FreeCatFights

General Category => Chat Fight Logs And Message Board Fights => Message Board Fights => Topic started by: ThePurpleVixen on November 21, 2017, 05:27:35 AM

Title: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 21, 2017, 05:27:35 AM

Upon accepting the entered payment info - major credit cards, Apple Pay, Amazon Wallet, PayPal and bitcoin accepted - viewers' screens resolve to a special internet PPV logo - ONE DARK NIGHT IN PARIS - featuring production company logos from London's RoxStar Marketing and the ECWL, PDX Purple Pandemonium LLC (holders of the FTW trademark), and Darkly Dreaming Productions of Arizona, along with sponsorship by NuSkin, Suplex Apparel, Peerless Restraints and an absolutely enormous sponsored logo from Jack Daniels Black. The scene is set at the Zenith Paris, in the Parc de la Villette along the Canal de l'Ourcq. A beautiful place - the canal is gleaming in the late autumn night, and La Villette still has lovers walking its manicured lawns under the stars, the mirrored orb of La Géode catching the endless night sky. Shots of the City of Love at night lead to a lingering exterior on the arena. These shots of a peaceful and beautiful city are important.

Because shit is about to get so fucking real.

We cut into a steady camera in the arena, its thousands of distinctive bright red seats already nearly filled to capacity as the audience continues to file in. The tasteful placards in French and English along the entrances warn attendees that tonight will not be an evening of music and enchantment. Tonight there will be blood. Facing the camera are a somewhat rotund and highly respectable man in a blue suit with a striped red and white tie, with slightly rosy cheeks and broad Midwestern features, tightly brushed salt and pepper news anchor hair and round steel glasses; beside him is a slightly taller man, lean built with broad shoulders and the air of someone who used to be in much better shape, with overtanned skin and balding black hair slicked back into a shiny ponytail, wearing a pink satin warm-up jacket, white jeans and mirrorshades. These are, according to wrestling lore and also the chyrons underneath them on the screen, Larry van Keel and Rick "Precious" Perle, voices of many an erstwhile wrestling federation, most recently of FTW and here tonight to call this special event.

LVK: Welcome to fans across the world! We are LIVE at the Zenith Paris for tonight's special event. It will be vicious. It will be brutal.

RP: It's gonna be a fuckin' bloodbath.

LVK: Well said, Rick. THIS - is ONE DARK NIGHT IN PARIS!

RP: Hey, I didn't get bleeped!

LVK: That's right, Rick! Unlike our tenure at FTW, there is no ten-second delay on this iPPV, and the sponsors are all WELL aware of what they were getting into when they signed the contracts. Tonight there are no bleeps. There are almost no rules. There are CERTAINLY no lines these women will not cross. Tonight - Megan "Punky" Dow and Rowan Chance will meet in the ring, one on one, for the first time since their infamous match in Philadelphia's Viking Hall three years ago!

RP: I'm glad we weren't callin' that one. I'd still be havin' friggin' nightmares. Of course, now I'm stuck here in this friggin' place where all the cheese smells funny an' ya can't get a decent crabcake anywhere, an' I'm gonna have to watch these two maniacs tear each other apart.

LVK: Yes, Rick, there is certainly no love lost in the City of L-

RP: Talk about HELL COMES TO FROGTOWN.

LVK: ...

RP: It was a movie with Roddy Piper.

LVK: I s-

RP: And French people are frogs.

LVK: ... Rick, I just ... please. Can we?

RP: Hey, whatever ya like. I'm easy.

LVK: So ton-

RP: TONIGHT, we got a No Holds Barred, TWO OUTTA THREE FALLS slobberburnin' barn-knocker!

LVK: I hate you.

RP: An' ya gotta figure both of these lunatics are gonna try to wreck each other up so hard that the winner's second fall is probably just gonna be of 'em pinnin' the other's twitchin' corpse.

LVK: That's somewhat graphic, Rick, but given that it's you, there's a certain admirable restraint in-

RP: An' since they like facefuckin' each other so much when they go for pins, it'll be necrophilia.

LVK: ... sweet Jesus, Perle.

RP: WHAT?! It's true! Lookit the tapes! Almost every match these two nutbags are in, they've tried to plant their funboxes on each other's faces. That's how Chance pinned Punky in 2014 after the Widow's Bite on the stage!

LVK: That's - actually a fair point. Still, can we agree not to use the term "necrophilia" for the rest of the show?

RP: Yeah, I'm fine with that. I mean, it's not like these two are gonna be dressed as the undead or somethin'.

LVK: Good point, Rick. And with that, let's get right to it - no backstage interviews, no dark matches, no video packages recapping the rivalry - a storied feud going back for years, ranging around the world and involving all sorts of brutal violence and sexual conquest - because if you paid for this show, folks, you know all about it already. Let's get right to the entrances!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 21, 2017, 05:29:43 AM

The view cuts to an overhead of the Zenith Paris. The seats are all filled, a teeming crowd of Parisians and globetrotting wrestling fans. Visible in the front row are a few more distinctive figures, recognizable as wrestling personalities from FTW, ECWL, and other leagues collaborating with FCF. The ring is set up in the middle of the large arena, with a wide area of bare concrete around it and a heavy steel riot barrier provided by the gendarmes to separate the floor seats from the danger zone around the ring. The concert stage has been set up for entrances, backed by three large screens. The lights dim, drawing a rush of cheers from the capacity crowd, and the screens light up - the view cutting to what plays out on them.

The footage is three men in snowy white doctor's coats, in a shadowed room. Their faces obscured in shadow, adorned with glasses that are just circles of flickering light. The one in the center wears a reflector headband, catching the light of the screen they're all watching in the dark room. Playing on the screen, over and over, is footage of Rowan Chance hitting her split-legged tombstone piledriver onto a metal entrance stage on Punky, the purple-haired vixen's body jolting from the brutal impact and toppling limp to her back, spasming as Chance slithers forward and settles her pussy on Punky's bloody features for a facesit pin. As soon as she settles in, the footage loops again, over and over, the impassive doctors wreathed in shadow as they look on, the footage reflecting in their glasses. At last the one with the 1940s-era reflector band clicks a button on the shadowed desk before them, pausing the footage just as Punky's bloody form topples to the stage.

DOCTOR 1: It is decided.

DOCTOR 2: It is decreed.

DOCTOR 3: It is done.

DOCTOR 1: She is dead.

DOCTOR 2: She is definitively dead.

DOCTOR 3: She is indisputably dead.

The screen cuts to a flickering, staticky close-up of the monitor the shadowed doctors were watching - and a thick red stamp is laid over the image of the fallen punk with a final toll of a bell.

*DEAD*

There's a jolt of static, cutting to a news anchor sitting at a desk, looking gravely concerned.

ANCHOR 1: Shocking news out of Philadelphia tonight, where wrestler Cheerleader Melissa was found backstage at an independent show, beaten unconscious and with a large BITE seemingly taken from her shoulder. Doctors are working to -

Another anchor appears, in a different suit at a different news desk, the screen split between the two.

ANCHOR 2: Tonight doctors are assisting professional wrestler Jessicka Havok, found outside a Baltimore arena hosting an MCW show, her neck injured and a bloody bite seemingly gnawed from her thigh. Police are -

Yet another anchor, and another, the screen split 4 ways now as the voices overlay each other.

ANCHOR 3: British wrestler Saraya Knight rushed into reconstructive surgery in central London after it was claimed that a maniacal attacker devoured part of her cheek -

ANCHOR 4: Independent superstar Nicole Savoy found in a pool of blood in Manchester, a brutal attack with flesh seemingly chewed from her neck after her shoulder was separated -

The voices spill faster, more and more appearing, in other languages now; footage from Japan, from Germany, from Mexico of wrestlers injured in brutal beatings and each and every one bitten bloody. The voices swirling into a babble of concern that rises over the tumult of blood and brutality.

On the stage, below the footage playing on the screens, figures in charcoal-gray suits with swallowtails and striped ties with slicked back hair and mournful demeanors are slowly arraying a row of elegant coffins standing upright along the center of the stage, seven in total.

As the bearers finish arraying the coffins, the newscasters all stop, staring intently into their respective cameras, and all mouth in unison to a distorted, static-crackling voice that echoes over the speakers:

WHO IS THIS IRRESISTIBLE CREATURE
WHO HAS AN INSATIABLE LUST FOR THE DEAD?

And another voice answers over the Zenith Paris' sound system.

LIVING *DEAD* GIRL!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BvsMPOfblfg (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BvsMPOfblfg)

Purple and red and green strobes flash through the darkness of the arena as the crowd roars.

And with that, I fucking DRIVE my boot into the inner coffin lid of the center coffin, sending the door crashing to the stage as I step out just as the guitars DRAG into their distort-heavy rocking demon wail, and walk out of the god-damn thing and onto the stage, facing the crowd for the first time tonight. Normally I have a lot of anticipation building up at the gorilla position, waiting for my music to hit. Tonight, I had all that in the perfect darkness of a closed coffin, trapped with nothing but my thoughts and the muffled sound of the video I had made for tonight. Nothing but imagining being in the ring alone with Rowan Chance again.

But now? Now I'm out of the grave, and I'm fucking HUNGRY.

I'm wearing something like my ring attire, but with a little more danse macabre - one of my own merch shirts, a black cotton tee featuring a thematically appropriate drawing of me as a zombie rising from the grave under the legend PUNK IS FUCKIN' DEAD in dripping horror movie purple letters, the sleeves and belly ripped off the shirt, worn over a black Lycra Suplex Apparel sports bra cradling my pierced tits under the loose tee. My fists and wrists are wrapped in thick twists of black and red fight tape. I wear a thick black leather belt studded with chrome skulls, securing a short panel skirt that's just tattered strips of red velvet ripped from a coffin lining over black boyshorts printed with sugar skulls. Thick black Lycra stockings - the knees adorned with grinning white skulls - pulled up to my tattooed thighs and my trademark blood red Doc Martens complete the look - and you'd better fucking believe my purple hair in my usual punktails, locked in place with big steel skull clasps.

As an extra grave touch, my face is painted in a classic calavera, traced in thick black and violet circles around my eyes, my lips painted a glossy black, and dark lines tracing my forehead and jaw, with bone white paint filling in the skull shape, and for my the last bit of deathly delight in my entrance I'm celebrating everyone's favorite OTHER living dead wrestler, with a broad-brimmed black hat on my head and a long black leather coat over my attire.

I make my way to the head of the stage as Rob Zombie begins his drawling celebration of sex and death, and I take my hat off and WHIP it out into the crowd, throwing a rock hand up and arching my back, head hanging back and purple punktails almost brushing my skull-adorned ass as the other six coffins on the stage EXPLODE into pyro bursts on either side of me as the word "RAGE" hits.

Slithering down the ramp off the stage, I'm right among the floor seats, pressing up to the steel railing as I make my way down - a good portion of the audience singing along with the old familiar tune, since even with a French crowd Rob Zombie knows how to prod the beast within - and I move with the slow sinuous grace of the dead, dragging my black-painted nails and the rough tape on my hands across the outstreched fingers and leaned-in faces of the crowd. My coat swirls behind me, flapping like dark wings as I twist along the rail, my body moving to the savage rhythm in slow, wicked ways.

I move along the front row at ringside - hand reaching out to caress Red Enforcer's mask with a rough rasp of tape on the mask's fabric, and again to run my nails across the gleaming sequins of the Platinum Queen's elaborately showy dress with a little slithering clicking of claws - and then I stop in front of my darling wife Gemma Rox, in her exquisite suit by Dries van Noten showing an incredible depth of plunging cleavage. I reach out for a clutch on her lapel and pull her close, and we hiss whispers into each other's ears the camera can't quite pick up before I lick her, getting a long hot drag of her perfumed soft skin along her neck with my pierced tongue. I let her back into her seat, slithering up onto the ring apron and facing the crowd - and on the lyric "SO BEAUTIFUL, THEY MAKE YOU - *KILL*" I THROW my coat off with a swirl, letting it slide down my tattooed arms to a heap of black leather, and with a grin on my skull-painted face I slide my arms along the top rope to either side of me, and THROW myself back and over, legs rushing over me, my coffin-lining gladiator skirt fluttering as I swing my boots above me and back-flip into the ring, going to my knees and hanging my arms over the middle rope, my breasts pressed against the steel cable as I bite at the ropes with casual ferocity while the ring announcer, a somewhat notable French-Algerian club singer in a really lovely plunging dress, announces me to the crowd.

"INTRODUCING FIRST, HAILING FROM THE CITY OF ROSES, STANDING FIVE FEET AND SEVEN INCHES TALL AND WEIGHING IN TONIGHT AT MORE THEN ENOUGH TO KICK YOUR ASS, SHE IS THE LIVING DEAD GIRL, THE HUMAN TRIGGER WARNING, THE PURPLE PEOPLE EATER, THE MONSTER QUEEN -

THIS!
IS!
PUNKY!"

The crowd erupts again - but I've lost sight of them. I hang on the ropes, gnawing at the wrapped cables with the restless hunger of the living dead, my hazel eyes gleaming under my skull paint, watching the stage where the crew in black are clearing away the burning coffins. The video screens are resetting.

The music dies down, leaving a hushed murmur.

The one who destroyed me. The one who broke me down. The one I hunger for.

She's coming.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 21, 2017, 08:52:17 AM

I hear the harp and smell the wine. Holding the cork between my fingers, sitting at the small table, a man in a blue suit sitting across from me. I'm wearing my favorite little black dress: the Herve Leger off-the-shoulder. I've got great shoulders. My hair tied up, little black strands falling and framing my face. My lips are blood red as usual. Eyes painted almost black. I look up at the waiter and he shows me the bottle.

The waiter says, "The Chateau Lafite Rothschild, 2009." And he pours a small taste into my glass. I put the glass to my lips and nod. He fills it. Then, I turn back to the man in the blue suit.

"Well, Miss Chance?" he asks. "What do you think of our offer?"

I smile. "Cash," I say. "Up front."

He nods. "Of course." His iPhone in his hand, he swipes and taps. Then, he asks, "Your Los Angeles account?"

"Sweden."

"Very good."

The waiter delivers the Porterhouse, setting it in front of me. I cut into it, seeing the perfect color on the inside. A taste. I smile.

"Perfect," I tell the waiter. He smiles and nods.

Back to the man in the blue suit.

"You're paying a lot to promote this fight," I say, bringing another bite to my lips.

"The rematch of the century." He gestures to the waiter, asking for another whiskey on the rocks. "We simply couldn't resist."

"How much did she ask for?" Another bite of the steak.

He says, "You know that's confidential."

I smile at him. "Tell me anyway."

I can see him swallow. He takes a sip from his whiskey. Then, he stiffens his upper lip. "One dollar," he says.

I almost laugh. "Yes. That's her."

* * *

Tantalus is waiting for me when I arrive. In my condo in Los Angeles, up in the mountains of Mullholland, overlooking the city. I never should have given him a key. He's sitting in a chair under the only light in the place. Like a father waiting up for a child beyond their curfew.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asks.

I toss my purse on the kitchen table and try to ignore him. I walk toward the bedroom. He gets up from the chair and follows.

"What in the hell do you think you're doing?" he asks again.

Without looking back, I wave a hand. "You worry too much."

"She nearly killed you last time," he says, following me into the bedroom.

I slink my dress off. Nothing he hasn't seen before. Long shadows in the dark room on my olive skin. I kick off my shoes.

"You nearly killed her last time," he says.

I go to the closet and slip on my silk robe, wrapping it around my waist. Still pretending to ignore him.

He steps forward and grabs my wrist, spinning me around. I nearly fall into him. Feel his muscular chest against my breasts. His face close to mine.

"She's not going to hurt you," he says. "She's going to do something worse."

My lips curl into a snarl. My eyes almost glaring in the dim room.

"She can't hurt me," I whisper through clenched teeth.

His eyes bore into me. "Not anymore than she already has?"

I pull my wrist out of his hand. "I'm going to bed," I tell him. "And you aren't invited."

"I'm not giving you the mask."

I stand by the bed not looking at him. I don't say anything.

"If you're going to face her, you're going to face her without it."

I smile a little, still averting my eyes from him. "I wasn't going to ask."

"That's good, because I'm not giving it to you." He turns to walk away, but pauses by the door. "I love you," he says.

"You love her," I say, a little rasp in my throat.

He takes a breath. "Both of you." Then, he closes the door behind him.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 21, 2017, 09:09:02 AM

The whole place turns pitch black. A moment of silence. Just the screams and whistles of the crowd.

Then, a single black light shines down on the curtain, making the blacks darker and highlighting the dust. The groan and heave of Tom Waits fills the speaker. A slow, dire dirge.

What does it matter, a dream of love
Or a dream of lies
We're all gonna be in the same place
When we die
Your spirit don't leave knowing
Your face or your name
And the wind through your bones
Is all that remains
And we're all gonna be
We're all gonna be
Just dirt in the ground

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RvKfJ3kkJ_4

The curtain parts and two men in Venetian plague doctor masks step through wearing top hats and old black suits. They hold the curtain apart as two more men in the same masks appear.

Hell is boiling over
And heaven is full
We're chained to the world
And we all gotta pull

Then, just as Tom says "pull" a woman in a white dress steps through illuminated by the black light. Shining in the darkness. A white veil over her face, hiding it from the crowd. In her hands is a bouquet of blood red roses. And she steps with each beat of the dirge.

Now the killer was smiling
With nerves made of stone
He climbed the stairs
And the gallows groaned

So slowly, she steps toward the ring. She walks all the way around it, walking by the Red Enforcer, but not acknowledging him. She steps by Tantalus, there in the front row. She says nothing. And when she moves in front of Gemma Rox...

...she pauses...

...turns...

...and that white veil just glares.

Then, she returns walking around the ring.

Now Cain slew Abel
He killed him with a stone
The sky cracked open
And the thunder groaned
Along a river of flesh
Can these dry bones live?
Ask a king or a beggar
And the answer they'll give
Is we're all gonna be
Yea yeah
We're all gonna be just
Dirt in the ground


The ghost bride walks up the steps, almost as if she floats over them, the dress hiding her steps. And when she reaches the ropes, she ducks low, under the middle rope. And she walks to the center of the ring, her veiled face turned toward Punky.

And she pauses.

Raises one hand, holding the red roses.

And she drops them, right in the center of the ring, scattering like a blood splatter.

Then, she grabs the dress and rips it. Tearing it from her body.

And under that virgin white is black leather and olive skin and raven blue-black hair. Eyes painted almost black. A leather corset tied halfway down. Tall dominatrix boots. Tight black shorts that show off everything I want you to see, including my tattoo. My only tattoo, just below my navel, just above my panty line.

Unbreakable

And my lips are as red as the roses. And they're smiling. Roses and the torn dress scattered around me.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 21, 2017, 11:08:34 PM

Tom Waits.

He sounds like a corpse singing at his own funeral. Seems we've got a real theme tonight, each of us embracing death in our own way. That makes perfect fucking sense - we both know what we're up against. We each know what we're capable of. There's a referee here tonight, but her only job is to count the pin or take the submission, and she was chosen specifically for her cold-eyed stillness in the face of unspeakable violence. She won't stop the match for blood loss. She won't stop if we're screaming in agony, or if a bone breaks. She'll stop when one of us has TWICE been pinned with our shoulders humiliatingly flat, or uttered the words "I submit" to the grinning demonic face of our rival, or passed into unconsciousness signified by one hand being raised and flopping helplessly to the mat three times. This is not going to be the kind of match either of us walks away from unassisted. This is not going to be the kind of match that we celebrate with champagne and smiling French girls with perky Parisian tits at Le Crazy Horse after the show. This is going to be a match that makes new scars and rips open old ones.

And I can't fucking wait.

My mad eyes burn behind my painted skull as I hang on the middle ropes, kneeling against them, breasts pressed taut to the cable, my hands clutching at the ropes, snarling in my throat as I watch you. Rowan Chance. The wedding dress is a nice touch.

You told me through a wicked smile that white gowns weren't for you, years and years ago. This was before Viking Hall, after our wrestling feud had started but when we would still be drawn together, again and again, irresistible to each other, and when we thought we might be in love sometimes, when it was late and we were panting and exhausted. It was in Texas, and the roses were in bloom, like the ones dripping from your fist.

What if someone got one for you, I'd asked with eyes sly in the night.

You hadn't answered then, just rolled onto me for more.

And now I've found someone I wanted to get a gown for, someone I wanted to give everything to and know she'd keep it safe and whole even if she occasionally powerbombs me into the breakfast table. I've found something as close to paradise as I can get with Gemma. And you've been trying to break it ever since. Break it like you tried to break me.

You stare through your veil at Gemma, and I snarl and lunge at the ropes, just barely held back by the steel cables like a mad beast, teeth gnashing into a clacking bite under my skull paint.

"EYES UP HERE, BITCH."

And I get them. Oh, I get them. You step into the ring, and move to the center, your eyes on me behind your veil. I rise to my boots, fists curled at my sides, leaning forward ferally with my teeth bared, and you dash the roses to the canvas and rip your gown away in one fluid move, baring that black leather and exquisite dusky skin that I know so well, that fall of hair so dark it shades to blue like the abyss and eyes so knowing they're hard to meet.

But I meet them. My burning hazel eyes circled in thick black paint lined with vivid sugared violet stripes. Our gazes riveted together. I move to the center of the ring to face you, pressed so close we could kiss, so close our breasts could crush together in a fierce embrace that burns away everything. So close we could forget where we are, if that was who we were.

But it's not.

My eyes are locked with yours, chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths, nostrils flared and glossy black lips drawn back from snarling teeth as my fists convulsively twitch at my side, wanting to sink into you as we stand on scattered blood-red roses and tatters of white satin dreams.

And the bell rings.

The crowd probably expects us to unleash into each other immediately, in a flurry of raw bloodlust. And there will be blood, oh yes.

But first I just keep my eyes riveted on you, and press forward, my forehead pushed into yours with a kiss of paint. The smell of Ben Nye greasepaint and powder, the smell of the perfume still on your skin, the smell of your breath.

Your eyes burning into mine.

"Hit me," I hiss through my teeth, wind whistling through an open grave.

"FUCKING HIT ME."

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: RedEnforcer on November 21, 2017, 11:19:23 PM

Just a few days ago I was in my gym in the Carolinas.  A small group of eager, young trainees with thoughts of the WWE and wrestling stardom and title belts in their eyes were just about to begin lessons in the reality of just what it takes to be a wrestler. Not just athletic ability, not just charisma, but a whole heaping helping of desire. And I was just about to show them that in a very tough way.

"I'm looking for a...Red...Red Enforcer?" 

I turn from the ring and look to see a sharply dressed young woman with a large manila envelope in her hand. She looked rather comfortable in the black suit with black tie and pleated undershirt. I could tell she wasn't in heels either. She looked young. But they all do these days. I was incognito so no mask for me, just workout clothes.

"It's kinda early for prom." I say as I move towards the young woman. "I haven't been to prom in 5 years" she replied with a scowl.   

"I'll make sure the Enforcer gets it." She's not impressed and I'm not sure whether to tip her, but my wallet comes out and I must have done good because she looks at the bill and then looks me up and down and smiles.  "Thank you" she says and turns and exits.

"Run the ropes!" I yell at the trainees as I head to my office and sit down and open up the envelope.

Out slides a plane ticket, a hotel key card and a smaller envelope with "Red" scrawled on it from a familiar hand.

Oh shit Rowan, now what. buzzes through my mind.  The ticket is to Paris. Tomorrow morning. The key is to one of the finer hotels I imagine.  And in the envelope is a small card with one image on it. Two women, facing off. A fight poster and ticket. It screams out "Rematch of the Century"  My heart sinks a bit as I see the combatants.  I get on the phone and call Johnny Caudle to take over my class. I let them know I'm going to be gone for a few days. "Family business" I tell them.

And here I sit in the front row of this battle. Two very important women in my life ready to clash once more. I know it's going to be devastating. The last time they nearly killed each other. I'm nervous, anxious and excited all at once. I look about the front row and see Tiffany there. And Gemma. Of course Gemma. She and Punky are quite the thing.  I give her sexy English ass a lusty wink.

And then I see Tantalus.

FUCK

Before I can ask him anything, the entrances start.  Megan sweeps by me and gives me a light touch to my mask. I'm not sure if she knew I'd be here or not.

Rowan next and I'm carefully eyeing her. Looking for it. Her mask. I cut eyes over at Tantalus to see if there's any clue that she might have it. Nothing.

The last time the four of us were together. Was it Tokyo? Shattering the mask?  I just hope that this match is one on one tonight. It's going to be violent enough as it is.

Rowan does a dramatic reveal of her outfit and no sign of the mask.

I settle back uncomfortably in my seat.

This will be a match to end all matches.
This will be a spectacular of epic proportions.

But this is also two very dear people in my heart trying to destroy each other.  The last time I got between them, it nearly cost me everything.  My mask, my shoulder, years off my career.

I can only hope they don't kill each other in there.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 22, 2017, 01:42:00 AM

"You've got no punch, Rowan."

I'm in the gym, body covered with sweat, black shorts and black tank top wet all the way through. My hair stuck to my face. I'm in front of the body bag and my hands are so sore, they seem made of pain. I bite my lip and take another swing at the bag. I do everything right. I twist my hips the right way, I cock my elbow the right way. I do everything right. But it doesn't matter. The trainer is right. I've got no punch.

Hours I spend in front of that bag practicing. And my punches get harder. But they aren't hard enough. They don't feel like someone just landed the Statue of Liberty on my chin. I watch Brody and I watch Funk. I want to have their punches. I want people to be afraid to give me their chin. But the trainer is right. I've got no punch.

So, I made up for it. I learned how limbs bend and how they shouldn't bend. I learned where all the nerve clusters are. I learned escapes and counters. I learned how to take people to Brazil on a one-way ticket. I've popped shoulders and knees, broken arms and legs. Sent my opponents to dreamland, limp in the middle of the ring. But the trainer is right. I've got no punch.

Punky does. She's got a punch. When she hits you, you feel your brain slosh around in your skull. One punch from her and it might as well be over. And you can dodge her taped fists all night long, but they'll catch up to you. And when they do, you'll feel your whole body melt under you as you plummet toward the canvas. She lands a hit to the side and you can feel your spleen nearly explode. She doesn't need that roque mallet she carries around. Her fists are hammers.

And there, in the middle of the ring, standing face-to-face, you scream at me. "FUCKING HIT ME." Like a dare. Because you know. You know.

I've got no punch. And you want the whole world to know it.

If I throw it, they'll see. And if I don't, they'll know.

Must have learned that trick from your mentor, Punky. Sounds like the shit she'd pull.

And so I stand there, perfectly still.

Do not fall for it. Do not deviate from the plan. Stick to what you know. Do not let her in your head. Do not let her in your fucking head.

But I feel my right fist curling up. Feel my heart pounding. Feel my face tensing from calm and confident to something darker and hungrier.

My right fist tight.

I twist my hips.

Lift my shoulder.

And aim straight for the tip of your jaw.

But at the very last moment, my left hand fires up, flat. The palm of my hand striking toward under your chin, the impact aimed at the back of your jaw.

And old trick my mentor taught me. Aimed to hammer the back of your jaw up and into your skull.

That pretty, pretty Punky skull.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: BustyTiffany35 on November 22, 2017, 09:11:32 AM

I can feel my pulse quicken, goosebumps forming in legion across my bare forearms. My cheeks glow with a reddish hue as a familiar warmth spreads through me, sinking to my very core. Through the curtain of my platinum bangs my narrowed eyes stare at her enticing image, that taut, lithe body moving with such sinful grace, striding to the ring to the roaring beats of Living Dead Girl. Every thing just seems to get blurry and slow, all sounds and noises from the crowds around me muted, her own blaring theme music sounding like its a million miles away. She walks in this dreamlike pace, almost as if she's gliding, and those piercing eyes, inviting, alluring, beautiful.. And something else. Something dark, twisted and feral. Something that promises worlds of pain and chaos to come. It sends a chill down my spine whenever I stare into those eyes, a welcoming chill that never fails to excite me. Those heavy Doc Martens of hers echoing like thunder with every step, and of course, her "Punktails". Fuckin' cutie.

This always seems to happen whenever I lay my eyes on her. Whether we're in the same room for whatever reason, or if I'm standing across the ring from her ready to throw down - hell, I could watch one of her matches on my iPad and still feel what I'm feeling now, all hot and bothered and shamefully excited. Regardless of what the situation may be, I'll always react the same, since I've always been head over heels for crazy lil' Megan "Punky" Dow. Despite the years of our rivalry, despite all the times she's beaten me senseless, dominated me, tied me up and humiliated me thoroughly, either in private or in front of a rowdy crowd, and taken every kind of advantage of me - again, either in private, or in front of a crowd.. Despite all that violence and humiliation we've inflicted upon each other, I've grown to respect her, to care for her, to lust after her. I've fallen for her, fallen real fuckin' hard.

So when the invitation came in the mail, when that sealed envelope showed up on the counter of my lingerie shop back home, I practically closed shop for the weekend and headed for the airport. Paris? Pfft, to hell with Paris - this was a chance to see Punky. And to watch the "Rematch of the Century", it was just a no-brainer. I had come and watch this. I never get to see her, not as much as before, those wild days when we ran in the same promotions and fought on a regular basis. Our schedules don't coincide at all, and she's got one hot-ass wife now who deserves her free time. So whenever an opportunity to see her in person presents itself ya can bet I'll jump all over it!

Speaking of jumping - I nearly do just that as I feel delicate fingers drag lazily along the sequins of my dress. Her fingers. Her sharp claws click, her kissable mouth grinning darkly. Time speeds up to its regular pacing and I step outta my own thoughts, returning to the present again to watch as Punky saunters around ringside. A warm smile curves my glossy mouth and I sink my teeth down into my lower lip, watching as she passes by, expensing all my willpower just to restrain myself from leaping over this guardrail, grabbing her by her Punktails and smothering her with hot, deep kisses. I breathe in deep and sigh longingly, watching her saunter until she pauses in front of her wife. Gemma. My eyes darken almost instantly as I glare at this woman. A storm of jealousy starts to brew beneath my skin as I stare at the pair, watching them exchange steamy whispers, watching Punky's hot studded tongue drag over the side of that woman's smooth, beautiful face. I take a deep breath again as I stew in my envy, glaring daggers at Gemma. Gawd.. she's so gorgeous..fuckin' bitch..

No, I have to stop thinkin' like that.. They're actually..really perfect for each other. I catch myself sighing and turning away, kinda sinking into my seat as Punky slides into the ring, and Rowan makes her entrance. I can't help but feel dumb for feeling that way - I shouldn't feel jealous, I'm here to support my friend, and to watch her unleash all 8 Circles of Hell all over that ring. I turn my eyes to the ramp again and arch my brow. Well, well. Here comes the bride.. This oughta be real special.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: LilMishyRocks on November 22, 2017, 09:35:07 AM

Holy crap!  This is like Koontz versus King!  Like Dickens versus Twain! Like Rowling versus Lucas!  Like E.L. James versus Nicholas Sparks!  (Mish gets slapped in the back of the head by HP Lovecraft.  “You always go too far, you little twit…” he admonishes.)

