the damn company for nearly ten years, and has put people like Austin, the Rock, and many others over and had them accepted by the masses. He has injuries for which he takes very little time for, and doesn't take the time off because he enjoys working for the fans."
The kids are silent. The punk stared at me for a minute or so, wondering what the hell I was talking about. "Go worship your swearin', beer drinkin' chumpion somewhere else please," I told him, and went back to cleaning. They ran far enough away to watch me without getting hurt. Stupid kids; they don't know loyalty when they see it.
Another time was in November, during Thanksgiving. My relatives were all gathered in my small house (hard to believe they'd all fit in it) for Thanksgiving dinner. I was outside on the curb, surrounded by autumn leaves, sketching a picture of Austin being beaten in Hell by the Undertaker; I was wearing my Taker tee again. Nothing looked the way I wanted it to, but I just kept sketching anyway. A couple seniors were walking down the street, and stopped when they saw I was hard at work. They asked if they could see my drawing.
Of course, hoping to get praise for trying so hard to draw perfectly, I showed them. No matter how unreal it looked, I could tell they could recognize what was what. They looked back at me, noticed my shirt, and one said, "You suck! The Undertaker can never win a clean match, and certainly could never beat Austin. Not even with Austin's hands behind his back." I replied, "Do I care? I just enjoy the fact that he does what he does for his loyal fans."
The other guy said, "C'mon, Zach! Let's kill her for insulting our man!" I was completely not understanding what I said wrong. "What the hell did I say?!" I asked them. The second guy said that I was saying that Austin wasn't doing his job for the fans. I tried to protest, but they had me pinned in my own yard, punching with all their strength. Eventually, I was able to get up. As they were about to rush me again, I picked up a metal trash can lid, and shouted, "You want to make me bleed?! Want to make me suffer?!" I began to bang the lid against my head. Repeatedly, I did that. The guys looked at each other, fear surfacing on their faces. "RUN!" they shouted to each other.
By then, I was bleeding from a huge gash on my forehead, but I didn't feel the pain. I was glad that I had made my point; you can't beat a girl who beats herself. I put my finger in my flowing blood, and placed the blood on Austin's head; my version of First Blood. Had to get stitches, but they were worth it.
Things cooled down after that. Word got around of what I had done when the seniors attacked me, and barely anyone challenged me. I guess they were surprised that I could be so scary. There were still some knuckle-heads that decided to mock me when I wore my Taker tee, or when I put my latest drawings in my binder, or when I put new pictures from the Internet of him on my binder, notebooks, and such; mostly my brother and his friend, but of course, they just don't learn either. Pathetic souls, that's all they are. Jealous of his following, of his accomplishments, jealous of his perfection that drives us women wild.
It is now winter break, a few days before Christmas. Winter is bitter cold, and we constantly have the heater on. The snow glistens below my window in the dim lights of the day. It is early, and I am in my room, reading a few new stories that I printed out, written by my COTN friends, and listening to 95.9 KISS FM, my all-time favorite radio station. Taking a break, I go to the kitchen, grab some snacks and a Mountain Dew, and return to my room.
When I sit down on my bed, the radio D.J.'s, Andrew Z and Jamie Lawrence, begin talking about a new contest they were starting. "You know, Jamie, there are a lot of people out there that like this wrestling stuff," Andrew says.
"Yeah. Kinda surprising that people would actually watch hours of fake punches and kicks, and call it entertainment." Jamie replies. "And I hear that the World Wrestling Federation . . ." My ears pick up those words, and I listen intently. " . . . will be doing a par-per-view event called WrestleMania in March down in Milwaukee."
"That true, and we've got tickets for it, too, to give away in a contest!"
My ears hurt from straining and waiting for the details. "Okay, yeah, so out with it. What's the contest?" I ask the radio.
"So here's what you "wrestleholics" need to do. We want you to write an essay, story, poem, song, whatever it is you wanna write, and send it to us. The catch is, you need to use one of the wrestlers in that writing as one of the main characters. Include your name, age, brief description of how much of a wrestling fan you are, any weird or cool experiences, and of course, your entry. You can send it by mail, fax, or e-mail. Deadline for the writings is Valentine's Day." Andrew tells all listeners.
