THE NEW WORLD TRASH ADDRESS THEIR ENEMIES

The hardest thing to do is to start, especially if you are doing everything in your power not to.

Joggers and a leather jacket. October had just started and sixty degrees was not the norm for Seattle. The norm? Look around and smell the ashes, Rebecca; the world is shit, as always. Logical conclusion? A founded rationale after Leg Day. At least the leggings felt like a slice of heaven. A silent prayer for ‘dreamknit’; polyester and elastane, hallowed be thy names. Gooseflesh pebbled across her exposed midriff, a subtle glisten from a too quick pat dry after a shower. She’d forgotten her flip flops.

Bleach the tiles all one could, she still wouldn’t trust the surface enough to go in barefoot. All the same, she couldn’t stand the sensation of gym sweat drying against her skin. Purify. Odd, then, that the same wasn’t applicable when the wrestling ring was involved. Mystical canvas grime? Maybe. Or maybe it was endorphin rush and bone tired exhaustion from every bit of herself expended creating an intoxicating cocktail. A WONDERFUL high. No dragons to chase here.

Thank god.

No, thank Jake Colton. Dumbass Benny was worth it.

Shhhh. Don’t tell him.

(Spoiler: she already had. Many, many times. No, not like that. Not like THAT either. She knows where your mind is going. Pervert.)

Walking uphill, both ways. That’s Queen Anne. All slopes. A clear night. Not only were Lake Union and the Space Needle shimmering, but she could also see Mount Rainer out on the horizon, haze ensconced and crowned in cognac and sangria hues. Bennington’s was right around the corner and about a block from their townhome on McGraw, so the chill she felt would remain tolerable. No onlookers as she made her way, backpack slung over her shoulder. All the better; the construction workers working on Bigelow Avenue didn’t get the hint that they were supposedly in a more enlightened part of the country. Catcalls from the gym? ‘Hey Mami, where’s the make up? You’re smokin, but you’d look even better all dolled up.’

Who the fuck wears make up to the gym? ‘Oh, sorry, Boo, but this Muscle Mommy doesn’t want to have her eyeliner bleed into her eyes and burn like a bitch when she’s on mile three on the elliptical, but I’ll make sure to be more aware of your needs in the future.’ Dumbasses. Even the hammerfuckers also going for their welding certification at South Seattle had more respect on the basest of levels.

Big. Sigh. Not even there, and just the mere thought of them was exhausting.

Home was a thousand square feet spread across three floors of narrow modern architecture that made her think of a jenga set. Sort of. Jenga blocks couldn’t get away with such massive windows. Couldn’t argue the view, though. Mid-twenties working class weren’t part of the gentrification strategy. Did her septum piercing help stave off the stench of being bougie?

No; the heavy waft of Girl School Cookies the moment she keyed herself in the door would do that, alongside the trans and antifa flags plastering the walls of the entrance level. She peeled off her sneakers with her socked insteps, kicking them across the hardwood before taking off up the stairs. One two one two one two. Was there any relief for her poor glutes, Jesus. Rounding the corner of the living room midlevel, the source of the dank was abundantly clear.

Angelica Quinley. Roommate. Tag team partner. Bestie. To The Deather. Thicker than blood Sister. But right now?

Ms. Inconsiderate.

“You got boba and you didn’t even think to ask me if I wanted some, Ang?”

Angel’s attention didn’t waver from her focus on what was before her; the Paragon Warsuit attached to the painting handle and the brush gently skimming along the miniature’s exposed edges. Her wrists were locked, bracing against the standing desk filled with all array of paint brushes and a wet palette and dropper bottles of acrylic paints and the hobby light shining from above and the coffee cups filled with paint water. A would be solid posture, if not for the fact that her legs weren’t crossed in a tailor’s posture. Putting the model down and grasping her purple cup, she took a sip from her taro milk tea, making sure to embellish her lip smack and satisfied sigh to annoying levels. “Dude...you didn’t answer when I asked.”

Rebecca tossed her backpack onto the couch, plopping next to it and burying herself into the cushions next to it with a ‘grown up’ pout. “Doubt it.” Ding. She reached for the phone.

Right on cue. “Told ya.”

Clear as day, despite the delay. “Dammit.”