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Becca Blast! on November 22, 2017, 01:05:48 PM

When a messenger shows up in the backyard, it's never good.  The knock on the wooden gate was odd enough, but the obvious expense and importance... well, that means only the highest significance.  Danny is good at reading my face after these years; he collects Tina and heads back into the house.  "What is it, Becks?"

"It's Punky.  In Paris.  I... have to be there.  For her."  I've only heard about this Rowan as some sort of monstrosity; the tales I've heard have her as much as elemental force as flesh and blood, more implacable creature of myth than human competitor that could be bloodied or broken.

But, if that is going to happen, Punkstah would be the one to do it.  She'll have Gemma there, of course.  Between the two of them, I learned early on what it means to fight through not only physical pain, but the fears, doubts, and self-imposed limits on what we can do.  Or should do.  I'm no jet-setter, but this is Punky.  I swear I can smell her essence just from thinking of her, and, as the mix of regret, reverie, and arousal play across my face, Danny sets the tone.

"Passport's in the top drawer.  Use the points.  Just don't get yourself arrested, OK?  French bail isn't the easiest thing to raise in New Jersey."

I lean in to kiss both him, and then the darling little cherub he holds.  At two, she's already more to handle than anyone I've ever fought.  "You take the fun out of EVerything, hon.  And YOU.. you little monkey.... you make sure Daddy stays out of trouble.  Keep him shipshape!"

"Aye, aye, Mommy."  She actually salutes.. sort of.  "What sort of present do you want me to bring you from Auntie Punky?"  "The other girl's hair?" she responds.  Yeah, she's gonna be a problem in pre-K...

But now to get to Paris!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Katherine The Great on November 22, 2017, 01:27:12 PM

"Pardon me...."

"Excuse me, ladies..."

"Pardon moi..."

The 6'5", 300lbs man draped in Armani, wearing Ferragamo oxfords, tried to maneuver his way through the throngs of keyed up fans on the way to his seats. A much smaller, but athletically built blonde trailed behind him. A black, sleeveless cocktail dress clung to her golden curves, her three inch stilettos clickety clacking along the arena floor as she sneered at the overly excited fans. Her blonde hair piled up on her head, perfectly coiffed.....she hated it.

"Outta the way!"

"Comin' through!!"

"Move your ass, Frenchy!!"

The girl roared while trying to catch up to the hulking man with the wavy blonde hair and matching van dyke goatee. Bellowing at the people in her way and trying her best not to snap suplex someone into next week.

"Calm down Kit-Kat, we're almost to our seats. I told you to start getting ready sooner."

"Me? I didn't even want to come to this ridiculous sideshow! You made me come after Mom decided she wanted to stay in the suite!!. And stop calling me 'Kit-Kat', Daddy!! I hate that!"

The blonde man just grinned, finally finding their seats and patting the one next to him. The blonde plunked down and crossed her arms over her chest in a huff. She wiggled her firm rear, then crossed her legs, trying to get comfortable in the arena style seating.

"At least you could have got a box for us or something....these seats blow!"

"Oh hush Kit-Kat. Stop being such a brat and you just might learn something here, tonight. Now, sit back and watch the show."

"The only thing these two freaks could show me might be some Halloween costuming tips....that's about it." 

"And stop calling me 'Kit-Kat'!!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 22, 2017, 04:54:08 PM

You're pressed right into me, your dark eyes trying to keep that impassive chill that's made you so terrifying to women around the world, who see someone in the ring that seems to be dismissive of their very presence even as you're dislocating their shoulders or separating their hip joints. Rowan Chance, that ice-chilled bitch. Daughter of darkness. Merciless, soulless ...

... but you can't not feel with me. It's been too long together, too many toxic barbs buried in each other; too many kisses that now taste like poison, like ash, even though we keep coming back to them like drugs fiends desperate for a high we know is killing us. You can't stay chilled around me. The heat is too intense. And I see the tendons in your neck tensing, meaning your shoulder muscles are bunching, meaning you're clenching your fist tight while my painted face is pushed right against your pretty one, our eyes burning into each other.

"Yeah ..." I purr, hot with anticipation.

I want you to hit me.

Gemma tried drilling me with the psychology I'd need to beat you. We've spent the last few weeks in the gyms at Rox Manor and the streets of Blackpool, and she's been running through your weaknesses, places where your ego pricks you, things you're afraid of.

But she'd had to start carrying a rattan stick to hit me with while I was running or hitting the heavy bag or squatting weights, striping my pale tattooed skin with it to get my fucking attention on her psychology lessons. Because my mind wasn't on the psychology, it wasn't on the mental chess game of the ring, where Gemma makes her bread and butters it. It was on pain. It was on raw, unadulterated, savage fury. It was on blood for blood, and by the fucking gallon.

That's where my mind was. Gemma wants me to get you to hit me to show the world that you punch like a schoolgirl. I want you to hit me because I WANT YOU TO FUCKING HIT ME.

And your fist tenses - and you pull a beautiful feint and absolutely CLOCK me with your left palm, a strike that Tantalus undoubtedly shows you. It smacks of him - controlled, cruel, precise - and it smacks into ME, driving my jaw hinge up with a painful creak, teeth crunching together as my head snaps back, drawing an "Oooooooh!" from the crowd as my punktails bullwhip from the impact, sending me staggering back two big steps on my heavy red Docs.

"PFFFFUHHH!" A little spit mists from my black lips as my head is driven up to look at the lights. The pain is immediate, intense, clenching my aching teeth together in a gritty pained snarl. God damn, you can hurt me. You've been able to hurt me like no one else since we first met -

- and then I catch myself on my stagger, adrenaline racing through me just the fucking way I wanted it to, a witches' brew of fury and rage that turns that ringing pain in my jaw and the bells in my skull into the sweet music of the fucking night. My head snaps back up, eyes blazing.

"JUST like that ..." I snarl, a little thickly because of my jaw being clenched, and I LUNGE back into you, moving with my customary little burst of striking-snake speed, twisting my left hip towards you and drawing my left arm up, fist pushed almost to my right shoulder before I clasp my left fist in my right hand and DRIVE a back elbow at you, aimed right for your forehead and the bridge of your nose, trying to see if my ghostly bride is up for a little rough foreplay before the honeymoon.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 22, 2017, 05:14:05 PM

LVK: "A savate-style strike from Rowan Chance directly under Punky's chin, knocking the purple-haired warrior back two steps!"

RP: "Looks like Chance has been taking lessons from her pimp."

LVK: "Tantalus isn't her pimp, Rick."

RP: "Keep your mind on the match, Van Keel."

LVK: "Punky's eyes are glaring! She's been hit and she didn't like it."

RP: "Then she shouldn't have asked for it."

LVK: "She's getting ready for a—"


You charge forward like a hunter-seeker from Arrakis, sent by the Harkonnens to fill my blood with poison. Goddamn accurate and deadly.

Let her charge. Let her be Punky. You know what to do.

That left fist gets close. But I'm not there. I'm not taking one of those punches. Not even one. My head ducks and my torso twists with my feet shifting just a little, the right stepping behind the left. My right hand lifts, deflecting the punch. My left hand strikes up, palm flat, fingers first, right toward Axillary nerve. That soft spot under your armpit...

* * *

"Also sometimes called the circumflex nerve," Tantalus tells me. He has my arm up and his fingers pressed softly on my skin. I can't help but feel lightning between my thighs when he touches me. I can't help but smile just a little.

"It supplies signals to three places on the arm," he says. "You disrupt those signals, your opponent loses strength in those spots. Only for a few seconds—maybe ten if you hit it the right way—but it's enough to shut down the arm long enough that it's immobilized and impossible to use."

My smile turns from subtle to a wide grin. I can't help it. The way he touches me. The way he speaks. I love to learn. And when I do, I laugh. It's just who I am.

He notices and his hand moves fast, striking me hard under the arm. I feel a hot pulse of pain flush through the limb from my shoulder all the way down to my fingers. I cry out and fall to my knees. He's still got hold of my wrist.

"Understand?" he asks.

I nod, biting my lip. The pain is delicious. "Yes," I say.

* * *

The tips of my fingers aim for the spot. But you're moving fast. So goddamn fast. A little purple ball of spite and fury. I don't know if I'll be able to hit that target. But then again, Tantalus didn't run me through all those drills for nothing...

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Lord Tantalus on November 22, 2017, 08:56:51 PM

I sit in the audience quietly, my hands in my lap, my legs crossed. I am not at ringside: I'm three rows back.

As Punky passes, I bow my head, hoping she does not see me. My plan succeeds.

When Rowan passes, I do the same. Because of her veil, I don't know if she sees me or not.

There will come a moment when it becomes clear someone needs to stop this. And when that moment happens, everyone in the audience will know it. And none of them will do anything.

Including me.

Including me.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Emily Layne on November 22, 2017, 09:39:26 PM

The day before

Scene opens in the "Nonsolocombattimenti" gym in Milan where I'm training in front of a big red punching bag.
I'm wearing a pair of black yoga short and half cut black top that barely contains my big breasts.
Hair tied up in a high pony tail and white sneakers.

My guard is high and then right right jab to the punching bag, followed by a big left hook to the mid of it, the thuds are breaking the silence in the gym when a man comes in near me.

"Emily, we need to talk"

I ignore him and keep on pummeling the big bag in front of me.
He doesn't seem very surprised about that and he goes on.

"There will be a special event tomorrow in Paris, two well known fighters go at each other..I think you should go there as it's promise to be a big one"

Again no replies from me, my gloves keep pounding against the red leather of the bag.
The man goes on

"Megan Dow against Rowan Chance..."

For a moment I stop, about two seconds or three, then again I continue the training, ignoring him again.
But he stubbornly goes on.

"I know you're pretty much retired from the pro wrestling circuit, but that must be a good chance to see some old friends, maybe talking with some producers.."

I stop again and place one glove on the bag to make it hang still and look at him
 
"No thanks.."I simply say

"But it's a great event, a NHB match, the audience will be filled by wrestlers, managers and..."

I grab the bag and glare at him
 
"What part of 'No thanks' you didn't get?"

He groans, a bit intimidated and bothered

"We're out of money Emily, the underground boxing fights are not enough to pay the rent, if you'll show in event like that you may get a new contract with a big productions like the FTW times.."

As he talks I start to pound the punching bag, this time even harder, right hook, left uppercut, right right hooks"

"The flight is already booked, tomorrow at 6 pm" he says as he moves away, knowing that I've already decided.

Tonight:

I arrive in the Zenith Club in Paris, the flight was delayed, as always!
Fuck off Ryanair,
Fuck off Ireland and all the Irish
Fuck off Gemma Rox...although she's not Irish, Fuck off anyway!

In a casual outfit, light blue jeans, a halter cut top and a black sweatshirt with the writing "I <3 Rome" across it, a black baseball cap on my head.
About to enter, a big and large man gets in my way saying

"Ticket please"

I look at him, not really scared by the size and I lift up the cap and look in his eyes.
 
"I've a invitation, I'm Emily Layne"

He looks at a paper he has in his hands and then saying again

"Ticket please"

I snarl at him
 
"Listen..."

A voice breaks from inside of the main hall

"Emilyyy..sei tu!! Da quanto tempo!" with a Sicilian accent

He passes next to the big bodyguard to get at me and hugs me.

I try to remember who this guy is and finally it comes in my mind.
The Italian guy who was controlling the lights and audio panel in FTW!
He almost screwed my entrance once by playing a Tarantella.

"Come mai qui cara? Avevo sentito che ti eri ritirata!"
 
"Si, praticamente..ma volevo vedere due vecchie amiche nel ring dopo tanto tempo"

"Brava brava, hai fatto benissimo! Però vedi, le prime file sono già occupate, se vuoi c'è qualche posto libero nella tribuna laterale"
 
"Ok ok..mi accontenterò"

"Vieni vieni entra" he says to me, nodding at the bodyguard.
I look at the big guy with a smile and giving him a  "I won, you lost" look.

The Italian guy escort me to the red seats and shows me where is my place.
It's quite distant from the fighting ring but still with a good view of the action.

I get comfortable in my seat and looking around at some well known faces in the first row.
Tiffany, always dressed like she's gonna have a night of sex.
Gemma, damn I don't see her since so long time. She always acts like she's the big star of the night.
And then Red, that guy is probably the more normal person in that row.
Although the words 'normal' and 'Red Enforcer' are quite weird to be used in the same sentence.
I expect to see Sadie with him, but I don't see her, she's probably wasting time at the buffet.
And Lisa Star? Lindsay? Oh well..
Eyes turn back in the ring.
Punky and Rowan, I'm surprised they still didn't kill each other at this point.

I lean in my seat and suddenly feeling a tap on my right shoulder.
I turn behind me and a guy is looking at me.

"Oh my God...you..you are..."

I smile at him

"LISA STARR! IT'S YOU!" He roars
 
"Wtf???"

"Oh and you even got implants! You look..."

I grab on his wrist to stop him from saying anything else, glaring at him as I'm about to twist his wrist when his friend says
 
"She's Emily Layne! Not Lisa!"

"Ohhhh..yes right, I got confused..sorry sorry.."

I shake my head and without saying anything and turn to watch the action again.
I'm so glad I'm Italian and not French!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 22, 2017, 10:02:48 PM

When I drive, I drive hard.

I slew my cycle between buses and cabs in London with barely enough room between us for a credit card. I play golf like I'm trying to hit the fucking moon. I run like the devil's after me, and when I come in to fucking hit someone, I come in like a god-damn hurricane.

So I don't hesitate as I drive in, lunging with my left arm drawn back across my chest, fist clasped in my right hand, purple punktails streaming behind me and the red velvet strips of my coffin lining gladiatrix skirt fluttering over my thighs, ready to thrust forward for a bouncer's back elbow right into your fucking forehead. Of course, Rowan Chance isn't exactly known for her hesitation either.

You dance gracefully out of the way of the thrust of the elbow, like a dancer, your feet neatly cross-stepping. Your right hand comes up and deflects the bent elbow aside and just a little up, opening me up. And open is never a good place to be in the ring with you. It's never been good for me at any point in my fucking LIFE to be left open with you. Your left hand snakes in, driving your fingers for the nerve cluster under my arm. I know my nerves. I have to know nerves. I get on people's all the fucking time.

Your fingers SPEAR into my side, and the cold, icy lightning of sparking pain immediately shoots down my arm. The left arm unfolds, falling twitching to my side, taped hand clutching and clawing spasmodically at the air and at my hip. The pain is intense - something far beyond the normal thud and ache of impact, and screeching special fucking delivery right into the brain. My painted lips draw back in a snarl of agonized fury.

"NNNNRRRRAAGHHHHH!"

I hiss and roll my left shoulder back, my arm twitching.

LVK: And Rowan Chance with a BRUTAL nerve strike! Look at Punky's arm shiver!

RP: Looks like she takes after her master.

LVK: Lord Tantalus was Rowan's trainer, Rick.

RP: Yeah, I bet he's got a nice whip an' chair for her.

But I can't let a little thing like my arm not fucking working stop me from pounding your skull in when I've got the chance. And you're not the only one with a twisted brain full of appropriately cinematic flashbacks!

I'm barely sixteen, way too young to be training in this gym, and my trainer has been showing me the fine points of a simple armbar by holding me in one for almost eight minutes. Tears are flowing down my face as I'm bent over, hair hanging lank in my face, soaked in sweat, my shoulder feeling like it's going to twist right out of its fucking socket like a chicken leg, my skinny left arm trapped in his grip.

Finally tiring of my sad attempts to roll free, step under, plead, cry, and gnaw my own arm off at the shoulder, he slaps the back of my head, holding my arm barred out at the wrist with one hand.

"WHERE IS YOUR OTHER HAND, GIRL?"

"I ... wh-what?"

"Your other hand. I have this one. Where's THAT one?"

"I don't kn-"

"IT'S IN MY FUCKING FACE IS WHERE IT IS, CUPCAKE. HIT ME."

I don't even think about the blow that follows. It's as natural as breathing.

My right fist clenched into a hammer, looping up from the side, swinging with the twist of my hips and my boots digging into the canvas for purchase as I aim to just drive my taped and tattooed knuckles right into that pretty face as you're still extended from that evil fucking spear-hand strike.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 22, 2017, 10:47:52 PM

The nerve strike hits and I see your arm cramp, then go limp. I hear the sound of your voice scream out in agony. And I can't help but smile. I allow myself that moment. That one precious moment of catching you off guard.

Proud little Punky. Thinking she can just throw herself at me and tear me down. But not tonight. No, not tonight. Here, in this place, I'm going to take you apart piece-by-...

That's when someone hits the "PAUSE" button. And my whole world spins. I don't feel any pain. I don't feel the jarring jolt of my head knocking backward and snapping back into place. I don't feel my knees wobble as I fall backward against the ropes—the only things keeping me up right now. My eyes are glazed over and my mouth is wide open, a small trickle of blood from the side of my mouth. I'm staring at the canvas like I was seeing a Picasso for the first time or a Rembrandt. Or tasting a fine meal or drinking a fine wine.

As Mick would say, "The lights are on, but there's nobody home."


LVK: OHMYGOD! That was an INCREDIBLE right hook from Punky! It sent Rowan stumbling to the ropes!

RP: If those ropes weren't there, Rowan would be down on the canvas right now.


The world is a blur of motion and sound. Like a bomb went off in my head, deafening and blinding me. I finally feel the ropes holding me up. I finally see a purple mess of motion moving toward me. And my instincts tell me I have to defend myself. I have to keep her from getting within arm's reach.

I throw a wild punch toward the blur of motion, stumbling forward as I do.


RP: Rowan is out on her feet! That punch wouldn't have hit Punky if she was sitting still.

LVK: And it looks like she's readying another one!



I try to duck, my head swimming. Duck and come up with an uppercut of my own. You'd never expect that. No. You'd...fuck why can't I see?

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 22, 2017, 11:35:07 PM

There's a certain feeling you get when you land a really solid punch. That feeling of CONNECTION, the shock up your arm and the compression of long muscles and the way the impact travels all the way through to your toes. I don't wanna say it's like sex - because I've had a lot of sex that was WAY less satisfying than when I hit you in the fucking face just now.

Your head SNAPS to the side, that pretty face deforming around the meteor impact of my right cross before it flaps back into place, leaving you stumbling back into the ropes. A grin stretches across my painted skull, eyes glittering hungrily when I see that trickle of blood from those kissable lips. I open my right hand and close it again tight, with a crackle of cartilage in my taped knuckles.

"Mmmmmh, yeah. Gimme more ..."

I snarl hungrily, my left arm still twitching at my side and actively not answering any calls or texts, dipping my head as I come in, purple tails hanging over my shoulders with the skull clasps grinning as wide as I am. You throw a punch at the air, showing plenty of fire if a little bit of wobble in your aim. "That's my girl ..." I growl, and close in hard and fast.

Your fists are still clenched, and dizzy or not, you're throwing fists at whatever it is those glassed eyes are seeing. And this match is not gonna be about dodging, dipping, ducking, diving or ... fucking dodging. It's gonna be about who can TAKE more. Who can ENDURE. And so I don't hesitate as you dip down with that fist - I lunge in, snatching a handful of your corset right at the center, my fingers nestled against your firm tits for the first time since that night in San Francisco. And your fist comes rocketing up.

LVK: And Rowan fighting through the cobwebs with a BIG uppercut, rocking Punky's head back!

RP: I always kinda thought Chance had noodle arms, but that wasn't too friggin' shabby.

LVK: The self-styled Human Trigger Warning looks rocked, leaning back on her boots - but she's still got a grip on Rowan's top and -

I take the shot, turning my head to take that uppercut right on the cheek, misting more spit from my black painted lips, your fist searing into the white greasepaint of my calavera. I sway back a moment - but with a big grin. You're a strong girl, Chance, but you ain't Harley Race. And I SWING forward, planting my Docs and thrusting forward off my long legs, yanking you into me by the grip on your corset as I try to CRASH my forehead right between your eyes with a Glaswegian kiss!

I learned how to headbutt in mosh pits at a young age, but I really got the hang of cracking craniums after I moved in with Gemma and started getting in fights with fucking Scots.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 22, 2017, 11:56:40 PM

RP: Man, I wish I could get hold of Rowan's ti–
LVK: RIP!
RP: I mean, these two look like they're dancing, the way they're swaying back and forth. Yeah.


The head butt slams into my forehead, just above my nose, missing just by an inch. But still, your head hammering into my head...

There's a siren in my skull and it's telling me there's something wrong. Not ten seconds into this match and that warning klaxon is going off. Ringing in my ears. Red in my vision. I was just starting to get that back.

The impact of the strike. My head snapping back again. My body goes limp for a moment. Falling back. You holding me up by my corset. My arms falling backward. My knees buckling.


LVK: Rowan is teetering!
RP: This is gonna be over quicker than I thought.


I've got nothing. No... stop. Don't let her get into your head...

Got to make distance. Get out of range. You're too close.

I feel your hand holding on to my corset, your fingers wrapped tight. Holding me exactly where you want me. Exactly where you want me. Exactly...

...like that shower. Where you held me in place. The belt between us and...

This isn't what I planned. This isn't the strategy. Improvise. Get out of here. GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!


LVK: Rowan is taking a beating in there!
RP: She shouldn't have let Punky get close. That bitch will tenderize you like a Sunday steak.

As I'm leaning back, trying to get some sense into my head, I know what I have to do. You've been focusing entirely on my upper body. Time to go low.

As I feel you tensing for the next hit, and as I lay back seemingly helpless in your grip, my right leg kicks out at your knee. The tip of my heel aimed right at your kneecap.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 23, 2017, 12:10:54 AM

The way you sway backwards, your dark eyes crossing just a tiny bit, your lips parted. There's something so damn satisfying about killing brain cells, whether it's through booze, or air deprivation, or the delicious crack of skull on skull. My painted forehead is criss-crossed with light scars - I don't have Abdullah's fork-deep crevasses or Dusty's roadmap (Rhodes-map?) of welts and slashes, but I've been busted open more than my fair share of times - and as a result my forehead's like old boot leather when it cracks against your head.

You're limp, for just a moment, and the delicious shudder that goes through me when that happens - there are few things in my life I've loved as much as the times I've left you limp and still, Rowan. My knuckles are white under the wraps of black and red tape, clutching the lacings of your corset tightly. Your arms drape back over the top rope, your long legs fold just a bit. Pierced tongue tasting the black enamel on my lips, that tang of beeswax and butylated hydroxyanisole.

I'm gonna crack you again. I'm gonna splatter that pretty nose of yours all over your face.

It's a good fighting strategy. It'll make it hard to breathe. It'll hurt, and make your face much more painfully vulnerable to pretty much any strike that lands on it.

But more than that - I took this match because I'm like Tyler Durden. I wanted to ruin something beautiful.

Oh, how I fucking want to ruin you, Rowan.

I tense up to drill my head into you again, pulling you into place with my right hand as you sag on the ropes - and then your leg comes up and your big domme boot DRILLS down, the heel just SMASHING into my knee, crumpling the grinning skull on my black stocking. My face contorts, twisting into agony as I stagger back, releasing you and dropping down, my leg kicked clean out from under me. I land heavily on my left knee, cradling my right as I slam kneeling to the canvas, holding my suddenly agonized knee an inch or two above the mat, balanced on my left knee and the toe of my right boot, ass resting on my calves as I grit my teeth with a furious snarl of pain.

"AAAARRRRRRHHHHH!" The roar's a feral one, the pain immediate and intense. The knee is full of little parts that all hate being kicked.

LVK: Oh, a BRUTAL shot from Chance there! Punky had her literally on the ropes and Rowan kicked her leg out from under her!

RP: I'm not sayin' I don't wanna be on my knees in front of Rowan, but I'm bettin' that's not where Punky wanted to end up ...

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 23, 2017, 12:19:21 AM

I feel you let go of the corset and fall back. I've got my arms over the top rope: the only way I'm standing. I blink a few times. Shake my head. And I see you, on your knees.

On your fucking knees.

Holding your leg, your skull face twisted and contorted.

I don't hesitate. Even though my head is on goddamn fire and even though I can barely see, I know what I have to do. The plan. Keep to the plan.

I rush forward. Almost stumbling. Almost falling over myself. Running straight at you. Don't give you a second to think. Don't give you a second to react.

And when I reach you, my body twists. My arm hooking your neck. My own knees skidding across the canvas. I feel like I'm going to throw up, but I keep it down.

And here we are. You on your knees. Me next to you, facing the opposite direction, your head hooked in a cravat.


LVK: Rowan has Punky locked in a reverse kneeling DDT!
RT: Hold on to your skull, Punky.
LVK: If Punky isn't ready for it, that could put additional damage on her knee!

And in the span of a second, I get to show off my famous flexibility. Slamming my body backwards while kneeling. All those years of yoga and belly dancing and...other dancing. Slamming it back with your head under my arm, hoping I can pull the back of your skull back into the canvas, catching your body off guard, and maybe—since you're kneeling—put some extra hurt on that knee of yours.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 23, 2017, 01:02:24 AM

You move in swiftly, staggering off the ropes while I'm still cinched around my knee. There's something about a kick in the knee, a shock to the patellar nerves - it inspires the autonomic response to grab, cover and protect almost as immediately and intensely as a shot in the groin does. Your body depends on the fine machinery in the knee to keep upright and keep moving, and those little hinges can break all too easily. So I can't stop myself from grabbing at my knee as your boot drills it viciously and sends me plunging to the mat with that wounded leg kicked out from under me. Fingers laced across the bruised ache under my thick skull-faced Lycra stocking.

And you might be slightly concussed after the brain-rattling right cross and skull-crunching headbutt, but you still have the instincts of a viper. A pit viper will strike even if mortally wounded, just out a cruelty of spirit. You're basically a pit viper with great legs.

You cinch my head up, moving swiftly, trapping me under the heat of your arm. I can smell your heated skin, the faint flush of sweat from the ring lights and the tang of your perfume, the hint of powder from sliding into your gear, filling my head with brief visions of your naked body fitting into that taut black leather in the close wood and rosin scent of the Parisian dressing room.

And then there's a JOLT as you drop backwards, crashing me to the mat!

LVK: Good LORD, what impact! A brutal kneeling DDT that folds Dow over her own knees!

RP: In the wrestlin' trade we call that hyperextension, van Keel.

LVK: I think that's what doctors call it, too.

RP: Don't correct me. It sickens me.

My body SLAMS to the mats, leaving me folded over backwards as my left hand clutches at my tensed, shuddering quad muscle, my knee brutally stretched out by the landing, and my other arm cradles the back of my head, leaving me arched and bent in fucking half on the canvas, momentarily at your utter lack of mercy with a snarl of pain etched on my skull-painted face.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 23, 2017, 02:36:02 AM

When my back hits the mat, my head aches. But the ringing in my head is probably a lot less painful than what's going on in yours. I take a moment—but just a moment—to catch my breath and let the fog in my brain settle. I see your body bent over backward, hear the scream and growl from your throat. Some may go for the pin right about now. Some may feel that little maneuver was enough to put you down for the count.

I don't. Because I know you.

I slowly get back to my feet, looking down at you bent over backwards. You're flexible...but not that flexible. Not like me.

"Oh, Punky, Punky, Punky," I say, a breathless gasp of amusement in my voice. "That leg of yours must be screaming right about now."

I grab your ankle and pull it out from under you. Both hands. I put one leg above it and one leg below. Then, I smile at you.

"Let's see how loud we can make it scream."

And I drop down, pulling a card from Mr. Perfect's deck. One leg above your knee and the other below. Slamming hard down on the mat.

Your little knee right between my shins.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 25, 2017, 08:11:49 AM

Bent back over my own fucking knees, my calves pinned under me and the tendons in my knees brutally stretched taut, I dig my fingers into my right quad, kneading the pale skin as it twitches and jumps with the ferocious tension of the thick muscle as it works like a live wire. "Fffffuck," I growl, my eyes narrowed intensely, the thick black and violet paint around them making me look more like a revenant than ever.

Having a wounded limb is not a thing you're ever going to want in a wrestling ring. Even the greenest rookie learns how to kick a knee a second time if it worked the first, and I'm in here with a fucking unlicensed surgeon who only wants to perform radical procedures on me without anaesthetic as soon as she gets the fucking chance.

And here's you already using your breathy excited voice on me. Oh, you're hungry for blood.

I don't answer right away, just baring my teeth behind my glossy black lips, snarling at you like a maddened dog who's currently leashed by gravity - and you move quick, reaching under my ass and yanking my leg free. My hips come up, taking the chance to free my other leg as well, unfurling my aching legs as a hand still cradles the back of my head, fingers pressing the base of my skull to soothe the pain there like I'm trying to clutch the lip of a bell to stop it from ringing.

My left foot rests on the heel of my blood-red Doc Marten, my right leg angled up in your grip. You have my leg tight, gripped expertly - and even knowing what you intend for me, knowing how fucking merciless you are, I can't stop a tingle of excitement from running over my skin like electricity. Fuck, I hate that.

I wish I could hate you enough to stop loving the way you touch me.

Your legs slip over mine, trapping the knee. My hands drop, slithering to the mat, fingers splaying to press to the canvas behind me. I push my hips up, and shift my weight to my right side, leaning on my elbow, bracing against the pain. My teeth gritted.

And when you drop down in that shin-scissored kneedrop, the grit becomes a crunch of mashed molars.

"NRRRRRRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHH!" I roar behind locked teeth, my tendons standing out on my neck. The pain is immediate and intense, searing my knee, making it pulse. My quad jumps and twitches, my calf bunching to the size of a handball, the rush of hot blood searing the compacted joint.

But you have to drop down and put your weight on my knee. Your knees have to hit the mat to deliver the move.

And my knee hurts, but the night is still young, my darling, and I've got LOTS of miles left in my fucking tank.

So as you plant down on my knee, I respond almost immediately, chambering my left leg and DRIVING it up and forward, aiming to plow the waffled heavy patented Airwalk™ sole of my Doc Marten right into the side of your fucking head as you're planted on my scrunched right leg.

"RRRRRRAH!" It's not the most articulate comeback, but I've always leaned towards physical comedy.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 25, 2017, 07:13:34 PM

I hear and feel the CRUNCH of your knee under my shins. Back on the plan.

If you can't stand, there's no Doll Breaker.
If you can't stand, there's no Punky Driver.
If you can't stand, there's...

... a boot slamming into my...

... jamming my jaw and making my head...

