Post by Isabella Olivieri on Jun 15, 2016 3:07:13 GMT
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Prologue:
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Maybe it was the sudden awareness of the fact that I was approaching twenty-five years on this Earth without anything to show for it and the desperate desire to rectify that situation. Maybe it was the nagging bit of my brain still stuck in high school, dreaming of a spot in the social hierarchy I could never hope to attain. Or maybe it was something much, much simpler: curiosity. Whatever it was, when Isabella Olivieri, who I hadn't even thought about after I graduated, reached out to me to document her life, assuring me that she was going to "blow up brighter than anything this city's ever seen," I accepted without so much of a second thought.
Knowing Miss Olivieri's penchant for manipulation firsthand, recalling an incident where she faked a nervous breakdown to get out of giving a speech she hadn't prepared for, I knew that on some level I'd have to doubt most, if not all, of her own accounts. In order to obtain enough background to accurately differentiate fact from embellishment from fiction, I made it my mission to seek out those who could shed some light into the type of person I'd be dealing with. It was this search that led me to Western Oaks Mobile Home Park in the heart of Odessa to get a few words from her older brother Danny.
If any member of the Olivieri family exemplified the family's dodgy reputation, it was Daniel "Danny" Olivieri Jr. Around town, Danny was known for two things: being an absolute beast on the football field, and being a drunken asshole off the field. After graduating high school with a 3.6 GPA (due almost entirely to the fact that he had Pepettes to do his homework for him), many thought he'd be the one to break free of the chains of his last name. To rise above the family's perpetual mediocrity. He had the talent to go pro. Then the arrests started piling up. A DUI he plead guilty to that got him a week in jail and mandatory classes alongside numerous assault charges and in the blink of an eye he showed his true colors. He was an Olivieri through and through. Just another crazy guido fuck, as my father would say.
I had decided to dress to impress when meeting Danny, which meant that by the time I made it from my air-conditioned car to the front door of his trailer in the near-one hundred degree weather I'd already worked up a sweat that stained the pits of my white dress shirt. When Danny opened the door and I caught a glimpse of him for the first time in almost a decade, I'm sure my pits were drenched. His 6'5 frame towered over me, one hand wrapped around a can of Lone Star (his third of the day he'd tell me later, despite it not even being noon yet), a cigarette in the other. He dropped the cigarette on the ground and snuffed it out before clearing his throat.
"You the guy who called me yesterday?" he asked in a harsh, gravelly voice.
At a loss for words, I could only nod. He eyed me for a moment and ushered me into his humble abode.
His trailer was a sweltering cesspool of crushed beer cans and discarded TV dinner containers. I took a seat at the flimsy square table in the middle of the trailer. Danny stood at the opposite end of the table with his arms crossed and in that same harsh voice, he asked me what I wanted to interview him about, in much more colorful language of course.
"Your sister hired me to act as sort of a biographer for her."
Danny chuckled: a hacking, wheezing laugh.
"You're fuckin' with me, right? Jesus, 'Bella's got you all messed up, man. Shouldn't be surprised, I guess. It's what she does."
"What does she do?"
"Gets in people's heads, man. Fucks 'em all up, turns 'em around and shit until they don't even know what's real and what ain't. Guess you're a bit smarter than a lot 'a them though, seein' as you're comin' to me and shit. She couldn't have possibly sent you my way."
"And why not?"
"I'm gonna be up front with you, man because you seem like a good guy. My sister is a lying bitch. I mean I love her sure, but I ain't gonna mince words and sugarcoat it, that's the type of person she is. If you're gonna do this shit, remember that. Nothing is more important to Isabella than Isabella. Don't let her try and tell ya otherwise."
We talked for a few more minutes after that. Idle conversation, mostly. Bits and pieces of a timeline of her life from his perspective. Major things: her B.A. in Psychology, a wide collection of odd-jobs, her habit of falling off the face of the earth as far as the rest of the Olivieris were concerned. One item on the timeline jumped out at me over all, however: three years ago she married some electrician by the name of James Heston. The marriage only lasted a few months, but that news gave me another lead to chase down.
As I made my way out of the trailer, sweat-drenched, into that hellish Odessa sun, only one phrase echoed through my head:
"My sister is a lying bitch."
This was about to become a hell of a lot more interesting.