“I thought you got that fixed. Been doing this ever since you dropped your phone and I don’t know why you keep putting it off–”

“I don’t know, Ang. Why wouldn’t I want to spend an afternoon at T-Mobile waiting for them to tell me to upgrade? Doesn’t it sound like fun? Didn’t you love doing that when you worked there–”

“–I totally loved my job. It was the most rewarding time of my life. Best sixteen hours you could spent a week, tell you what.”

Rebecca sighed, drawing her nails outward with a flare of her chipped fingernails. What a mess; the payne’s grey on its last legs. “I’ll do it tomorrow. Get my nails done at the same time. Going to need something to do while they transfer everything on my phone to a new one, so why not?”

Angel took a hit off her vape pen, breathing in deeply before exhaling through her nostrils. She unloaded her brush in her water pot before swirling the bristles into fresh water. Her roommate watched the next step and shook her head; why did she lick her brush? ‘You get better moisture control with your mouth than using a paper towel.’ Okay...painter eater. “You know, they might not try and upsell you. They might just fix the problem.”

A moment.

Then, a shared laugh. “They’re so upselling you, bitch.” Angel dipped the tip of her brush into the pool of white blue paint, twirling the handle between her fingers and filling the belly while keeping a sharp point before dabbing away the excess on the palette paper. “I DoorDashed some Big Mario’s. It’s on the stove if you want a slice.”

She did feel a hole growing in her stomach. Then again, this was Angel. “Is there anything green on that pizza?”

Quinley glowered in her direction as she snatched the painting handle from her desk. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Green pepper. Spinach.”

“I reiterate; what. The. Fuck. Is. Wrong. With. You?”

“You liked the spinach!”

“I tolerated the spinach. And that wasn’t Big Mario’s. That was from Pequod’s when RIA was cloak and daggering her come back. Totally different pizza philosophies, Bex. Totally different tastes.”

Rebecca grunted in disgust as she pushed herself up from the couch by the heels of her hands. “I just can’t with you–”

“--pizza is a boat that makes deliveries. Meat deliveries. It is the perfect vessel of pepperonis and bacons and sausages and hams–”

With purpose, she made her way into the kitchen, seeing the extra large New York style pizza loaded to the brim with pepperoni. “--can you, like, function…without grease in your life?”

“--no. I will literally die.” Her wrists locked in place once again. Time to tease the raised areas on the model where the light would naturally reflect. No more neanderthal blends. Now was the time for precision. She threw back her mop of blonde and fringe neon blue, her messy mohawk loose without gel. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“I’m dramatic?!” Opening the refrigerator door, Rebecca sought out her oyster pail of beef and broccoli on the third shelf, flipping the lid open and then grabbing a pair of used chopsticks from the sink. Worries about sanitation? Well, they were hers from last night, so… “One day, karma is catching up to you, and it’s going to stick to your thighs. And then you’re going to be all ‘OH GARLIC AND BUTTER AND CHEESE, WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN ME’--”

It mattered where the brush stroke began and where it stopped; more paint would be deposited at the end. Following the rounded arms of the model from both sides, she did a quick stabbing stipple to obscure the joining point. “And until it does, the pact I signed with Hoyt is still sealed, and there’s nothing to worry about.”

A gag at the mention of ‘God’s Personal Champion ’“...I’m trying to eat here...”

Angel stuck her tongue out instinctively as she attempted to focus on the task at hand. Even still, she understood when she crossed a line. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have taken it that far...”

Even fridge cold, the broccoli hit the spot even more so than the beef. “Apology accepted.”

“Oh, by the way, Jake was also trying to get a hold of you and couldn’t so he got a hold of me. He’s wanting to know if we’re serious about doing more shots with Rust Belt. I said I figure so, but I’m not the one who is making those decisions–”

Those decisions. There’s a bite subtextually. Underneath the surface. Bex knew. You don’t spend as much time with someone and not pick up on the subtleties. All the same? She was going to push off and act like she was blissfully ignorant. “It’d be nice to do them. It’s the Coltons. Get to spend more time with Benny. I mean, I feel like that’s a win win.”

Tension. Seeping in. “Yeah. I guess so.”

La la la. She wasn’t liiiiistening. “Did I tell you that Tom was asking about us doing Lucha Especial? I’m thinking Inoue wants to get something sorted out more concrete for Bang too. So, hey, good stuff, right? Get some more reps in. Always a good thing.”

