FreeCatFights
General Category => Chat Fight Logs And Message Board Fights => Message Board Fights => Topic started by: Rowan Chance on September 17, 2018, 07:50:27 PM
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Two announcers stand in front of their table, backs turned to the ring. The words GARDEN STATE GLADIATRICES flash along the bottom of the screen. The tall and well-built African American ex-wrestler who calls himself Malcolm "the Hard Truth" Veracity stands beside the smaller but equally fit Valentia "the Latina Sensation" Rodriguez.
Well, we've had a great show so far tonight on the Garden State Massacre! We've seen two titles change hands and The World's Strangest Battle Royale!
There isn't enough bleach in the world to clean out my eyes from watching that match.
But now it's time for our main event! Becca Blast Martin faces off against Rowan Chance.
This is a fight that's had a long fuse, so let's see what's built up to this dangerous encounter!
* * *
The screen wipes to a montage of Becca on the verge of winning matches, then a woman completely wrapped up in black--including mask--runs in and attacks her. Over and over again. And each time, the woman in black ends the attack with a snap DDT, crashing her head and neck into the mat, leaving Becca flat on the mat.
The biggest part of the montage is when Becca is fighting for the championship. Becca has the match in the bag. The champ is staggering in the center of the ring, eyes glazed, legs buckling. Becca sets up for her finisher...
... and the Woman in Black attacks! Hitting Becca from behind, she lands with her arms and neck over the bottom rope. The WIB sits on Becca's shoulders, throttling her, making her face turn red and her lips turn blue. Drool oozing from her lips. It's only when other wrestlers run out from the back that the WIB leaves the ring.
The speed of the montage slows down to emotional music and Becca laying in a hospital with a tube down her throat. The doctor tells the camera, "Becca was exposed to a prolonged attack that seriously damaged her trachea." And for three weeks, Becca goes unseen on GSG.
And for those three weeks, the Woman in Black wrecks havoc. She demolishes wrestler after wrestler, then after the match, spends her time punishing those who dared challenge her. Anyone who challenges her ends up getting carried from the ring. But the WIB says nothing. When asked for interviews, she walks away.
Then, on the fourth week, as the Woman in Black wrecks a young woman named Andie "the Hope" Williams, BECCA BLAST RETURNS! She runs in, attacking the WIB from behind, smashing her neck and shoulders with a double hammer strike. Then, she gets on the WIB's back and rips the mask away! The WIB throws Becca off her back and stands up to reveal...
"IT'S ROWAN CHANCE! OHMYGOD! THE WOMAN IN BLACK IS ROWAN CHANCE!!!"
* * *
The screen fades back to the arena.
We've got two exclusive interviews with Chance and Martin before the match. First, let's see what Rowan Chance has to say...
* * *
I'm in a dark room, grey bricks behind me. A single light hanging from the ceiling, just below the top of the camera's eye. I'm turned away from the camera. Long shadows cast down on me. I'm wearing my black leather faux-corset, so you can see the slender, strong muscles under my skin. My raven's wing blue-black hair gently tumbles over my shoulders.
"Nothing is sacred," my honey-whiskey voice whispers. "Everything is permitted."
I remain with my back to the camera.
"A very wise man said that. A man who sent his followers into battle with the promise they'd live forever in Paradise if they fell in his name."
My head shakes. Chin tilted toward my chest.
"I...believed that once. Not in a literal way. Not in a religious way. But I understood that if I sacrificed and sacrificed that I'd be rewarded with Paradise...even if it was temporary."
I tease turning...but don't. Just a hint of my profile in the shadows.
"Now I know the truth. I was the follower. I was made promises that could never be kept. And all the while, I was told the same thing over and over again... Nothing is sacred. Everything is permitted."
I make a quarter turn. My face still hidden in shadows.
"Nothing is sacred. Everything is permitted."
Then, a dark, haunting laughter. I run my gloved hands over my face.
"Nothing is sacred!!! Everything is permitted!!!"
A quick motion and the camera smashes to the ground. My trademark black leather dominatrix boots the only thing on the camera. Then, the camera moves and my eyes eclipse the screen. My eyes, so dark. Almost black.
everything...is...permitted...
And the camera cuts out.
-
"Becca! We DON'T KNOW who she is! We didn't BRING HER IN!"
"Don't GIVE me that crap, Benny! You know enough people who know enough people to know WHO SHE IS, and what she's doing here! Hell, even I know who's brought her in! Just because Stanky is gone, doesn't mean he doesn't have a hand in things!"
