Cult Manhattan vs Ginger Knox

Your girl is probably goin' home with me 'cuz you ugly.

As another line of cocaine disappears up my nostrils, I once again find myself in awe of the monumental effect that everyday chemistry can have on ya gurl's outlook. C17H21NO4 binds to the dopamine transporter. Dopamine stays trapped in the synapse, accumulating and firing en masse. This is what euphoria feels like: brain cells on fire.

I drum my fingers along the edge of the sink. My eyes are bloodshot; I'm pushing 62 hours without sleep (side effect: insomnia). It's whatever, though. Between the neon yellow crop top and the hip-hugging microskirt I have on, the last place anyone will be looking at is my eyes. The beautiful chaos swirling inside my skull is almost enough to make me forget where I am: the grimy, dim bathroom of one of the sketchiest night clubs in Las Vegas. The room reeks of vomit and cum, though right now it smells like roses compared to the stench of body odor on the dancefloor. The DJ's been playing the same Carpenter Brut song for the past half-hour. If it wasn't such a banger, I'd almost be annoyed.

I take a few more seconds to inspect myself in the mirror. Under the flickering fluorescent lights and in the dirty mirror, I can see every incoming pimple on my forehead (side effect: anxiety). Yikes. I grit my teeth and cock my head to the side, leaning into the mirror to get a better look. Deep breaths. It'll be fine.

Shaking my head, I reach into the waistband of my skirt and retrieve my phone before scrolling aimlessly through social media. I like some goth bitch's new header photo because I swear every time I think that aesthetic is dead, someone comes along and makes it sing (side effect: hypersexuality). It's a nice distraction from the fact that the Golden Knights lost toKnight (not a side effect: shitty puns).

Pushing away from the sink, I slide my phone back into place and stumble out of the bathroom like I'm walking with someone else's legs. I almost trip on my way out the door, body careening towards jagoff brushing by me on the way to the men's room. He turns his head my way and huffs, though he doesn't actually say anything. Typical white hipster burnout. You can tell from his getup and his limp-wristed phobia of confrontation. Newsflash, dickweed: you can only get away with rocking a Hawaiian shirt unironically in Miami and stepping out of the house with that undercut/goatee combo in Portland. Glitter Gulch wants nothing to do with your Silicon Valley-reject wannabe tech-bro ass, drag your hot mess appearance and the acoustic guitar you no doubt have in the backseat of your old Ford Bronco up to Reno or Carson City you fucking doofus.

My heart thumps hard in my chest and I can hear my molars scraping together over the music (side effects: tachycardia and teeth grinding) as I make my way past the dancefloor towards the VIP section where my entourage is waiting. That is, if you consider one frustrated and overworked talent agent an 'entourage'. My legs finally start to work the second I make it to our table. Zabel — my agent and one true platonic love — shakes her head as I slide into my seat, eyes wide as silver dollars. It's funny how quickly perspectives can change; sitting next to me, that cheap, low-cut cocktail dress she has on could probably pass for modest.

"Sorry, had to powder my nose," I say, chuckling, to break the tension.

"Yeah, I can see that." She snickers, gesturing toward the rim of my nostril, no doubt stained China-white. Her accent is more pronounced the usual — you hear her talk normally and it almost sounds like she's lived in Saffernshissco all her life but right now, it's like she just got off the boat. Her sharp, bug-like eyes are softer than normal, leading to only one conclusion: she's faded. I grin at the revelation, leaning back in my seat and crossing my legs.

"Looks like the party didn't wait for me."

"Working is the ruin of the drinking class."

"Ain't that the truth."

Her face tightens for a second, jaw agape, as if looking for the right words. She exhales with a neutral expression, suddenly sober. Damn her lucidity, and damn my naivete. Of course I wasn't going to get through the night without hearing the question she's going to ask next:

"Are you really sold on this wrestling thing?" Her eyes are scalpels, poking me until it hurts. My smile doesn't falter.