"We will read all entries, and take notes. The best writing we agree on will be the grand prize winner." Jamie continues. "The grand prize will be a four-day trip for the author and ten friends to Milwaukee, Madison(WI, not NY), and Chicago to see WrestleMania, a Monday night RAW is WAR, and a Smackdown! taping to be aired on the Thursday after that. Not only do you get tickets for all those events, you get a limo ride to all three events, prepaid hotel accommodations, and backstage passes to all three events as well!"
"So get writin' if you wanna be the lucky winner!" Andrew finishes. Then is goes to commercials. I sit back against my wall, and think hard about what to write. So many ideas flash through my mind. I've written some stuff before for TheUndertaker.net boards, mostly for the COTN that devour such writings. I need to write something no one would be able to write. Something that no one would dare to write(though it has been done numerous times before). I finally get an idea, and begin working right away. It takes me a couple weeks to write a really great story, and to make sure everything is perfect. When all is perfect, I e-mail it to the station.
********
It has been a few months since I sent in my entry, and I haven't heard anything from the radio station about the winner. Today is an off-day from school; teachers' meetings and such. Got to love those days. It is a few weeks from the biggest pay-per-view of the year, WrestleMania. I haven't thought much about the contest for a while. I am cleaning my room(once again, always cleaning my room) when I hear Andrew and Jamie come back on the air after a period of music.
"Today is someone's lucky day, because Andrew and I have finally chosen a winner for the four-day World Wrestling Federation package!" Jamie says cheerfully. "Tell them about the winner, Andrew."
"Alright, hold on. I have to find the info. I lost it again." Andrew says. He's always goofing off. "Okay, found it. This young winner has written a story way too detailed for her young age. Anyway, she wrote that she had been a WWF fan for a few years, since 1997, and have even gotten her friends and relatives hooked on it. Her favorite wrestler is a guy that goes by the persona of the Undertaker, and has been criticized for wearing apparel that has his symbol or face on it. The only refuge she has is a website called TheUndertaker.net, where she posts stories like this one to give pleasure to her COTN friends."
I begin to wonder whether that was what I sent in with my entry, or if that was someone else. Andrew continues, "The story is called "In Chains is Where I Discover the Truth" and is based on the fifth issue of the Undertaker comic. Really interesting stuff here. Hope all this wasn't in the comic!"
I begin to get nervous. That was the title of my story. God hoping that is mine. Again, he continues, "The lucky girl is sixteen-year-old Janet from De Pere!"
I jump up and down on my bed, shouting "YES! I WON, I WON!"
"Congrats to Janet," Jamie says. "Now, if you are out there, please call us. We will need some info from you."
I dial the number right away. When someone picks up the phone in the station, I immediately shout, "I'm the winner! I wrote the story! I'm Janet!"
We talk on the air for a few minutes. While off the air, I give them my address to send the limo to pick my friends and me up, then hang up. I'm so happy, I run around the entire house, shouting, "I WON! I WON!" Soon, my parents sent me outside to release all my energy.
Finally, something good happens to me for being an Undertaker fan. I can't wait for the last weeks before the pay-per-view to pass. I run back inside and make a list of who to invite, what to wear, what to take, what signs to make, and what the hell I'm gonna say to the superstars. I am so nervous, my writing looks like chicken scratch.
********
There we were, all eleven of us, waiting outside my house, on the cold Sunday morning of March 26. I had invited my best friends Amy G., Amy R., Andy, Morgan, Chrissy, Christine, Courtney, my cousin Alex, my brother Matt, and his friend Michael; that's how nice I was after learning that I won the tickets. Anyway, I called all these people. Most of them said that they didn't want to go., until I told them that they'd miss three days of school. Any time there's a chance to miss school, they'll jump at it, so they agreed to go. I am even nice enough to let my brother wear my Austin T-shirt, because I have my Taker tee that I love so much to wear.
The limo arrives at seven-thirty. It is a huge stretch-limo, with enough space to fit about ten more people. We pile into the vehicle, and begin to get really excited as we start on our way. Two hours later, the limo pulls into the parking lot of a huge hotel. We run inside and get our keys to our rooms. We each have our own room, the best rooms they have. They're not even rooms, they are suites, with baskets of candy and small fridges of sodas. Luckily, there are also baskets of fruits, so I am satisfied. Huge beds, huge TV's, and lots of room in the bathroom. My dream room, all paid for by writing a story.