"Eddie Stankiewicz is NO LONGER A PART OF THIS PROMOTION! We paid him off... even brought Red in so he could think he got his pound of flesh. He's GONE! Whoever this is, it's not him!"
"MY flesh. Not YOURS! He's been pissed ever since I got with the grasp of the title... but after I dust Kara, he can send that bimbo back to HELL for all I care!"
**********************
After that match, I wondered... while lying with a tube in my throat while my crushed trachea rebuilt itself... just how much of this had been planned... Kara didn't know... the damned Shroud (that's what we called her backstage) tore through her... through Mindy... through Tish, Alexia, Red Melanie... all of them. She wasn't just after me... she was after the whole promotion... the GSG I rebuilt. She was ordered to kill it. I had to stop her.
And that's when it hit me. All those DDT's... any angle, any opportunity, any opening at all.
It was Rowan. Lady DDT announcing her presence. But why? Who could get her to do this? Did she need money that badly, that she's work for a skunk like Stanky? Hard to believe. But as I look over the tapes... oh, it was her... no doubt about that at all. Her lithe, lethal, brutal form. That symphony of destruction and precise, measured demolition. When she went after Andie... I was ready... no one knew I was there... had even fed a story I was in the hospital for an infection caused by the original tracheotomy.... breathing a little raspy still, but enough air for this... as the hapless rookie face was getting pummeled... I waited... then came roaring out... under the ropes and swinging down a hammer blow from my knees to stun her and get that mask off... Malcolm and Letitia give great commentary.. as always... and the Hired Assassin is revealed.
I should have gutted her right there... finished her... but I had to help Andie up and to safety... and the last I saw of Rowan, she was heading to the back... through a chorus of boos... and to wherever she crawled out of. Knowing her... Park Avenue elegance, although her bankroll might mean it's a little shabby around the edges these days.
*********************
Naturally, they insisted I face her one on one.. because this IS a business. And I watch her video. Interesting. The mumbo-jumbo I don't buy. The only man who ever promised her anything of importance was .. him. Tantalus. Whatever deal THEY had, a little promotion across the river from NYC wouldn't mean anything.
"Nothing is sacred. EVERYTHING is permitted." The marks will eat that up. But the body. Is lean. Toned. Ready. Fit. No sign of any back troubles or any worse the wear from her adventures. Oh, I had been in Paris. I had seen it. There were scars, all right. Mental ones. THOSE don't go away. But physically.. it's eerie that she seems unaffected at all. The wreckage she left across GSG certainly didn't indicate anything at all wrong with her. Physically.
Or mentally, even. She's precise, focused, and clinical. But it's almost... soulless. What she's doing here. What she did in the ring. Like remorse or empathy had been beaten out of her. She'd kill for money now, for sure. But why us? Why me? One way to find out. So I sign the contract. And I go to cut a response video.
********************************
The white mists swirl.. and I step out from them, lit from underneath... Navy blue boots with gold fringe... the camera scans up my thick powerful legs... to the polished leather Navy one piece suit a gold sash knotted on my right hip and hanging to mid-thigh... my hands on my hips, just below the white dress jacket with a tapered cut just below my chest and gold brocade and epaulets... then up to my face... the metallic copper manicure and lipstick match, a brown braid with gold thread visible.. and if my fans can't see it, they know it's there... it's been my trademark...
"So you're here. I had thought you were in Minnesota. You had been in Paris. You SHOULD be in traction, or a grave. I can fix that."
Maybe you don't know where you are. You're in New Jersey. When we hear people talking about someone who promises Paradise, we take a look across the river. We don't have room for that here.
You are not welcome here.
You are not needed here.
You will not STAY here.
I'm Navy. You might have heard. We know what to do with people like you.
Burial at sea will be kind. I don't intend to be ... KIND.
It's Zero Dark Thirty for you, Rowan. Jersey out."
And with that, I turn and walk into the mists. When I emerge, Hell will come to Newark.
And it will break over her head.
-
The announcer man stands in the center of the ring wearing a tux. It isn't nice, it isn't bad...it's a Jersey tuxedo. I think that's all I need to say. He speaks into the mic.
"The next match is a GARDEN STATE GRUDGE MATCH. No time limit. No count out. No disqualification. The only way to win is knockout or submission."
That's when the whole place goes dark. Real dark. What did you call it, Bimbo Becca? "Zero Dark Thirty?" That dark. Halestorm's Black Vultures begins blaring over the loudspeakers.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gnrKrFS6L0Y
I spent about a week negotiating for my entrance. This shit hole can certainly afford it for the asses I'm putting in seats. Attendance is up. People want to see me. After Paris...