"Of course. Have I ever reneged on a commitment?"

"There was that project Goldblum was producing."

I roll my eyes. "Fuck Goldblum. Surprised that creep hasn't been #MeToo'd yet."

"I'm just saying, it's a weird career path, even for you. I don't know if people will buy it as genuine."

"People will believe anything you put in front of them so long as you make it sing. You told me that, right?"

She chuckles, leaning back for a second.

"So you have been listening."

"Every word."

She leans in closer, scrutinizing me with a smirk on her face. "And this whole thinly-veiled flirting with any chick that looks at you thing?"

I shrug, glaring at her. "Marketing 101: sex sells. Amendment 1A: girl-on-girl is hot. It's easy promotion, even if the whole 'dyke wrestler' market is saturated as is."

"And that leads to making kissy faces on Twitter with the girl who's looking to kick your head off your shoulders."

"You make it sound like I'm not trying to do the same thing. I know the score, Zabel. But maybe…"

"Maybe what?" She pounds the table with an open palm. If she was drunk before, she's miraculously sober now. Which means she's either an alien (she does have the eyes for it) or she was playing me. Figures, I couldn't smell the booze on her breath, by any rate.

"Maybe she doesn't know that I know the score. Think about it, I'm some Hollywood reject, right? I make music that's unironically enjoyed by the same twenty-something burnouts who strive for the very same things I'm mocking. I'm pretty sure my name has more symbols in it than actual letters. All of this screams 'I have no idea what I'm doing.' Ginger can see that. I know she can. She isn't stupid. I just hope she's arrogant. That she won't let herself see past the image on the surface.

"Not because I think she couldn't, but because I know she can. So I need to give her no reason to suspect anything whatsoever. Yeah, I'll make kissy faces at her on Twitter. Maybe I'll buy one of those posters of her they're already selling. Run up to her in the back like a stupid fucking mark and ask her to sign it before we go out there. Acknowledge that she is quite attractive, make her feel good. Maybe toe the line between acceptable flirty behavior and borderline sexual harassment to really sell the attraction.

"Then when we're in the ring, you better bet I'll play to the crowd. I'll lick that bitch all over. And while I may wind up enjoying that part — you know me, I'll try anything once — you know who will enjoy it? They will. The people who spend money to watch us. They're perverts, I tell ya. All of them. How could they not be? They're watching modern day gladiatorial combat. Sure, it's a bit watered down from the days of the Romans, but it's socially acceptable carnage. There's a certain kind of person who's into that, and those types will make a fucking star out of some vapid slut who engages in light sexual assault in the ring. Mark my words.

"But, don't think for a second that I'll let reputation building distract me from the task at hand. When the time comes, you can call me Caesar. Thumb up, thumb down, shit's over. When I'm sure the fix is in, I'll spring the trap and drop the cunt on her pretty little head or yank her arm out of its socket. Whichever is more convenient given the situation. If all goes according to plan, she won't realize what's happening until it's over."

Zabel — who'd been listening intently with a slowly growing smile — begins to slowly clap, though her sneer is mocking.

"Did you just wing that sales pitch or had you been sitting on it for a while?"

"Fuck you, you're just mad you didn't put it in my head."

"And you're confident in this plan? That this Ginger Knox will be dumb enough to fall for it?"

"That's the thing," I interject, pressing a finger to Zabel's lips. "She isn't dumb enough to fall for it. If that were the case we wouldn't be having this discussion. You know better than anyone that it isn't a victory if you deceive anyone who already trusts you. It's expected. She has no reason to trust me. Nothing's stopping her from seeing through the ruse.

"I just have to convince her not to."

Zabel rolls her eyes. "Alright, let me rephrase: you think you're persuasive enough to make her fall for it?"

"Aren't I? After all, I got you to sign off on this little venture in the first place."

She sighs. "Fair enough."