RRRRRIIIIINNNNNGGGGG

My head spins to the side as your boot kicks up. On my knees, my body lists to the side, arms askew, fingers wide. I look like a marionette who suddenly had her strings cut. I manage to get one hand out to stop from falling all the way to the mat, but my eyes are unfocused and someone needs to get the license plate on that bus. You know. The one that just hit me. I'm just staring, wide-eyed. Blinking. I shake my head, trying to get some sense back into it...


LVK: Punky retaliates with a HARD KICK to the jaw!
RP: Rowan's dentist should be sending Punky Christmas cards.


I manage to get enough sense to reach forward and grab your hair. One of your purple punky tails. Me on my knees, you on your ass. Pull it right up to my face.

Face-to-face. Our breasts brushing.

My fingers curl into a fist. Tense and hard. I may not have a punch, but I don't need one with you. Because I know the right place to land my knuckles to make you squirm.

You don't stay down until you're down. I know this. Everything I throw at you, you throw something back. Until you're done. Fighting you isn't a fight. It's a war. And every victory is a pyrrhic victory. Beating Punky isn't about winning. It's about what you're willing to lose to win.

Looking into your eyes, I know you're thinking the exact same thing. The same words in our heads. The weird telepathy we have after so many battles, so much lovemaking, so much raw fucking. So many promises. So much sweat and heat and your lips on mine and your body moving in motion with mine as we both rush headlong to a mutual scream. The same exact words in both our heads.

What am I willing to lose?

With my fist cocked and that growl in my throat, my lips curl into my wicked smile that I know you love. And I answer that question with one word.

"Everything."

That's when I send my fist low. Down low. Exactly where I know where my weak ass punch will do the most damage.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 25, 2017, 10:10:08 PM

I manage to fucking DRILL you in the face with one heavy boot, rocking you on your moorings and sending you toppling towards the mat. You catch yourself before flopping down entirely, but I manage to snake my legs back a little. Sitting on my ass, my paneled skirt of tattered velvet strips draped over my splayed tattooed thighs, I flex my right knee to ease the ache as I draw my left boot back like a dagger withdrawn from a wound. I love that glassy look you get in your beautiful dark eyes when you take a really hard shot to the skull. I love it so much I keep trying to get it to appear again, but each time I need MORE. I'm like a junkie for kicking you in the fucking head.

You reach out and snatch a fistful of my thick purple punktail, a gleaming steel skull clasp cool against the edge of your hand as you drag me closer to face you. With you kneeling and a little taller, it cranes my head back, snarling up at you as you glare glassily down at me. My neck burns a little as you clench your fist - and even staring into those glazed dark eyes of yours, I don't miss that. I never miss the curl of a fist.

And I don't miss the way your eyes lock onto mine. The way we stare into each other.

Ever since the very first time we were in the ring together, I felt this. Magnetism, chemistry, electricity, whatever fucking branch of physics you want to use to try and fail to describe it, it's two souls locked together like two stars burning too close to each other, a binary system that inevitably ends in a beautiful explosion that rips apart time and space.

We made almost perfect lovers, Ro. But we were never gonna survive it. So I broke free and found my Gemma. And now all that's left for you and me is fucking ruination.

Your lips curve in a teasing smile that made my knees so weak one night in Seattle that I felt like I'd never get up out of that hotel bed again. And that fist you've got locked and loaded comes snaking in.

But I know every inch of you as well as you know me, you heartless tart, and my hand lashes out hard, crashing into your wrist, slamming your fist to the canvas and bracketing it, pinning it down.

"More than that," I hiss back at you, lips close enough to kiss.

RP: Ooooooh, I've had dames catch my hand JUST like that in the back row at the movies.

LVK: I hope you weren't trying to blatantly punch them in the crotch like Rowan was attempting.

RP: Not until we'd had a few drinks.

My left hand curls into a fist at the outside, squared black nails digging into my palm hard enough to leave crescents, extending my thumb and locking it hard as I lash arm out in a bullwhip arc, aiming to just fucking DRILL my stiff thumb into the side of your windpipe with an Asiatic spike. The Anoa'i clan calls it the Samoan Spike - but fuck it, I'm from fucking Portland.

It's a STUMPTOWN SPIKE.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 25, 2017, 11:06:00 PM

As soon as you catch my fist, I mutter a little curse under my breath. Because I know what's coming next. Not the exact move, but something that's going to hurt so bad, I'm going to be feeling it in September of 2018. I see your fist clench and anticipate a blow to the face, but then your thumb sticks out and...

...fuck...

I try to tuck my chin, but it's too late. The blow hits hard and my free hand immediately flashes up to my throat. My eyes go wide and my mouth opens. Desperate, windy sounds from my lips.

I kick back fast, trying to pull my wrist from your grip. My eyes watering. Mouth trying to breathe. I smash my hand on your hand holding my wrist, trying to get it free as my legs are pulling me up to my feet.

And then...

And then...

I remember the thumb thrust isn't just designed to fuck up my windpipe. A sudden surge of pain in my head as my blood flow surges after the impact. My eyes blink and flutter. My body swaying on my knees as I try to keep my balance.

I'm teetering. The only thing keeping me up is you...again. Your hand on my wrist.

I start to fall. Straight down to the canvas. My lips muttering nonsense... my eyes closing...

* * *

And I remember showing up on your doorstep, soaked in rain. My travel bag in my hand. The place is a dump. Barely standing, barely legal. A absentee landlord's dream. I ring the doorbell a dozen times, not even knowing if it works. I knock. I keep knocking. Finally, you open it, all rumpled. There's red around your eyes. Probably from the sleep and the Jack Daniels. But you don't smell like sex, so I know you're alone.

Lucky me.

"You look like a drowned rat," you say.

I nod. "I feel like one."

"Still slumming it on the indies, Miss Chance?" you ask. "Why don't you use your diamond credit card and get yourself a hotel room?"

That cuts deep. We've been wrestling on the same shows for about a month, sometimes against each other, sometimes in tag teams. You were the pro. I was the rookie. Well, not the total rookie. You assumed that and I let you assume it. Like I let you assume a lot of things.

And there was the one night you woke up in my bed and you found my credit card on the table. And that changed everything. You were gone before I woke up and you booked yourself as far from Southern California as you could.

Now, it's Portland. And I'm on your doorstep.

You cross your arms over your torn RAMONES t-shirt that goes down just far enough so I can't tell if you're wearing very short shorts or underwear or nothing at all.

"You still here?" you ask, almost impatiently.

"Yeah," I whisper. I look down at your bare tattooed feet and I'm quiet for a second.

"I lied," I say. "I'm not a street kid fighting for a couple bucks and a hot dog a night. I've got money. I've got family. I could have made a call for someone to pick me up."

"So why are you here?" you ask.

I hesitate. Then, I look up, looking into your eyes.

"Because I want to learn. Tantalus can only teach me so much. And there's no better place to do it than here." I pause. "And..."

"And what, Chance?" you ask, your voice edging on anger. I see your fingers clenching.

I look at you through the rain. "Because you're here."

Your face transforms. Softens. A small curl on the side of your lips.

"Get in here."

I step up into the doorway and you grab me by the wrist...

...by the wrist...

...and pull me out of the rain, wrapping your tattooed arms around me.

And I'm home. All the hurt and pain in the world vanishes. Tonight's match is forgotten. The ache in my shoulder, the fire in my spine. It's all gone.

All the pain is...

* * *

LVK: The patented Stumptown Spike lands and Rowan looks KNOCKED OUT!
RP: Looked like she was scouting a punch but Punky outsmarted the snaky b--
LVK: RIP!
RP: I just calls 'em as I sees 'em.
LVK: Rowan is completely at Punky's mercy! She's defenseless!
RP: Whatever's coming next is gonna hurt...

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Vivianne on November 25, 2017, 11:52:14 PM

I blame Gemma for this. Gemma Rox. If it wasn't for her I wouldn't be sitting here. Wouldn't be hungry after going a day and a half without food. Wouldn't be losing my mind watching this match.

It's because of Gemma that I met Rowan. If I hadn't met her I would never have become so infatuated with her beauty that I would be unable to stop thinking of her. Feelings would never have grown inside of me that I knew I could never act upon. Simply too many obstacles, put in my way by people who do not even know me and have no idea how I feel. Tantalus. Punky. Even Gemma. What chance would I have knowing how Rowan feels about them? None...absolutely none. So what did I do? I became one of Rowan's biggest fans, following her and cheering for her whenever she fought. I did not know her the last time she faced Punky, and I am thankful. I do not believe I would have survived watching Rowan take such a beating...win or lose.

As if my feelings for Rowan were not enough, thanks to Gemma I recently met Punky too...and my feelings for her were instant. Who will I pull for? That's easy...Rowan...always Rowan...but whereas a month ago I would revel in her destroying Punky, tonight I am now conflicted...wanting her to win but not handling the realization of what her winning will mean.

I almost didn't make it. I simply don't have the money to allow me to buy a last minute ticket to Paris and book a hotel. Hell...just the ticket price posed a challenge these days. Still, I scrapped together everything I could, borrowed money from a friend, and got myself here. I only landed this morning and my flight leaves tomorrow, not being able to afford a hotel room or even a meal while I am here. I got the cheapest ticket I could...last row. And here I sit, seeing Gemma in the front row and losing my mind as two women I care about are ripping each other apart. Even worse...I am starting to realize that I am craving to see what I know is going to happen...

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 26, 2017, 03:36:04 AM

The stiff spike of my extended thumb drills into the softness of your neck, just before you can flinch enough to tuck your chin. I feel it plunge into that silky skin, drawing it back as your esophagus is crunched shut and pulls those sweet breezy gasps from your lips. Your olive cheeks color as you try to get free of my grip, my right hand wrapped over your wrist, taped grip biting into the skin. You smash a fist into my hand as you start to get to those big tall black domme boots of yours -

- and then the bubble hits. Because the Asiatic spike doesn't just make breathing an unimaginable horror for a bit. In my younger days training in Portland, I was in a school run by Pacific Northwest Wrestling alumni, including the Mega Maharishi Imed and Crippler Oliver - and Roddy Piper would drop in whenever he was in town. Piper was the one who taught me how to properly throw a punch and how to talk enough shit to need to throw one properly in the first place. But Crippler ... that old bastard showed me the finer details of old school shit like the gordbuster, the iron claw - and the Asiatic spike.

"Like this, girl. Look." He'd taken the hose from me - I was washing off the gym mats out in the alley when he'd come out for a smoke. I learned more from that cigarette-voiced old bastard under a sliver of gray sky between two brick walls than I did in my first year on the indies proper. He gripped just under the mouth of it and jammed a callused thumb into the hose, holding it a moment and pointing it upwards, the flow of water falling to nothing, a little gurgle. Then he let his thumb go. Nothing happened for a moment - then a GUSH of water shot upwards, spattering an old Guinness toucan sign up on the third story. He'd grinned, flashing busted and nicotine-gold teeth. "Muraco one time jabbed Barry Windham so hard, Windham forgot his English for a week."

So you don't get a chance to bash your way free of my grip. In fact, as I draw my legs up and hiss at the tangle of pain in my right knee, you don't get a chance to finish standing on your own. You're slumping down, eyes going soft and lips speaking in dreams. I put my weight on my left leg and force myself upright, already feeling the delicious bite of the pain that we're going to feast on tonight. My right hand wrapped around your wrist, fingers sunk in. As I come upright, my left arm slips around your slim waist, and cradles you close.

I remember when you tried to teach me to dance in way suitable for formal settings. We were gonna go to a big formal sort of party thrown by the Great Sasuke - that was the first time we went to Japan together. And while I'm pretty fucking great at lapdances and I'll put any motherfucker alive into the wall in a mosh pit - my formal dancing training experience was kinda limited. So we were down in the bar of the Koraku Hinkan Hotel, the only ones there except for a steadily drinking man in a rumpled suit who did not appear to notice the purple haired tattoo gallery and dark-haired leather vixen swaying near the back of the joint.

"I just keep one hand on your waist here, and one hand holds yours like this, see? No need to make it too complex."

"Okay, but ..." I kind of growled a little, irritated with myself for not getting this right away, and a little irritated that we were doing this at all instead of just going to the party so I could stare at the Great Sasuke like a total spaz fangirl and drink Hibiki whiskey until the room was spinning. My cheeks were flushed as I watched my feet - I was wearing mostly Converse back then. I was already annoyed I'd spent pretty much all the money I'd been paid on this tour on an indigo and black suit I could wear to the party, after refusing sixteen times to let you buy me a dress.

"... but this is like you're leadin' me around or somethin'. An' that kinda thing is fun when we're in the mood to play that game ... " I'd half-grinned. We had been playing a lot of games.

You'd watched me with those dark eyes, your face carefully cool in that way you had when you were figuring out a way to say something without pissing me off. That could be a real trick sometimes. You were mostly pretty good at it.

"I *am* leading, Megan. I know how to dance."

My brows had lowered, deep and fierce.

"Fuck that! You're gonna be the one wearin' a dress! I should be fucking leading ..."

You'd just smiled, and tugged me closer, your hand at the small of my back, slipping under my shirt to tease the soft skin, tracing the base of my spine with your nails in a way that made me gasp softly as the digital jukebox played Chairman Kaga singing "Gethsemane", and your hand had tightened on mine.

"Me in a dress just means you'll be so busy watching me that I'll HAVE to lead, my love."

It had been a good night.

But that was long ago, and in another country.

Right now I'm on my feet, my right knee protesting fiercely as I slip my left arm around your waist, and hold you close, our breasts crushed together in a supple kiss. My right hand around your wrist extends your arm to the side as I lean in and brush my cheek against yours.

"Follow my lead, sugartits," I purr in your ear venomously, sliding my taped hand down your arm to wrap around my tattooed arm your ribs underneath it, clasping my fists at the center of your back as I twist us around with a growl of pain at the flare from my knee, putting my back towards the turnbuckles, swinging us into a cruel waltz.

RP: I'm never going dancing with Punky.

LVK: That's literally the smartest thing I've ever heard you say.

RP: Unless she's naked.

LVK: And now she's going to kill you.

RP: Only if she survives!

And I flex my legs low, snarling against the pain in my right knee, biting back the pain of everything - including how it feels to hold you close - and ARCHING back as I throw myself backwards, aiming to TOSS you over me with an absolutely brutal Overhead Release Belly to Belly Suplex - aimed at crashing your back into the fucking turnbuckles.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 26, 2017, 04:53:06 AM

One moment, she's holding me. Holding me close. I can smell her sweat on her skin. Almost taste her lips. The next, my feet are off the ground and I'm flying through the air. My spine hits the turnbuckles and my body nearly snaps in two. A rush of crimson hate runs through my back.

Some wounds never heal. Remember this. It will be important later.

I tumble forward, falling face first onto the mat. Motionless there, my raven hair a piled mess on my head. Arms spread. Legs bent. I don't move. I can't move. Nothing moves. Nothing works.

I push my torso up by my elbows and see your boots stomping toward me.

Get out of the ring. Get the FUCK out of the ring.

My arms push against the canvas and my body slides backward toward the apron. My eyes looking at those boots. I collapse on the outside, the pathetic excuse for pads outside this ring. My toes are tingling. Already. And my back is screaming at me like a banshee. My hand reaches behind me, instinctively. Reflexively.

I look up, trying to get a hold of the metal railing between us and the crowd. Reaching up, grabbing the cold metal and...

...he's there. Right there.

I meet his gaze. His placid face. Showing nothing.

I almost snarl.

I hear his voice. Remember being in a dark room, my arms above my head. Wrists tied together. Held up for so long, my shoulders were red hot.

Dark room. A spotlight on me. He stood on the edge of the light, a lash in his hand.

"Pain is not your enemy, Rowan," his voice tells me from the darkness. I hear the crack of the whip and feel the pain on my flesh. "It's your friend."

I bite down on my lip. The pain he gives sets fires inside me. A tear in my eye rolls down my cheek.

"And when you feel pain," he says, giving me another lash, "you'll remember this moment. Here. In this room."

Another crack. I almost laugh, gasping out loud.

"You'll remember the pain you suffered here," he says, behind me now. "And you'll know...that no pain can measure with the pain I gave you."

He grabs my hair from behind and pulls it tight in his fingers. "Isn't that right?" he asks me. My head pulled back, his voice in my ear.

"Y-yes..." is all I can muster.

"No pain is greater than the pain I can give," he says again, wrapping the whip around my throat, squeezing it...just enough.

"No pain," I tell him.

He uncoils the whip and I feel its leather hit my back. I scream. And I orgasm. My hands clenched tight in the bonds above my head.

"Any pain you suffer will pale in comparison to this." Another lash and I scream again. "And you will be able to suffer agony from anyone. For no one can give you as much pain as I do. Can they, Rowan?"

I shake my head, wet hair on my face. "NO!"

Another lash. And I can't help but laugh.



And in another place, another time, I ask him, "Why did you do that for me?"

He says, "Because I wanted to help make you into the woman you wanted to be, Rowan." He touches my cheek and I smile.



Now, on the thin mat, looking up at him, my spine screaming bloody murder, my lips curl into a cruel, wicked grin.

"No pain," I say, slowly shaking my head.

I hear Punky's feet hit the mat just behind me. And I see the tiniest hint of a smile from his lips.

No pain.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 26, 2017, 05:49:23 AM

The snap of taking you over, the pop of my hips as I launch you over me - it's sweet enough to forget the yowl of protest from my right knee. When you've wrestled as long as I have, the whole body is just a symphony of aches and pains anyway. The Zen art of being as hard as it fucking gets is all about learning to shut your body the fuck up when it's time to deliver the pain. And from the car-crash sound of your back hitting the buckles and the way you flop bonelessly to the mat, splatting onto your face, it looks like the pain has been signed, sealed and fucking delivered. I roll my hips, getting to my big blood red stomping boots with a little hitch, intent on getting my hands on you and giving you heaps of ruination. Because Japan was a long time ago, and so was Seattle, and New York, and Hanover ...

... I think the reason I chose Paris for the fight is because as much history as the city has, none of it is ours. It's basically the major city place in the Western Hemisphere we didn't fight, fuck or feast. Until tonight.

And oh, I want to make fucking history out of you tonight.

But you're a wily little minx, and slither out of the ring even after the bone-rattling crash you just took. I growl in my throat and roll through the ropes, dipping between the first and second and dropping straight to the floor, landing with a little thud on the thin red mats that draws a hiss through my teeth as my knee protests softly. Shut up.

You're on your knees, one hand knuckling at your back - and my soft black-shiny lips part at that, pierced tongue glazing them like someone contemplating something absolutely delicious they've been waiting to savor - but that moment of wicked imagining of pain yet to come fades away in a sudden wash of scorching fury.

Thomas. The self-fucking-styled Lord Tantalus.

"Of FUCKING COURSE you show your fucking bastard face," I snarl, my voice all black pig iron, raw and scorched.

Lord Tantalus. Half of the wrestling blogs just think of him as some sort of Svengali, a BDSM Paul Heyman who's molded Rowan into his own personal sex-flavored killing machine. She a bonebreaking assassin in domme's boots and him pulling the strings with some sort of Venetian masque on half his face.

But I know what you really fucking are, Thomas.

Thomas is the reason we're here tonight, instead of dancing in Tokyo.

Thomas is the reason we're here in Paris with nothing but blood and pain between us and we'll never have wine on the Seine even though I kinda fucking hate wine.

But I'd have drunk it for you. Before.

But that was then, and this is now.

"So you're fucking here, Thomas. ENJOY THE FUCKING SHOW."

Your hand is still on the railing, just before him, and I lash out. I drive my right foot down, aiming to CRUSH the heavy blood red boot into the center of your back - just below the wings of the shoulderblades, where the pressure bows the spine the most, trying to stamp you into the fucking concrete just in front of HIM.

I bend down, going for your wrists, trying to snatch them, to wrap my grip-taped hands around your arms and YANK them back without a hint of mercy. The pain of flexing my right leg does my aching knee no favors, but I use that, and grind down harder, my left foot planted, grinding the heel of my boot into the center of your back as hard as I can as I surfboard your arms back hard, like I want your shoulders dislocated, so your precious Lord can enjoy the view of your perfect face and your tits thrust out in your corset.

Because that's what it's all fucking about, isn't it, Rowan? IT'S ABOUT WHAT HE WANTS.

"IS THIS WHAT YOU CAME TO SEE, TOMMY?"

I snarl, rage painting my face even more thickly than my skull mask, my teeth bared in a vicious grinding snarl as I try to brutalize you as hard as I can, like I can grind away the memories of what a night in Paris could have been.

Without Thomas.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 26, 2017, 06:13:51 PM

"Do you know the story of Pygmalion?"

I look up from Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow and blink.

He's sitting on the other side of the table. We're in the college library. He's on his laptop, typing away.

"Yeah," I say. "Sure."

He smiles and continues typing. I put the book down.

"Is that what all this is about?" I shift in my chair because of the bruises on my backside. I can't sit the same way for more than a few minutes. "You're making some kind of 'perfect woman?'"

He just grins behind his laptop.

"Goddamn, you're a misogynistic creep sometimes." I go back to my book. You can't lose your place with Pynchon, or you just have to start over.

"If I was different, I'd be talking to a man," he says. "It has nothing to do with the fact you're a woman. It's because of who I am."

I peer with dark eyes over the book. "The perfect mate, then."

"Companion," he says.

"Making me into what you want me to be."

Without shaking his head, he says, "No. What we want you to be." Then, finally, he looks up over his screen. "Enthusiastic willing consent is everything."

I put my book back down. "So you've found the perfect woman?"

"Person," he says, correcting me.

"Fine. Person." I'm getting agitated now. "Who wants the same thing you do."

"Has the same vision."

"What if my vision is different than yours?"

"It isn't," he says. Then, he looks at me.

And goddamnit, the bastard is right. And I've lost my place in the book. I turn back to page one and start over.

* * *

You says his name. "Thomas." Full of spite and hate and poison. As you pull my hands back and I feel the tendons in my shoulders. They're about to rip and tear. With the heel of your goddamn boot digging into the part of my spine that you know...

...yeah. You know exactly where to put that boot, don't you?

I pull against your strength, but I don't have the leverage. It's all I can do to keep you from ripping my arms out of their sockets. Just that. Nothing more.

"IS THIS WHAT YOU CAME TO SEE, TOMMY?" you scream.

My breath heaves in my chest. My breasts pushed against the leather corset. I raise my head up and scream.

Shoving me at him. Like a trophy. On display. As you punish me. In front of him.

This is just as much for him as it is for you.

Because you don't get it. You don't understand.

I'm losing my strength. I can't fight this much longer. And I'm not going to give you the satisfaction of a tap out. And I know the fundamental rules of joint manipulation. When you can't resist anymore...go with the momentum and use it.

As you're pulling me back, pulling my arms back with your boot against my spine, digging your heel into a wound you made, I look up at him. And I remember the last thing he said.

"I love both of you."

And I kick my knees out from under me, shoving both of us backward. Hopefully, we're close enough to the ring apron, because I want your head to slam against the so-called "hardest part of the ring."

(And any asshole who says that has never been in the ring. Every fucking part of it is hard.)

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 26, 2017, 09:06:06 PM

I'm a grinder. My fighting style has been called variously "brawling", "chaotic", "impactful", and sometimes "insane", but what I'm ultimately doing any time I'm in the ring is trying to grind my opponent down until something gets brittle enough to break. That means punching. Elbow smashing. Kicking your jaw into your brainpan. Suplexing you onto your fucking head. Grabbing a part of you and wrenching it. Pinning you down and crunching your nose under my forearm. Doing what I have to do to find the part of you that cracks.

I know you think you're unbreakable, Rowan. I've read the fucking ink. You didn't have that back in our day.

I remember the first time I saw you naked. It really wasn't that long at all after we'd met for the first time, at that little outlaw show in San Bernadino. Probably too soon, but neither of us had ever been able to wait for anything we wanted. We're creatures of pure id, and we came at each other like rare earth magnets as soon as we were in proximity. And I remember thinking how fucking perfect you looked then, even though my tastes ran mostly to to ink and piercings like mine. I remember running my hands over you on that cheap little motel bed outside Rialto, and not being able to stop grinning about how silky and smooth you felt.

But the thing about fucking entropy is that it's inevitable. EVERYTHING breaks.

The center cannot fucking hold.

Especially not the center of your fucking back. Where Gemma drilled her knees as I snapped you down in the straitjacket powerbomb when we debuted the Stroke of Midnight.

My red boot grinds into your spine, my hands wrapped tight around your wrists with my black nails digging bloody crescents into your olive skin, the grip tape gnawing at you. My burning eyes flip from Tantalus to the back of your head, your arched back bent into a fucking C-curve, your lush tits looking exquisite mashed into that fucking corset of yours and thrust out like offerings. I snarl and grind harder, my leg flexing, my knee pulsing with a pain that drives me on.

I'm so fucking focused on showing Thomas that I can hurt you that I don't even stop to consider that something a bit more controlling might have been better against someone as dangerous as you. A camel clutch or some fucking thing.

And you remind me of how dangerous it is to let a little thing like that go by in the ring with you as you get your knees under you, getting your legs into position and LAUNCHING yourself back into me!

"FFFFUCK!" I curse as your tormented shoulders slam into my tattooed thighs, your arms breaking from my grip, my knee that was folded to drill my boot into your back now thrust back into me, toppling me the fuck over, and the arena whites out for a moment as the back of my skull hits the very edge of the ring apron with a THUD.

LVK: SWEET LORD, WHAT AN IMPACT! Rowan Chance BURSTS free of that surfboard on the outside and Megan Dow pays the price with a BRUTAL landing against the ring apron!

RP: That surfboard was great for showin' Rowan's tits off to her Svengali and makin' her back creak, but Chance was still kinda fresh to be puttin' her in somethin' like that.

LVK: Fair point, Rick! Both of these women seem determined to not only brutalize each other but to do so in a way that almost HUMBLES the other woman!

RP: It's all pride, van Keel. It goeth before a friggin' fall and one of these nutcases is gonna fall hard.

I cradle the back of my head as I slump down to my ass on the mats, falling to the side, my right leg drawn up awkwardly under me and my left boot kicking at the mats in protest, boot heel thudding the red vinyl as the fans press elegantly close to the heavy steel riot barrier for a better look.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 26, 2017, 10:15:08 PM

After a moment of snapping my arms to get the feeling back, the sharp pain remaining. You've put a hurt on my spine?the kind of hurt only you could summon, like a demon's claws straight down the nerves of my spine. And so when I stand, it's stiff. And when I turn, you can see the pain in my face. A slow, deliberate turn. The curves of my body moving slowly. My hips...my waist...

...turning to you.

You invoked him. You said his name. But I don't. I ignore him. I don't look at him. I focus on you.

"Punky, Punky, Punky." I don't whisper. Oh, no. I want your fucking wife to hear this on the other side of the ring. "Always so cock sure. Always so deliberate."

I reach down and grab your ankle.

"Always so predictable."

I tug on it sharply, pulling you toward the steel stairs.

"You know exactly how to hurt me," I say. "But I know exactly how to hurt you."

Another harsh tug, making sure to get every ounce of pain from your wounded knee.

"See, I remember losing the tag straps in Baltimore."

And I look at your face. Because I want you to know that I remembered.

TUG

That night you refused to give me the tag. You came into that match with tape and a brace on your knee and insisted you start. I never even got in the ring. And Sally Sue and Bertha Blue worked you over for a good thirty minutes. Dropping elbows on your knee. Twisting it. Tearing the tape and brace away. And even when you had the opportunity...you continued to fight.

TUG

Just to prove a fucking point.

TUG

And when Bertha Blue dropped four hundred pounds on your knee, you were done. She sat on you and pulled up 'the far leg' for the three count.

TUG

And as they walked away with our belts, I tried to help you from the ring...and what did you do?

I set your knee on the steel steps and turn back to look at you, because I want to see this. I want to see you scream.

You pushed me away, didn't you? Told me to go fuck myself. Insisted you walk out on your own.

I lift your leg, just above those steel steps. Your knee aimed right at the edge.

"One of these days, Punky,..." I hiss the name. "You're going to fucking learn."

And I SLAM your knee down toward the steel steps.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 27, 2017, 12:23:14 AM

For a few blessed moments, everything is washed out in white static. So I don't get to enjoy you taking time out of your busy day to taunt me. Because if I wasn't mildly concussed right now, I'd be telling you that's BULLSHIT. You ALWAYS say everything's predictable after it happens! If Paris got NUKED right now you'd crawl out of the radioactive rubble and croak "How predictable" before you turned into one of the fucking flesh zombies from "The Omega Man".

Fortunately, I'm busy watching the fireworks behind my eyes that you get after cranial trauma, and when I clear my ringing head enough to get a proper view, you've dragged me across the mats. And I've got enough years under my fucking belt to figure out that you haven't dragged me to the concession stand for a baguette jambon-beurre and a nice Beaujolais. My fine white ass is skidding along the mats headed for the steel steps, the tattered strips of red velvet lining that make up my gladiatrix skirt rucked up around my hips, showing off my black boyshorts adorned with neon sugar skulls.

Those fucking steps. They've never done anything good for anyone. I think they were designed by engineers who like to see people get fucking crippled.

Oh, you're still talking. I shake the broken chimes in my head and narrow my eyes up at you. Your sultry voice is a demonic echo chamber.

"See, I remember losing the tag straps in Baltimore."

My lips draw back from my teeth. Fucking Baltimore. You're not the only one who fucking remembers.

Scrappy little fed, Maryland Championship Wrestling. They'd been a bigger deal back in the NWA days. In fact, Rick "Precious" Perle, our erstwhile color man in FTW and here tonight, was a top heel there for a long time. We'd come in for a tour of the east coast and gotten picked up by the promoter there for a run at the tag straps - I was a Known Name on the indies with my own fucking cult following and you were a rising star with a strong support online. They loved us and loved seeing us together. We had a cute little Daughters of Darkness thing going.

The night we took the belts was fucking glorious. Our first defense I didn't enjoy nearly as much. I got jumped while I was on the apron waiting for a hot tag and fucking chloroformed, so I was unconscious for most of the main event and only staggered to my feet long enough to hit a bleary superkick and stop the busty valet from interfering as you pinned one of the Diamond Dolls, the other one still twitching from your split-legged piledriver. You were still calling it a Stone Splitter back then, before you embraced the spider thing.

You'd won that fucking match all alone. Which, y'know, fuckin' impressive, but it bit at me. It gnawed at me.

So yeah, when we faced the Hill Folk, that fucking haystack Bertha Blue and her fireplug cousin Sally, I tried to tough out a lot of the match. My knee was still tweaked from a grudge match in Texas a few weeks before where I'd had my fucking ACL stretched like piano wire in some vicious blonde cxnt's Figure Four that I'd refused to tap out to. Because fuck that, it's a fucking grudge match, I'm not gonna tap out. So I had my knee taped and braced.