So fire goes off. Black fire. Well, technically, it's a weird kind of blue flame created by the same chemistry they use to make black candles but...yeah, you don't care.
I step out onto the stage. I'm wearing my standard gear: black leather up and down. Boyshorts, tall dominatrix boots, my faux-corset, opera gloves. But I've got a new addition:
I'm wearing the mask. It's not tied on. Just on my head. Easy to take off.
I head toward the ring, avoiding the groping hands of the sick, pathetic Jersey assholes who came to watch me roll around in small clothes with another woman. I ease up to the ring. Grab the lowest rope and swing myself up and over it, doing my typical full splits. Then, just to show off my flexibility and balance, while I'm on the canvas in the full splits, I slowly...oh so slowly...raise up to my feet...just using my legs. Bringing them together with my arms up above my head, my chin tilted, my back arched.
The cameras turn on. An innumerable number of boys are gonna be using that tonight for nefarious means.
When I get to my feet, I make sure I'm facing the hard camera. I reach up with both hands, making sure I'm using my fingers, stretching them across the leather until I reach the untied ties in the back. Then, I slowly pull it away from my head.
And my face is painted black. Red lips, red across the eyes. I shake my hair so it falls over the paint, some of it sticking. Invoking my quiet mentor/sensei.
I'm ready Becca. More than ready for you.
-
I hang out in the back... Mal and company do their usual intro...
Damn straight, this is a grudge match. Someone, for some reason, sent YOU to wreck my promotion. That ends TONIGHT.
I watch you come out. Very impressive. All black and mysticism and Gothic menace... it's a look that sells, and it's a look that has sold for you for years. Elegance, menace and something vaguely eldritch. And you're wearing the mask. Just to make sure everyone knows it was you... and a pose that makes every adolescent attracted to females throb just a little... damn, the girl knows how to sell it... and you go to pull the mask off. Good. Time to get down to business.
"Holy fuck it's MUTAH!"
OK, THAT got my attention. We're going deep with this one. I thought you had some sort of game planned for this... you certainly paid for it... but this runs a little cold. That's a name that doesn't get thrown around carelessly -- or used carelessly. But I'm Navy, you see, and in the Navy, we tend not to use pop guns. We use fucking CANNON. Time to let you have it with both barrels, and I snap my fingers high in the air...
And the searchlights start spinning... all around and flashing up and down and sideways... until they find their target in the ring... YOU. I've been told this disorients the hell out of people. Good. Let's see how you like it, especially since tonight I added a little something.. no expense spared for our visitor.
At each entrance opposite a corner.. save the one I come through, one of them shows up.
Chelsea Joy. Archy Jay. Jane Espie. All playing Shipping up to Boston on their bagpipes.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T5w3qzpIv3g
I come down the fourth way... with the lights flashing and the pipes blaring and the crowd roaring. In my Navy blue one piece with the gold cord across the deep V-neck, backless... gold elbow and knee pads and Navy black boots over white tights... my hair up in a thick brown braid laced with a gold cord entwined in it...I stride down, making time with the pipes... no need to run, it won't impress her, and it will only waste energy... I barely acknowledge the crowd... they know this is business, and they know my business is with you... and I make my way up the steps and slip in... a final snap and my own rockets shoot off... out of the ring posts... skyrockets of blue and gold... I know a bit of chemistry myself, but only you would bother with the details... this is for show.
But this isn't. I'm Navy, and I'm a fockin' CELT, Rowan. You want to get all mystical, that's fine. Let's see whose demons are stronger!
-
Watching your entrance, I remember being a little girl, sitting in the living room, watching Irish dancing on the television. My Irish mother tapping her feet, my Japanese father just frowning. When she asked him what was wrong, he said, "Irish music. It's always the same thing."
"What do you mean?" she asked, her Irish eyes not-a-smiling.
"It's the same meter played 8 times, then you play another meter 8 times, then you play the first meter 8 times again, then you play a third meter 8 times, then you play the first meter 8 times..."
That's when she threw the pillow at him. I always think of that moment when I hear Irish music.
But seeing you get into the ring, surrounded by flashing strobe lights trying to confuse and bewilder me, I just maintain my focus and my wicked grin. Eyes locked on you.
As you get into the ring...
As you do your little jig in the corner...
As you look at me from across the canvas...
The referee calls us to the center. I step forward, my white eyes flashing bright against the black makeup on my face. We're supposed to stop within a step of each other. I don't stop. I keep walking. Right up into your precious little space. Keep walking until our foreheads meet. And my eyes are glaring right into yours.