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Intermission
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I feel for you, Kayla. I really, really… don't. Okay, yeah, I have no sympathy at all, whatsoever for you. What were you expecting, a eulogy for your hopes and dreams? I can give you an epitaph, if it'll make you feel better: "Here lies the hopes and dreams of Kayla Richards, y'know she really should've seen this coming." Something like that? I like it; it's concise. To the point. Y'know, none of that wannabe-artsy, poetic nonsense. No weeping for the potential, no fixation on the past that can't be changed. Just an acknowledgement of a fact. She really should've seen this coming.
I mean, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to put two and two together. You take an owner who has no real regard for the sanctity of competition, and a sycophantic follower to that owner, then put them together. Place that combination against Kayla Richards who for all of her supposed talent, y'know, the shit she can't shut her trap about, lacks any real foresight and what's the answer you come up with?
Alright everyone, finish the calculation?
Good. On three, say it with me:
One.
Two.
Three-- Crystal Millar beating Kayla Richards.
It's simple math, really.
But it's fine, Kayla. It's fine that you don't think. It really is. I mean after all it just makes the pickings easier and there's nothing more fun than shattering egos into tiny little pieces. So, go ahead Kayla. Mourn the loss of that opportunity. Brood. Listen to some Hawthorne Heights or Good Charlotte, really get your angst on. Maybe swear revenge against all those who wronged you and pay no attention to little ol' me.
Little Isabella Olivieri, the woman who's going to turn into a pretzel. Twist you, turn you, contort you into all manners of uncomfortable position until you either tap out or something breaks. Tears. Pops out of place. I'm not picky. A win's a win, and if the loser gets put on the shelf for the foreseeable future, well is that really so bad? After all, this is a dog eat dog world, if one of the dogs gets eaten then whoops, that's the nature of the beast.
Don't think I'm saying these things, insinuating grievous bodily harm out of hatred. I don't hold any malice towards you Kayla, hell, I don't even know you. I'm bringing up the possibility of breaking you down piece by piece because I'm aiming right for the top, and you're the first hurdle in my path. You're the first challenge. And after all, you only get one chance to make a first impression.
So I'm going to make that first impression to the crowd, to Miss Valentine, with a victory by any means necessary. Nothing personal, just business. We're modern day gladiators, after all. Fighting for our livelihoods in arenas full of shouting fans demanding blood. And in the audience is the Emperor with the ultimate power over our fates: the ability to determine whether we live or die. So, don't take it too harshly, Kayla.
Hell, we could even make a little game out of it. You want a safe word? Okay, if I'm wrenching a hold in a little too tight, all you have to do is scream the phrase "I'm a fucking loser" and I'll let go.
I like it, at least. Has a ring to it.
Good talk.
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Runaway
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On some level, Jared Burrell knew he should've expected this. The would-be biographer let his head fall backwards into the booth and sighed, drumming his fingers along the edge of the table in front of him. His eyes drifted to the nearest clock, reading 2:45. There was no way around it, Isabella stood him up.
A wave of disappointed crashed down atop him as the seconds ticked away. The purpose he'd been searching so long for, just slipping through his fingers and thee worst part was the fact that there was nothing he could do to stop it. He'd sent numerous text messages to no avail. "Fuckin' bitch," he muttered under his breath. "Can't even be bothered to clue me in on the fact that I'm wasting my time."
Then his phone vibrated. The screen flashed to life, proudly displaying "ONE NEW MESSAGE" on the small screen. He flipped the phone open and saw it.
Change of plans. I'm outside.
He shook his head and groaned, sliding the phone into his pocket before pushing himself out of the booth and walking through the barren McDonald's, eyes fixed on the large window that looked into the parking lot where a dirty red 2003 Pontiac Grand Am pulled into a the space right in front of the window. Isabella waved from the driver's seat.
She rolled down the window as he approached, his face beet red.
"You got a lot of nerve--"
"Get in. We're going to Las Vegas."
His eyes widened in surprise.
"What? I can't just go to-- I don't even know what it is you're doing!"
She sighed. "And you won't know unless you get in this car. Do you really want to walk away from this opportunity?"
Jared froze. The crushed feeling in the pit of his stomach when he convinced himself he'd lost his chance at having a purpose gave an encore performance, as if his own body was trying to force him into Isabella's car. His hear beat rapidly in his chest as he felt the same sensation: once more his purpose slipping through his fingers. Only this time he had a chance to stop it. He just needed to bite the bullet.
"Come on, don't tell me you'd rather be here."
He sighed.
"Fuck it, alright."
He'd done it. He bit the bullet. As he walked over to the other side of the car and settled into the passenger's seat, the bile building up in the back of his throat let him know one simple, but all-important fact.
He didn't like the taste.