And even hillbillies notice that shit.

It had gone south when the little one ripped the brace off and stomped her bare feet into my swollen fucking knee. But I'd gritted my teeth and held the fuck on, because I wanted to show you that I was worth your time, that I was a fighting partner.

And when I couldn't take any more and went for the fucking tag - you were looking away. Like it wasn't even worth looking into the fucking ring. Later, after a lot of shit and after I'd shoved you back when you wouldn't stop fucking mollycoddling me after the match as if you fucking cared, you said it was because you didn't want to see me hurting.

Yeah. Fucking right.

Everything almost broke that night.

But not quite. It lasted a bit longer before it went to fucking pieces.

Of course, now it's tonight, and all that's left between us are jagged shards. And you hiss down at me and I feel the cold steel pressed against my calf and the back of my thigh, my thick black Lycra stocking with the grinning skull on the knee looking especially ghoulish. And you DRIVE my knee into the edge of the fucking steel.

The pain is immediate. Gigantic and intense, the metal fucking biting into the little moving bits of bone and gristle that let you walk upright.

"NNNNYYYYYYAAAAAAGH!" My scream is ferocious and piercing, poured through teeth locked in a brutal wounded animal snarl, tendons standing out on my neck as my body whiplashes on the concrete, purple punktails viciously snapping back and forth as I clutch at my brutalized knee and writhe on the floor, feeling thousands and thousands of eyes on me, watching me hurt.

None more avidly than yours.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: RedEnforcer on November 27, 2017, 01:34:02 AM

You would think front row seats would be a blessing.  I?m here to tell you that they aren?t. Especially right now. I?m too gawd damn close to this action. 

First, Meg, no Punky. That level of violence was all Punky. Yelling and screaming at Tantalus while brutalizing Rowan?s back.  And now Rowan savagely attacking Megan?s knee. It?s like you two are bound and determined to relive a lifetime of hard memories in this one match.

I admit, I don?t know the full backstory here. A whisper or two after drinks with Rowan or an angry growl after a tough spar with Megan. But I?ve seen and heard enough to know this.  This level of hate doesn?t spring out of nowhere. This single minded determination to annihillate the other person comes from a deep love.

You two connected and are passionate together. One is the Yin to the other?s Yang.  Yet somehow from that passion, a catalyst was introduced and changed the flame of your passion into the blazing conflagration that is nearly melting this arena with its intensity.

I tear my eyes from the sight of two women I?ve fought with and against and shared more personal, private times than I can count. And I stare back a few rows at what I believe that catalyst to be. Wondering how he must feel seeing these two raging against each other.

And there?s nothing. Nothing there in his eyes.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: BustyTiffany35 on November 27, 2017, 02:54:13 AM

"NO!"

The word erupted from my lips like a volcanic blast, piercingly loud it carries across the ringside area before it's drowned out by the massive sea of groans and gasps that resonate from the audience all around me. I grip the guard rail so tightly I could almost feel the callouses begin to form on my palms as I watch with widened, horrified eyes Punky's leg go crashing into the unforgiving steel of those ring steps. Rowan slams her battered knee so violently hard into that cold steel its as if she wants to split those steps in half. The pain that surges from Megan can be felt by everyone watching, from as close as those in the front row, to the very edges of the arena, to anyone watching on a TV or Internet feed around the world. That agonized scream that bellows from her gaping mouth is nearly enough to make me hop over the rail to come to her aid. I'm overwhelmed with emotion, and for that moment I just want to ram my boot into Rowan's face and stop her from hurting Megan. But, I resist the urge, I let that moment pass, this ain't my fight and Megan will retaliate. I know it. Somehow. She always fuckin' does. I bite my lower lip and calm my nerves, breathing in deep, doing what all of us on the other side can do and watch and wait for Rowan's next move.

The tension between these two women, the anger, the hatred that fills that space between them could be felt even before the match commenced. It only grew stronger, more palpable, as the fight wore on. And beyond all that spite and rage and violence, there's something else going on between these two, a connection that radiates so brightly, something that bridges them so intricately it goes far deeper than any of that anger and fury that's on full display. I certainly don't know the whole story between these two, but ya just know there's something there, ya can feel their history, see it in the way they glare at each other, how they mutter and growl taunts to one another, to even the way they react to the other's moves. It's something so mesmerizing to behold, there's a story playing out behind the one that's happening right now.

But also, there's something else. Something..unsettling..sinister, almost, that I'm starting to sense as these two continue to tear each other apart. A ghost of a bad feeling, an aura of dread..whatever it may be, it's starting to creep into the arena and shroud the ring area. I tear my worried eyes from Punky's writhing form, and look around the frenzied crowds. I can't put my finger on it.. but I got a real bad feeling 'bout all this..

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Katherine The Great on November 27, 2017, 03:57:23 AM

The Large Man and Athletic Blonde sat mesmerized in their seats. Well, at least he did. His fingers steepled under his nose while he leaned forward and watched the carnage unfold.

"Oh Em Gee, Daddy. What is this shit? I mean really. This isn't "wrestling", this is a mugging! These two bitches are going to murder each other and we're all gonna be accomplices!!"

"Quiet Katherine..." the Large Man growled before his voice trailed off and he studied the two combatants and their symphony of violence. If he could get one, or even both, of them booked at the Dahl House it would take the level of competition to such new heights. If any of the other girls lasted that long, that is.

The Athletic Blonde shook her head and made a face at the Large Man before scanning the crowd.

"Oh, Daddy", she said, tugging on his Armani sleeve, "I see Tiffy down there. I'm gonna go say hi!"

"Stay in your seat, Katherine." Daddy said, almost mechanically, as he continued watching the action.

"I don't wanna 'stay in my seat' and stop calling me Kit-....oh...." the Athletic Blonde said before cutting her sentence off

The Large Man kept his eyes on the ring, intent on catching every move, every nuance, every breath. Lost in his own world of business and pleasure, he barely heard the din of the crowd as they roared the approval and boo'ed what they didn't like. Another tug on his arm...

"Geez Daddy, they'll let anyone into this thing! I think I see that bitch Gemma Roxx down there. You still talk to her?"

Suddenly, the Athletic Blonde had his full attention.

"Gemma? Where?"

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Becca Blast! on November 27, 2017, 04:48:21 AM

Damn.  Just.... damn.

I thought I knew Punky.   Hell, I knew her enough that I thought I knew MEGAN.  But this... this is something of a level I had only heard in whispers.  Or in late-night drinking sessions that went past closing in places that didn't close.  The kind of places that Gemma could always find, and Becca would always regret finding when I woke up.  The kind of stories that had me wondering just what was it IN us that made us do these things.  And they always revolved around some mystery figure called Tantalus.  The lit major in me wondered why someone would pick a name that indicates that he was doomed to never be satisfied.  As near as I could tell, he didn't suffer that fate as much as he gave it to others.  And then I take a look around... fuck.  We're all infected with it.  Every one of us. 

The test-tube Doll -- the Marinovich of female wrestlers, who never had a chance to be anything else other than a pampered mayhem machine and heiress of the ramshackle Haus. 

Tiffany and her shriek -- must be amplified by those echo chambers a foot below her chin. 

Red -- whoever he is under that mask; another legend in what seems a crowd of them...

Is that Lisa Starr?   If so, she's had work done... a lot of work.

And Gemma... god,what I would STILL do with Gemma if we were back in that old brick gym... I may have told Danny everything, but I don't think he BELIEVED everything.  God, I hope not.

And me... why am I here?   Why have I done this?  So I can watch Punky... Megan... throw away every last shred of humanity she has left in some berserk drive to tear her own pain out of Rowan and be rid of it for once and all?  Is that why we're here?  No... there has to be some way out of this... some way they can resolve this without a total descent into feral destruction.  My roving eyes pass over what seems to be an exceedingly dark patch in the otherwise sparsely-lit seating area... an optical illusion.. must be.

Or are the legends true, and that bastard really exists?  Something eldritch, enticing, ancient, and well, tantalizing?  Truly evil, but irresistible?  As I watch the palsied brutality of these two... I have to bet the latter.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 27, 2017, 06:52:36 AM

The heavy CLANG tells me the strategy worked. Seeing you roll around on the mats confirms it. Clutching your knee. Your face a grimace of pain. I'm standing there, all black leather and olive skin, leaning against the ring apron for balance. Wet hair on my brow. The rest of it rolling over my glistening shoulders.

"Can you get up, Punky?" I hiss the name. "Even if you can...you'd better stay down."

I turn to the crowd and find Tantalus, looking at both of us behind his mask.

"Here's your tattooed poetess!" I point down at you while I yell at him. "Your Foxglove Queen!"

I see you struggling on the ground and send a kick at your belly. Then, I turn back to him.

"How magic is she now?"

I turn back to you, kneeling down. I grab your hair and pull your face up. Right into mine.

"I made a promise. And you asked me to break it. And when I said no, you FUCKING BETRAYED ME!"

Just saying those words sends me back to Vegas, high in the tower overlooking the city. A suite that cost me $1,200 a night. We lay in the bed in the center of the room?a room that was bigger than that little shit building you lived in?and we looked out at a window that was four stories tall. The city was below us. The whole world was below us. My sexfighting championship was on the floor next to your wrestling belt. It was the world. It was perfect.

I held you so close, feeling the warmth of your body. The strength in your arms. Our breasts pushed together as we lay still after so much movement. I was thinking, I'm gonna have to replace the sheets because I'm pretty sure the whole bed is a wet spot. And I was about to say that when... you... ruined everything. You fucked it all up.

"It wasn't enough, was it, Punky?" I squeeze your hair in my hand, screaming in your face.

"It WASN'T FUCKING ENOUGH!"



LVK: This...is getting a bit more personal than I'm comfortable with.
RP: Nah. It's just gettin' started. Hey, youngboy! Get me a beer and some popcorn! This shit is getting good!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Vivianne on November 27, 2017, 07:36:14 AM

What am I doing here? Why did I come? It's a good thing I am sitting so many rows away, because nobody will pay any attention to how I am squirming in my seat or the number of times I look at the ceiling in an attempt to stop watching...only to look back down almost immediately to be sure I don't miss anything. Even from way up here I can see and feel the hatred burning between these two women. I can feel the passion that fans those flames as they are already beating the hell out of each other. Rowan told me just a little bit of the story, back when we first met and I was immediately smitten with her. Back when I thought maybe...just maybe I could have a chance so I tried to be around her as much as possible. While I don't know everything...far from it...I learned enough to know I would never have a shot with her...and to know I would never rid her from my mind.

I see Tantalus when Punky yells at him...or I think that must be him. I've never seen him and he's so far away with his back to me, but who else would elicit such a response from Punky...except for Rowan herself? Is this all his doing? I'm guessing there are only three people who will ever know the answer to that...if even they know themselves.

I see Rowan pull Punky's leg toward the steel steps and I find my self muttering softly under my breath, ?Yes...yes...do it Rowan...yes..." My heartbeat quickens as I see Punky's leg lifted and suddenly, as Rowan does exactly what I am hoping she will do I find my mind screaming just the opposite. "NOOOOOO!!!" Did I scream that out loud? I would swear my lips did not part, but I also swear I heard the scream. No...no...it was a woman's voice, not mine. Surely a Punky fan down closer to the action than I am up here.

So this is how the rest of the match is going to go? Me squirming whenever Rowan takes a beating and cheering for her to dish out her out brand of pain...only to squirm yet again when that pain is delivered to Punky? Pulling for one, while at the same time agonizing over the pain of the other. I don't think I can watch this...but I can't pull my eyes away either. What the f**ck am I doing here?

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Emily Layne on November 27, 2017, 02:10:55 PM

Silence is precious,
Silence is priceless,

I don't get why all these people around are screaming, buzzing, spitting comments.

Damn I want to hear the sound of that knee slammed against the metal, I want to hear the screams coming from Punky's lips, I want to hear Rowan growling and roaring

And there we go, here is the silence, everybody in the arena are now quiet, only for few seconds

Let me enjoy..

Until

CAPPUCCINOOO, MOCCHACCINOOOO, WARM COFFEEEE, COLD COFFEEEE, POP CORNNNN, COLD BEEEEER, STRAWBERRY MILKSHAKEEE,  BREAD WITH CAMEMBERTTTT (bread with camembert??? Really??)

*shrugs*

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Lord Tantalus on November 27, 2017, 05:03:34 PM

"Here's your tattooed poetess!" Rowan points at Punky while she yells at me. "Your Foxglove Queen!"

And under the mask... I flinch.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 27, 2017, 09:11:22 PM

My knee crashes into the steel steps like a moped hitting a semi. You weren't fucking around just now. We've both been going at full fucking speed since the bell rang, but this is the most hurt I've felt in one shot in quite some time. The angle of it, the control of my ankle as you bullwhipped my leg into the very edge of the steel - you make an art out of pain, and I'm the fucking canvas as I clutch my devastated right knee and twist on the mats, grinding my face into the cheap bright red vinyl that matches the Zenith's distinctive red seats as if I can burrow away from it, greasy smearing across my intricate calavera facepaint.

You glare down at me, your mouth still bloodied from my right cross and a bruise between your eyes from my skull crashing into your face, sweat glossing on your olive skin - all that black leather doesn't breathe too much - and you hiss at me about not getting up.

Ha. I'd laugh at that if I wasn't currently trying to press the pain out of the fireball that's burning where my knee was. I NEVER stop getting up. Unless I'm fucking dead. And even then. I'm a god-damn revenant.

"Here's your tattooed poetess! Your Foxglove Queen!"

THAT distracts me from the rusty screeching of my battered knee. That distracts me from the whole fucking arena, the Zenith Paris vanishing like a magic trick. There's just you, looming over me, a finger jabbing accusingly down, and me twisted in pain on the mats, and Thomas, watching us impassively behind his mask - except for that little flinch at that name being invoked. Such a tiny thing that speaks so many fucking volumes.

Foxglove Queen.

I've had a lot of nicknames over the years. Most of them I've trademarked for use on shirts. The Purple People Eater. The Brutalist. The Human Trigger Warning. Monster Queen. Whatever, I'm good at nicknames and at selling shirts. But I didn't come up with that one.

Thomas did.

And that's fucking maddening, because he shouldn't have. That name shouldn't exist. He gave me that title on a night when I was supposed to take his fucking head off after what happened between us. After that night in Vegas with you when everything broke, when I was done with a straight week of drinking and getting in bloody barfights with people who didn't even know they were about to get their face smashed in, I had tracked him down. It was tricky, but I had connections even before Gemma. Indy wrestlers, carnies, greasy promoters, club owners, vagabond musicians, itinerant tattoo artists, defrocked priests, the vast mass of punkdom - and I'd tracked him down.

I'd wanted his head, you understand. I was gonna take my fucking roque mallet and bash his god damn head in for what he did. For what he took from me.

But ...

... I didn't.

And before I left he gave me that name. It's never been on a shirt. Never been a pet name I use in bed (I prefer it when Gemma calls me "crumpet"). Never been anywhere but in that room with Thomas and I, that one strange night where I didn't solve my problems with violence for some fucking reason.

And now you throw it back. And you drive a boot into my belly, folding me up on the mats. "HUNNNHHHHhhhh ..." I clutch at your boot like a maddened alley cat, but you're on a righteous crusade now, flaunting me in front of him.

You drop to your knees, snatching a fistful of purple hair, yanking my face up to yours. My painted skull face twisted into a furious snarl, hazel eyes burning into your dark ones.

I betrayed YOU?

I FUCKING BETRAYED YOU?!

"It wasn't enough, was it, Punky? It WASN'T FUCKING ENOUGH!"

You scream right into my face, and my answer is a roar, a sound of pure rage as my hands come up, taped fists SNATCHING at your throat, thumbs crossing over your bruised windpipe as I yank myself up closer, twisting my hips to get my left knee under me, my forehead crushed into yours.

"IT WAS FUCKING EVERYTHING!"

I drive myself forward, crashing into you, trying to slam your back to the concrete with me on top, pressing my left knee into your hip to try to hold you down, my brutalized right knee off to the side, pulsing with pain.

"I PUT EVERYTHING -"

My left hand clutches your throat, right hand coming up to triphammer down a blow aimed for your face. It's not a precise blow. It's not aimed at anything except you. All I have is a sledgehammer and you're a fucking nail.

"- I HAD IN YOUR FUCKING HANDS -"

My fist drives down again, frenzied, furious. Unheeding of my knuckles, of the concrete, of your beauty, of the crowd, of the fucking ring, of everything.

"- AND YOU SPAT ON IT!"

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 27, 2017, 09:31:49 PM

RP: Whoah! Punky just... Wow...
LVK: You just spilled your beer on me, asshole!
RP: That's the first time I've heard you cuss in a long time.
LVK: Get a goddamn towel.
RP: You heard him, youngboy! Towel!
LVK: I meant you!


The blur of motion, fury and violence thrown against me slams my back into the concrete. Suddenly, all I see is a skull screaming down at me and a single fist hammering my face without skill or discrimination.

The fist pounds downward like a bolt of lightning, knocking my face to the side, sending spit and blood across my cheek and the floor.

Then another.

And another.

The screaming from your lips and the ringing in my head become a chorus, each complimenting the other.

And another.

And another.

My arms sway, failing to protect me from your strikes.

And another.

Hands falling to the concrete, palms up.

And another.

My body shudders with the next blow. Like 80's Hulk Hogan selling some monster heel's splash in the center of the ring.

And another.


LVK: Good God, Rowan can't even protect herself!
RP: Is this falls count everywhere? Because if it is, Punky should go for it!


I'm limp under you. Unmoving. Blood smeared across my lips. My eyes shut. Wet hair splayed across my sweaty skin. My mouth open. My breath heavy. If it weren't for the blood, I'd look like I just suffered a different kind of defeat.

My arms flat out, legs bent under you. All I can do...

...is take it.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Lord Tantalus on November 27, 2017, 09:39:28 PM

...rowan...

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 28, 2017, 03:29:12 AM

I slowly sit back, my knee pressed into you as you go limp. I'm panting, glazed with sweat, glistening runnels cut into my skull paint, my knuckles sprung and swollen, blood-bruised under the fight tape from the force of those wild, undirected punches.

That was pure rage. Pure wounded animal fury.

If I had been focusing, been directing my hits? You'd be genuinely fucking done. You'd be on your way to see a neurologist. But my punches were such a flurry of raw hate that I battered your collarbone and shoulder and the fucking floor  as much as the more vulnerable parts of you.

Still seemed to do the god-damn job, though.

You look so beautiful laid out like that. So fucking heartbreakingly beautiful that it'd break all over again if there was anything left for you to fracture. Like you did when I was watching you breathe in Vegas that night. Like you did on that hillside in Iowa.

I hear Thomas murmur something, just under the edge of hearing, and my head snaps up to him, a wolf smelling blood.

I push up. The pain in my battered right knee is gigantic, pulsing in protest at every slight movement, making me hiss as my leg stiffens up, the quad tensing and calf drawing up to try to ease my weight off it. My knuckles throb with each beat of my speeding pulse. But I stand to my feet over you and stare at your precious Lord.

"This is what you made," I snarl at him, jabbing a finger at his face.

"DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE LOOK AWAY FOR ONE FUCKING SECOND."

I turn back to you, hobble in my step but hatred still burning in my heart. I look down at you. So fucking beautiful. Rowan fucking Chance. Unbreakable Rowan Chance.

This isn't Falls Count Anywhere. This is in the fucking ring. There's just nothing to stop us from beating the hell out of each other.

I could grab a chair right now.

I could go over to Gemma, kiss her fucking senseless, have her hand me her bright red chair and then come over here and pound you into a fractured heap of ruination with it. I could grab a power cable and choke you into a coma. I could give you a Stungun on the steel railing and break that pretty neck. I could do a lot of horrifying things right this fucking second, Rowan. I kinda want to do all of them.

I take a deep, slow breath, in through my nose and out through my glossy black lips. A prana breath, cleansing me of some of the haze of bloody rage. It's still there, smoldering like a fucking coal mine fire, but I know what to do. I bend down to get a handful of your dark sweat-glistening hair and a grip on your corset laces with my other hand, and I drag your limp form up.

Because what I'm gonna do, Rowan -

- is fucking BEAT you.

You're going to look up at me through whatever squint you can manage through your swollen bloodied eyes after the bell rings and you're gonna fucking KNOW that I won. You're gonna KNOW I'm better. So is Gemma, so is Red, so is FUCKING Thomas.

I'm gonna beat you with my own two god-damn hands.

I haul you up, seeing you start to stir as I press my face close to yours, my lips hot against your ear, breathing in the scent of your sweat and the hints of your shampoo - the same expensive blend you've been using for years, a darkly intoxicating floral scent I remember from a hundred hotel pillows.

"I'm gonna fucking RUIN you."

It's a snarled hot whisper of pure promise, my hand dropping from your corset to the back of your leather pants as I sling you hard into the ring apron, trying to blast the wind out of you against the stiff edge of it before I shove you back under the bottom rope, slithering in right after you.

LVK: And as Punky looks to get Rowan on her feet after that lunatic, furious assault, it looks like this ... I hesitate to call it a MATCH at this point, but this brutally personal battle ... is returning to the ring, mercifully.

RP: I'm confused, van Keel.

LVK: As usual.

RP: Shut yer cakehole. But how come Punky didn't just channel a couple of blonde Canadians and crunch that Chance chick's head between two chairs? She was down, it's perfectly legal - it'd be easy.

LVK: I think that's the problem, Rick; It'd be easy. Neither of these women seem willing to do anything the easy way.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 28, 2017, 04:18:06 AM

My body tumbles into the ring. All that's moving of me is my chest, gently rising and falling. My breasts tight against the corset because you have to give the boys in the back row the same show you give the boys in the front row. But as you roll me over the canvas, blood dripping from my lips, my arms and legs almost lifeless, I finally fall flat on my back. My right arm flops over and lands heavy. My right dead at my side. My legs are bent at the knees, turned to the right. Tall domme boots up to my knees, my olive skin shining with sweat up to my little leather shorts. The kind that show off that tattoo of mine that you keep invoking.

My head lolls to the side, black hair covering my face. I don't move. I can't move. The only thing going through my head are memories.

* * *

Just a month after Vegas. Arriving in FTW with nothing but a travel bag, walking in through the big delivery doors. Still pretending, still putting on the show. You knew better, but you kept the secret. Even after Vegas, you kept the secret. I walked in with my hair in a ponytail, leather jacket and yoga pants on. Tall boots clicking on the concrete. It was raining?of course?and I flopped my hoodie down, a wet splash against my leather jacket.

I saw Red hanging out with Sadie, and I nodded. He was the one who got me the gig. Recommended me to the promoter. I had a rep, a good one, but Red's word goes a long way on the indie scene. He nodded back. "New mask," I said, a little smile on my face.

He nodded again but didn't say anything. Sadie looked at me sideways. "Who's that?" she asked.

Just out of range, I heard Red say, "An old friend. Sorta."

Yeah, that was about right.

And then, as I walked deeper into the building, I saw a flash of purple. Heard the laugh.

Well, fuck. I stopped dead in my tracks. My heart, too. Everything stopped. The whole goddamn world. I froze. Every inch of me. Every drop of blood. My mouth opened to say your name, but I shut it. Just fast enough to stop the reflexes.

Yeah. You were there. Of course you were. You were everywhere. Getting any bookings you could. You ran by, all laughter and madness. Had some woman I'd never seen before with you. And I didn't say anything. I just stopped and waited for you to go by. You'd find out soon enough I was on the roster. And then...

And then...

* * *

LVK: Rowan is lying motionless in the center of the ring while it looks like Punky is fetching some plunder from under it.
RP: This ain't goin' three falls, Van Keel. It's ending right here and right now.
LVK: The referee has to use her discretion here. Does she think Rowan can continue?
RP: Ref-schmef. It ain't over 'till one of these crazy bitches can't get up and it looks like that's Rowan.
LVK: Punky reaching under the ring...what has she...

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Vivianne on November 28, 2017, 04:47:15 AM

Gawd Rowan, every punch Punky lands while you are down is like a stake being driven though my heart. She finally stops and from way up here I cannot even tell if you are still breathing, and I realize I have stopped my own breathing and must force myself to restart. Your beautiful form is hauled into the ring and I wince, seeing the way your body just flops around and comes to a halt. Then I see it. Your chest rising and falling. You are still breathing. Thank God.

Why can't Punky just pin you? Just end this massacre of a first fall already? No...that is not the Punky I have come to know in the short time since we met. She's gonna do more first. She has to do more first. And now she is digging under the ring. Come on Rowan...wake up. Move. Get out of there!

"COME ON ROWAN!!!"

My scream rings out before I even realize I had formed the words and I look around to see if anyone noticed such a wail from the top row. Who am I kidding? From up here I could be blasting on a trombone and nobody by the ring would hear, there is so much yelling and screaming going on.

Come on Rowan... 

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 28, 2017, 06:34:25 PM

I roll your limp, bloodied body into the ring, and just for a moment as I press my hands to the apron, I think again about how easy it would be to just beat the holy fuck out of you with a chair. This is No Holds Barred. If anything, a bunch of these bloodthirsty and well-funded lunatics who paid exorbitant prices to be here will WANT to see absolutely ferocious violence. They'll want to see us destroying each other with plunder in the bloody way that got made famous at the corner of Ritner and Swanson in Philadelphia. No ref would stop me. Our ref is paid well to NOT stop any viciousness tonight. No one would stop me.

Just for a moment, watching you lay there.

So fucking beautiful. So heart-stoppingly beautiful.

Gods above and below, I want to destroy you so much my fingers twitch.

I drop back off the apron, hissing a little at the torque in my knee - and with my customary flourish I FLING the ring drape up, drawing a roar from the bloodthirstier part of the crowd. Not as much noise from the front row, though. And someone in the back seems VERY distressed.

There's so much evil shit down here - I paid the ring crew extra to go out and procure whatever their wicked little hearts desired to stash in the shadows beneath the canvas. Neat piles of metal chairs, gleaming blood red. A stack of tables, buffet length and with the center screws removed for easy breaking. A garbage can full of kendo sticks and hockey sticks and a cricket bat. A fat coil of gleaming steel chain, like a serpent. A roll of barbed wire. These French fuckers are well-versed in the fucking classics.

One thing that isn't down here is my roque mallet, the Red Queen. Got the thing in a little marketplace in North Africa, sitting among the cardboard sleeves of old Marlboros and the ancient pottery and the crocodile eggs. Heavy red heartwood, the kind you don't see anything made of anymore, and someone had drilled the head and filled it with lead. Damn thing practically leapt into my hand. It's always had a sort of ... mojo to it. And I don't mean the steroid model who hangs out with Zack Ryder. It's got juju. It's gotten me out of some weird situations, including that thing in Tokyo with you and Tantalus and Red and the mask that I try not to think of too much.

And I remember the reason I didn't bring it, why it's still sitting up above my big black desk in the manager's office of my Portland club, Pandemonium. Because it'd make things too simple. Too fucking simple.

I let the apron curtain drop without drawing any toys out to play, and the crowd lets out a collective sigh that warms the room by 2 degrees. I look over my shoulder at Gemma, who's watching with a wicked grin. I flex my fingers, curling my hands into fists, still spattered with blood from my manic flurrying beatdown.

"With my own two fucking hands ..." I growl, reminding myself of how I want this done. Of how I want to beat you. No excuses, no what-ifs. No blogs about how I won because I beat you with a mallet like a Hammer Brother pounding an Italian plumber into paste.

I slither into the ring, flicking my sweaty purple punktails back and rise to my feet, my coffin skirt fluttering around my sugar skull shorts, and grin down at you through my skullpaint.

"Let's see how much you have left to give, darlin'  ..." I purr, grabbing a handful of slick dark hair, aiming to drag your limp form up to your feet, ready to guide your head between my sweat-smooth pale thighs to lock you in so I can bend down and deliciously lock my arms over your hip and between your legs in the cradle that's the prelude to the Vicious Punky Spike, relishing each moment.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 28, 2017, 08:43:17 PM

(Part of this story is true.)

My first real booking in Japan. The flight seemed a million hours and the train a million more. When I get there, I'm exhausted, hungry and sore. I just want to eat good sushi, get an ice cold bottle of saki and settle down in a tiny hotel room with a bed that I'm small enough to fit into. But I have to meet the booker first, and I'm in no mood for bullshit. And with bookers, it's always bullshit. Trying to grab something, trying to trade "favors" for a top spot or giving you some sort of slutty gimmick.

Now don't get me wrong, I've got a highly sexualized gimmick, but I'm not slutty. There's a difference. Men respect sexual--the allure of something they can't have--but slutty gets you no respect. And if Lance Storm taught me anything, he taught me about respect.

So when the booker hands me a mask and says (in Japanese) "You're Lady DDT," I have to wonder what he's up to.

"You saw my tape right?" I ask him, answering back in his language (thank you mixed heritage). "I'm a submission wrestler with lots of kicks."

I may not have a punch, but a lifetime of dancing on the stage and in the clubs taught me how to fucking kick.

He shakes his head. "No, you're Lady DDT."

I look at the mask. It's black with the letters "DDT" in red. It looks awful. But this is my first real gig in Japan, so I take the mask. "I'm Lady DDT."

He smiles and nods, giving me a very short bow. The minimum required. I return it with a respectful bow. "Arigatōgozaimashita," I say.

And so I spent six months as "Lady DDT." They don't let me use my kicks or my submission holds. Just DDTs. I get my ass kicked and my body stretched for five minutes, then?OUT OF NOWHERE!!!?I land a DDT. Standard DDT, Reverse DDT, Flying DDT, Impact DDT, Cradle DDT, Fisherman's DDT, Shooting Star DDT...

And you know what? It got over. The fans watching me get stretched and pounded for five minutes, waiting for the inevitable DDT from me...it got over. Big time.

But my finisher...that was something I came up with. A special twist on the move that I used for the first time in the Tokyo Dome. My opponent's name was Killer Kong (another in a long line of Kongs). When I reversed her powerbomb into a Reverse DDT, the crowd went nuts. When she kicked out after two, they went even nutser. And with her kneeling there, trying to get up, I knew it was time for the debut. Something nobody had ever seen before...

* * *

RP: What the @#$% is Punky doing? She should be pinning Chance!

LVK: She went under the ring, but she hasn't grabbed any plunder.

"With my own two fucking hands..."

RP: That's a goddamn mistake, Van Keel. She should be doing everything in her power to put Chance down. I've seen that woman get up from three powerbombs.

LVK: The resiliance of Rowan Chance is legendary in the world of professional wrestling, but right now... look! Rowan seems to be moving!


I can see the lights. That's about it. They're blurry blobs of white shining down on me.

I can feel my arm move. Just a little. Taste the blood in my mouth. And the pain starts to return. In my back. In my head. My shoulder feels like someone hit it with a rock...

...or a punch from Punky.