And when the referee starts reading us the instructions, my tongue darts out. Just the tip licking your lips. That wicked smile still there.
-
Does she seem bothered? Not a whit. Not that I'm exactly surprised. This is Rowan Freaking Chance. If a little sound and light - hell, a LOT of sound and light -- would affect her to the point that it shows, she's really off her game.
The crowd, though? It's roaring for blood. HER blood. And I have to feel for Tina in this. She's the tall redhead in the striped top that with black shorts exposes a tight bare midriff -- which no one looks at unless she blows her job. She's the ref, and tonight, she really has no job except to ask for a submission. Which I doubt Rowan will give. I sure as hell won't.
And the marks will be disappointed if that's how it ends, anyway. Hence, the show to whip them into a frenzy. And we approach each other, her makeup and lithe black form moving like a shadow... as I smile and wait for you... of COURSE, she wants to put on a show... the crowd howling even more as our foreheads meet and your tongue flicks over my coppery lips... smiling. Everything permitted; nothing sacred.
Nice one, hon. I smirk as you do that. And Tina steps in to separate us. Poor girl is trying to ride a cyclone, as that lick is shown on the big screen and the crowd gasps... I step back... and wink. Tina's forearm on my chest... and as we separate... I snap my right knee up at the open space between your corset and shorts... time to get this underway, now that we understand each other.
Everything permitted, nothing sacred, right? RIGHT.
-
The knee hits me straight in the gut, forcing my torso forward a few inches, making me gasp. My hands instinctively reach to the place I was hurt, the place where the pain started. But there's a growl in my voice.
Yes, it has begun. And the pretty girl wants to play dirty. That's good. The Navy girl who follows all her masters' orders wants to break the rules. Yes. Exactly yes.
Because the way to beat a Navy brat is to get them to go outside where they're comfortable. To do things they don't really understand how to do.
We're going there tonight, Becca. I'm not pushing the envelope. I'm burning it down. I'm going places you could never imagine. And I'm taking you with me.
-
She bends... she can break. Good... but she doesn't bend much, and there's a .. snarl?...
Like I'm fighting a mad dog. No. A crafty, clever, vicious dog... an attack animal.
You've come for me and mine. My work. My business. My livelihood. MY LIFE. My throat burns as I rasp a little at the memory.
I'm going to end you.. and your schtick.. I reach for your ears... to hold your head up as you clasp your gut... so I can slam my forehead at your nose. That's makeup; it will come off... and when it comes off, there will be just you and me.. two women... one for pay, and the other for her existence.
You don't stand a chance, there, Rowan.
-
I manage to duck at the last moment, just before your forehead hits my nose. We bang heads together instead. Better that than a broken nose.
Everything goes foggy. My knees buckle for a moment. The whole world turns sideways. I blink my eyes, trying to regain my focus. You must feel it in your grip, my body swaying for a moment. Or maybe not. You weren't expecting to connect that way. Finally, my vision clears and I see a bit of my black smeared on your forehead. I smile. A long, luxurious, evil smile.
Then, my hands snap up and grab your hair, holding your head still so I can stare into those lovely eyes of yours. I want to see what's behind them when you see what I'm about to do. I want to see your reaction. See the thoughts running through that pretty and obedient Navy head of yours when the thing you expected doesn't happen.
My fingers tight in your hair. My gaze gripped onto yours. I whisper, my voice all dark honey whiskey...
do it again.
-
She moves... not enough to avoid me entirely, but enough to make us bang heads rather than me flatten her nose... damn... my head fuzzes, as cranium meets cranium and we short each other out....
My legs wobble as the crowd buzzes...
Malcolm: "Ooooooo, that's a risky move by Becca, and it doesn't end well... She's going to need Excedrin Self-Inflicted after that!"
Leticia: "She's going to need more if Rowan takes advantage of this! That impact was enough to make Becca's forehead look like Ash Wednesday with that makeup!"
And I feel a little greasepaint on my brow... funny what you feel when other nerves don't want to work... which you make come alive with a yank of my braid...my hazel eyes staring into the empty black void behind your eyes...
"do it again"....
"Do it again"... like you weren't affected... like you enjoyed it. Like this is where you want to have this fight... to see who can take more and keep giving... thinkign what that means... and my hazel shifts to grayer... you won't like what the ice does when it moves into my soul.
"got a good grip?" I give you in way of a response. "Because I fully intend to."
