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Take What You Want

The smell of an arena is something you never really get used to, no matter how many you grew up in. It’s a cocktail of stale popcorn, pyrotechnic smoke, sweat, and that distinct, metallic scent of heated lighting rigs. To most people, it smells like a circus. To me, it smelled like home. But tonight, the air in the Kansas City arena felt heavier than usual. It felt suffocating.

I adjusted the strap of my gear bag, my knuckles turning white as I gripped the handle. Being a woman in this business in 2003 was a war of attrition. Being a Wight in this business—Paul "The Big Show" Wight’s younger sister—meant the war was fought on two fronts. I had to prove I wasn't just here because of my brother's size and legacy, and I had to navigate the shark tank of locker room politics without getting eaten alive.

And the biggest shark in the tank was currently leaning against a crate near the Gorilla position, water bottle in hand, watching me.

Paul Levesque. Triple H. The Game.

He was in the prime of his "Evolution" era—arrogant, untouchable, and draped in the kind of power that made grown men nervous to make eye contact. He was wearing a suit that cost more than my first car, the World Heavyweight Championship title resting on a road case next to him like a casually discarded accessory.

Mourning the Living

The fluorescent hum of the hallway inside the arena was a sound YN Gutierrez knew better than her own heartbeat. It was the white noise of her childhood, the soundtrack to homework done on folding chairs, and the lullaby of naps taken on top of gear crates. But tonight, that hum felt less like a comfort and more like a drill pressing directly into her temples.

YN stood near the "Gorilla Position"—the staging area right behind the curtain—arms crossed tightly over her chest. She was dressed in casual backstage attire: black jeans, a nondescript hoodie, and a backstage pass swinging from a lanyard around her neck. She wasn’t a performer, not like them. She was a Gutierrez, a Mysterio by blood if not by ring name, but she had chosen the production side of the business. She preferred the shadows to the spotlight.

Unfortunately, her brother had decided to set the spotlight on fire.

Through the heavy black curtain, the roar of the crowd in Chicago was deafening. It was a specific kind of noise—nuclear heat. The kind of booing that shook the floorboards. It wasn’t the "go away" heat of boredom; it was the visceral, lung-shredding hatred reserved for the very best villains. Or, in this case, the very worst sons.

Shadows in the Review

The concrete walls of the arena hallway hummed with a low-frequency vibration, the ghostly aftershock of forty thousand people screaming for three hours straight. Now, however, the noise had evaporated, replaced by the clatter of road cases being rolled over cables and the distant, aggressive shouting of ring crew dismantling the steel cage.

Inside the locker room, the air was thick, smelling of athletic tape, stale sweat, and the distinct, chemically sharp scent of analgesic cream. Finn Bálor sat on a folding metal chair, his body listing to the left. He was nursing a rapidly darkening bruise on his ribs, a souvenir from a table spot that had gone slightly awry during the main event. He wasn't looking at the door, but he could hear the voices outside.

The laughter was raucous, sharp, and biting. It was the sound of the victors, or at least, the sound of those who believed they owned the place. Damian Priest’s baritone rumbled through the drywall. Rhea Ripley’s distinct cackle cut through the air like a knife. They were waiting. They were always waiting, like vultures on a wire, expecting him to fall in line, to pick up his bags and follow the pack to the next town, the next bar, the next scheme.

Finn stared at his boots. The laces were still knotted tight, cutting into the circulation of his ankles, but he couldn't summon the energy to reach down and untie them. He felt hollowed out—not just from the physical toll of the match, but from a spiritual erosion that had been grinding him down for months.

The Long Haul

The arena floor is a strange place when the lights are off. It’s a cavern of concrete and steel, smelling of stale popcorn, ozone, and that distinct, dusty scent of the canvas that never really leaves your nose once you’ve spent half a life inhaling it.

I like being early. It’s an old habit, one born from anxiety and a need for control, but mostly because I like the silence before the storm. I like to walk the ramp when nobody is watching, check the tension of the ropes, and get my head right. Since coming back, I’ve tried to be more present. Less bitter. More… Phil.

But lately, I’m never the first one there.

It was a Tuesday in Grand Rapids, freezing cold outside, the kind of Michigan chill that settles in your bones. I walked through the curtain, coffee in hand, expecting an empty ring. Instead, I heard the rhythmic thud-thud-squeak of someone running the ropes.

It was YN. Or as most people knew her as YRN.

I’d seen her around, obviously. She was twenty-seven, had a good look, and moved well, but she was quiet. In a business built on loudmouths and peacocks, being quiet makes you invisible. Or it makes you dangerous. I hadn't decided which one she was yet.