And that's when I remember where I am. And who I'm there with. So when your purple punky tails come into view and you start to pick up my head by my hair, and your voice purrs down at me, "Let's see how much you have left to give, darlin'..." I know what to do.

I've got no punch...

So I KICK.

Straight forward. You've got a wide base so you can lift me up. Gives me a great target. In fact, there's a little skull that shows me exactly where to aim for.

So I KICK.

Hard domme heel first. Straight where I know will hurt you the most. You dodged me the first time.

Let's see if you can dodge this one... darlin'.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: RedEnforcer on November 28, 2017, 11:01:53 PM

"Fuck me....."

I've seen Rowan beaten down before. Hell I've provided a good pounding once or twice. But what I'm seeing from Punky is just bitter rage. I see Rowan flop over in a roll as she gets dumped like yesterday's trash into the ring. That sinewy body still looks graceful even when she's unconscious.  And then Punky grabs for the apron and flips it up looking for plunder.

And suddenly my mind is in Burlington....

"Look, I don't care what they did to me. The point of tonight is for you to finally show everybody on this coast what you can do. Sure, Owen ran things differently in Portland, Puerto Rico is just insane, but this is the Carolinas. Fans expect much different things here. And in this case that means no weapons."

I wasn't sure if the purple haired, inked up beauty was even listening. Talk about your clash of cultures.  Scotty told me that this girl he was training had a head for the business and was almost as smart as he was. If you knew him, that was high praise. What she needed though was to expand her idea of what wrestling was. She needed time on the road in the little small towns. And there wasn't a circuit full of small towns like the old Mid Atlantic area.  Mid Atlantic Wrestling still existed in a smaller form after Crockett got gobbled up by Turner.  And Scotty wanted this girl to learn life on the road.  He flat out told me I was the only one he trusted to show her the ropes and not get "handsy" with her.

"She's a good kid, Red. Maybe kinda weird about askin' me about ECW an' she likes doin' backdrop drills way too much, but she's a good kid." is what he told me.  After a month of hauling her around, I thought he was ribbing me.  The kid had skill and she made a natural heel especially in this area where her tattoos and purple hair and alternative lifestyle all checked boxes against her in the South.  But Scotty was right. She needed to learn how hard it was on the road to toughen her up. But she also needed to learn how to win the right way. Sure everyone wants to win. And I've never been above cheating myself.  But the way in which you win will cement your reputation and your legacy. Do you want to be a chickenshit heel or the greatest who ever lived?  Some matches require you to do whatever it takes. Others, it's all a matter of choice.

I finally made some progress with that thick head of hers and she started listening to me.  Splitting gas money in my 88 Dodge Shadow, eating at greasy truck stops with food made by Bubba, spending nights in the (insert town name) Motel added up to be a fun bonding time for us.  What really sealed the deal though was our shared nerdom.  Silly Marvel vs DC debates.  Quoting lines from Princess Bride and the Godfather with equally straight faces. Obscure references that snuck by people standing right there. It was a hard time, but it was a fun time. She worked her way into learning how to win the right way and started to turn people's opinions around. For these fans, suddenly they didn't mind the tattoos. The purple hair wasn't so strange. And the other part just didn't make a difference compared to the skill she showed in the ring. And then it was time.

This night, she'd finally graduated from the small towns of Lawrenceville, Gastonia, Conway and now she's having a big fight at the Carolina Sports Arena (well that's what it was called then, now it's the Mid-Atlantic Sportatorium) for the CWF Women's Championship currently held by Amber Holly.  She's not thinking about that now. All she can think about is the fact that because of double booking and a smaller than expected house, I wasn't on the card.  No wrestling, no pay. And my funds were depleted thanks to a water pump that decided it was time to die. So now, she had to win. She needed to split the winner's purse with me so I could make it to the next town. She was hitting the Burlington-Alamance Regional Airport and meeting back up with Scotty for her next step in her training. 

She was pissed. She knew I wouldn't ask her for any money. She also knew I was giving her a bigger share than half all this time. She was going places. I was just living a life I chose in the Carolinas. She wanted to win badly as payback. "Look at me. You've built up a rep here in this area. You've changed people's minds about women and what the expectations for them should be. It's hard making morons see the change, but you've done it. You bring a weapon out in this fight and everything you made will crumble. Sometimes, it's not about winning or losing. It's about how you do it. "

She didn't win that night. But she also didn't bring out a weapon. Amber did a nice thing for her and left the ring before she got to her feet so the crowd could cheer the punk girl that fought so hard.  It was a moment.

And now seeing this person who looks like the girl I road up and down the trails with, who has such a ferocity and viciousness in her eyes that I have never seen before. Seeing this Punky go under the ring, it makes me nervous. She's gonna pull out that roque mallet she calls the Red Queen. A lot of people think it's a croquet mallet, but no, roque is a similar but different game. This mallet makes a croquet mallet look like a Playskool hammer.

"Don't do it Megan. Don't do it that way."

I know she can't hear me. But it still needs to be said.

And she comes up...empty handed?

I lean back in my seat and let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding.  This violence is still way too much, but at least it won't get so far out of hand that.....

Rowan's thick leather boot just slams into Megan's intimate area with the force of a Mike Tyson in his prime haymaker...so hard Megan's eyes go glassy

My jaw drops. That one blow....so....devastating...

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 29, 2017, 12:28:53 AM

I like it rough.

I always have.

I mean, not just in the sense of wrestling. Obviously I like that, or I wouldn't have been doing it for 18 fucking years.

But I mean ... I like it rough.

All the way back to my first fumbling grasps with the first girls I could get to make out with me. I liked having my dyed hair pulled. I liked being pinched, bitten. I liked pleasure pushed to the point of pain.

And years of wrestling, of heavy impacts and brutal shots and rough, vicious women just pounding the fuck out of me have only made that kink deeper. It's not even a kink, really. I'm just fully fucking bent.

And you know that, better than fucking anyone except Gemma.

"Harder," I'd whisper in your ear, biting at your shoulder.

You never protested, or said you didn't want to hurt me like other girls I'd implored for more and more and fucking more. Your - previous training made sure of that. You'd just murmur "Are you sure?" in that silky voice.

And I'd nod, and you'd go to work. Harder.

So when I start to peel your limp body off the mat and you strike like a fucking coiled snake and drive the heel of that big tall black leather boot into my cxnt, it's not just agony that glazes my eyes and doubles me up.

No, not just agony at all. Although that's gigantic, immediate, and white-out brutal.

There's heat, rushing through me, tightening my belly and puckering my stiff pierced nipples under my sports bra.

My ass juts back in my little sugar skull shorts as I fold in half around the shot, my hands falling from your hair to sway in the empty air for a moment as my eyes go wide as boiled eggs, my black lips forming a perfect O so I look like I'm singing some sort of death-themed opera in utter silence.

Staring right through you with heat and ache and humiliation blazing through me.

The whole arena draws an indrawn breath that comes out as a collective groan of empathy as I finally stagger back two swaying steps folded in half, and clutch my brutalized pussy in both hands, letting out a long tormented gutshot wail with my eyes squeezing shut at last as the pain races through me like wildfire.

"AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHH ...."

I sway, not quite able to fall, punktails brushing the canvas as I'm halved, my boots splayed and drunkenly staggering, hands buried in my crotch - and under the grip tape on my palms, under my sweat-warm shorts, I can feel the pulsing heat of unwilling, poorly timed desire.

A fucking cxnt punt like that would brutalize anyone - but I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who gets so god-damn hot from it at the same time.

Fuck, it's hard being so fucking bent sometimes.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 29, 2017, 01:29:59 AM

RP: Ooooo! That was brutal...

LVK: And that move is just as legal as a...

RP: Just as legal as a wrist lock. We know, Van Keel. We know.


I can barely stand. But I don't need to. You're bent over, feeding me your head. And I know exactly what to do with it.

I'm on my knees, moving like the coiled snake you always seem to call me, pivoting on my hips with my knees under me. And when you lean forward, my upper torso strikes. I wrap my arm around your neck with my left hand and wrap my right arm under your armpit, locking my hands under your chin.



LVK: OHMYGOD... Rowan is setting up...

RP: What? It's a front face lock.

LVK: NO! IT'S...



And in one fluid motion, I snap my body backward, bringing you down with me, slamming your skull into the canvas...

... but I don't let go.


LVK: IT'S THE THREE FIRES DDT!!!


And after the first impact, my body goes erect again, using those ab muscles I earned in Japan with endless crunches. Hours and hours and hours. Dancing gave me wind. Gave me kicks. But Japan gave me discipline.


A virtue you may want to add to your repertoire... Punky.


And erect again on my knees, dragging your body back up with me, I get ready for another drop... the second of three.

And DOWN!

Plummeting your head straight at the canvas a second time. Hammering it home before straightening back up, like a ghost rising from the grave.

And we know all about your history with ghosts... don't we... Punky.


LVK: That's two! Can Rowan hit the third?

RP: Like two wasn't enough. Jeezuz...

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 29, 2017, 02:03:26 AM

Surprisingly, it's kinda hard to focus when you've just had a bootheel with over 4K Newtons of force behind it - whatever, I know science shit when it's related to fighting, fuck off - crunched into your pussy. That makes it shockingly hard to think straight. Even moreso when you're a deviant who gets all fluttery from pain and was already kinda hot and bothered from violently punching her ex in the face a dozen times.

Fortunately, you're there to get my attention right where it should be.

Unfortunately, you do that by cinching in a front facelock from your knees, and dropping back to drill me into the canvas.

THUD.

My head spikes in, compressing my neck and dropping me down to my knees as they fold in towards each other, my boots rolling outwards to either side as my ass settles on my calves, my body jolted with the brutal drop.

A DDT is an interesting move - it's not like a piledriver, where the objective is to compress the spine completely and induce a nerve-trauma blackout from the impact to go with the concussive shot to the skull - it's more like getting punched in the forehead with the entire fucking ring while someone's holding you still so you have to take it.

My body jolts from the impact which crosses my fucking eyes against the mat - but before it can even settle in you're rising up, from a supta virasana to a vajrasana (you're not the only one with a dozen years of yoga to your name, bitch!), dragging me with you. One hand clutches at your left arm, fingers curling to try to peel it away, but my right hand is still nestled between my thighs, instinctively clutching my aching mound, and I'm way too fucked to properly get free. Clearly.

And then you drive me down again.

THUD.

This time my body JOLTS, hips rising in the air as my legs come up and then collapse back down, left splayed out wide to the side and my aching right knee folded under me, arms flopping off their loose clutches to the canvas as the impact hits like thunder.

My right hand slowly, blindly comes up and paws at your abs as you sit up again, my eyes fluttering as the impact sends crazed cracks through my rattled brain, slowly dragged up like a deadweight as you come back to your knees.

I can't do a fucking thing to stop you right now, and it's clear to the entire audience who get to marvel at a wonderfully apt presentation on how quickly things can turn around in a god-damn wrestling ring.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 29, 2017, 02:23:07 AM

Your limp, helpless grip tries to pry my arm loose. I almost laugh.

"Not tonight, baby," I whisper in my sultry voice. The one I use...just before...

Well, you know. Don't you? Punky.

I throw my body backward a third time. The adrenaline of putting you through this is just enough to make me ignore the pain in my spine. Just enough. Because I know what happens next.

Your head hits the mat. Your body shudders. Maybe even a little spasm in there as it falls face first onto the canvas.

I take in a quick breath with a smile on my face, my arms still locked around your body. Then, I let go and allow you to collapse onto the canvas.

"Little dead girl," I say, invoking Rob Z's intonation.

I slowly--oh so fucking slowly--roll you over. Your arms splayed out. Legs wide open. Your skirt twisted on your hips.

And slowly--oh so fucking slowly--I slide my body over yours. Starting at your booted feet...up your legs...over your wounded crotch...I spend a moment there so you can feel the heat of my breath through your little skully panties...up your toso...my hands crawling beside your body like a predator...my knees doing the same...up and over your tented and pierced breasts...I give an exhale over your left, just like your pussy...right until my face is on your face...my tits are on your tits...and my knee...yes...my knee is on your crotch...

...pressing down.

"Remember this, Punky?" I whisper, my hands taking your arms and putting up and over your head...crossing your wrists on the canvas...

"Remember?"

And I kiss you...with my tongue and my lips and my teeth.


RP: Good @#$%ing lord...

LVK: Uh...um...Punky is...uh...in a pinning predicament!

RP: I'd @#$%ing say so.


The referee--yeah, I don't know how her top got so open, either--gets down to the canvas and checks your shoulders. And as she counts, "ONE!" my knee so gently presses against your pussy and I kiss your lips, saying the exact same word.

"...one..."

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 29, 2017, 03:16:56 AM

I'm fucking OUT of it as the third DDT jolts me into the mat, completing the Three Fires DDT. I knew what it was gonna be as soon as you locked your hands in that distinctive way, around my neck and under my arm while on your god-damn knees.

I knew exactly what was coming - but it's hard to do a thing about it when you've just had your clit kicked up into your fucking esophagus.

Sprawled almost flat, my right leg spasms - just a little bit - as my nerves misfire. The sight of that classic sign of impact trauma draws some groans from those who love me and those who have francs riding on my win.

You roll me over, the lights blazing into the dark behind my closed eyes. My skull paint smeared and streaked as my arms unroll, flopping above my head, my taped palms turned up towards the lights and my legs splayed out, showing off my damp black Lycra boyshorts, the grinning sugar skulls seeming like they're grinning a bit ironically now. The skirt of strips of tattered red velvet rucked around my hips. My head lolls to the side, eyes showing slits of white as my parted black lips glisten, breasts rising and falling slowly in my sweat-clinging zombie tee - and under the lights, the outline of my pierced nipples' aching stiffness is visible even through the Suplex Apparel sports bra. Even my purple punktails are splayed out in sweaty tangles to either side.

I look fucked UP.

And you take your time, leisurely crawling over me - the tickle of your breath on my aching, soaking cxnt makes me rock my hips softly in my sleep with a throaty little "... mmmnmmhhh ... " barely drifts from my parted lips.

You drag up, and pin me down. Completely.

The whole fucking Zenith Paris, full of my friends, my rivals, my fans, my enemies, and my fucking wife see my ex pin me down in the middle of the ring.

Your heavy breasts pressing down on mine, dragging over my stiff pierced nipples ... your hands taking my limp fingers and ... fucking crossing my wrists above my head, a sensation that makes me shiver even in my gray daze. Your lips on mine, tasting your breath up close for the first time in quite a while.

Your knee presses down on my poor aching pussy - and my thighs quiver. Because even when I'm knocked more than halfway the fuck OUT ... even when it's YOU, Rowan, I can't help it ...

... I like it rough.

The ref's hand professionally slaps the mat - her short dirty blonde hair slicked back, she's a slight little elfin thing with evil pale eyes, her striped shirt a little unbuttoned to show the tiniest bit of perky cleavage. Maybe she just wants to add a sensual Parisian touch to the show. Or maybe she finds brunettes cruelly pinning and forcing kisses on quivering tattooed riot girls to be hot for some reason.

But that little slap echoes through my brain.

When you wrestle, you get a new set of senses. You become intensely aware of vibrations in the soles of your feet because it means movement in the ring. You become intently interested in creaking sounds, like the song of taut ropes stretching in the turnbuckle.

And you learn the hard way - the real fucking hard way - that even when your brain's been rattled, when you're fucking dazed and just want to lay there - that the tiny little clap of a referee's hand to canvas is like the knell of fucking doom.

And every veteran wrestler gets a watchman in his or her head, who keeps an ear out for that sound even when everything is dark - and wickedly, grindingly warm.

"Mmmnh ..." I murmur softly against your lips, against the slick sweetness of your tongue, the glisten of your teeth.

My red boot twitches, just a tiny bit as my hips shiver under the press of your knee into my cxnt.

Little lightning flashes on the horizon. Little rumbles.

But it's still so fucking dark. And hot. Shamefully, wickedly hot.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 29, 2017, 03:37:34 AM

Twenty thousand years ago, we're in a dimly lit apartment. My place this time. I'm renting a dismal little room to save money, eating canned beans and boiling eggs. And you are sprawled out on the bed, your naked pale body shining in the darkness. Stretched all the way out, your curves on display to me.

I'm in the closet. The sound of hangers banging around. Clothes dropping here and there. My hands are shaking. I can't stop them. Laces, buttons, zippers... I can't keep my fingers still.

"You done in there, yet?" you ask, your voice teasing.

"A-almost!" I can't believe I stuttered. I fucking stuttered. And I hear your giggle out in the room.

"Ice cold bitch Rowan Chance. Sexfighting Queen. Erotic Wrestling Champion. And she's nervous like she's getting her first boarding school girl kiss."

"I am NOT nervous!" Lie. Fingers fumbling.

"Whatever. The bed is getting cold."

I finish the last pull. It's done. I look at myself in the old mirror I picked up at Goodwill. Cracked, but still a full body piece. As old as Philadelphia. And I smile. Then, I step out of the closet. Hand on my hip, other hand stretched out above me on the door frame, like I'm holding the whole place up.

I've got my black leathers on. Tall boots. Black leather corset and tight leather boyshorts. My hair braided back. Eyes as black as nightmares.

"This is what you wanted?" I ask.

And you nod. "Oh, yes."

I step from the closet to the bed. Looking down at you. "What does Punky want?" I ask.

"Rowan," you say, about to correct me. "Call me Me--"

...but my hand strikes under your chin like a serpent. And my voice goes all dark.

"What does Punky want?" I ask, a growl in my voice.

Your eyes are so conflicted. You want to fight back. Want to seize control. But there's something else in there. Something I see. Maybe only I see.

And without speaking...you slowly...oh so fucking slowly...put your hands above your head...

...and cross your wrists.

My scimitar smile blossoms on my lips. And I spread my body over yours. My leather-clad body over your naked pale skin.

"That's what I fucking thought," I say.

* * *

And here I am. Head ringing like a thousand churches are in my skull. Spine begging for me to lay down in a chiropractor's office. I'm dizzy. Not sure I can even stand up.

But I'm on top of you now. My leather-clad body over yours. My boots. My corset. My little boyshorts. And your hands are crossed over your head.

And my lips are on your lips.

"What does Punky want?" I ask a moment after the ref's hand hits the mat the first time.

And when I hear that groan in the deepest part of your voice, feel your boot twitch... I whisper into your mouth...

"That's what I fucking thought."

And the ref's hand hits the canvas a second time.

And I whisper the word she shouts out loud.

"...two..."

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ~Rox Erotique~ on November 29, 2017, 05:28:49 AM

Every fucking moment of this match has been hell on earth.

I begged Megan to let me stay home, I PLEADED with her? But that stubborn little shit was having none of it. I was going to be there to witness her greatest triumph in person and that was that.

I didn?t want to be within a hundred miles of this fucking place? watching the woman I love, my wife? fight her ex? Ugh?

I?ve sat panicked as Rowan worked her knee. I winced and shook as I watched her slam that knee into the steel steps. I felt the pain jolt down my spine like a fucking thunderbolt every time Rowan milked another bone-chilling scream from her and I had a momentary reprieve when she mounted that cow and started pounding her into oblivion but I know my wife? her hot head would get her into trouble.

I knew her too well.

And I?m never wrong.

So when she ignored the pin attempt and got Rowan?s full force boot to the pussy as a reward for her foolishness I wasn?t surprised. But I was devastated.

?God damn it Megan? use your head. Just use your fucking head? I whisper to myself as I watched her double over crotch-shocked? but that isn?t Punky. Punky fights with more heart than any girl who ever set foot in the ring, but never her head. Unless she could use it as a fucking weapon of course.

And then Rowan hit it. Her Triple DDT. The execution was PERFECT. Under-hooking the arm and locking her hands so Megan couldn?t slip it. Ice Cold and Perfect. Just like everything that cxnt does.

With every impact of my wife?s face into the canvas I shook like I just took a gut-shot. But I would have gladly taken a gut-shot instead of what I had to witness next? I would have taken the whole fucking clip. Seeing that twisted whore crawl over MY wife, rubbing her knee into her pussy. And kissing her.

I can?t look. I can?t see this. So I look down at the floor, expecting to see the shattered remains of my heart down there among the crushed beer cups and stale, discarded arena snacks.

I close my eyes and I wait for that third slap of palm on canvas, the loving wife in me hoping it never lands? the 18 year veteran in me knowing it will?

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 29, 2017, 08:14:54 AM

"TWO!"

The ref's voice is crisp and professional, with a slight Parisian lilt and just a hint of sly amusement. She might not see a lot of pins like this one, but then - who the fuck does? This isn't a wrestling pin. It's not even a move you'd see in your twisted and sordid world of sexfighting. It's something in between, crueler and wickeder than either.

You're fucking having your way with me in the center of the ring, grinding my battered, hot cxnt under your knee, kissing me mockingly, your tongue stealing the taste of me.

But that's not what cracks my smoldering eye open.

It's not even the two count, although that fires off neurons that are deeply ingrained, the watchman in my head ringing his bell urgently to try to wake me. It's not even those survival instincts or that manic tenacity that's defined so much of my pitbull career.

No.

It's that whisper.

"That's what I fucking thought."

An apartment in the Southwest. Even in the winter, it's hot as hell. Cheap, too. Way lower-end than your credit rating would merit. Looks more like the kind of crash pads I tend to favor. I love it.

Sprawled out naked on the double bed, listening to you change.

Seeing the leathers for the first time and the wickedness in your dark eyes ...

... those eyes locked on mine as my hands slid up over my head ...

... and crossed at the wrists. Like they are right this fucking moment.

But there's been a lot of fucking miles between now and then.

And what you fucking thought was WRONG.

I torque my hips, jerking my right arm free of your grip just enough to roll my shoulder off the mat as the ref's hand is starting its downward arc. Just barely enough to break the pin.

She throws up two fingers, and the crowd's gasp changes the air pressure in the Zenith.

Might be fucking stupid, given that my eyes are still out of focus, my head is pounding like I'm coming off a three-day drunk, my pussy still brutally throbs and my right knee is properly fucked.

But still ... fuck you, Rowan. You don't get to fucking kiss me.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Vivianne on November 29, 2017, 09:03:31 AM

Damn it! I knew it would take more than that to put Punky away. I winced with every slam of her purple head to the mat, rejoicing at Rowan?s comeback, but part of me aching to know it was at Punky?s expense. But even as the ref slapped TWO I knew it wouldn?t be enough...and it wasn?t.

I realize I am breathing heavy now...on the edge of my seat. Hoping Rowan can continue her offense. Hoping she can put Punky away to claim the first fall. Hoping my panting and racing heart are due to my nervousness...and not wanting to admit they are due to my lust to see more.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 29, 2017, 02:26:45 PM

As the referee's hand raises for the three count, I'm ready to whisper the word between your lips. I'm smiling. Beaming with confidence.

But then, you raise your arm and your shoulder lifts off the mat and all that confidence melts into confusion.

"NO!!!" I scream at your face. "NO!!!"

I push myself up and off of you, almost staggering into the ropes. I got up too fast. But I don't care. I'm screaming that word over and over again.

"NO!!!"


LVK: OHMYGOD! PUNKY GOT AN ARM UP!

RP: Let that be a lesson to all you youngboys out there. Never go for the sexy cover. Hook a leg!


My arms are thrown over the top rope, keeping me from falling down. Disbelief on my face. Hands in my hair. My eyes wet and red.

That's when I see Gemma in the crowd. Smiling. Cheering.

And a small flame erupts in my back.

I point at her.

"Bitch!" I shout. "You're gonna WISH she stayed down! I'm going to break your little wife and hand her to you on a fucking silver platter! You're going to fucking BEG ME to stop hurting her!"

That's it. That's fucking it.

Time for some real pain.

I've been playing so sweet with you, Punky. No more.

No. Fucking. More.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: RedEnforcer on November 29, 2017, 05:14:08 PM

I am on the edge of my seat and I didn't even realize it.

That pin attempt had all of us excited and anxious and mostly aroused just watching.  I know a woman behind me had a catch in her breathing. The kind that told me that she either had felt that before or wished she was in it now. Her date I think actually might have had an accident in his pants.

I watch Megan's head driven into the mat once...twice...and a third time.  I know that has to be the first fall even though in my heart I hope she can rise.

But then....

Then...

Like the seductress she is, Rowan slithers up Megan's body. I shudder as my own body remembers just how that olive flesh feels moving, no...flowing up your body. Rowan has always been one to play to the crowd, but I can that this move here is just as personal as it is visceral.

She has become the domme and is showing Megan that she is in charge.

Megan's arms crossed over her head. Wrists pinned. Such a submissive position.

And then the knee...right onto Megan's pussy that still has to be aching from that earlier shot. Most here will think that's just more punishment. But after spending time with her, I know that for Megan it is so much more.

Rowan truly wants to break her.

With the one count, there's a whisper and a kiss.  This is more than just about winning for both. It's about dominating. Punky through her strength and power. Rowan through her seduction and control.

There's the two..more kisses..more whispers....

In my mind I'm screaming...

You damn well better kick out.
I taught you better than to lie back just because some fucking slut is playing with your pussy.
Now
Fucking
Kick
Out


My hands grip the railing before me, knuckles going white.  I don't mind Megan getting pinned, but not like this. Not in such a humiliating fashion.

And then her shoulder rises...

I leap up and pump my fist. I'm such a damn mark.

I see Rowan losing it, falling back into the ropes. Confusion, questioning....and then something darker...

Focusing on Gemma and screaming at her...

This is just going to get worse....

I realize I'm standing still with my arm raised...am I..am I cheering for Megan?

Rowan invited me because of our close connection. Shouldn't I cheer her on considering the times she's cheered me on?

As I slowly sit down I realize exactly what's happening. I don't want either of them to lose.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 29, 2017, 06:01:06 PM

You roll off me, but not before I get a sweet taste of that scream of "NO!" in my face. Normally that's not a word I like to hear, but it sure is pretty fucking delicious in a wrestling ring. That furious, protesting cry of denial.

Of course, I don't get to bask in it or anything, since I've still just had my pussy punted into the cheap seats and my head expertly fucking spiked into the mat three times in a row. I feel like I was in a car wreck. A car wreck that crashed the steering column into my cxnt. But whatever.

Match ain't over yet.

I roll to my side, and curl my hands into fists, pressing my bruised knuckles into the mat. That makes me grin a drunken little grin. I liked beating you semiconscious a few minutes ago. I wanna do that again.

I push up, arms flexing taut as I drag my boots under me, feeling flushed with heat, aching, my head throbbing and the lights in the Zenith looking bright as nova stars. I'm dizzy, swaying, and everything fucking hurts as my battered skull pounds to beat the god-damn band. But I get up ... and I narrow my eyes, seeing you jawing at the fucking crowd as you lean on the ropes.

With Gemma. MY Gemma.

Gonna get yourself a silver platter, huh, Rowan? You didn't have enough of those growing up, you spoiled little bitch?

I stagger forward, almost at a lurch, looking like a drunk determined to get to the bar before last call.

I know you'll turn at the sound of my boots - you're so god-damn fast. So FUCKING fast that if I try to sneak up behind you and grab you by the shoulder or some fucking thing I'm liable to get another boot in the soft bits. So fuck it. I won't try to out-speed you.

You're smart. One of the smartest, wickedest bitches I've ever been in the ring with. Or to bed with.

But you've got a LOT of fucking pride.

So I square up just a couple of feet behind you, swaying a little but forming up in a pretty damn good boxing stance. I've always been a puncher, but since I've been with Gemma I've become a half-decent boxer as well.

"HEY," I bark. "I said eyes on ME, you fucking witch."

I know that'll get you to turn. You'll be smug, because you know I'm dizzy. You'll hear the thickness and heat in my voice. You'll know you have the advantage, know how furious seeing you taunt my wife makes me. You'll want to play and then strike with that dizzying speed.

So as soon as I get that pretty face turned towards my earnest boxing stance, as soon as I see that wicked smile - I lunge out and try to snatch the side of your pretty face, fingers slicking through your sweaty dark hair as my right thumb DIGS into your left eye, twisting into the lids to push at the soft jelly underneath, seeking the bony rim of your eyesocket - and intent on digging in as I try for a deep, old school Harley Race GOUGE.

I learned a lot of things touring the small towns in the South with Red. I learned about pride, and relying on yourself, and standing on your own two feet, and how fucking good grits can be when he makes them.

And I learned some REAL nasty old NWA tricks, because those bastards fought HARD.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 29, 2017, 07:53:26 PM

A voice behind me and a word. You can call me a bitch, I don?t care. Call me a slut and you?re off my list. Cxnt...I?ve got friends and relatives in Ireland who drop that word like quarters in an old school arcade.

But use ?witch? in a derogatory way...and that gets my attention. Of course you know that. Of course you?re on your feet. Probably punch drunk and ready for the Pain.

I grin at Gemma. ?Here it comes...?

I turn and?

WHAT THE FUCKING HELL?!?!?

Someone sticking a poker straight into my eye. Or a fork. I scream out loud, staggering back, my hands grasping at my eye, trying to pull your hands away. But not before the damage is done. I?m wandering away from you, trying to find the ring ropes so I can get away and get my sight back...

... but who am I fooling?

?You Dirty Bitch!? I scream in a random direction, swinging my free hand, trying to keep you away as I make sure you didn?t actually pull my eye out of socket.

No. No you didn?t. Doesn?t matter. Just keep swinging and hope I find the ropes before I find you.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 29, 2017, 09:00:15 PM

On a practical level, I realize there's something a bit hypocritical about proudly refusing to grab a chair or a kendo stick to beat your semiconscious form into a bloody broken heap - and then turning around instead gouging you in the eye so viciously, so blatantly that even Nick Patrick would've had to disqualify me even if I was wearing an nWo shirt (Wolfpac 4 life).

But on the other hand, you kicked me in the pussy and then fucking tongue-kissed me during the pin, so fuck you AND your eyesocket.

You swipe out, ferocious, but even with my skull rattled I can manage to sway back from a half-blind woman. On the other hand, you're going for the ropes, and I can't have that. You don't need time to get your head on straight. You need some more fucking PAIN to think about.

And so do I.

I duck under a swipe like a drunk Jackie Chan and step into you, mashing my tits into yours, my left hand going for a grip on the back of your sweaty head to try to grip your dark hair and yank you forward, bending you into me, right hand hooking a grip on those little leather shorts as I try to press you back into the ropes and just DRILL my left knee straight up, aiming for your taut belly, Muay Thai style - believe me, kneeing you in the cxnt would be a lot more satisfying, but I want you good and fucking winded - before I bend low, snatching my arms around your taut form. My inked right arm cinches tight around your lower ribs as my left curls low, around those lovely hips, grabbing a handful of your exquisite ass in your little leather shorts as I give a roar of effort, aiming to drag you back off the ropes, hoisting you off the mat -

- and then I twist my hips and LUNGE forward, long legs churning, my bruised and battered right knee screeching in sudden protest that I grimly ignore and my poor pounded mound pulsing, my head throbbing and my vision doubling a bit as I try to dig my shoulder into your sternum, arms wrapping you in a classic spinebuster lift - and I bulldoze forward try to CRAZY TRAIN us forward to CRASH our combined weight into the corner and smash your aching back into the turnbuckles with a strong-style batorukurai, looking to shake the fucking ring with the impact and spill Beaujolais from the fans' cups.