As I use your grip... to slide my thumb behind the knuckle of my middle finger on my left hand... and drive that fist just below your navel. I've heard Rown is a little soft there. Let's find out.
This ship has all sorts of ordnance. I will use all of it if I have to.
-
Your knuckled fist hits just below my navel and again you knock wind from my lungs, making me buckle forward. This time, my chin falling on your shoulder.
You feel my body shudder, just a little...but then, like a rusty knife cutting through paper, the sound of my laughter, like an autumn wind through dead branches. My body arches back up so I'm face to face with you again. You see my grin. Feel the heat of my breath as I laugh.
As I laugh in your face.
"Little girl," I say, my lips brushing yours, like a brutal kiss. "You'd better bring more than that."
I bite your lower lip. Not hard. Not trying to draw blood. But like a lover. And I let it snap right back into place.
"Becca," I say, just loud enough for the microphones to hear it. "Why don't you hurt me like you mean it."
-
I tagged her... I can feel it... the gust of air blowing past my ear... the feel of your chin on my shoulder... that hurt her....
Then.. she LAUGHS. Not a normal laugh. A laugh like wind rustling out of a corpse. A laugh full of dead things. DAMNED things.
And your lips brush mine as you straighten.. .and bite at my bottom one.
I glare in your eyes. You WANT me to hurt you. You NEED me to hurt you. To show that you can take it. And I realize just what I'm up against here. This woman is beyond caring, beyond reason, beyond logic.
There's no WHY as to why she came after us. She did because she noticed us. Wants to toy with us.
Fuck her. She's flesh and blood and bone. She's not some shadow bitch. I can hurt her. I WILL hurt her.
My lip tingles. Something inside tingles too. But it's not pleasure, or even pleasant...
"What is she doing? DARING Becca to hurt her? That makes no SENSE! This woman can WRECK people!"
"This ref is the most useless person in the ring. Neither of them want her there.. and we're about to see that!"
You want to straighten up, fine... I go to bring up my right elbow as you try your magic act... let's get it under that chin of yours and make you bite your own lip... I will bust you open yet.. as it dawns on me.
She hasn't done anything to attack yet. What is she waiting for?
-
The elbow under the jaw sends my head snapping up. I stagger backward, one hand under my chin, the other reaching for the ropes that I know are there.
I hit the top rope, arm curled over it. I turn away, just a little. Just showing you my side, not my back. Eyes shut as I grit my teeth.
Yeah. That hurt.
The burn in my jaw reaches up right into my skull. I move it to the left...to the right...Yeah. It ain't broken. That's good.
And in that little moment, that little pause, I blink my eyes again. So white against the black make up. And my head turns with the same snap that you gave it a moment ago, except this time, it turns toward you.
I turn the rest of the way so my back is against the top rope, my arms stretched all along it. And as I lounge across the ropes, my hips giving a little curve to my silhouette, I say:
"I thought. I told you. To hurt me!"
-
Yeah. That one hurt. I hear the audible click on your jaws... and the reeling wraith is going to the ropes...
I don't plan to let her linger there. I follow... watching you test your jaw.. and turn towards me... you give me your body along the ropes... who am I to resist it...
I step in and aim my left thumb up under your armpit. You're not the only one who learned a few dirty tricks on the road, hon... there's a nerve cluster under your arm that can deaden an arm if jammed into... so I go for it... I want that arm dead. So I can use it to pull you off the ropes and send this shroud on a tour of the ring...
"You wanted to be here? I'm gonna change your MIND, you would-be spectre..."
The women of the mound.. .the Ban Sidhe... what those idiots call banshee... they might know what I'm going to do to you...
But you don't. You're just a woman. And you can be broken.
-
You thrust your thumb toward my armpit.
And that's the moment I've been waiting for.
My arm snaps shut, catching your wrist.
And there we are. Face-to-face. Your arm trapped under mine. I give you the widest, wickedest, maddest grin you've ever seen. My white lips shining under my black make up.
My other arm snaps up. Fast. Immediate. Wraps up and around your neck. Pulling you into a front face lock. And under your chin, my left hand grabs my right wrist.
I've got you, Becca.
I've got you.
My right leg kicks out behind me, giving my body torque. And then...
I let you go.
Just...let you go.
I even push you away. And lean back on the top rope. My arms spread out wide. My legs crossed at the ankles.
And I smile.
-
I go to strike, already reaching for your neck so I can set you up for the next move....
And you spring your trap.
Impressive. I know that shot hurt her... how could SHE have known that I would do that attack, with her whole body open and begging ... She sandbagged me totally.