Calling It In The Ring

The fluorescent lights of the corridor in the bowels of the Fleet Center hummed with an irritating, low-frequency buzz, a sound that seemed to drill directly into YN Lesnar’s temples. It was late 2002, and the "Ruthless Aggression" era was in full swing. The air backstage at SmackDown was thick with the scent of spray tan, icy-hot, and the ozone smell of pyrotechnics testing in the arena bowl.

YN adjusted the strap of her gear bag, her knuckles white. Being a Lesnar in this business was a double-edged sword, sharpened to a razor point. On one hand, the name opened doors. On the other, it meant she walked in the shadow of a mountain. Her brother, Brock, was currently tearing through the roster like a natural disaster made of flesh and bone. He was the "Next Big Thing," a moniker that Paul Heyman shouted from the rooftops every Thursday night.

YN, however, was determined to be more than just "The Next Big Thing’s Sister." She had the same icy blue eyes, the same Nordic blonde hair, and a frightening amount of the same athletic explosiveness, but she wanted to carve her path with technique, not just brute force.

She rounded the corner near catering, her mind focused on her match against Victoria later that night, when a pair of boots blocked her path. Not just any boots—black patent leather, attached to long legs clad in denim, leading up to a leather trench coat that had seen better days.

She looked up.

Off Script

The sequined fabric of my jacket scratched against the back of my neck, a reminder of the absurdity I wore like armor. The arena was vibrating. You could feel it in the concrete floor of the Gorilla position, that low-frequency hum of twelve thousand people waiting to be entertained, waiting to sing my song.

I adjusted the cuffs of my sleeves, flashing a grin at a terrified production assistant who was trying to signal that we were thirty seconds out. I didn't care about thirty seconds. I controlled the time. I was the Visionary. I was the Revolutionary. I was the guy who made this whole circus spin on its axis.

But my eyes weren't on the curtain. They were scanning the dimly lit backstage area, looking for a specific clipboard, a specific headset, and the specific scowl that usually accompanied them.

There she was.

YN Ross. Even in the shadows, she stood out. Maybe it was the posture—straight-backed, unyielding, a trait she definitely didn’t inherit from her father’s slouch over the commentary desk. Or maybe it was the way the chaos of the WWE backstage area seemed to break around her like water around a rock. She was shouting something into her headset, her finger tapping aggressively on a run sheet.

The Tourist

I have no clue what I'm doing.

That’s the thought loop playing on repeat in my head, louder than the eighty thousand people currently screaming in the stadium outside. It’s a deafening, rhythmic mantra.

I’m standing in front of a full-length mirror in a locker room that smells like Deep Heat, hairspray, and the palpable ego of fifty grown men in spandex. My reflection stares back at me. I look like a superhero. I look like a million bucks. The black and yellow gear is tight, the Prime logo is plastered across my midsection like a corporate stamp of approval, and my hair is coiffed to aerodynamic perfection.

But behind the eyes? Pure, unadulterated terror.

It’s the impostor syndrome to end all impostor syndromes. I’m a YouTuber. I’m a podcaster. I’m the guy who filmed a dead body in a forest and had to claw his way back from the internet’s basement. And in about ten minutes, I’m supposed to go out there and wrestle Seth "Freakin" Rollins at WrestleMania. A guy who has been doing this since he was wrestling in high school gyms for a hot dog and a handshake.

I adjust my wrist tape, pulling it so tight my fingers start to tingle.

The Monster She Deserves

The air in the arena always tasted the same. It was a cocktail of stale beer, ozone, recycled air conditioning, and fear. Mostly fear.

I sat on the leather couch in my private locker room, the distinct, rhythmic tapping of Paul Heyman’s fingers against his phone screen serving as the only soundtrack to my thoughts. The Universal Championship rested on the table in front of me. It was heavy, gold, and cold. It was the physical manifestation of everything I had sacrificed, every piece of my soul I had carved away to build the island of relevancy.

"Tribal Chief," Paul’s voice broke the silence, soft and obsequious. "The production meeting ran long. They are ready for your entrance in twenty minutes."

I didn’t look at him. I kept my eyes on the title. "Where is Jey?"

"Jey is... handling a family matter. He will be at Gorilla."

I nodded slowly. Handling a family matter. That phrase used to mean something different. It used to mean barbecues and birthdays. Now, it meant mitigating damage. It meant silencing dissent. It meant ensuring that the hierarchy remained undisputed.

I stood up, adjusting the cuffs of my track jacket. The room felt too small suddenly. "I’m going for a walk."