"RRRRRRRRRRRAAAH!"

It's a bit risky as far as counterable moves go - but I'm counting on the greasy watering of your burning eye and hopefully the stolen breath from my knee being snapped up into your belly to make you just vulnerable enough for me to do a little SMASHING. I'm good at smashing.

And fucking no one likes it when I'm angry.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 29, 2017, 09:58:36 PM

As soon as I feel your hands and arms wrapping around me, I know I'm fucked. I shift my center of gravity low, but it doesn't matter. You lift me right off my feet. My hands start hammering on your back and shoulders, linked together for the best impact, but it doesn't matter. You start running.

And I let my body go limp. Best way to take this. Just let everything soften. Don't tense up, that will give you--



LVK: Punky picks Rowan up and dashes across the ring toward the...

RP: GAWDDAMN!

LVK: That impact made every corner shake!


My body hits the corner and my limbs splay out, my upper torso bent over your back. My mouth makes a sound like a low moan, then changes to "SH-SHIIIIITTTT...."

My spine is now sending me unfriend requests. The top and the bottom caught on the top and middle turnbuckles, bending it in directions it was never meant to go...but has been before. Many, many times. Including one time in particular.

One time...

Time...

No. I'm not going to do that again. Not going to give you the satisfaction of that again. Even if she wasn't in the arena, I wouldn't give it to you But she is in the arena, isn't she? Watching this. Relishing it. Her little panties are probably dripping wet.

No, bitch. You don't get the satisfaction.

My hands grab the upper rope as my body inhales a ragged breath. My eyes narrow and my lips curl. I suck air through my teeth and make a low purring sound. My fingers clenching the ropes. My legs lift and wrap around the bottom rope, almost as if I'm locking myself in for a ride. A carnival ride run by a drunk, purple haired fiend who's intentionally removed all the safeties.

I look you in the eye. Lips trembling with pain and desire.

"Th-that all you got... Punky?"

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 29, 2017, 10:33:12 PM

The crash of the buckles against you sends a shudder through me that's almost as delicious as it is excruciating - because the jolt of painful impact that jars my aching neck and pounding head comes covered with a rich dripping caramel of your moan of pain, and I could eat that with a fucking SPOON.

That poor back of yours.

You've paid the iron fucking price for that night in North Carolina when the Countdown debuted and you and I had our official PUBLIC break-up. The Stroke of Midnight - my Psycho Killer straitjacket powerbomb into Gemma's Bitch Breaker backstabber - put a crack in your steely facade that's been gone after by every Tina, Dana and Harriet in the wrestling industry. Not all of them manage to do much - you're still faster, better trained, more experienced, smarter and crueler than pretty much anyone in the business - but those little shots add up, don't they? The backbreaker by the rookie who gets a lucky grab around your waist. The flying knees to the back by the luchadora who catches you unaware. The heavy leg dropped across your lower back from the big Polynesian girl who laid you flat. Each shots adds another spiderweb of cracks - waiting for enough impact, enough to pressure ...

... and oh, it's come close. Close enough to eternal agony that you probably thought you were fucking Hellbound.

But you're not broken right now. You're in pain - exquisite pain - and I see the lust it makes in your eyes. I was never the only who likes it rough. And where some nights I would whisper "Harder" in your ear -

- some nights you would hiss "Hurt me" in mine.

So maybe it'll just be for old times' sake, Ro - but I'm REALLY gonna fucking hurt you.

LVK: Dow has just PLANTED Chance into the corner with a running slam that literally shook the ring, and Rowan Chance is clearly in pain - but she's ... she's DARING Punky for more!

RP: That's what ya get with two nutcases who used ta grind their fun bits together, van Keel. They were already fucked in the head, and now they're just flat-out crazy.

LVK: Eloquently put as always, Rick.

RP: I'm a fuckin' bard.

I grin at you - or at least bare my teeth. My skull paint is streaked and smeared from the DDTs, from the kissing, from the sweat of the brutal match, making me look more like a Romero zombie than a calavera. I'm slicked with sweat, flushed, clearly hurting - but also very, very intent on you.

"Is it EVER all I've fucking got, Rowan?" I snarl back at you - and shove your arms back as I square up again in front of you.

Here's where I've got my rival in the corner. I should, per tradition, go for strikes intended to steal your wind, daze you. Chops to the chest, always popular in women's matches because the crowd leaves seeing our tits get punished. Back elbows are popular. Knee strikes. All intended to maximize impact before the 5-count.

But tonight ... there's no 5-count.

And there's not a fucking reason in the world not to use closed fists.

And with your feet hung up and your arms back on the ropes like that, DAMN if you don't look like a fucking heavy bag. Besides - I wanna show Gemma my form.

So my taped fists launch in a vicious, quick flurry, aimed for your ribs, your belly, snapping shots to your cheeks, and why the fuck not, a couple of punishing jabs aimed into your lush breasts - just trying to pummel the fuck out of you.

And I know you can take it. That's not how I intend to hurt you, Ro.

No.

That comes when I stop, panting, my fists aching, and reach for your jaw with my left hand, grip tape rough on your olive sweat-slick skin as I push your head back and lean in close, intimately close, letting you feel my body on yours in the ropes, breathe my warm scent - the tang of fresh deep bruises, the salt of a drench of sweat, the musk of a fight and the underlying thrill of arousal - and I purr in your ear, glossy black lips brushing it.

"Gemma showed me how to do that. But y'know who showed me this one?"

I peel off you and go to cup your chin in my left hand, thumb sinking into your jaw, trying to force you to look into my eyes as I bring my right arm back, chambering it with my palm flat towards you, elbow cocked.

"Thomas did."

I murmur softly - and twist my hips, punkytails snapping as I DRIVE my palm forward in a brutal strike aimed for the xyphoid process at the base of your sternum. To try make your fucking heart feel like it's been broken.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 29, 2017, 10:58:13 PM

I gave you my chin. Held it out. Dared you to hit it. And you did.

Your jabs and punches hit hard, but I've felt that pain before. I want to show you--want to show the world--that you can't hurt me. I've move into the space where pain becomes an ally. Where all the pain in the world just strengthens my resolve. It's my version of second wind. When pain just...mmmm...yes. And I want more.

Tantalus helped me find this place. He knew I had it in me. Took me almost two years to find it, but when I did, I knew I had the weapon I needed. My own pain.

I was nearly finished with that journey when Vegas happened. I was close. So close. I could almost touch it...

And as your taped hands work me over, I feel the rush of adrenaline pumping through my veins. I feel my muscles tensing. Ready to explode.

Let her go, my body said. It's good...yes...more...MORE!

And just as you paused I was ready to do just that. Explode.

You shove my chin up, your thumb under it. Looking me in the eye. Cocking your hand back, turning it flat.

Yes. One more. Give me one more...

And then you say it.

"Thomas did."

And my eyes go wide. My mouth opens. My body does the exact wrong thing: stiffens with fear.

Because I know what's about to happen.

But that's nothing compared to knowing...

"Thomas did."

My lips almost mutter a quiet, "...no..."

But they never get the chance. The palm of your fist hits exactly where he would have taught you to hit. And I feel my chest compress. Feel my ribcage squeeze my heart. Blood flow stopping, reversing.

Everything turns Matrix Slow Mo. Your fist racing forward. Hitting me. My body reacting. Buckling forward. Every part of me seems made of rubber.

And in that slow motion, I fall...forever...face first...toward the mat.

And when my body hits, it isn't a safe fall. It's the fall of a woman who has no control. And the sound of my body hitting the canvas and the boards under it is an awful sound. I bounce just a little after the impact, but after that, there's no movement.


LVK: HOLY @#$%! That's Tantalus' finisher! How did Punky learn that?!?

RP: Guess Rowan isn't the only one he's 'Svengali-ing' with."


I gave you my chin.

You broke my heart.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Lord Tantalus on November 29, 2017, 11:04:01 PM

A sudden motion as I stand and shout, "NO!"

And remain there. Motionless. Hands clenching, helplessly.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: RedEnforcer on November 29, 2017, 11:48:21 PM

I watch with a different mindset than most of these fans. I?ve fought with and against both of these two. Sometimes at the same time. I know from experience how the other will react. So when Punky gouges Rowan?s eye I smirk with a little pride even as my own left eye twitches.

The drive into the corner I know is almost as effective as head butting a Samoan in that Rowan in her current state will just use it as fuel.  These two and their love of pain is almost insane.

The flurry of punches don?t worry me. Just more Food for Rowan to feed off of and more fun for Megan to have.

But then Megan stops...

Tilts Rowan?s head just so...

ohfuck....no

Megan?s arm back. Palm in position.

Motherfucker!

?Thomas did..?

Words that rattle around in my brain as I see Rowan fall...

Not drop, not crash....

Fall...

I?m out of my seat without thinking, whirling around to the other masked man standing.

?You gawddamn motherfucker!!! This is all you?re gawddamn fault!!!?

I still have a snarl in my face when hands move to restrain me and assist me back to my seat.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 30, 2017, 12:07:29 AM

His place was hard to find.

Even with my contacts, with the shady network of lunatics and fugitives who made up the majority of my dear friends and gentle hearts, it was hard to find Thomas' place. It wasn't in Portland, wasn't in Philly, or Chicago, or Charleston, or Phoenix, or Tokyo, or London, or San Juan. Wasn't in any of my usual haunts. And finding him was like finding Carmen Sandiego. I had to say the right thing to the right person and not get a straight answer.

But I found him.

'cuz I was gonna take his head.

I didn't that night. Not so soon after Vegas. What I did was dive back headfirst into the indies, into blood and sweat and chairs and tears and beers and Greyhounds, and find my way to Gemma. And closed that circle with you in FTW.

But before FTW I went back to him a second time.

It was dark in his room. He didn't have the mask on, but he always knows where to sit so the shadows lay on him just right. Or maybe they follow him.

I told him what I wanted. His heart strike.

I'd seen it.

I've seen heart punches since Crush's terrible one in mid-90s WWF. And even terrible ones took people down. But Tantalus? His heart strike CRUSHED. It left behind something limp, twitching and barely alive. Like fucking dark magic. And I had someone I really, really wanted to use it on.

"Teach me."

He'd just looked at me. Man knows how to look, I'll give him that. Did he know what I wanted it for, even then?

I mean, how could he have not?

"There will be a price."

I'd just grinned, eyes flashing in the dark.

"Fuckin' name it."

And he did.

And tonight, for the first time - didn't hit you with it in FTW, or in Tokyo, or even when I came after you when you took Gemma's wedding ring after breaking her arm - but tonight, I hit you with that fucking move. I break your fucking heart.

And it feels so fucking wonderful I can't even stand it.

You drop. You don't just drop, you COLLAPSE, boneless, hitting with a thud that bounces your slack face off the canvas.

I'd love to taunt you right now. To tell you that you broke my heart in Vegas, but what happens there doesn't always fucking STAY there. Sometimes it comes back on you. I'd love to tell you about karma and what a cxnt it is.

But there's no fucking point trashtalking to someone who's unconscious.

LVK: Sweet LORD, that impact was vicious. Rowan Chance is COMPLETELY out!

RP: Yeah, but I mean ... so was Punky after those Fire DDT things. Chance is crazy, maybe she ... fuck, she looks WAY done.

LVK: I don't know, folks, we might require medical attention out here for Rowan Chance. That move was beyond vicious - it was almost homicidal.

I bend down, my knee aching and pulsing and my head pounding and my cxnt hurting - but the endorphin rush makes all that feel like sweet, sweet summer. My tattooed hand, the black and red fight tape spattered with your blood and spit, wraps around your wrist, and I drag you behind me like a fresh carcass to the center of the ring, facedown, your domme boots dragging with slow heavy rasps of leather on canvas.

I could've pinned you right in the corner. There's no fucking rope breaks in a No Holds Barred match. But I want everyone - EVERYONE - to see.

I roll you to your back, let you unfurl into a full spread eagle.

And I don't fucking kiss you.

I step over your head and drop down, hard. My knees spiking into your biceps to pin your lithe spread arms, hissing as my right knee smacks down. I reach down, body dragging over yours, and grab your left leg in both hands, HAULING it up off the canvas, lifting that shapely ass up as I wrap my arms around your hooked leg, hugging it between my sweaty breasts.

I want you fucking PINNED, no matter how many pieces your little dark heart is in now.

And as the ref drops back, eyes alight as she checks your olive shoulders under the weight of my body, and slaps her hand down for a crisp "ONE!".

I don't whisper that into your mouth. I just lean back and grind my knees into your pinned biceps, hooking your leg high to show off your FAMOUS flexibility and gorgeous ass to the appreciative crowd as I try to settle you in.

For the first god-damn fall of your downfall.

With my hazel eyes locked on the masked man standing and staring in blank horror in the front row. Staring at his perfect little Galatea broken down by his own fucking hand.

I see Red, rage painted under his mask, being restrained by his friends and a few fellow grapplers, pulled back to his seat. And I grin. Like a wolf with blood steaming on her muzzle in the winter.

"Worth it," I growl - loud enough for the front row to hear.

Especially dear Thomas.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Vivianne on November 30, 2017, 12:18:44 AM

"NOOOOO!!!"

Punky delivers a blow unlike any I have ever seen and as Rowan absolutely crumples to the canvas I am up and screaming before her beautiful, yet now seemingly broken body has settled in place. I had hoped I could just sit here and watch, sneaking in and not drawing any attention to myself as I watched the woman whose face and body I cannot erase from my mind and heart take on the woman I recently met and found alluring too. I had hoped I could just peer down from this back row fortress of anonymity and sneak out when it was over. That blow though! Seeing Rowan crumple! The fortress walls came crashing down as my agonized wail caught the attention of those around me, if not those down closer. I stood there frozen, unable to get myself to move. Seeing Punky land on her and pin the object of my agony to the mat. Is this it?

No...it can't be...it's only the first fall...

Gawd Rowan...

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 30, 2017, 12:32:06 AM

"TWO!...THREE! RING THE BELL!!!"

And just like that, it's over. The first fall.

No poetry. No memories. No bullshit. Three seconds.

And I never saw any of it.

Later...much later...I'll watch it on replay. My motionless body laid out. Your ass on my chin, pulling my leg up. The ref dropping down for the count.

I don't move. Not an inch. My eyes are shut. My mouth closed. Arms splayed out wide.

And after the three count and the bell, you get up and my body jerks. My legs crossed, arm flopping over my face, almost to hide it. If I was conscious. But I'm not. I don't know where I am. I don't know who I am.

But I was beaten. By my teacher's move.

The one he had beaten me with so many times.

The one he swore never to teach me.


But he taught you.

...he taught you...

My body twitches. Blood on my lips.

The trainer runs in to check on me. I don't respond. I can't respond.

Not after that.

Tantalus' heart breaker punch. Delivered by you.

I don't know if I'll ever get up again.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: RedEnforcer on November 30, 2017, 01:59:36 AM

After the three is counted my rage washes away. If I weren?t wearing a mask, you could see how white my face got.

She?s not moving

Rowan I met later than Punky. She was developing a rep on the West Coast and like most up and comers, she wanted to show she?s bi...coastal.  We crossed paths at a show before I knew she and Megan had a history. We started on the same circuit and she needed a travel partner. I was the least sketchy of everyone. I like to think she didn?t gag when she saw my 88 Dodge Shadow but she probably did.

Where Megan was chaos and energy and frenzy, Rowan was more refined. She tried hiding it but I could tell she came from money and was educated. What a woman like that was doing wrestling was a big question. But once you talked to her, the passion was obvious. This woman just loved wrestling.

But the fighters in the South weren?t easily impressed. In fact there were murmurs about her being a Damn yankee so often liberties were taken.  One night I saw this lithe, lovely woman lifted up high in the air outside the ring in an inter gender match and powerbombed onto the edge of the apron.

It was like she was hit by a shotgun blast the way she bounced off. The scream she emitted shook me. She hadn?t shown any special reaction to pain, not like this fight so I was genuinely worried.

The Carolina Caveman quickly rolled her into the ring and she just flipped over onto her stomach. He pounced on her quickly and ratcheted her arms onto his thighs. His hands met at her chin and he wrenched back violently.  She seemed nearly out but when the Caveman pulled back, her eyes flashed open and she just let out a savage cry of anguish.  I could see the tears welling in her eyes. She couldn?t think straight and she was about to give.

Don't you fucking submit!

I don?t know why I yelled it. She was done. But for some reason I don?t want her to lose to this piece of shit. Maybe it was him boasting how he?d break the yankee slut in the ring and let her suck him off after. Ok, so that definitely was the reason.

And somewhere deep inside her, my words reached her. Her eyes steadied. Her hips started to shift.  I saw it and can?t ezplain it, but she slithered her way out.  The Caveman was shaken and Rowan did one of the most impressive baby face comebacks I?ve ever seen.

When it was over, she found me in the back. I looked at her and grinned sheepishly. ?I was worried.?

She put her arm around my shoulder and said ?Trust me, you?ll know when you should be worried.?

?Let me take the winner out for a meal at least.? I said

She gave me that mysterious, mischievous smile of hers and said ?Ok, but later on, no ?rough sex? ok??

I laughed since it was the first time she ever said anything like that to me.  To this day I don?t know if she was teasing me or just testing my reaction. I?m sure the dinner at Waffle House didn?t do me any favors.

But now as I see that body....that woman with whom I?ve shared some high highs and low lows with just lying there. Not moving.

Now I?m moving.

Just fucking move

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ~Rox Erotique~ on November 30, 2017, 02:16:04 AM

"YES! YYEEEESSSS! THAT'S IT BABY! I FUCKING LOVE YOOOUUUUUU!" I scream at the top of my lungs! Seeing the first fall go your way brings us one step closer to this fucking horrific experience being over! Adrenaline surges through my body as I watch you with a chest swelling with pride and a heart pounding with love.

But...

As time passes and the adrenaline cools I'm left with a hollow feeling in my gut as the scene plays out over and over in my head...

In one of our first ever fights I stopped you dead in your tracks with a heart-punch. floored you with it... but THAT? That wasn't anything like the raw, furious, ugly punch I laid on you. That was much more devastating... cold, vicious, controlled, destructive. I've felt a heart punch like that before...

I turn to see Tantalus grasping the railings with white knuckles and I look back to see Megan smirking at him and the hollowness in my gut grows

"That.... that mother fucker......."

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 30, 2017, 05:33:09 AM

The trainers move in to tend to you. Fortunately for you, France has better healthcare than the States, so instead of some handsy drunk old bastard who's called Doc serving as the ring medic in some backwater Alabama outlaw promotion and checking you for spinal trauma while he squeezes your tits, you get a genuine doctor. A good one. A trained medical professional.

AND YOU FUCKING NEED ONE.

That little spasm, that twitched your limp body around, the blood running down your chin? These things gladdened my fucking heart, Rowan. It's a heart you tore out of me in Vegas, a heart you kept trying to rip out anew after FTW. A heart you've tried to torment and seduce, to break again, to drive a stake through over and over and fucking OVER. But you can't. You CAN'T  - because it belongs to fucking GEMMA. And it's beating strong right now, which is more than you can fucking say.

You're my past, Rowan.

And I put you down like Nick Nemeth put down some other broken-down relic of yesteryear.

The screen behind the stage that's been showing footage of the brutal match is now showing a simple digital countdown.

5 minutes. You get 5 minutes to get back on your feet before I take your fucking head off.

I slouch in the corner, slumped against the bottom buckle with my arms hanging over the middle rope like my trainer Scotty and his hero Jake. Long legs sprawled out in front of me. Tilting back the icy Gavroche I had one of the ring attendants bring me, licking the foam from my black lips. My skull paint run and smeared. A hot pack is laid on my aching right knee and a cold wet towel is draped over my head, watching you from under the makeshift hood like another of my Philadelphia idols. I always wanted to be a Suplex Machine just like him.

But when you get back to your feet, Rowan?

It's not gonna be a time for machines.

I'm just gonna kick your fucking teeth down your throat.

One way or another, this is done tonight. This is DONE.

"We are fucking done," I snarl under the hood of the cold towel. Outside the hood, Gemma is staring down Tantalus, Tantalus is staring at me, Red's staring at you, Emily's probably checking out my ass, Becca's probably checking out Gemma's ass ... but in here, it's just like the old song.

I only have eyes ... for you.

LVK: That was an absolutely brutal first round. Both women tore into each other before Punky finished off Rowan with that shocking and VICIOUS use of Tantalus' Heart Breaker. Utterly unexpected!

RP: I've been tellin' ya, van Keel! That guy is a SPOOK. He's even got a dyke like Dow-

LVK: RICK.

RP: What? We're not censored.

LVK: We're also not idiots.

RP: Jesus, fine. Even AN ALTERNATIVE LIFESTYLE LGBTQ POSITIVE PERSON like Punky falls under his weird spell. An' Gemma don't look too happy about it neither.

LVK: A lot of the audience seems quite disturbed by what they've just seen, Rick. And I can't blame them for a moment. These two women are in the midst of something deeply personal, DEEPLY bitter, and unsettlingly brutal ... and there's more to come.

RP: Fuck yeah there is. SMACK HER AGAIN, PUNKY! I AIN'T FORGOT WHAT THAT NUTTY BROAD DID TO ME IN FTW!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 30, 2017, 06:15:21 AM

Five minutes. That's not a lot of time.

Go on. Time it. Turn on the microwave and try to do something important. Try to get it done in five minutes.

Of course, I don't even notice the first minute. That's because I'm unconscious in the center of the ring, coughing up blood, almost spasming. It's only when they put the smelling salts under my nose that I'm awake.

"Rowan," the ref asks. "Can you continue?"

My blurry eyes focus on something. A crowd.

"Can you continue, Rowan?"

I cough again, the rich taste of blood on my tongue. And I see...

... him.

My eyes narrow. I cough again.

"Rowan," the referee asks. "Can you..."

"FUCK YES," I say, wiping the blood from my mouth. My glare hot, all the way across the ring, across the floor and right at you.

"You've got three and a half minutes before the next fall begins," the ref tells me.

The trainer, bless his heart, puts his hand on my shoulder. "I don't think you should..."

"GET THE FUCK OFF ME."

He lifts his hand gently, like removing it from a ticking bomb. "All right," he says. "All right." He backs away.

I spend the rest of the time getting to my feet. Three and a half minutes. Inch by goddamn inch. I can't breathe. I can barely see. But I see you, Tantalus. And across the ring...

...I see her.

"He gave it to you..." I mutter, my bloody lips spitting.

"He gave it to you..."

I feel something burning inside me. No, not my heart. That's not doing very well right now, thank you. No, it's something else.

I've never been a fury in the ring. Never been a brawler. I wanted to be. Watched enough Brody matches to make me want to be exactly like him. But I wasn't big enough. Wasn't strong enough. I had to learn different ways of hurting people.

But right now... right now...

Punky...

As I feel my fists clench...feel my fingertips digging into my palms...feel my shoulders clench...feel my bicepts twisting in my arms...

Punky...

All I want to do now...

...is hit you as hard as I can.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 30, 2017, 06:55:52 AM

I see you come back to life, and my eyes gleam in the shadows of the towel draped over my head.

I see you spit blood onto the canvas, and I lick my lips as I finish off the beer and roll it across the canvas to the ropes, where a youngboy snatches the empty bottle and ferrets it away.

I see you glaring at me, and I stare right back into you. Welcome to the abyss.

I really, really liked hurting you just now, Rowan. It was worth every fucking penny of the price I paid to learn the fine details of that strike. Every ounce of hurt that went into the learning, everything I gave up in that exchange ...  was just paid back in rich fucking dividends.

And you KNOW it. You KNOW exactly what hit you.

The fear that flashed in your pretty dark eyes is something I'm gonna treasure FOR-FUCKING-EVER. I'll warm my heart with that on cold nights. I'll smile at the thought when I'm getting a bone set or going under the knife. I'll keep it in my secret fucking garden, Rowan.

And the anger in your eyes is so fucking rich that it's GOTTA be fattening.

I start to rock, slowly, back and forth.

Tensing my fists on the ropes, flexing my fingers so my knuckles crackle as I snap my arms forward and back. The clock ticks down.

My eyes are locked on yours.

Black lips drawn back in a snarl - the greasepaint of my calavera skull is smeared and streaked, just barely discernible still, but my lips are done in Zenshi black enamel, and that shit STAYS glossy and crisp even when it's smeared with blood and sweat and drool - baring my teeth at you.

My boot draws up. The clock counts down.

I snatch the towel off my head and hurl it outside where a youngboy snatches it on the fly. The crowd is on their feet now as you stare at me with eyes on fire and your fists clenched and I lunge like a bull in a pen, building up a head of pure fucking fury.

The referee wisely moves back, a little smirk on her face as she undoes another button with a sly little gesture, pale eyes darting between us.

The clock runs out, and I'm UP, yanking myself up in one fluid movement, and I come right at you, boots pelting across the canvas, already torquing for a right cross that's gonna rip your fucking jaw off and send it up into the cheap seats. If there were any cheap seats. Even the back row of nosebleeds is a fuckin' bankbreaker tonight.

But lucky them, they're gonna get your teeth as a souvenir.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 30, 2017, 02:00:15 PM

The referee calls for the bell and you launch out of the corner, a storm of fists and fury. You think this fight is over. You put me down with one strike. The one strike you knew would put me down. And now, you're coming to finish the job.

There's blood in my lungs. I can taste it. I know at least one of my ribs is bruised, if not broken. I can feel it. You did more than just physical damage with that hit. You and I both know it.

But now, there is something deep inside me that I've never felt before, not for you or anyone else. I've never hated anyone. Sure, I use all the psychological tricks to make them think so, but I've never felt real hate. The old Viking word, "hate." It means a spirit that possesses you and controls your actions. A red anger that cannot be controlled.

I've never hated you. Not until this very moment. Right now. I can feel it inside me and...

...I can control it. I am controlling it. Wrapped it up in my fists. Waiting for you to get closer. I'm waiting for you to throw that punch of yours. I know all of them. Your jab, your hook, your uppercut, your overhead punch that you use to open up someone's brow. I know them all by heart. And I can see them now. See the one you've chosen, even halfway across the ring.

Five hundred years ago, Musashi wrote about what I'm going to do to you:

Within the rhythm of large and small, fast and slow, you should understand the rhythm of striking, the rhythm between actions, and the use of counter rhythms.

Four hundred years later, a guy from Chinatown named Lee Jun-fan would use less poetic but more clear language. He called it, "the intercepting punch."

And as you raise your fist, my body moves. I see it. Right cross.

And before you can even cock your hand back, I duck, snap my hips, and bring my fist up and under your jaw, screaming as I do. A "KIIIIAAAAIII!!!" that Bruce could hear from his grave.

And all the strength I have left is behind it. That may not be much, but I don't need strength. Something else is behind that punch that is stronger than all my muscles and skill could ever muster.

My HATE.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 30, 2017, 05:09:28 PM

I know you're fast, but you're not gonna be fast with your heart still shuddering back into shape like a sponge someone crushed all the water out of in one fist. Your ribs are going to be sprung, making every breath hurt.

And more important than that, you're gonna be suffering with every breath knowing what I have that you don't. Poor little rich girl Rowan Chance, sucking a silver spoon dry but knowing there's a toy out there she doesn't have.

So I don't think you'll be fast enough to stop me from taking your head off.

And practically, I was right. I KNOW Gemma's gonna watch footage of this over and over later and save it for use in arguments with me about me being stubborn or hotheaded, but I was right. I set this up PERFECTLY. It's not MY fucking fault you've got ... whatever the fuck you've got that just fucking plowed into me.

I don't even know what hit me.

There's a shout as your hand flashes up, and time slows for a moment as your fist crumples my jaw, my face shifting around the blow just like Luke Cage getting the god-damn Iron Fist to the side of the face, my purple tails bullwhipping forward with the blow and then I'm snapped up to my heels, staring at the lights for a blurry flashing second, twisting around with the force of the uppercut as I stagger and tumble to the mat, rolling across it like a car wreck victim, ending up sprawled on my left hip and elbow, blinking in skull-rattled confusion.

"Wha'FUCK?" I mutter, spitting a gob of blood onto the mats, streaked black with paint.

What the actual FUCK.

What just hit me?

It couldn't be you.

You don't ...

I drag my right hand over the blood running from the corner of my mouth, my jaw pulsing like it's made of molten metal, and tilt my eyes at you. I see the look etched into your face.

The raw, pain-filled, furious hate.

I've seen that look on my face before, in the mirror. Before I fought Gemma way back in SPARK, when SHE had fucked with my heart (and went on to break my ankle). Before I fought you in that hotel in Austin, after you broke her arm. Why do so many of my memories involve broken bones? Fuck you, gentle reader, like your life's so normal.

But I've never ever seen that kind of raw fury in your eyes, Chance.

You're always the cool taunting collected one. The one who relies on her ability to take it, to mock, to misdirect.

But now I see genuine fury.

This is terra incognita.

"THIS should be interestin' ..." I growl, spitting blood again as I push myself dazedly up to one knee, my left fist curling brutally tight -

- and my blood streaked right hand comes up, curling my fingers to beckon you for more as I sway a little, the uppercut still ringing through my head.

Because if you're anything like me when you're really genuinely fucking enraged, you'll come in HARD when you're invited, and I intend to piston my knuckles into the vee of your little leather shorts if you do to see if THAT dampers your fury a little.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 30, 2017, 05:27:33 PM

RP: What the @#$% was that?

LVK: Punky has been knocked back and down by a punch from Rowan Chance! A fantastic...no...a perfect uppercut!

RP: Who the hell taught her how to punch?

LVK: You sound scared.

RP: Yer damn right. Everybody's got a weakness, Van Keel. And that girl just forgot hers.


Feeling the impact of the punch...watching you fall...the confusion on your face...

Yes.

YES.

YES.

You look up at me. Standing over you with my fists clenched. I'm ready. I'm goddamn ready. I even let you get back to your feet because I want you to get back on your feet. I want to go toe-to-toe with you.

I know how to beat you know. I had a plan before. But now... I know.

You come roaring back at me, aiming a hard shot to my midriff. I see it coming. I can almost see your thoughts like little word balloons over your head.

I dodge the punch, but not enough. You don't hit your target--that little "v"--but you do hit my belly. And your punch hits hard. So hard, my belly ripples and my feet come an inch off the ground. Like a pebble thrown into a pond, the ripples travel all through my torso and reach up to my ribs, making them ache and scream. You hear my voice make a heavy sound as you knock me back a step. Blood coughs up into my mouth, droplets splattering across your face.

