WFWF General Discussion 2006: L.L.L.B.D.™'s Cattle Drive

What's in a surname? For most people, it's an identifiable family crest, something to show that they belong to a certain clan. The people they identify with as their family. It's the name they're born into. For young women, a surname is something you grow up with until you marry, when you take on the surname of your significant other. If I can only be so lucky, it'll be the greatest gift I could be given.

For me, my surname brings upon me a black plague. My surname makes me a pariah to anyone who knows where it comes from and for anyone who knows my father, I am further ostracized and outcasted for the atrocities he committed. The opportunities most children have to follow in their parents' professional footsteps were not afforded to me. My stay at home (and take pills) mother laid the groundwork for only a future of chemical dependency for me. And my father? Hah, I guess that's why I'm here now, isn't it?

I can't summarize my father in a few words. No one can. I've spent my entire life trying to validate what he's done or at least come to terms with it. But the atrocities that I've witnessed first hand have shaped me and the last couple of years of his career provided visuals that will haunt me in my dreams for most of my life. I picture myself particularly in the situational violence against women he seemed to gain the most delight in. How he could carry out this extreme and often times unmotivated violence against women when he himself claimed everything he did was motivated by me, and the desire to protect me and my sister, is simply contradictory.

The malevolence I watched my father gleefully enjoy made me question the blood that was running through my own veins and the only conclusion I could come up with is that I myself am evil as well, lustfully evil by default.

I am the devil's daughter.

I am Samantha Schneider.



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Sam, you're losing it...

Am I? It makes sense. I haven't been sleeping lately. Every time I sleep, I get these visions. Visions of bad things. Visions of him. Visions of me getting hurt. Visions of me hurting people. I can see the feet flying at my face. I can feel the barbed wire cutting my flesh. I can feel the bones crunching under my feet. I can smell the blood spilling on the ground, you know that bitter, metallic smell? I smell that every time I dream. And every time I sleep, I dream. It's haunting me. I can't get away from it.

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I've never been a fitness enthusiast. As seen by some of my less than motivated performances during my title reign, working out, physical fitness, and body building in general have never been a strong suit of mine. But since retiring, since the nagging injuries have worn off, I've found a certain serenity in running. Particularly running this path. I've discovered an old bicycle path and in the town I've been living in, Kashihara City, that no one uses. I've never seen a bicyclist on it. They ride in the streets. So this, this is my own private running trail. I use this as my time to unwind.

I pop on my running shoes and throw in my headphones and away I go. Legs turned on, brain turned off for the next half hour to an hour. Lately I've been listening to podcasts during this time because I feel like I'm beginning to forget English the longer I'm here. Arigatogozaimashita comes naturally instead of thank you. My dreams are even in Japanese now. So to listen to people converse in English for an hour a day reminds me that I do speak English. I've been finding weird quirks in my English when I do speak it now, like “good day have you?” instead of “did you have a good day?”. I'm beginning to speak English like a native Japanese speaker and that scares me.

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In the moment it was off camera, stage hands have rushed to stand vertical light tubes up all the way down the entrance way. It looks somewhat like a two hundred light tube match is about to take place in the entrance way. Every third light tube, another weapon lays on the ground. Lining the ramp in addition to the light tubes are steel folding chairs, barbed wire baseball bats, a manequein head with skewers jammed into the scalp, and a shattered table. Samantha walks onto the stage. As opposed to traditional wrestling gear, she's wearing a flowing white dress fashioned to a mini skirt, though her hands are taped and she is wearing knee and elbow pads. She's opted for wrestling shoes rather than wrestling boots. Her entrance onto the staging area is with complete silence. No music playing through the arena. She stands for a moment. Then the lights cut out, except for a single spotlight shining down on her. An ominious, yet familiar voice rings down from the ceiling.

Phillip Schneider: They're all going to laugh at you, Samantha.

Her father's voice fades away, replaced by piped in laughter. Then from the ceiling, a blood like substance falls. It falls down onto Samantha, over her head, covering her face and white dress in this red viscus fluid. Samantha's hazel eyes become as big as saucers, the laugh through the arena turns to a cackle. An uproarious laughter, though all piped in, has consumed the arena. And Samantha, in her catotonic state, stares into the crowd and has convinced herself that the laughter is coming from there. With an unblinking gaze, she starts down the ramp. Samantha walks near the first light tube. And as she passes by it, it explodes. A giant explosion shoots shpapnel from both sides of the stage. And Samantha continues walking down the ramp, the second light tube repeats the action of the first. Then the third light tube. Nearing the first weapons, they begin to raise from the ground. On the left side of the ramp, a barbed wire baseball bat slowly begins to levitate. On the right side, a steel chair floats into the heavens. They're shaking a little bit, an almost magnetic pull dragging them away from the ground and towards the ceiling.

Samantha continues her trek towards the ring. More light tubes explode. Glass showers from both sides of the entrance ramp, raining down to the ground after ricochetting off of the blood spattered Samantha Schneider.