And that grin. Something preternatural.. uncanny... in the worst way about the way that look and what it bares.
Like the basilisk. Or, in this case, a cobra, as quick as she strikes... my head snagged and held under your left arm as you keep your trap on mine and reach across for a facelock that gives me a full taste of that musty corset.....my right hand reaching down for your shorts.. by reflex almost .. break a facelock by taking her base away...
But you torque to the right, so I pull up on your left leg... to get you off balance and leaning on the ropes... when you let go.
SHE LETS GO. To work my head, maybe... to push me away and get my head reeling.
But I still have the leg of your shorts.. .and I use it... to try an pull myself back into you... and slam my left forearm across that open spot just under your corset.
You may be a preternatural bitch from Hell itself, but this is Jersey. And this is my ring. And you don't mock me in it!
-
A quick elbow to the belly—I've noticed repeated attacks against my abdomen—knocks my body forward, bending it over. My left hand lands on your shoulder. My right hand clutching my gut.
You can hear a strained chortle from my lips. Like equal parts gasp and laughter. Trying to regain the oxygen you've been knocking out of me while maintaining the unyielding demeanor I've been putting out to you and the audience. You can feel my fingers clutch on your shoulder, my nails digging in to the skin.
My head is bowed, but I'm not. My face snaps up into yours. My eyes wide and wild. My lips twisted into a strange grimace/grin.
"You're nothing," I hiss between my lips. "White trash Jersey bitch."
No counter attack. Just that.
-
I've seen this act before... it's a good one, and the announcers are eating it up.
"Good Lord, Leticia! Becca just keeps pounding that body... and she doesn't seem to care! What is Rowan MADE OF?"
"Malcolm, I don't know! But, whatever she's taking, I WANT some of it!"
But.... it's only an act. It HAS to be. I can feel your left hand clutching my shoulder ... those nails starting to gouge... that's the reaction of someone who's hurt. Someone desperate to show she's NOT hurt. Someone made of flesh and blood... not madness. No matter how much that laugh has an unearthly echo in the core of my stomach. Not matter how that smile looks like you just crawled out of the vat at ACE Chemicals. You're hurt... and you're daring me to hurt you more... begging me.
I'll oblige.
"Got a nice grip? GOOD." I can ignore things, too... like your red nails seeming to grow as they pierce my pale skin on the shoulder... my left arm free.. and I go to use it.. my right arm slides around your ribs... my left arm.. goes between those legs... squat and scoop... as you cackle... and straighten up... "Lady DDT, huh?".. let her think I'm going to do that... my left arm hooked up onto your left ass cheek.. so I can drop down to a knee and aim your side into my upraised right knee...
Laugh THIS off, clown...
-
Another lift.
Another drop.
This time, the side of my ribs on your knee, making my body bend like an archer bending a bow. My body snaps, almost in two, when it hits your knee. My head almost hitting the mat. My hair moving fast and violent as my body snaps back up and rolls off your knee, tumbling to the mat. My arms clutching at my side. My teeth clenched. Eyes squeezed shut.
Both arms grasp at my side as I lay coiled up on the canvas, my knees brought up to my chin. My raven black hair spilling over my painted face. The pain sings to me. Up and down my spine. Through my ribs. My guts slowly moving back into their prescribed positions. I can feel the slow burn in my core. That's your strategy. Break my core. Take away all the strength.
Nice tactic. Smart tactic. Smart enough that I almost find a glimmer of respect for you. Almost.
-
She's not laughing now... she's curled up like a ball on the canvas... and I can even hear her... breathing... She's hurt... at last... now to keep hurting her...break her will to continue... so I squat down... reaching behind your upper calf with my left hand .. and around your neck with my right... so I can straighten up... and fall back... the plan is simple .. straighten out as I sell out my body a bit and fall back.. to see if I can whip your curled up body up and over.. see if I can send the legend flying to another crash landing... and break the mystical, ethereal image of Rowan Chance as some sort of bitch demon goddess...
Make you scream out in pain like any normal woman who's wandered into my ring. And dared me to defend me and mine.
And then, Rowan... I laugh as YOU get carried out of the ring!
-
Rowan, let her hurt you
Let the darkness come
Let the pain sing its song
Allow the hate to fill your heart
Let her hurt you
My mantra fills my head.
Even as you lift me and throw me over your shoulder.
Even as my body slams on the canvas at an akward angle.
Even as my back screams at me.
I listen to the pain.
It sings to me.
I can hear its song now.
I can hear its song now.
“Looks like Rowan might be hurt after that throw.”