Sight for Sore Eyes

The smell of a wrestling arena is distinct. It doesn’t matter if you’re in Chicago, London, or some humid sports hall in Florida; the scent is a universal constant. It’s a cocktail of stale popcorn, pyrotechnic sulfur, icy-hot, and the metallic tang of dried sweat. For some, it’s nauseating. For me, it was the smell of home. It was the smell of the Dungeon. It was the smell of my father.

I adjusted the leather strap of my gear bag on my shoulder, feeling the familiar ache in my lower back. Being a Neidhart meant you were built like a tank, designed to run through brick walls and ask for seconds, but it didn't make you immune to the mileage. I had been away for two years—a hiatus to heal the kind of injuries that don't show up on X-rays—and walking back through the curtain of the Gorilla position felt less like a return and more like a resurrection.

The backstage area of Monday Night Raw was a chaotic hive. Production assistants sprinted with headsets clutched to their ears, cameramen dragged thick black cables across the concrete, and superstars in various states of undress and face paint loitered near the catering tables.

I kept my head down, focusing on the scuffed toes of my boots. I wasn't ready for the pleasantries yet. I wasn't ready for the "Welcome backs" or the pitying looks regarding my dad. For Nattie the ring was her center. Her healing place. There for a while, it was my dagger. I just wanted to get to the women’s locker room, lace up, and remind the world why the Hart family motto was what it was.

Cold Blooded

The tape on my wrists felt tight, bordering on restrictive, but that’s how I needed it. It was a grounding mechanism. The circulation cut off just enough to remind me that the hands attached to these wrists were weapons. In this business, you forget that at your own peril.

I sat on the folding chair in the private locker room they’d assigned me. Usually, I liked the quiet. The older I got, the less I tolerated the noise of the young guys down the hall—the video games, the loud music, the constant need for validation on social media. I preferred the silence. It let the voices in my head settle into a singular, focused hum. A predator doesn’t hunt while screaming; a predator waits.

But the silence tonight felt heavy. It was loaded.

There was a knock at the door, brief and confident. Most people hesitated before knocking on my door. They knew the reputation. They knew the Viper wasn't always in a mood to be social. This knock didn't care.

"It's open," I grumbled, not looking up from my boots. I was lacing them slowly, methodically.

Adrenaline is a Liar

The adrenaline is a liar. It’s the most beautiful, seductive liar I have ever known, telling you that you are invincible, that gravity is a suggestion, and that pain is just a concept invented by people who don’t have thousands of screaming souls chanting their name. But like all liars, eventually, it stops talking. And when the adrenaline goes silent, the truth screams.

The truth, tonight, was screaming particularly loud in my left shoulder.

I adjusted the cuff of my suit jacket, staring at myself in the vanity mirror of the locker room. The reflection staring back was the American Nightmare. Bleached hair perfectly coiffed, the neck tattoo stark against the skin, the suit tailored to within a millimeter of perfection. To the world, I looked ready for a GQ shoot. Inside, I felt like I’d been thrown down a flight of concrete stairs.

Because I had been. Twice.

The match against Seth had gone longer than expected. It usually did. We pushed each other to the brink, painting masterpieces with our bodies on a canvas of reinforced wood and steel. But the landing on the outside—the way my shoulder had clipped the barricade—that wasn't part of the masterpiece. That was just grit.

The Glitch

The concrete walls of the arena always smell the same. It doesn’t matter if we’re in Chicago, Philly, or some no-name town in the middle of a cornfield. Once the pyro smoke clears and the popcorn gets swept up, the backstage area just smells like stale sweat, icy-hot, and ozone. It’s the perfume of the business. Most people hate it. I breathe it in like it’s fresh mountain air because it reminds me that I’m still alive.

My ribs were screaming. That was the other thing that didn’t change. Seth had decided that a steel chair was the best way to punctuate a sentence earlier tonight, and my body was currently writing a very painful essay in response.

I taped up my hands, ripping the white athletic tape with my teeth, spitting the sticky residue onto the floor. It was late. The arena was mostly empty, save for the riggers pulling down the TitanTron and the cleaning crew mopping up spilled beer in the aisles. I should have been at the hotel. I should have been three beers deep and unconscious. But the adrenaline loop was stuck in the 'on' position. My brain was vibrating. The Lunatic Fringe doesn’t clock out just because the red light on the camera goes off.

Gravity Wins

The smell of a WWE arena is distinct. It’s a cocktail of pyrotechnics—that sharp, sulfurous burning scent—mixed with spray tan, athletic tape adhesive, stale popcorn, and enough testosterone to fuel a small army. For most people, it’s the smell of excitement. For me, tonight, it smelled like anxiety.