I meet my gang out in the hallway. "Aren't you glad I wrote such stories now?" I ask them. They all nod, still in amazement of the suites. "C'mon! We better get back to the limo and go shopping!" Chrissy yells. Again, we run back to the limo, and head for the mall. We spend a few hours there, looking at all the shops, buying some pretty cool things like the latest CD's, newest T-shirts, and some funky things from a store called Spencer's Gifts. After our shopping spree, we go back to the limo, back to the hotel to retrieve our signs and WWF tee's, and are on our way to the Bradley Center.
The traffic to the Center is terrible. Many cars full of fans take forever to park. They line the parking lots, group around the entrances, stand around the areas where the wrestlers hang out before they go inside to get ready. I worry that maybe there won't be time for us to go backstage. I mean, I understand that this being the biggest pay-per-view of the year would attract a lot of fans from all over, but I worry, none-the-less.
Finally, we are able to get out of the limo. My group is escorted to the seating area by a security guard. He tells us that our seats are front row for the events. Lots of us are like "COOL!" "Great!" "Awesome!". I am just glad to finally be at a major event like this. Being in the front row won't hurt, either. We put our jackets on the backs of our chairs and head back to the main ticket area. Since there is nothing to do for a few hours, we stand outside, holding our signs up to any cameras that are capturing the "before the event" footage, watching the wrestlers arrive.
We see the Rock drive past us, and sort of wave to us while trying to avoid hitting over-zealous fans standing in the road. The security guards are complete assholes, as many of the COTN have posted on their experiences, pushing fans out of the way when all they have to do is ask nicely. They even drag some fans away from the wrestlers' entrance, when all they wanted to do was get some pictures of their faves. I have enough of this and head back inside, my friends right behind me.
We stop off at the concession stands to grab some eats. Nachos, sodas, pretzels, and other things are in our hands when we head back to our seats. Everyone in the arena is excited to be at such a big event like WrestleMania, and we are no exception. We talk, shout, laugh, and eat nachos in anticipation of the beginning of Sunday Night HEAT.
Finally, the show begins. We wave our signs as hard as we can. I have many signs with me; the one I have up the most is "Undertaker = WWF". The "T" is the Taker's symbol. I also have ones for DX, Kane, and the decline of the Austin era. Our group is loud and totally into the event. Yelling and shouting for our faves and booing the ones we hate. Over all, the night is totally excellent.
After the pay-per-view, the same security guard escorts us backstage. The activity back there is very active. People running around, trying to get things ready to be taken to the next arena, and all other sorts of stuff. We walk around with the guard, another asshole, just like the rest of them. Finally, we are taken near the locker room areas, where a bunch of the wrestlers are hanging out. Some are Mankind, the Rock, Triple H, and even Steve Austin. We get all of their autographs, but I am disappointed. I had hoped to meet the Undertaker, but he is nowhere to be seen.
The guard shows us to other areas where there is lots of commotion going on. I am in the back of the group, and I tell Morgan, "Cover for me, okay? I'm gonna go find some of the other wrestlers."
"Okay," she says. "Just come back before we leave."
I nod to her, and depart from the group, heading back the way we came. I search for a while, maybe about fifteen to twenty minutes, before I give up looking for the Undertaker, and try to get back to the group. I end up getting lost by the bathrooms. "Damn it! Why don't I ever stay with the groups I'm assigned?!" I say out loud to myself.
Suddenly, before I am about to run like a bat out of Hell toward the exit door close by, the one and only Mark Callaway appears in front of me, making his way to the door. I try not to look as anxious and nervous as I really was, and I walk toward him as he is walking out the door. I run through the door, and catch up to him. "Mr. Callaway, may I get an autograph from you real quick?" I ask as politely as possible.
"Not right now. I'm kinda in a hurry." he replies in that deep, rich accent that drives women even more stir-crazy.
"Oh, okay. That's alright." I say to him. "I understand. Really, I do." And I do. Being famous isn't what everyone thinks it's like, with everyone coming up to you for autographs, pictures, and such.
He sort of smiles back at me, and continues on his way. I go back inside the arena to locate my friends.