“I don’t think she ever recovered from Paris. I don’t think anyone could. I mean, where the hell is Punky? She did the smart thing and took time off. Rowan came right back into the ring.”
“She’s on the mat. Looks like she may have hurt her back.”
“Even Flair was changed by a broken back. Rowan hasn’t changed her style at all.”
“Becca is closing in. Looks like she has another attack planned...”
I sense it. I feel you getting closer. Cocksure and full of yourself.
Go on. Do the stupid thing. Pick me up.
Pick me up and see what happens.
Pick me up, so sure I’m hurt.
Pick me up so I can twist myself, so the referee is between you and me.
Pick me up so I can jab the edges of my palms into that throat of yours that I nearly cracked on live television.
Pick me up, Becca.
See what happens.
-
“I don’t think she ever recovered from Paris. I don’t think anyone could. I mean, where the hell is Punky? She did the smart thing and took time off. Rowan came right back into the ring.”
"I DIDN'T TAKE ANY FUCKING TIME OFF! I KILLED SEAN CONNERY, BEAT UP A FAIRY, ESCAPED A RAMPAGING MOB AND FOUGHT CYBERMEN *BEFORE* I WRESTLED IN THE GOD-DAMN O2 ARENA, YOU BILIOUS FUCKIN' TWAT MUFFINS!"
A flung hatchet hits the huge screen, shattering the TV in a burst of sparks and distressed liquid crystal, followed by a flurry of smashing sounds as a purple-haired maniac assaults the television, toppling it from the well-appointed mahogany bedroom entertainment center. An elegantly cultured voice calls from the cosmetics table in the master en suite bathroom, where the carefully coiffured brunette lady of the house is very carefully NOT looking back through the door to the bedroom to see her tattooed hellion of a wife destroying the bedroom television with a tomahawk. Again.
As the lady of the house is a tattooed hellion herself, she knows better than to look, since it'll just make her cross and then she'll have to go have words with Megan and the two of them will never make it to the rooftop ball with the gentlemen from All Japan.
"Pickle, you're not watching any fucking American wrestling out there, are you?"
"NO. OBVIOUSLY. MOTHER*FUCKERS*!" There's another crunch as the fallen television is guillotined like Antoinette.
"Good." She touches up her lips with a flare of bright crimson, and smiles to herself in the mirror, content as a cat plump with cream-sauced canary. "Put your hatchets away, darling. And get the staff to tidy up."
Megan, she knew, was doing her best to forget the rubbish of the distant past. Even if that meant smashing expensive things with axes now and then.
A hundred more expensive TVs smashed to flinders would be a small price to pay to have that black-hearted slattern Chance out of their lives.
-
I had to sell out to do that move... but OH, it was ecstasy to do... the demon goddess nothing more than a practice doll... and I can hear the impact... and the groan... hell... everyone can hear the groan... rolling over to push up ... "This bitch is TOAST!"... and I have not a doubt now that I can hurt you more... punish you... destroy you...
But first... to make sure... so I come... over to your back as you lie there... do everything in threes... like a good little Celt... threes within threes... I've thrown you twice... the third will need to be brutal... but first, wheels within wheels..stomping down onto the most famous injured back in the business... aiming my heel into that lower back... three times... over and over and over... then I reach down for your hair... time to end this... and end YOU... pulling you up to standing... to face me... "ready to go back to HELL, bitch?"
Then it hits... THEY hit. a double knife edge chop into my larynx.. framing the voicebox you tried to crush... the trachea that had barely begun to heal... ARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH... I can't... breathe... the bitch... trying to prevent me from getting air... my instinct... to grab my throat... try to manipulate it open.. need ... space... need ... room... need... time... as I rasp and gag and panic.... so I lift my left boot and aim my heel at your black vinyl shorts... got to... get her... off me... so I cna get to the ropes.. and try to cough my throat open!
-
Three knees on my spine. Three spikes of pure pain thrust through my whole body.
Let her. Let her do it.
That’s what I say after each one.
Let her do it.
Yes, she knows exactly how to hurt me.
Yes, she’s preying on my old wound.
Yes, she thinks she has the advantage.
She has nothing.
You have nothing Becca.
Nothing.
With your body between me and the referee, I deliver the double thrust to your throat. You stagger back, giving me time to relish what you’ve done to me so far.
Taste it. Drink it in. Relish it.
Remember how he taught you to love it. Before you met HER. Before she made you weak.
I make sure you see exactly what happens next, Becca. Because I want you to see it.