And maybe its then you feel my hand in your hair. I grabbed it just before you hit me.

"Good punch," I say with stained teeth. "But sometimes...you sacrifice a pawn...to capture the queen."

And with you this close, my hand is already set. And I throw it from a top-down angle. Directly above your right eye.

You weren't the only one who leaned how to fight dirty, Punky.

Welcome to hard way, Foxglove Queen.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 30, 2017, 06:09:21 PM

I'm still not sure EXACTLY how the fuck this happened.

I had you. Had your heart crushed, had the easiest pin on you I think I've ever even SEEN in one of your matches firsthand. I've never seen you laid out so completely you didn't even roll a shoulder or flick an eyelid - but I guess previously you weren't being pinned after being put into cardiac arrest.

Well. You were. But not by me. Ha.

But now you're coming at me with an unearthly fury.

You move fast - so fast that I don't even manage to drill my fist into your pussy, your hips jerking back so my fist pounds up inelegantly into your abs. I worked them a little when hitting you in the corner, but I haven't really done a lot of core work this match - I'm not a bodyscissors or bearhug kinda gal, so it's never really my focus except when I need to break someone's breathing. Still, I get a little blood coughed across me, so that's refreshing. At least I managed to properly fuck up your ribs with the Heart Breaker. Your blood, my blood, mixed with my streaked and run skeletal warpaint, I'm getting a real shamanistic vibe going.

And then you must think that I need to look more authentic as you crank my head back by my sweat-slicked hair and DRILL your fist down, blazing through my eyebrow.

"GNNNNHHHHH!"

I sway back, instinctively clutching at the blow, my eyes squeezed shut. Piper taught me about that punch - a punch that I knew of through wrestling fandom's tribal knowledge. Harley Race's brow-splitting knucklebuster, a punch that struck like a razor to split his opponent's eyebrow open and send hot red kroovy running down into their eye. It was crucial in the old days, when big sweaty bastards like Dick the Bruiser would fight for 40 minute matches, fueled by trucker speed and sausages. Anything to gain a long-term advantage was ideal, and Harley was the fucking king. Piper showed me the art - it's something I'm pretty damn good at, and have busted out on more than one occasion -

- and on THIS occasion I'm the one busted.

My dark eyebrow, traced in thick black paint, splits like like a cut orange and blood freshets out, spilling down over my smeared facepaint as the shot sways me back onto my knees, tasting the blood running over my black lips.

"Wha'fuck?" I mutter again, not quite catching up to current events as they continue to hit me in the face.

LVK: And ANOTHER brutal shot from Chance! I'm not completely sure I've seen this woman actually use her fists in the ring before! Spear hands, elbows, her palm, her forearm, and of course her famously deadly kicks ... but I am not certain at all I've ever seen Rowan Chance actually hit someone with a closed fist.

RP: Well, watch closely, 'cuz that nutcase musta been takin' boxin' lessons down at the Y. Look at the way she split Dow open!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 30, 2017, 06:42:32 PM

Blood. Your blood.

I've spilled it before, but not like this. Never like this.

With my left hand on my ribs, I stalk forward. Not walking straight. I can't ignore the pain anymore. I can't even enjoy it. Can't call on it for help. That time is long gone. You stole it from me. Just like you stole everything else.

So, I'm going to steal something from you. The most precious thing you have. I'm going to take it. You don't know it yet, but I do.

"All that training that never made sense," I say, just a step away from you. "Years of trying to perfect my punches. I was always missing one key ingredient. One thing."

I smile. "And you helped me find it."

My right hand goes up for a punch aimed at your side, with my left still holding my ribs. And I expect you to block it. So obvious. Raise that left arm of yours, Punky. Catch my hand and hold it to show me who's the better brawler.

Because my left is gonna come off my side and head straight for that luscious tit of yours. A move you've never seen me do. Not against you, not against anyone. I always thought it below me. Demeaning of my craft. A sensational punch that makes the crowd go crazy but only because they're a bunch of sadistic fucks. It isn't artful. It isn't respectful.

Yeah...fuck all that.

I'm slamming it as hard as I can. Knocking that bar piercing at just the right angle. And if I hit it, you're not gonna want Gemma touching it for months.

And that makes me smile.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Vivianne on November 30, 2017, 07:20:58 PM

YESSSS!!!

This whole match changed for me when Punky knocked Rowan out with that unique blow. Even from way up here I could tell the people down front were upset by it. The one who must be Tantalus looked like he would faint, and the big guy in the other mask was pissed. Even Gemma looked upset. And that?s when it happened. That?s when I was no longer conflicted about what a Rowan win would do to Punky. All I wanted to now was for Rowan to win.

I?ve never seen her punch like this. Hell, she has no punch, right? Well, she apparently found one, and just in time. While before I was squirming with nervous trepidation, now I am standing and cheering, wanting to see the one thing I didn?t think I wanted to see...more pain delivered to Rowan?s purple hair opponent.

COME ON ROWAN!!!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on November 30, 2017, 07:41:34 PM

You're talking, but it sounds like when people are talking on deck chairs beside a pool and you're underwater, where it's blue and cool and wavery. It's just Charlie Brown listening to his teacher.

You just hit me. Twice. And pretty god-damn hard.

And not with some fucking scorpion kick or nerve strike. You just hauled off and PUNCHED me.

They're not the hardest punches I've ever taken in the ring or anything. Let's get that straight. That was courtesy of Gemma fucking Rox at number one with a bullet, my own wife remaining still the only woman to actually knock me the fuck out with one punch.

But you just undeniably shot up the charts like a one-hit wonder, that's for fucking sure. And you have me bleeding like I'm not sure I have in any of our matches. Although one time I did spear you off the stage in FTW and crack my fucking skull on the floor on the way down ...

... well, I speared "you".

But this kinda reminds me of those times. That kind of unchecked fury and relentless aggression. That sense that it's not fully Rowan Chance I'm with.

It's funny. This is the first time since the bell rang my mind has been on how long we've hated each other instead of how long we loved each other. Maybe funny isn't the right word, actually. I don't think English has that word. But that's where my mind is.

That ... and the taste of my own blood.

It slicks over my black lips and runs down my chin, and I taste it on my tongue. The tang of copper and the bite of pink salt. I've always ... always kinda liked the taste. I never wanted to slap on fangs and a slinky dress and call myself Dracurella or anything, but I've been tasting my own blood in the ring for a long time now. And it tastes like home.

Takes me back to all the times I've spilled my blood on the canvas. How much of myself I've left there.

And all this fucking introspection inadvertently works for me as you smack a right into my side, swaying me on my one knee, hitting me high in the ribs, making me grunt but feeling like you weren't really committed to it, without the raw force of those first two hateful blows - instead  drawing my attention with a hiss of pain and a scatter of hot bloody breath as I lap blood from my lips, the black titanium bead glittering in the crimson.

And what would've been a really sneaky shot with your left starts to come in as I lunge up, snarling wordlessly as I snatch your corset top in both hands and try to YANK you down as I haul myself up. Your fist thuds painfully into my other side, at the outer curve of my tit, mashing it painfully into my ribs, and I have a fleeting moment where I think in wonderment - Rowan fucking Chance just went for a fucking boob punch! - but that's fleeting like a candle in a windstorm as I haul myself up and THRUST from my boots, aiming to just CRUNCH the top of my skull up into the underside of your fucking jaw.

Which is punk sign language for SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on November 30, 2017, 08:24:18 PM

My fist lands hard and I can feel your piercing crushing the soft, tender flesh on your--

CRUNCH!!!

I never saw it coming. Just under my chin. The top of your skull rising up like a demon from the pit, smashing into me, knocking my head back with a wicked SNAP!

My lower jaw crushes into my upper jaw. And for a moment, I'm floating. Can't feel my feet on the canvas.


LVK: That head butt snapped Rowan's head up and knocked her back! She's fallen against the ropes, trying to regain her balance!


Is that where I am? On the ropes? I can't feel them. I don't...

...GET IT FUCKING TOGETHER, RICH GIRL! GET IT FUCKING TOGETHER!

I shake my head. Fucking cobwebs. Get the fuck out.

Blink...blinking...get your hands up. GET YOUR HANDS UP!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 01, 2017, 12:23:06 AM

My head CRASHES up into your jaw, and shuts your fucking mouth for a precious few seconds. And as Gemma loves to point out, I've got a thick fucking skull. This has been helpful over a long career where I've spent most of my time charging headfirst into things. Red used to say I was at least half-ram. Then I headbutted him.

You go stumbling back, hitting the ropes, and I have a moment to soak in the pain - that left you threw was no fucking joke, you were trying to MASH my tit. I broke quite a bit of the force by lunging up into you, my body pressed to yours, but it still aches like a fucker. And the shot to my ribs wasn't great, either. And of course my jaw still hurts - yeah, welcome to it, bitch - and my face is bleeding freely, crimson streaks running down half my painted face. I flick my head, sweat and blood spattering the mat as my punktails whip, and snarl.

No time to be fancy. No time for catch-as-catch-can. No time for holds, for flippy shit, for taunting.

There's time for one thing now, with that fury in your eyes and the poison rage in my heart.

Time to fucking WRECK shit.

I run forward, long legs eating the canvas, big red boots thudding it, the grinning skulls on my stockings seeming to cackle as my velvet-tatter skirt flutters around my hips - and as I come close I hook my right arm fucking DIVE at you, trying to catch you with a clothesline that's INTENDED to take us both over the top rope, my left arm tucked close to my side to try to hook my elbow on the top rope to swing me over in a tight little flip, tumbling us both to the apron but ideally sending YOU to the thin red mats and the dark concrete in a big bloody heap as I end up on the apron.

The fucking Cactus Clothesline.

It's not a pretty move. It's not a clever move.

It's not really a SANE move.

It's a fucking FOLEY move.

"RRRRRRAHHH!"

My battle cries are always a little more Shark Tsuchiya than Bruce Lee.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 01, 2017, 03:21:02 AM

"Always be ready to get hit."

That's what Bobby Holiday taught me. My first trainer. A guy running a small wrestling school in Scottsdale, Arizona taught me. (Yeah, I come from the same town as the Bellas. If I can get over it, so can you.) Bobby was a small name on the indie circuit. Never made it big, but he was a worker. Ran his school the way he learned in Japan. I was wearing black boots, black shorts and a black sports top for a year. Then, he sent me to Canada.

"Always be ready to get hit."

That thought runs through my head every time I can't see my opponent. If I don't know where they are, just be prepared to get hit. Cool down, relax your muscles, and let it happen. Because it's going to happen. You may as well be ready for it.

The problem is, with you, there's no preparing. No matter how much you think you're ready, you're never ready. Not ever.

As soon as I found the ropes, I expected the Foley Clothesline. If I could see it, I'd duck and throw you over my shoulder. I can't see you... but I can hear you. There's a reason I put padding on the bottom of my boots. My kicks still hurt like hell with the padding on there, but it means hearing me is a lot harder.

So I hear those heavy clod stompers from a mile away. But my head is so goddamn dizzy, it's hard to gauge the distance. So, I take a guess. An educated guess. And hope my estimates are right.

But they aren't. And I feel the clothesline hit the top of my head as I try to duck it and it carries me right over the top rope. I feel our bodies tumbling together. Hitting the apron, our legs and arms intertwined. I feel your breasts push against mine. Our faces close together. Our legs wrapped around each other. We hit the apron and the impact sends a hard pain through my ribs and spine. I try to grab for the bottom rope, but it slips from my sweaty grip.

And there's a moment of floating...

...and then, the floor.

Again, a sharp pain in my side and my spine. I land flat on my back, my elbows on the floor, my arms straight up, fingers clawing at the air. My back arches and I cry out. A sick, pathetic sound that would have gotten me punished in Tantalus'... dojo.

My whole body is off the floor except my head and feet. Arched up high, teeth clenched, eyes shut. My left hand then reaches for my ribs as I roll over to my side. Gasping. Blood on my breath. I cough and the red, hot liquid spits through my lips.

I tried, Bobby. I tried. But there are some things training just can't prepare you for. Like Punky.

I manage to push myself up to my hands and knees. Again, I don't know where you are. I look through blurred vision, hoping you're on the floor, too. Still rolling in pain. One hand on my ribs, the other holding me up.

Where are you?

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 01, 2017, 07:36:20 AM

You almost duck. ALMOST. Christ on a fucking pogo stick, you're fast.

Against almost anyone else in the ring, THAT'S what they say about ME. My bursts of speed in striking and snatching people out of unexpected positions for slams and suplexes has won me matches around the world. But whenever I'm with you, I'm always left feeling like I'm chasing after you, just a pace behind.

... felt like that in bed sometimes too, come to think of it.

You ALMOST get out of the way, the hooking clothesline meant to catch you right across the neck for a clean take-over smacking the top of your head - and with the hitch in my right knee, I don't get a clean go-round on the top rope, so instead of neatly landing on the apron with my left arm hooked as an anchor, we go over in a tangle that could almost be mistaken for one of our wilder naked funtimes, like that elevator in the hotel in Des Moines. I hear there's still an urban legend about us there.

We crash to the apron together a jolt that knocks us apart, drawing a groan from me as my sore body is smacked full-length with the fucking edge of the fucking ring. You claw past me, reaching for the ropes, and then fall to the floor with a painful smack. I'm a bit luckier. I just lay on my side on the apron, one boot dangling over the edge, my right knee throbbing and blood running down my face, looking like a roof jumper who got blown back by a strong wind and hit a ledge a few stories down.

I slither off, landing on my red Doc Martens a thud and drawing from my bloody lips a sound somewhere between growl, grunt and groan (but definitely in the G section) as my knee twinges and my head throbs, working my jaw, blood still thick on my face.

You're on your hands and knees, and fuck me if I wouldn't have paid good money to see THAT more than once, but you're also in a bad way, cradling your ribs and looking dazed as I stagger upright.

I need to keep you hurting. Keep your mind off that uncorked anger that laid me out and busted me open, and keep your mind on agony. Make breathing hurt. Make more of that blood mist from your soft lips. I can still taste a little through the tang of my own. Your blood's rich, Ro. Like a pan sauce with butter and shallots and wine.

And that's good on EVERYTHING.

I lash forward, lunging at you and SNAPPING my boot up, aiming to just PUNT the round heavy toe of my British shitkicker into your aching ribs, to see if I can't spring them a little bit.

'cuz I wanna bust that pretty face of yours up, Rowan. But I wanna make sure you're really hurting when I do it.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ~Rox Erotique~ on December 01, 2017, 02:43:45 PM

My head is in my hands and my heart is in my mouth as I watch my wife, Megan fucking Dow get out punched by Rowan fucking Chance...

"This can't be happening..." I stammer, seeing Rowan CLUB Megan with a brow splitting overhand right but fortunately I'm granted a reprieve from the horrifying thought of being stuck here and forced to watch Rowan beat my wife to death when Punky uses her head the only way she knows how.

As a weapon.

I know it's odd switching back and forth like this but she really can be two different women. Waking up and looking over to see a crooked smile that lets me know I'm in for a morning of mischief? That's Megan. Waking up in the center of the ring with a cackling harlequin of hurt gazing at me maniacally? That's Punky.

And right now I'm watching Punky through and through.

"YES! THAT'S IT BABY! JUMP ON HER!" I scream, hoping this is the moment she can finish this fucking heartbreaking eye-sore once and for all but then I see a glint in here eye and she CHARGES at a stunned Rowan...

"No! NOOOOO!" I roar angrily as they topple the long way down to the Parisian concrete "YOU CAN'T WIN THE MATCH WHEN YOU'RE OUTSIDE THE RING YOU FUCKING NUTTER! WHAT ARE YOU THINKING?!?!" I scream furiously. The roar and cheers of a bloodthirsty crowd, whooping as they see you both land in a heap, probably drowns out my protests but it doesn't drown out my anger.

"Uughhn... you crazy fucking bitch..."

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 01, 2017, 03:49:43 PM

There's no denying it, no hiding it. I'm in pain.

Usually, that's a good thing. Pain can be a motivator--it can tell you to get your ass moving. And your mind is weaker than your body. The body can keep going even when the mind tells you to stop. And I've learned how to turn pain into more than just a motivator. Tantalus taught me--

--yeah. Him.

I'm in pain. And I think of all the times I've been in this much pain. There was Japan...and that was with Punky.

Then, there was FTW. That was with Punky.

Then, there was Viking Hall. That was with Punky.

The worst times I've ever been hurt in a ring...it was you. Always you.

And for the longest time, Tant--he--told me that I was holding back. "There's a part of you that you haven't discovered yet," he said. And for the last few minutes, since I threw that punch that knocked you down, I've figured out what that was.

Every time we got in the ring, my goal was to beat you. Not hurt you. Beat you.

Well, that goal changed when you threw your palm through my chest.

"There's a part you haven't discovered yet."

Yeah. Ironically, the two of you had to show me how to find it.

You throw your boot at me, hoping to implode my ribs. But I sit up fast--too fast as my body lets me know--and I wince as I catch your red boot under my left arm.

Right around now, I know what you expect. You expect me to give you a wink or a quick raise of the eyebrows or some kind of smile. A dramatic pause before the pain. Something to entertain the audience...and myself, if I'm honest.

But that isn't what happens.

I catch the boot with my left hand...

...my right arm cocks back like a shotgun...

...like a switch blade, my right hand snaps into a claw...

...you aren't the only one who learned from him...and I was his student long before you were...

...and that claw aims directly for that soft little spot between your thighs. The one I've already abused this match. The one I'm going to continue to abuse. The one I'm never going to stop abusing.

Because I'm done trying to beat you, Punky.

Now...all I want to do...is hurt you.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: BustyTiffany35 on December 01, 2017, 04:07:03 PM

I could hear her wife screaming wildly, her voice louder than the roaring crowds around us. But the sounds of her encouragement, and angry protests, along with the screams of the bloodthirsty masses seem like a million miles away.

I notice Red had calmed down a bit, having been "assisted" to his seat by the other wrestlers and attendees scattered amongst the front row. But his hulking masked figure is a distant blur in my peripherals, blending in with the rest of the crowds standing around me.

That creepy Tantulas fellow was clutching that guardrail so tightly following the "Heart Breaker" in the ring, but he became a dim shadow in the corner of my eye.

No, all these sights and sounds, they're all secondary. They're all so far away for me. I'm focused on one thing, the only thing that has my full attention is the chaos that's raging before me. These two furious angels are ripping each other apart, they've torn into each other inside the ring following the first fall and once again they're back on the cold arena floor. I watch in utter amazement as Punky pushes through the pain that's battered her body, rising to her feet to unleash more hell. She doesn't stay down - only retaliates. I stare in complete disbelief at Rowan as she somehow gets to her hands and knees, blood coating her lips, pain ravaging her body. My gawd, she's relentless, and fast. Like Dodging Bullets fast.

Everyone around and behind me leaps to their feet and screams their faces off as Punky sets up for a rib-churning punt kick.

Everyone gets a little louder when they see Rowan counter Punky's stiff kick, from outta nowhere, grabbing that thick Doc Martin before her hand shoots up between those creamy inked thighs.

I remain seated, too mesmerized by the exquisite carnage that's unfolding before me to move, completely silent and emotionless as I watch this beautiful storm continue to rage on while a single question echoes in my head over and over:


How the FUCK are these two still even breathing?

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 01, 2017, 09:30:38 PM

This WOULD'VE ended you.

Sprung your ribs, maybe cracked one. They're already punched in from the Heart Breaker. Maybe I could've hit you hard enough so you'd hear that bubbling hiss of a collapsed lung. Ever heard that, Ro? It sounds like someone boiling a pot of soup in your chest. It sounds like poison gas whispering through a vent. One kick would've ENDED this.

But you never make things simple, do you, you twisted fucking mental case.

You snap yourself out of the way of the punt kick in a way that must've fucking killed your back and ribs, and snatch my left boot.

And I don't even get time to think anything about smirks or taunts or enziguiris before you spike your right hand up into my cxnt.

There's no holding back. Your fingers are curled into claws, and they DIG into me. It's amazing exactly how little protection a thin layer Lycra provides. Sometimes I think I should wear a Shock Doctor or something like a roller derby girl. Little late for that thought now, though.

My spine curves back into an arch as the pain fucking JOLTS through me, racing along my nerves as your fingers sink with grim fucking expertise into the most sensitive spots of my most sensitive area.

Isn't that always the trouble with fighting an ex? They know how to really make it hurt.

"NYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!"

It's a PIERCING fucking scream, so intense I'm not even aware of it at first, my head snapping back with my purple punktails whipping an arc of glittering sweat and blood flowing down my tormented face, my legs going rubbery and start to fold as I clutch desperately at your wrist to try to pry your grip off - but you have your claws fucking SUNK into my pussy, ravaging me. There's no defense for that. There's no training that makes you ready to get your pussy clawed by a madwoman in a Paris arena. I swipe wildly at your head, but I miss with my eyes watering from the pain, the overwhelming and temple-pounding pulsing PAIN -

- and much worse, from the undeniable, intense, humiliating fucking heat pulsing in my cxnt as you crush it in your fingers, drawing a throaty groan as I start to crumple in around the brutally cruel claw.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 01, 2017, 11:22:05 PM

The arch of your back.

The swing of your hair.

The sound of your scream.

The way your body crumples before me.

Finally... finally.

I've got you.

You fall to your knees. I'm on my knees. Your head tumbles forward. Your hands limply trying to pull my hand away. I just squeeze tighter.

"I've got you," I whisper. As my index finger begins pressing through your lycra shorts, finding the metal nub that I know is there. Pressing it between the naked flesh and my finger. Metal on your clit while the rest of my fingers dig their manicured tips into the flesh around it.

I move closer. Feeling your tented, pierced breasts through your t-shirt press into my corset. My leather corset. The same one I wore the night I...

...yes. That night.

My body presses against yours, slowly pushing it back. Forcing you to either put your hands behind you or put your shoulders to the concrete. My other hand reaches up and snakes through your hair, pulling it tight. Arching your head back. Demonstrating your powerlessness...and my power over you.

Watching your face, waiting for your eyes to roll back. Waiting for your lips to start drooling. Waiting for your body to start spasming.

All the pain in the world, focused in the tips of my fingers.

All the pleasure in the world, focused in the same place.

My lips find your throat. My teeth find that soft place, too.

"There's no more fighting," I whisper against your neck, my hot breath on your creamy pale skin. My tongue licking where I bit. "There's only one thing."

My fingers under your belly SQUEEZE tight.

"All that's left...is surrender."

Pushing further. Bending you back...harder.

"All the wisdom gathered from endless nights in cheap roadside motels and five star luxury suites," I bite your earlobe, whispering with my dark voice. Every word a drop of poison into your ear. "Every single night, I paid attention. That was one of the reasons you loved me. I paid attention. And I knew exactly what to say...exactly what to do..."

SQUEEZE. Your pussy and your hair.

"Did you really fucking think I would only use that wisdom in the bedroom...Punky?"

And that is when I allow you to hear my laugh. My darkest laugh. The one that made your skin go all prickly. The one that made the hairs on your neck stand up. The one that melted Red into a puddle of helpless muscle and hard on.

My Witch Laugh.

"I've got you now. And your little wife is going to watch you cum all over my hand. So is Red. So is Thomas."

My hand recedes from your pussy...and SLAPS it. Like an undisciplined child.

"And then...I'm going to ruin you."

"Once.

"And for all."



LVK: ...

RP: Is that a...submission hold?

LVK: ...

RP: Van Keel?

LVK: ...

RP: Van Keel's gone bye bye folks.

LVK: Good God, I need a smoke.

RP: You quit ten years ago.

LVK: Shut up.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 02, 2017, 05:38:18 AM

I can take a lot of punishment in the ring.

Calli Quinn held me across her bony shoulders miles in the fucking air in a torture rack for a fucking eternity before she drove me into a car windshield, and I still ended up beating her.

Lindsay "The Dragon" Campbell wrapped me up in a figure 4 with her giant legs until my knee was almost sprung like a cheap clock, and I didn't give up then either.

My own wife snapped my ankle in an ankle lock, and I kept fighting and almost put her eyes out with my fucking thumbs (Love you, honey!).

If you'd grabbed my throat, or my wrist, or picked my leg for a kneebar, we'd be having a very different moment right now.

But no no no.

You cinched your fingers into my womanhood. And you're not just fucking mauling me. You get pussy mauled in female wrestling. It's just gonna happen. Especially in fucking Puerto Rico.

But no no no ...

... not just that ...

It was hot as fucking hell that night, and the leather you wore creaked and made slick little sounds against my naked skin.

My wrists were crossed above my head.

And you had me in your hand.

"I've got you," you'd hissed then. You held me so it hurt. But it hurt so fucking sweetly it felt like I was floating. You pressed me with your fingers and I shuddered, I writhed. Giving up all my control to you felt so fucking perfect. It felt like every fucking nerve was lit up with electrics, like I was sinking sweetly into a pool of burning caramel. Desert lightning flashed on the horizon as you pressed with a single fingertip on the titanium bead that was still fresh back then and gods above how my eyes rolled in my head, how I fucking moaned.

My knees hit the thin red mats with a jolt, ass settling on my calves as I grip at your wrist and sway back like a drunk.

My eyes flutter and my black lips part. Blood runs in cobweb crimson strands between them. Half my face is masked in it now. The breath I draw in tastes like blood and pain and sex and your leathers.

You press with your fingertip and I shudder.

I writhe.

I shake my head in protest as you press into me, your tits pressed into mine.

The smell of that hot black leather, sticky with sweat.

I shake my head again. My hand comes up, clutching for your shoulder, for your throat ... and you clutch my hair between the hanging purple tails, and crank my head back, baring my throat as my other hand slithers behind me, tape skidding on the concrete.

You squeeze me. Your fingers sink in deep and my body ...

... jolts.

My hand clutches at your neck, but it's just hanging there now, holding on.

I'm drowning.

Your whispers are barely even making it through. Maybe it's the concussion. Maybe it's the blood loss. Maybe it's the overwhelming pain.

Maybe it's just what you're saying.

Your teeth against my skin. Your tongue.

That night in the desert in your apartment I cried out so loud I hurt my throat.

You laugh in my ear and my back curves and arches, lashing me in a short whipcrack.

"NNnn-

- nnnnnnhhh -

- nnnnno ..."

So many eyes on me. Cameras capturing the moment in immortality. Your hand ...

squeezing

And the slap smacks home. Slapping my cxnt.

Sweat mists off my thighs.

Blood rains from my face as my head jerks back.

And the sugar skulls on my shorts ... glisten. Welling with heat.

I ... shudder.

And drool trickles from the corner of my black, bloody lips as I hang in your grip, shivering and jolting with my wife watching. With my friends watching. With my mentors watching. Watching me hang there on my knees, twitching ...

... like a broken toy.

LVK: Oh dear God. Can we ... are there no commercials we can cut to? Anything?

RP: No, van Keel. This is all there is.

LVK: No one ... no one should see this. This isn't right.

*the creak of an announce chair and the sound of wingtipped footsteps moving away*

RP: Larry, I ... uh. I'm sure ... he'll be back, probably just needed wine. Or somethin'. Uh. I guess Chance has Dow ... kinda ... submitted here. I don't think the ref is gonna count it, though.

This'd be a lot hotter if Meg wasn't bleedin'. But it ain't ... this ... I dunno.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 02, 2017, 07:21:58 AM

You're done.

Your body collapsed before me. A little spasm here or there. On your back. Legs spread. Your shorts wet. Face bloody. It's over. Mercifully, it's over. The pain. The humiliation. The pleasure. I stand up. Stand over you.

Yeah. That's right. I stand over you.

My ribs aching and my back twitching. Holding my side. Blood on my lips. But you're down and you aren't moving.

It's all over.















































Not quite.

I've got plans for you, Punky. And your little wifey is going to help me bring them to fruition.

So I grab your red boot and I begin dragging you across the concrete. You leave a trail of sweat and blood behind you that even a first year Boy Scout could track. Your arms above your head, your face turned to the side. Dragging you across the concrete. Dragging you like a cross on my shoulder. Because you are.

Tom Waits sang it: "We're all chained to the world, and we all gotta pull."

I'm chained to you. But I'm going to break that chain. I'm going to break it...by breaking you.

Breaking Punky.

* * *

I'm laying in bed, naked and sweaty. You're right there. The whole wall is a window overlooking the Vegas night sky. I touch my forehead to yours.

"I fucking love you," I whisper, my whisky voice almost hoarse. From the screaming. Holding you with trembling arms.

You have a look in your eye. That "FTW" look. A glimmer. Means you're up to no good.

I curve a smile on my lips. "What?" I ask.

That's when it all goes wrong.

* * *

 
I've dragged your body around the corner of the ring toward where Gemma's sitting. Your skirt hiked up around your gorgeous hips. Long legs wet and pale. Pulling your dead weight. Dragging a corpse.

I can see people screaming at me to throw you in the ring. But they don't understand.

I don't want to beat you. I want to hurt you.

I want to break you.

When I get to where your wife sits, you start to come around. So, I drop your leg and grab your purple punkytails and smash your face a few times. Then, I grab you by the shoulders and throw your torso over the top of the railing. You're still facing me, so your head is almost upside down toward Gemma.

I put my hand on your chin, forcing your back to arch even more. And I glare at Gemma.

"I told you," I say to her. "You were going to beg me to stop."

And with your back arched over the railing...your arms dead at your side...the tips of your boots touching the floor...

I glare at Gemma...

...and send my fist straight into your soft, pale belly.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: BustyTiffany35 on December 02, 2017, 06:19:22 PM

....gawd damn..

Seeing Punky like that, on her knees, suffering, battered heavily, conquered.. and humiliated. Completely, utterly humiliated. Helpless in Rowan's hands, unable to defend herself at all against her, absolutely...vulnerable. It's something, it's really something I'm not used to seeing, something that I can't bare to watch. I love and respect her so much, this is just, infuriating to see her treated like this. And all the while...it's something that, gawd I can't deny it. Seeing her like this, it riles me up. Someone as strong as Punky, to see her like this, to watch her be taken in this manner, seeing her so powerless, so helpless..  GAWD, what the hell's the matter with me!?

Now, it's no longer that question of how these two could possibly still be fighting that's running over and over my head. No, instead, it's the image of Rowan, one hand grasping a Punkytail, her other hand crushing Punky's womanhood, her teeth sinking into that one spot on Punky's neck that makes her moan so dreamily.. All the while, Rowan's sinister yet stimulating laughter echoes in the background, surrounding their intertwined bodies..

THAT plays repeatedly in my head for a couple of long moments.