I spot the others going past the bathroom areas. I run over to them, and make sure to tell Morgan that I am back. We make our way back to the limo, and we return to the hotel. I tell my friends of my expedition, and they reply by telling me that I had to have been crazy to do such a risking thing as to sneaking off. I roll my eyes, but make a goal for myself: to get the Undertaker's autograph, and maybe get a few more words out of him in the process. I fall asleep, my dreams racing through my head as usual.
********
The arena in Madison is jam packed with rambunctious fans once more. We arrive quiet early, as we did yesterday. I tell my friends to go on and find the seats, and I'd join them in a few minutes. They went on their way, and I stood near the wrestler' entrance to wait. Most of the wrestlers that we got autographs from recognize me, and say, "Hi" or "How's it goin'?" Really nice bunch of guys. Throughout my wait, Taker didn't show up. I guess I am outside too long because my friends come to retrieve me. I sigh, pretty disappointed. My friends try to cheer me up by telling me that we have two more nights to get the autograph. I begin to feel better, and actually whistle all the way to the concession area and to our front row seats.
Again, a great show. I think that once or twice the camera caught my Taker sign; I'm not sure. It had to be one of the best RAW's I've ever seen. After the show, we went to the backstage area again. We get a few new autographs from some of the wrestlers that we didn't see last night. After a little while, the guard is called away to break up some sort of brawl or whatever that is happening outside. He leaves us by a wall, saying, "Stay here. I'll be right back for you."
We lean against the wall, talking just a little loudly, trying to stay out of the way of the people that work behind the scenes, and waiting for the guard to return. "What kinda guard just leaves a group alone for such a long time without leaving a replacement?" I ask my group after twenty minutes. They laugh and shrug their shoulders. I turn my head toward where the guard rushed off, and noticed the Taker talking to someone. I'm guessing the guy is a "creative writer".
"Hey, there he is," Courtney says, nudging me. "Go get his autograph."
"No, I don't want to interrupt him," I reply. "He looks busy."
"So? You're always talking about meeting him and all. Hell, you even write stories about him." Amy R. says.
I smile in her direction. "Yeah, but I was thinking of him NOT being busy when I do meet him. You know, not making it a rush job."
They nod, and we go back to chattering away. After a few minutes, the guard comes back for us. We make our way down the hall where Taker is still talking to that "creative writer" guy. I steal a glance at him. He looks into my eyes for a split second before I look away, and continue on my way with the group.
We arrive at the new hotel half an hour later. It is late, but no one is tired. We all hang out in my suite, and my friends try to figure out what's with me and my obsession(that is what they tell me it is, and it's most likely true). "What is it that attracts you to a guy that looks like a guy right out of Hell?" Andy asks.
"Yeah. That's all you write about. It gets really creepy when you do some of those more descriptive stories of yours." Morgan replies.
"I don't know," I reply back. "It's just the way he does things. Takes care of business, even if he doesn't achieve what he says he will."
"Maybe it's because he has tattoos and most likely Harley-Davidson cycles," Amy G. says. I throw a pillow at her. She throws it right back.
"Is THAT why you want a bike?" Amy R. asks.
"NO! I want a bike because I don't want that rundown car that my parents don't use anymore. And because I want to have something different from what everyone else has, plus I have a need for speed and excitement." I argue.
"Yeah, whatever." Christine says. "You know it's because of him."
I attack her with a pillow, and the others grab pillows and join in. After we finish the monster pillow fight, my brother, his friend, and my cousin all ask, in their own ways, "What's the Undertaker dude got that no other guy in the WWF has?"
I stare at them, not sure if they were joking. "You've got be kidding, right?" They shake their heads. "You seriously don't know?" They shake their heads again.
"Well, let's see, he's got gorgeous long, dark hair that she'd love to run her fingers through. . ." Christine begins.
"Gots more tattoos than most of the wrestlers. . ." Andy continues.
"He's taller than her. Way taller." both Amy's say.
"Supposively rides Harley's, which she wouldn't hesitate to climb on behind him. . . " Chrissy says in a tone that's suppose to make it sound sexual.
"And is dripping with sex appeal!" Morgan finishes, continuing from what Chrissy said. From what they said, you can tell they've read all my stories. The three younger boys look at each other, disgusted.
"Think what you want, but that's the truth," I reply. Looking at the clock, realize it's way too late, and usher everyone out of my room. We would need our sleep; we have to leave early tomorrow to get to Chicago on time.