I want you to see my body snap upright. Like I was a doll pulled by strings. Up to my feet.
And I move fast. Despite the pain you’ve given me. I almost laugh thinking about it. “Despite the pain.”
Because of the pain.
That’s the difference between me and...the weak, pathetic creature she turned me into. I forgot. Forgot what I was. What I held onto for just a moment in Paris. One fragile moment.
Not despite the pain. Because of it.
I move. My body next to yours. My arm wrapping around your head. Front face lock. Locking you in with my right arm. My right leg kicks at your knee as I pull you back. So fast. Cameras are going to have trouble catching us, Becca.
Pull back. Kick at your knee.
Drive your head down toward the canvas.
Just like old times. I can almost smell the miso soup.
-
In this business... there are moves.... patterns... wheels if you will... that become as second nature as breathing.
It's why we go into drill over and over. In practice. In matches. Card after card after card. In the US, we do it by endless shows in nameless places. It's why when you build something like we rebuilt it in New Jersey, you fight to ends you didn't think you'd go to in order to protect it. That's how we do it here. That's how they do it elsewhere, too.
It's what makes the Japanese and the Mexicans legendary. The moves that flash like lightning. Set in stone and able to be played at a speed beyond notice. The card tricks of our business, sleight of hand that happens so quickly, the untrained eye can't pick them up. Hell, even the trained eye can't, always...but we can see the effect. It's why I watch Penn & Teller: Fool Us. The professionals trying to trick each other. And if you win, if you can do something that they cannot figure it out, they give you a spot in their Vegas act and a trophy with "F. U." in big letters.
Because, the network wouldn't let them call it, "Penn & Teller: Fuck U", but that's what they're really about. If they can figure it out, FUCK YOU. You don't deserve to be on that stage. And, if I can figure out Rowan, FUCK HER. I get to throw her out of MY promotion.
Except.
Right now, she's figured ME out. Knew what I would do, how I would react, how I would move. And here comes HER lightning. My head... her kick at my knee. taking my leg out from under me... I can't pivot... I can't really block it... she's practiced it so long, it's too FAST to do anything much... except with I've learned. How to take a shot. Normally, I'd sell it. To the crowd. Play the hell out of it, and give the marks a show of their heroine fighting back from IMPOSSIBLE odds to somehow destroy the evil in the other corner, and restore the order threatened with absolute devastation of all that is good and right that it represents.
(It's Barthes, Classic work of symbolic theory using wrestling as it's model. Look it up.)
BAMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM... we hit the canvas and I manage to twist into you enough and get my right forearm down enough to make a big noise..and keep most of the impact on my now-numbed right forearm... a nice mouse will grow over my eyebrow though... as my head bounces off the canvas and I need to buy a second to actually address that impact. but I'm nowhere near as damaged as the crowd thinks I am... I can fight back.. i WILL fight back.. because this fight is not about a show. It's about survival. For me and mine and everything I've built.
The biggest problem is, is that there is one other person in this arena who knows all that. And she knows what to do, and how hurt I am, and how to use that. To destroy all that good and true and beautiful order, and tell Roland Barthes FUCK U to his symbolic theory.
It's Rowan. And she's here, and she doesn't want a show in Vegas and a bigass trophy.
She wants my blood. And I still don't know why.
-
The "thud" a head makes when it hits the canvas is always a satisfying sound. I lay there for a moment, savoring both the sound and the sensation. Little Becca's body crashing down, her spine condensing. But not too long.
A moment after we're both still, but a moment before we're completely still, I pivot my body so I can mount her back. But I keep control over her neck, my arm tightly wrapped around it. I have to adjust my grip once I get there, knees on either side of her body, looking down at the back of her head. Crawling over her like a spider crawling over a trapped fly. She's still stunned. Should be stunned for longer than I need. Should be. They're making girls tougher these days.
I have control over her head and neck. I'm up on her spine while she's face down on the canvas. I reach between us and grab my wrist tucking out from under her chin while my legs tighten around her abdomen. I make sure to tuck my head so my hair falls over your face, Becca. Because I want to hide the fact that my forearm is crushing your larynx as long as possible.
Then, I arch my back, pulling your upper torso with me, giving my forearm under your chin the kind of torque I need to make this dragon sleeper as fucking painful as possible.
You're tapping out, Becca. I'm not here to pin you. I'm here to make you give up. Make you surrender. I want to hear you screaming, begging for my mercy.
That's the only way you're getting out of this ring: if you beg me.
-
This has been superb this far. I certainly hope you will continue this to a resolution. Dying with anticipation!