“Reps. Yep. Reps are cool.” Unloading the paint brush. She drew her legs against her chest, her bare heels digging into the cushions of her office chair. “You know what else is cool?”

“What’s that?”

“PRIME.”

Balloon. Air. The wheeze as it all rushes out with all the grace of a fart. Uh oh.

Uh oh.

Tag teams were supposed to be units. It’s vital that they’re on the same page. Sisters, Ride Or Die, the two of them made up The New World Trash. Specialists in the field. It’s why Bex was coming back from the gym. In truth, it was also a part of why Angel was painting on her little plastic figures.

PRIME.

There’s reasons Angel wasn’t the one to be making decisions. In truth, she was the one who asked Bex to be the driver. To take the wheel. Reasons. 

Reasons.

Remember The Flynn.

At home in all of our hearts. Every year, at the beginning of September, Minneapolis is the center of the wrestling world, coming together to celebrate the life and times of ‘The Raging Hobo’ Milo Flynn in the premiere tag team tournament the sport had to offer. Those that took part over time, be they The Glueminati, be they Vae Victis, be they Eminence or The Coltons or Sound & Fury or The Crownless Kingdom or The Masters of The Multiverse or others, so many others, so many others, they were a venerable who’s who in the sport.

In 2022, Bex Savage and Angel Quinley, two young women from Seattle Washington with a small bit of buzz and a bunch of t-shirts to sell, managed to get in through the selection process. In truth, the two were really not going anywhere, not because of talent or anything, but because the wrestling world was in its last gasps of austerity from the late 90s and the 2000s. Nobody knew what was coming.

Nobody knew the Trash were about to cut a path through the Flynn right as wrestling, with PRIME as its sword, would rise as boldly and brightly as it ever had before. Two young women, rocking a cyberpunk aesthetic, and through each round, they fought devil may care, not as though their lives depended on it, but as though they were willing to die in the ring just to make a statement. Blood soaked, held together by staples and stitches and bubblegum and fuck you, they were the rising phoenix of tag team wrestling. They were destined to one day join the ranks and fight blow for blow with the likes of Eminence and Fighting For Nora and The Winds of Change and Solid Gold Rock and Roll and The Masters of The Multiverse in PRIME.

Those early September days, they were the toast of the eyes of all who descended upon the Twin Cities.

And they made them drink malt liquor out of the Flynn Cup.

Reasons. There are reasons. Because 2022 was great and Lindsay Troy sat us down and said that we’re PRIME, and she didn’t even know what that meant to both of us at the time, how could she, we were just two dumbass girls who got way further than we should’ve probably, but there it was, PRIME contracts, not even to wrestle for the company, but just to get more buzz. Go out in the world and kill it. Because we needed the experience. Because she didn’t want us to drown.

"I..." Bex stammered. "I don't...look, Ang. Look. I..."

"--don’t think we’re ready. Stop stuttering and fucking say it. Have the guts to just out and out say it."

“Hey, that’s not fair–”

Angel eased the painting handle onto the table, making sure it would stay upright. Her tone was pure in its causticness. “So not fair...”

“Ang, look, it’s–” she could feel her stomach dropping. “--I’m wanting us to be cautious, okay?  ”

Her manicured manner belied the fire welling in her eyes. --oh shut up. Honestly. Just shut the fuck up.”

Not fair. Not fair, Bex? I know what this is. I KNOW what this is.

Never forget The Flynn. 2023 was the run back. More shirts. So many more shirts. And other concessions. Packing them in deep, getting that hustle on. Pretty girls with their pretty faces, and the Seattle nobodies with the mystery charisma and appeal were now the big fish, the darlings of the ball, the future. The field was as loaded as ever. They helped. They grew it. Bang! Tag titles and tours across the country and the world. More malt liquor for The Cup.

And in the first round, it’s The Boomer Shooters. David Fox and Rob Sharpe. Fox had been in PRIME as a member of another tag team. He and Sharpe were grizzled shooters with something to prove, but they didn't fight with malice. It wasn't in Fox's nature. Not with the kick that hit Angel and gave her a concussion. And I fought through. We were fighting through. And then, well…

Bex was the muscle and Angel was the flight. Peanut butter and jelly. When she leaped to the top rope to dive at Fox, to take him out the equation, to prevent him from getting in after Bex had secured victory, and she stumbled, and she fell, and…

...and…

The footage exists. The crash and the head on the concrete. The broken bones. The sonvial fluid oozing from her nostrils…

Coma.