I stood in the "Gorilla Position," the narrow, curtained-off area just behind the main stage entrance. The lights were blindingly bright on the other side of the heavy black fabric, and the roar of the crowd was a physical vibration rattling my ribcage.

"Coming up next, Intercontinental Championship match!" the ring announcer’s voice boomed, slightly muffled by the headset I was wearing just to listen to the production cues.

My brother, Nic—known to the millions screaming out there as Dolph Ziggler—was shaking out his arms next to me. He looked every bit the "Showoff" he claimed to be. His bleached blonde hair was slicked back, wet and perfectly set. His skin was bronzed to an unnatural hue that looked fantastic under HD lights but ridiculous in person. He wore the white leather belt of the Intercontinental Champion around his waist, the gold plates catching the flicker of the monitors.

The View From Gorilla

The air in the Gorilla Position always tastes the same. It’s a cocktail of stale popcorn, ozone, icy-hot, and the thick, metallic tang of nervous sweat. I’ve stood here a thousand times. I’ve stood here as an architect, a beast slayer, a messiah, and a visionary. I’ve stood here with my ribs taped, my knee held together by sheer willpower, and my mind racing a million miles an hour.

But tonight, the nausea churning in my gut had nothing to do with my own match. My boots were already unlaced, my wrist tape cut off and thrown in the trash. My night was over. I had gone out there, burned it down, and walked away with my hand raised. I should have been in the shower. I should have been icing my lower back and thinking about a cold beer and the flight to the next town.

Instead, I was pacing a hole in the concrete floor, staring up at the monitors with a chaotic intensity that was making the producers nervous.

"Seth, you good?" Paul, one of the tech guys, asked, giving me a wide berth.

"I'm fine," I snapped, my eyes never leaving the screen. "Just watching."

Feathers & Kevlar

The air inside the arena was thick, a humid soup of pyrotechnic smoke, spilled beer, and the pheromones of fifteen thousand screaming fans. It was late 2013, and the landscape of the WWE was shifting under the boots of three men clad in black tactical vests.

Roman Reigns adjusted the glove on his right hand, the leather creaking audibly in the sudden quiet of the backstage hallway. His chest heaved, a rhythmic rise and fall against the heavy material of his vest. The adrenaline was still a thrumming current in his veins, a jagged electricity that made his fingers twitch. Out there, under the bright lights, he was a monolith. He was the muscle, the enforcer, the hammer that fell when Seth Rollins or Dean Ambrose gave the signal. He didn’t speak much. He didn’t need to. The Spear spoke a language everyone understood: pain.

But back here, in the concrete labyrinth of the arena’s bowels, the silence was deafening.

Dean had wandered off toward the catering area, muttering something about ice packs and finding a stray chair to kick, while Seth was already glued to a monitor, obsessively re-watching their match against Team Hell No, analyzing every transition, every camera angle.

Roman just needed air.

Just Reloading

The smell of a wrestling arena is distinct. It’s a cocktail of stale beer, aerosol heavy-hold hairspray, icy-hot muscle rub, and that underlying, metallic tang of nervous sweat. For most of my life, that smell meant comfort. It meant home. But tonight, in the bowels of the Allstate Arena in Chicago, it smelled like impending doom.

I sat on the edge of a padded bench in the locker room, my knees bouncing with a restless, frantic energy I couldn't suppress. My boots were laced tight enough to cut off circulation, but I checked them for the fourth time anyway.

"Stop fidgeting, YNN. You're going to burn all your adrenaline before you even hit Gorilla."

The voice was gravelly, familiar, and laced with a calm that I knew was entirely manufactured. I looked up. Phil—known to the screaming thousands outside as CM Punk, but just Phil to me—was leaning against a row of lockers. He was already taped up, the iconic X’s drawn in black marker on the white athletic tape covering his hands/wrists. He looked weary, the grey in his beard catching the harsh fluorescent light, but his eyes were sharp. Laser-focused.

Balancing the Scales

The arena hummed. It wasn’t a sound you heard with your ears so much as felt in the marrow of your bones. It was a low-frequency vibration, a mixture of thousands of stomping feet, the deep bass of entrance music, and the collective, hungry breath of the WWE Universe.

For most people, that hum was electricity. It was the drug that kept the veterans coming back until their knees turned to dust. For me? Tonight, it felt like the rumble of an approaching landslide.

I pulled my knees tighter to my chest, making myself as small as possible in the narrow gap between two stackable flight cases. This was the dark underbelly of the ThunderDome era—or rather, the strange transition out of it. We were back in arenas, back with people, and the noise was deafening.

"Where is she?"

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