The woman in the raspberry mask storms down the hall, both hands buried in the pocket of her sweatshirt.
This, only her second night as an active wrestler for a major promotion, was supposed to go differently. There should have been celebrations, and brazen in-ring promos daring the roster at large to come for the championship she shared with her partner, a dipshit in a blueberry costume that she planned to make very dead before the night is over. But instead, Jared had devised a half-witted plan to terrorize a member of the team who won the right to challenge them at Ultraviolence, the Winds of Change’s Joe Fontaine.
The plan, a blasphemy against the laws of physics that saw Jared tape handfuls of sparklers to a pair of roller skates, was so ridiculous that she felt obligated to stop it, if not for the team’s reputation then at least for her own. For that reason the woman called Reina Raspberry – a name she chose despite hating it – spent the better part of her night chasing a man barely out of college, as he in turn tried to corral a mannequin gone rogue.
Sparklers and skates. There is no goddamn reason that should have worked for as long as it did, or even at all, and yet the goddamn mannequin kept on rolling down the goddamn corridor while goddamn Mark sweated years off his life.
Her focus is singular as she moves through the corridor, which is why she pays little mind to the camera that follows close behind. Once more she rolls over the plan in her head. The locker room is close, and by now he’s bound to be there. She’ll meet him inside, will unleash The Rant, and then follow it with The Murder.
The door is ajar, and so she pushes it open with ease, finding him seated on a folding chair with a towel over his head.
Reina Raspberry: That was the dumbest thing I have probably ever done! Do you have any idea how long your babysitter Mark had to chase that thing? I told him to just let it fall, because that’s how gravity is supposed to work, but…
There’s a crunch and a squish underfoot, and she withdraws it to see the remnants of an eggshell and an errant blueberry on the floor. She pauses, taking a second to scan the room. His shirt – one about a ‘wrestling hipster’ – is stained purple in spots, and in others is coated with a viscous fluid. The graveyard of paper towels around his feet are similarly stained.
And still, the son of a bitch is smiling.
King Blueberry: Hey, so, I don’t suppose you brought any flour and sugar back with you.
He pulls away the towel, revealing that part of his mask is equally marked in yellow and blue.
King Blueberry: I’m about halfway towards a really shitty muffin. Thought maybe someone else brought the rest of the ingredients.
She says nothing, the scene before her is a far cry from what she expected, or planned to create. The Murder is no longer part of the schedule.
He picks another bit of shell off his shirt and flicks it to the floor.
King Blueberry: Yeah, so this has been a weird day.
Her jaw hangs open, still frozen mid-sentence, but The Rant will have to wait. She turns wordlessly and steps back into the corridor, closing the door behind her.
Only then does she start laughing.