Independent Wrestling Star Angel Quinley Dead At 24.

Retraction.

An early September evening turned nightmare. Turned so many things. Turned...turned...

Oh get right the fuuuuuuck out of here.

"Is this the whole thing? Like, the whole arc? 'Let's do some nibbling all around the wrestling world, and maybe, hey, when everything is all right...when it's all lined up perfect...then, we take the plunge. Then, we say 'Hey Lindz, we're ready. No really, we're super ready this time. We're ready to fight and wrestle and everything! Let me tell you, we're so excited, and we really mean it this time, not like when we were coming in last year, no this time is for re--'"

The oyster pail was on the counter. Bex planted herself firm in the space separating the living room from the kitchen, arms folded across her chest. "Ang, you had to learn how to walk again. And we both know why we had to pump the breaks on coming to PRIME early on in 2025. And it's not your fault--"

"Sure fucking feels like my fault--"

"Stop!" Her shout reverberated from the walls. "Post concussion syndrome. You couldn't sleep. You were an insomniac. It was bad. But it wasn't your fault. It's your brain's fault for being shitty. And I just want to make sure...RIA wants to make--"

"And did that stop anyone at the Flynn this year? We showed up. We went up against The Green Vale Gang. I took a header off an exposed turnbuckle. They LITERALLY targeted my dome. And you and Ami, you got me up and helped me out and--"

"And it's my job to make sure that doesn't happen to you. It's my job to look after--"

Nuh uh. Nope. NOOOOOOOOOOPE. "FUCK. THAT." Angel shot out of her seat, stomping her way into the kitchen. "It's MY job to look after you too! That's what teams do! It's not coddle each other. It's have each other's backs. And you want to know the reality of shit? We went in there with a PRIME team. We went in there with PRIME teams other places. And you know what the only difference is? The chyrons and the aprons. The name on the marquee. Same shit could've happened in PRIME. And you were just as pissed as me, saying we were going to take those little frat boy douchers the moment we stepped in--"

She wasn't wrong. "Yeah, and we will--"

"But not if we be sitting on the sidelines forever! What you waiting on me to be one hundred percent? Everything I used to be? Newsflash, dude, that ain't happening. I will never be the same as I was before that night. Never. But that's doesn't matter. I'm as good as I'm ever going to be. And the same goes for you. What, you went out to England, shaved your head, went into the Rapier pit, and that didn't make you stronger? Learning how to walk and chew damn gum, that didn't make me stronger?"

Bex's skin broke out with raw anticipation. She felt like fighting something. Anything. The moon. She wanted to fight the moon. Her heart was pounding through her throat. She couldn't stop her head from nodding.

"What's the worst thing that can happen? FLAMBO and Joe take our necks? Try that shit, I dare you. Hessian and Gamble? We'll turn their dusty old asses into LITERAL dust, big ass kicking style. We owe the Green Vale Gang. Ami keeps talking up her bro and Cece in the Heirs, and I know that shit pisses you off too. The Rain City Ronin took our CUP! Oh and Freeman and Schwartz, the Masters? Address our enemies and shark cage man? Bitch, they put boys like that in cages because we're sharks and WE'RE GONNA EAT. You get them in front of us, and we'll bang their heads off the bars. And we'll do it when that old bitch Ivan is out there too." A sadistic smirk spread across Angel's face. "Or what, you forget that Ivan said I deserved what happened to me?"

Rebecca cracked her knuckles. "Okay. Okay okay okay okay. Okay! Damn, okay! Shit. SHIT!" Bouncing. She was vibrating with pent up energy. "Let's do it. Let's do this! It's time. Bitch, it's been time."

Angel stabbed her finger toward the phone laying on the couch. "Then you know what you have to do."

There's still time to abort. Talk this through. Make a good pitch for self preservation and naaaaaaw fuuuuuuck that.

All gas.

No brakes.

Trash until we die.

Bex waited for the call to Ami to go through. The moment she picked up, there was no hesitation in how quickly she blurted out their intention. "Tell your Mom that it's time. We're fucking in."