I blush real hard at what had just occurred, biting down on my lower lip, my emotions running high as I just don't know what to feel after having seen that.. But then, then it all gets real fucking dark. The whole front row section stirs alive as Rowan drags Punky's lifeless body across the concrete, dragging her tortured form over - to Gemma. Punky's laid out in front of her wife, like a prized trophy, put on display in front of the woman she loves, belonging to, unconditionally, Rowan for the moment. I stare in shock and disgust at the scene that's about to play out, not sure if Punky's even conscious at this point. Then my eyes widen, and my heart races. This doesn't seem like a match anymore - it's more of a message, a bloody, lustfully sickening message from Rowan.

No, no, fucking STOP.

My concern for Punky overwhelms every part of my thinking and I finally move - I BOLT out of seat, and I start SHOVING aside the other attendees as they start to block what's about to happen. I manage to brush past Red even, giving him a hard nudge as I move forward. I don't wanna get a good look at this - I wanna get my hands on Rowan and STOP her. There's just, there's just too many fucking people in the way, damnit!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Vivianne on December 02, 2017, 06:55:43 PM

Gawd damn...

I have stopped cheering and am just standing there motionless. (One benefit of a back row seat...nobody yelling at you to sit down if you stand the whole time.) It dawns on me that the hunger grumbling in my stomach is not because my last meal was before I left the States. No, this is a different kind of hunger. A hunger to see more blood...Punky's blood. A hunger to see more pain...Punky's pain. Gone is the guy who snuck in, uncomfortable with what a Rowan win would mean for Punky. He left the minute that heart punch landed to put an end to Rowan in the first round. He gave his seat to another...and now I am not even using the seat as I stand there, lusting for more. Yes Rowan...more.

Yes Rowan...

More...

MORE!!!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Lord Tantalus on December 02, 2017, 07:39:03 PM

What have I done?
What have I done?

The Mad Poetess
And the Raven-Haired Witch
Counterparts

One is the storm
Violent eloquence and song
A force that cannot be denied
You cannot hide
   from her wrath

The other is a sword
Deadly deliberation
Woe betide the fool
Who has denied
   her desires

What have I done?
What have I done?

Placed the two against each other
Poetry and precision
Set to illision
Wanton in their need
For destruction

What have I done?
What...



I rise up.
Hands on the rails.
And I scream the Witch's name.
But mercy's heart has fled

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 02, 2017, 09:28:07 PM

As my fist crushes your tight abs--how you have such a sixpack when all you do is drink sixpacks, I'll never know--I hear a familiar voice calling out my name.

I don't turn my head. I'm not going to be distracted. Not now.

I just return the shout with one of my own.

"SHUT YOUR MOUTH...THOMAS."

I say the name like I'm spitting it out.

"I'm busy wrecking your little poetess!"

Another punch to the stomach. My next words directed at you.

"You never could face me in a sexfight, Punky."

Another punch.

"Because you..."

PUNCH

"Aren't..."

PUNCH

"Enough for me!"


RP: Yeah, uh, folks. I don't know what to say here. This is...this ain't a wrestling match anymore. This has turned into something else and I'm a wrestling announcer. I...I don't know where Larry went. But I think I'm going to join him.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: RedEnforcer on December 02, 2017, 11:11:46 PM

I watch the action I guess you would call it with an ever growing sense of horror.

To see Rowan, no this isn?t Rowan, not the one I know. I don?t know what this is. It?s not even that evil spirit she likes to put on display at times. No, this is something....primal.

I watch as she avoids the kick and patches onto Megan?s pussy like an alligator snapping up its prey.  And Megan...

oh Megan

I?ve never seen her so out of control. So lost in pain. So swallowed up in pleasure.

The last thing I wanted to see in this fight was it to get so gawddamn personal.

Megan does something I?ve seen before in much more friendly surroundings and is out.  All that has to happen is for her to be rolled into the ring and pinned.  But that is not enough for her opponent. I refuse to call her Rowan anymore. My eyes shoot over to Tantalus as Megan is being dragged.

Congratulations Dr. Frankenstein, you have broken the laws of nature and created a monster. I hope you are properly satisfied.

Then the thing that was my Rowan lays Megan over the railing like some sick ancient sacrifice right in front of Gemma and begins laying in blows.

My mind whirls.

There is a commotion behind me. It?s Tiffany. Bless her heart she has seen enough. The look on my face begs me to help. She tries pushing through.

My hand goes out and rests on her shoulder, squeezing to get her attention. She turns and looks at me with hope. I shake my head once.

?We cannot stop this now. It has gone beyond the point of interference. If we get involved with them now in this state, they will just keep going after each other with even more ferocity. They have to end this themselves.  May God have mercy on them both.?

I don?t invoke the Lord?s name lightly. So when I do, the message gets across. For good, for bad, this is their war to wage.

Let this be their last battlefield.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 03, 2017, 02:51:47 AM

What happens to me isn't like getting knocked out.

I've been knocked out lots of times. Way more than my neurologist likes to think about. It's a pretty simple biological process, really, in a spooky kinda way. You get hit hard enough, usually in the head, that your brain jolts against the inside of your skullcase despite the comfy blanket of cerebrospinal fluid, and pow. Everything shuts down. It can last anywhere from just an eyeblink to long enough to worry people and have them fetch smelling salts.

This isn't like being choked or smothered out. I've got lots of experience with that, too. That's a much slower and more desperate feeling. The way your lungs burn, the way your brain tries to process things faster as it frenzies for a way out, the way your limbs get heavy. The way your senses become intensely aware - which can be kind of a problem all its own if you're being smothered, depending on how and by who ... but either way, that tends to lead to a deep and dreamless sort of sleep.

No. What you do to me is GRAY me out. You work me until my nerves give up on sending signals because they're completely fucking overloaded and just try to shut everything down. It's much fucking worse.

You crush my pussy, working it with a mocking lover's touch and a witch's cruelty, forcing my hips into jolting jerking orgasm against my fucking desires. That's another funny simple sort of biological process - no matter how much you hate someone, if they're touching you just HERE and pressing just THERE, your body just ... reacts. Again ... and again ...

... and you don't stop. Crushing me. Draining me. Nothing takes the fight out of you like an orgasm ripped out against your will - combined with the agonizing, nerve-throbbing pain of your pussy claw. Slumped on my knees. Drool trickling from my lips. Hands fallen to my sides, taped knuckles hitting the mats. And you push me back, rolling me flat. My long legs unfurl as you kneel over me, your hand dominantly crushing my helpless sex. My legs quiver as you finish me off, my eyes fluttering.

Blood running down my face, my skull paint a dripping ruin, mostly gone in a wash of sweat and blood and saliva. It'd be easy for you to roll me into the ring and pin me as cleanly as I pinned you what seems like an eternity ago, when I drove my palm through that twisted little black coal you claim is your heart. So fucking easy.

... it's always been kinda easy for you with me when it comes to sex, hasn't it?

"The fuck do you mean 'sexfighting'?" I'd asked with a wry snort and a giggle, sitting in the little bar of the VFW hall in Yuba City where we'd just performed with some scrap-dog indy fed for 40 paying customers. The beer was a buck and the old vets in their forage caps didn't give us any hassles as we sat there, probably just glad they had pretty girls to look at. We were talking about our training, our backgrounds. How we'd both been to Japan. I'd talked about being in Puerto Rico with Reckless Youth. You'd talked about sexfighting, whatever the fuck that was.

You'd just smiled that smile.

Not long later I was spread out like warm butter across the motel bed, sweatier and more exhausted than I'd ever been in life, my thighs trembling as much as they are now, my head hanging back off the bed as you straddled my hips with a casual, easy dominance.

"Ooo-oh, so ... that's ... that's what it is ..." I'd panted in a soft, throaty purr.

And you'd just smiled that smile.

And again, and again, and again ... throughout our time together. I considered myself pretty sexually experienced - active, imaginative, fit, good-giving-and-game, all that fucking stuff. Plus I'm fuckin' hot. Let's not lie. But with you?

Fuck. You could just ruin me. You could ruin ANYONE, but you just melted me, over and over.

I remembered the time in Jersey, not long before the Cheesesteak Incident in Philly. We were working a show for a regional up there headed up by an old boy who'd been a worker from a long line of workers, from the Gazelli family that went all the way back to Angelo Gazelli back in the '50s. His twin grandsons were just getting started in the biz - couple of 20 year old slabs of Italian-American beefcake, worked a classic Gazelli gimmick with the Italian flag tights and the red boots. They couldn't stop staring at you through the whole show. I caught 'em more than a few times. Apparently they were fans of your work.

I brought them back to the hotel. Both of 'em. Maybe it was a stupid idea, but what the fuck, I'd been drinking with Balls Mahoney before the show, and I was still buzzed even after wrestling a 15 minute madhouse brawl with Jessicka Havok. So I brought them back, as a present. Maybe I thought you'd get a laugh at it, we'd get the nice young boys to get naked, have a giggle, and then send 'em on their way.

Maybe not. Maybe I wanted to see what would happen.

And you showed me.

I remember that night, when you showed me what you could do ... how sex was a weapon for you, an instrument of pure control ... it flashes through me as you drag me on a slick of blood and sweat and my own trickling nectar across the mats.

The audience can't decide between shocked silence and agitated protest, the noise rolling through the Zenith like a wash of static.

You drag me up and hang me on the railing. My arms fall back, hooked over the steel as it bites into my back. My head hangs down, purple punktails soaked black in sweat and blood nearly brushing the floor. Gemma's behind me.

Dreamy and barely conscious, I give her a crooked smile, and start to tell her everything will be okay.

And your fists crash into me.

Sweat mists off me, my body jerking and jolting.

There's no defense. My hands are dangling behind me, my body totally open, my legs splayed, resting on my bootheels like I'm hung in the stocks. You don't even need to be good at punching to hurt me. Your fists crushing into my body, pounding my tits, slamming me in the dripping cxnt just to watch me spasm.

I just hang there, in the gray.

I hear the voices. Tiffany, my darling sheriff, trying to get to me. Thomas, the sculptor in his last desperation trying to stop his beautiful creation from destroying everything. Red, his voice a low rumble. And Gemma. Beautiful Gemma. Seeing her upside down through shudders of breathless pain as blood runs down my face and drips near her expensive shoes.

She looks so fucking beautiful tonight.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 03, 2017, 04:16:25 AM

I see you laying across the railing, your arms splayed out and your head fallen back. You are so far bent that your shirt is up along your sweet breasts, almost showing off the sportsbra you always wear under your punk rock t-shirt. Your pale, creamy skin is the perfect palette for ink. And I've seen every inch of the canvas.

"The fuck do you mean sexfighting?"

I'm eating an awful hot dog. Stale bread, stinking of stale hot dog water. The only salvation is smearing the whole thing with as many condiments as I can find. Considering this cheap place, we were lucky they didn't charge us for little packets.

We've been talking. You think I'm like you: a street kid who got into wrestling because it was her only choice. Well, to be honest, it was my only choice. Growing up with three brothers who worshipped the Four Horsemen, you've got no choice but to be a wrestling fan. And even when I spent two years in Tantalus' sexfighting league, I couldn't wait to get to wrestling school.

But sitting with you here, talking for hours, I learned more in one night than I did after six months of school. Dangling our feet off the ring apron like school girls, trading stories and secrets.

And that night, I showed you a secret.

And looking at you now, I remember that night. Your head off the bed, pale skin covered in sweat.

I distinctly remember a "Wow..." that made me giggle.

Made me giggle. I hadn't done that since I was a little girl, listening to Ric Flair promos.

And we spent all that year together. Our notorious tag team, the Daughters of Darkness, using Halestorm's song as our entrance music. We'd gone from promotion to promotion, winning and losing titles. My body was starting to ache from keeping up with you. I couldn't imagine someone doing this for years. But at night, you eased all those pains away with knowing fingers. Kneeling on my ass, erasing all those pains with your wise fingers.

And then there was Philadelphia.

We got invited to one of Tommy Dreamer's ECW reunion shows and of course we had to go. You were giddy like a school girl. I'd never seen you like that. On the drive from Atlanta to Philly, you couldn't stay still.

The show was everything you dreamed it would be. The place stunk like piss and vomit and blood. The beer was cheap and the food was terrible. But the wrestling...well, that couldn't be argued with.

But afterward, you insisted on a Tony Luke's big, each, with Cheez Whiz. And then you dragged me down to Pagano's for the Big Slice, huge double-sized slices of cheese pizza. You put them together and called it a Philly taco.

"Cheeze Whiz?" I asked. "You know they can't even legally call that food."

You grinned, slick of oil on your chin and bright caution orange cheese on your cheek, chewing with evident glee as you leaned against the windshield of the rental car, sitting on the hood.

"An' Cheez Whiz is good. You c'n use it to stop barbed wire rips from bleedin'." You were happy.

"You know," I said. "There's Talula's Garden just around the corner. And if you can't afford it, I'll take..." Pause. Full stop.

The credit card was still a fresh wound. And I just poured salt on it.

Your eyes got angry and dark.

"Y'know ... this is fine. I'm fine like this. This is what I ate during every fuckin' pass through Philly I've done. An' I got paid enough on some of these to buy PLENTY of fancy shit."

You take another bite, almost vengefully, cheap knuckle meat and orange cheez and soft white bread tearing juicily. "But why would I fuckin' waste money on sittin' in some place that thinks candles an' 40 dollar chicken means classy when I c'n buy a Philly taco and save the rest'a my money?"

That was when the first cracks started to show. The credit card. The ECW show. I loved you. I loved you so much. But...



You're still over the railing. And all those memories rushing up to me.

Trying to make me weak. Trying to keep me from doing what I have to do. What I came here to do.

Destroy Punky.

I send another shot to your abdomen and look at Gemma as I do.

"What's her name?" I ask.

Another punch. My glare fixed on Gemma.

"I SAID...WHAT'S HER NAME?"






 

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Becca Blast! on December 03, 2017, 05:05:16 PM

I thought the first fall was insanity. 

This is worse.  No art, technique, or craft here.  Just a primal, visceral (in the most literal sense) bloodletting.  An elemental struggle on the molecular level; the kind of fight Punky has owned since I've known her.  Rowan's made a bad choice to fight her this way...

But, Punky... shatters. Her essence torn out of her for all of us to see... and the husk draped in front of Gemma. Not as a solace, but as a trophy.  Some big blonde is up and trying to get through.  Perfect.  I can use her for blocking... maybe slip past her and get down there... help her.  Somehow... if only this luchador wannabe would move... "Get out of my WAY, you over-medicated doorstop... that's Punky down there!  She's being obliterated!"   But then I see the eyes in the mask... he's as terrified as we are... and the softness in his voice... oh, god, this ISN'T going to happen.. is it?  And Rowan's voice brings me back a bit from the void of despair swallowing us up (so help me, if that bastard Tantalus is working some sort of mind game, there will be HELL indeed to pay!), taunting Gemma... I can't stop my voice; I don't want to.

"Her name is PUNKY, you ice-cold WHORE!  PUNKY!  And if I get the chance EVER, I will use your entrails to write it on your plasticene CORPSE!"

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: BustyTiffany35 on December 04, 2017, 06:36:18 AM

OK. Almost there. If I could just get past this obnoxious drunken asshole who's hollerin' and pumping his fist in the air every time Rowan slams her fist down into Punky's tummy, then it'd be a straight shot forward and I could get to em' and--

?!?

A heavy hand drops down over my bare shoulder and I snap my eyes to the side to glare at whoever would even try to touch me. It's Red. And his grip is.. surprisingly gentle. Well, gentle-ish. Red's still kind of a beast. My eyes light up, he'd certainly feel the same way as I do. We have got to go stop this, we can't let this go any further! But then, he shakes his head, just once, and starts to talk in a voice that's just as gentle as the grip that he has on my shoulder. And I frown and turn my eyes away from him, 'cause the words were a slap in my face. The good kinda slap in the face, the kind that ya need to shake ya outta your own shit and get ya thinkin' straight again. The truth in his words start to settle in and it gets me flustered. Ya don't always have to like the truth, and right now, I hate it.

But he IS right. i mean, I know he's right because I whole-heartily agree with every gawd damn thing he said. We can't.. I can't interfere. No one can. This is THEIR battle, those two must end this war tonight and all of us...just have to watch it end.

It's just.. Punky..

I turn back to Red, feeling a lot more in control of myself, the angry wild fire roaring in my eyes having dissolved into a somber, apprehensive shade. I nod back at him and I must look so lost, my shoulders slumping, my eyes wavering. I'm still angry as hell, but I've got a better grip on myself. Somewhat.

Then Becca's voice ERUPTS beside us unexpectedly and I nearly JUMP outta my skin. The HELL did she come from!? Her volcanic rant carries over the noise of the crowds, and I go from shooting her a look of shock to looking back at what Rowan's doing to Punky, all in front of Gemma. Well, trying to. This gawd damn brute shouting and screaming in front of me is now completely blocking my view. I roll my eyes and step forward, tapping his shoulder from behind. He turns slowly, his leering face stretching out into a toothy smile. I continue glaring at him, taking a moment to try to figure out where I've seen him from before. He's definitely a wrestler, he's almost as big as Red, but has he worked in FTW? I can't quite remember. I do notice his glossed eyes sizing me up lazily. Actually, I can't really say he's sizing me up since his eyes only got to as far as my chest.

"Hey there, babydoll. What's up?"

"Not you." I step forward and SNAP my right forearm right into the bridge of his nose! His head snaps back and his glossy eyes cross, and then he simply drops to the concrete floor in a heap. Fuck, that felt good. That felt needed. I look over at Red and offer him a shrug, turning my stony eyes back around - and I go completely silent, as Rowan's torturing of Punky is in clear view of me. I'm so close to Punky now as she dangles over the railing, still showing no signs of waking, while Rowan pummels her so brutally those shots just echo in my ears.

Those shots, they're deafening. And I'm shaking.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ~Rox Erotique~ on December 06, 2017, 02:50:05 AM

My body trembles like I've just been hit with 10,000 volts. my jaw drops open as I watch, helplessly. The grip, the posing, the sheer single-minded determination of you... It haunts me.

So I tremble.

As I watch you force my with to cum.

My drink has long since slipped from my pale, numb fingertips. Crashing to the floor and spilling out not unlike you've forced Punky to spill out. I can't even scream I'm so hollow. No... maybe hollow isn't the right term...

Gutted.

I've been gutted by you. I've felt your hands dig and tear and rend their bloody way into my stomach and you've RIPPED my guts out from me. That's how I feel...

You drag the broken, unconscious remains of my wife over to me. TO ME! This isn't my fight... I wanted NO part of this monstrosity! KNOWING you two have history is enough to make me sick to my stomach, but being forced to watch you both play out your history? To exorcise those daemons in bloody, unholy war? WHY WOULD I WANT TO SEE THAT?!?! But here I am, a pawn in your sick fucking game as you rest my broken wife over the railings and POUND her...

Your eyes bore into mine as I convulse with each hit.

Every time you drive that fist into my wife's exposed and defenseless body, mine jerks like I've taken a gut shot. and the whole time my mouth is open... trapped in a silent scream, choking so hard on my fear I can't utter a word, even to beg for mercy...

You ask me what her name is...

I look down, seeing her glassy eyes... her blood covered face... her trembling defenseless body...

And you SLAM her again.

She coughs. a mist of blood and sweat rising up and splattering the side of my face and the chest of my pristine white dress...

"Oh god..." I croak, trembling...

"I SAID...WHAT'S HER NAME?" you hiss again and I look up at you, tears rolling down my cheeks as a barely audible, broken crackle escapes my lips

"P.... P..... Punky......"

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 06, 2017, 03:19:15 AM

"P.... P..... Punky......"

I actually pause. My hand cocked and ready to fire, hovering.

That's when I give you, Gemma, my wickedest smile.

"Wrong. Answer."

I pull that pretty purple hair up, all drenched in sweat and blood. There's none of that pale, milky skin, only red. Your eyes are half-lidded. Mouth open.

And I kiss you. Hard. The taste of your sweat and lips and blood filling my mouth. Then, I rip my lips away. They're all crimson now. I lean your head in, Punky, so I can whisper in your ear.

"PUNK...IS...FUCKIN' DEAD."

I put both arms under your long legs, grasping your fit, firm, lovely ass. I lift your dead weight body up, like a power bomb.

I can see the face of the crowd. Thinking I'm going to power bomb you onto the railing.

Oh, no. I'm not that merciful.

When I arc your body to slam down, I make sure the railing goes right between your legs. Shattering what's left there. Destroying it.

And with your body on the railing, shivering and trembling and gasping and spasming, I do what I should have done a long time ago.

I grab the collar of your "PUNK IS FUCKIN' DEAD!" t-shirt and rip it straight down the middle, throwing it open. Exposing your sports bra and pale skin, stained with blood. It slides off your shoulders as you tip on the railing. Falling to the inside of the railing at Gemma's feet. I help it along the way, throwing it where it needs to fall.

And then...

And then...

With my left hand, I grab the little stainless steel skully clasp in your punkytail...and I rip it off, pulling some of your purple hair along with it. Your hair falls over your shoulders and face, free of the clasp.

I remember when you showed me how to undo them. "There's a trick to it," you said. This was after you went through a burning table and couldn't get your fingers to work. I sat with you in the hospital for hours. The doctor tried to get it open and you said, "Rowan will do it." And you showed me.

"I had them made in Mexico," you said. "Custom. By a guy who works on Dia de Los Muertos."

I nodded. "Looks like it."

It was important to you that I knew how do this--someone you trust--because you didn't want anyone to know how to do what I'm doing right now.

I have the first skully in my hand. I hold it for a moment. Gazing at it. Then, I throw it out into the crowd, high above the front row's heads, falling somewhere in the cheap seats.

The cheap seats. Where it belongs.

"Well begun is half done," I say. That's when my right hand unclasps the second one.

The crowd is going crazy. The announce desk is empty so no-one's here to call the action. I guess I have to do it myself.

"OHMYGAWD!" I shout. "ROWAN IS THROWING PUNKY'S SKULLY CLASPS INTO THE CROWD!"

The second clasp is in my hand. I turn and throw it in the other direction, over the ring. The other half of your purple hair falls down over your shoulder.

And it feels like I'm taking off a crown. Like taking away Green Lantern's ring. Or fucking Clark Kent with a kryptonite strap on.

Your shirt is gone. Your punkytails are gone. You're balanced on the railing, about to fall either direction if a strong breeze hits you.

And I look at Gemma.

"Her name...is Megan."

Then, I shove you off the railing onto Gemma's lap. Your bloody carcas onto her white dress. "Punky is dead."

White dress. Wedding dress. Yeah.

"Sorry I broke your wife," I say to you, Gemma. "I'll have my people send you a list of my exes.You can look for a new one there."

Then, I stagger over to the ring... roll in...painfully...and tell the ref, "Count her out."

And with Pun--Megan--unconscious on her wife's lap, the referee starts the ten count.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 06, 2017, 04:01:41 AM

I hear voices in my head.

Fortunately, that's kind of a tradition in pro wrestling, so it doesn't concern me too much.

Frankly right now, nothing at all fucking concerns me much. Not the way I'm hanging broken on the railing. Not the pounding of your fists into my body. Not your taunting. It's all far away. I might as well be on a rolling green hillside somewhere, and your strikes into my jolting, defenseless bloody frame nothing more than thunder on the horizon.

But I hear the voices.

Becca's fierce roar, all Boadicea defiance. That woman is a warrior queen born.

Gemma's soft voice. The soft little cracked voice she only gets when she's sad. My fingers curl and I stir against the railing, wanting to hold her, to make everything better. To wrap around her and make her safe. But I can't. I'm too deep, my cxnt a pulsing dripping wreck and my nerves misfiring. My jolting frame shuddering with each blow. I'm in the gray.

And your voice. Your voice like poison tipped into my ear by a pretender to the throne of Denmark. Your voice that drags icy claws through my fevered brain.

I used to love your voice, Ro. I used to love the way you'd whisper in my ear on our way to the ring. The way you'd order in restaurants, whether they were the Michelin-star joints you were forever forcing me to go to at fucking gunpoint or a greasy spoon at a midtown intersection, that certainty and smoothness to your tone. Always knowing exactly what you wanted. The moans you'd make, the way you cried my name.

I used to love that.

And now all I hear is your whisper.

"PUNK...IS...FUCKIN' DEAD."

And you dip down low, gathering my legs up. Your hands cradling my ass in my soaked crumpled boyshorts. You hoist me up. You've always been strong, even with the damage I did to your back and ribs. My eyes slit hazily open as you haul me up.

"Gems?" I murmur, hearing her voice still.

And then you swing me forward. And DROP my brutalized cxnt across the steel gendarme's riot railing.

"AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHhghhhhhhhh ..."

My cry is a HOWL of deep, primal pain as my dripping, taken pussy is just ... destroyed.

My body jolts like I've been fucking electrocuted - SPASMING in a way that'd genuinely scare a doctor - and I slump down, tits divided by the railing and my bloody face smacking the steel, quivering like a puppet with twisted strings as I hang there, draped over the railing, broken in front of my tear-eyed wife in her beautiful blood-spattered dress.

There's no response from me as you peel me up and rip my shirt off, the black Suplex Apparel sports bra with red piping still firmly cradling my pierced tits even after the brutality - they make a quality product - and then my head jerking and eyes fluttering as you RIP out my clasps.

You toss them into the crowd. I've had those clasps, handmade, custom made, for a decade. And you chuck them into the Parisian arena like fucking beads at Mardis Gras.

I'm stripped down. My wrestling persona ripped away in front of the crowd as you finish demeaning me - after crushing my womanhood, humiliating me in front of my wife, beating me senseless and stripping me bare - by shoving my bloody, spasming form over into Gemma's lap.

I topple there, knees curled under me, my face hanging back, blood and sweat and cum soaking the pearls and white silk, my loose purple hair streaked maroon with blood as it spreads out over my shoulders and clings to my cheeksy, laying on her lap.

Ladies and gentlemen, the fucking Wrestling Pieta, by Rowan Chance.

*a rumble of static as headsets are resumed. Larry's professional Midwestern voice resumes, with a distinctly acrid bitter note*

LVK: There. We're back. And Rowan Chance is having Megan Dow counted out. I hope that woman is satisfied with what she's done.

RP: She probably is.

LVK: This is No Holds Barred, but the rules require a countout if one fighter is in the ring and the other is not. And that's exactly what we're getting. This is SICKENING.

RP: Yeah. Stops someone from ... I dunno, gettin' in a cab an' drivin' away. I did that once.

LVK: ...

RP: Larry?

LVK: I hope Megan Dow tears that heartless woman's head off her shoulders.

RP: Jeezly fuck, Larry, I'm the one who's supposed ta say inappropriate shit. An' ... I just hope Meg can get up.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 06, 2017, 05:19:24 AM

I'm watching you in your wife's lap. Your shaking, twitching body. Bleeding onto her dress. And I'm looking at Gemma. She can't decide to glare at me or look concerned at you. Poor thing.

I hear the referee counting. She's up to three. You haven't moved yet except for those pitiful little pain gestures of yours. I made sure you'd never make it back to the ring. A three count wouldn't do. No, it had to be a ten count. You pinned me for three? I knocked you out for ten. You couldn't even make it back to the ring to fight.

And I stripped you. Took away the symbols that made you what you were. No more punk rock t-shirts. No more punkytails. No more Punky. Just Megan Dow.

The referee is up to five now. You still haven't moved. Gemma doesn't know what to do. I grin and nearly laugh. Poor thing.

But the laughter kicks my ribs and the pain almost bends me in half. When my head sinks, it begins to swim in that dizzy ocean that comes with concussions. I straighten up and bite my lip.

She's up to seven now. You still haven't moved.

You're not going to move. Not ever. Not after what I did to you.

The referee could count to one hundred. You're not going to move.

I finished you Megan.

I stripped you of your power and symbols.

I humiliated you.

I broke you.

And I made your wife watch.

You think you broke my heart? Yeah. You did.

I just ate yours for dinner. With some fava beans and a nice chianti.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 06, 2017, 06:51:56 AM

EIGHT.

The referee's count is impeccable. Crisply timed enough that precisely three ticks sweep by on the delicate second hand of her Alain Silberstein watch between the graceful throws of her hands, illustrating the number she's reached with grim implacability. Her shirt has three undone buttons now, the creamy curves of her delicate breasts barely bouncing with each number thrown above her head. Her eyes are pale and unforgiving, watching me lay in Gemma's lap.

I'm not moving beyond the slow rise and fall of my breasts in my sports bra, the occasional tremor in my thighs, the soft shudder of a gasp from my aching core. My face wholly masked in crimson from the pounding I've taken, my brow split as my head lolls against my wife.

You've ripped my colors from me. Torn out my emblems like a samurai's topknot being cut away. Leaving me bare, glistening and exposed to the world.

You did this to me, Rowan. You did what you've wanted since I realized I could have a heart again, and I gave it to Gemma.

You fucking brutalized me.

NINE.

Larry and Rick are talking quietly between themselves at the desk, unwilling to call my final shaming. A producer has emerged from the back to have a conversation with them about things that are appropriate for announcers to say and do and what they signed up for.

You wouldn't even take me into the ring.

I could have crushed your heart right in front of Tantalus. I could have done it again and again and again until your ribs collapsed and you spouted blood from your lips in a fountain. I could have smashed your face into the concrete and ruined your sculpted features and held you up for him to see.

But I didn't.

Because I couldn't hurt you like that. Even after ...

Vegas

The window glowed with the infinite mad dazzle of the Strip, throwing a rainbow chiaroscuro across our naked bodies. The sweat glowed on us, and the scent of sex was like a fucking drug.

I couldn't wait any longer.

I'd been spread all over the fucking universe with orgasmic pleasure, and I was in love with my tag team partner.

"Stay with me,". That was all I'd said. Just three words.

Because the next night you were supposed to go back to Thomas for a few weeks, or months, or however long he decided to keep you.

... that was all I'd said.

And it happened. And it spiralled and it kept happening and it got louder and it tore everything apart because three words were the only ones that had to happen to topple everything over, and the little arguments and the credit cards and the cheesesteaks and the matches where we'd been paired off against each other and things had escalated in the ring all came to a roaring, snarling eruption that sunk the fucking world in fire and fury.

THAT was when you ripped my heart out.

And tonight? Yeah, you made a real show of me. You fucked me up. You ripped off my colors and left me stripped. You took my name from my wife's lips.

But you can't touch my heart anymore, Ro.

It's not fucking yours.

It's hers.

Gemma's fingers stroke my bloody face and my red Doc Marten scuffs slowly along the concrete.

TEN.

"SONNE LA CLOCHE!"

The bell rings.

5 minutes on the clock. Trainers moving to the front row to tend to me. Desperately moving, like I've been in a fucking car crash.

The countdown begins.

(... and Gemma and I know how you feel about The Countdown, don't we, Rowan?)

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Vivianne on December 06, 2017, 07:01:00 AM

I stand there shaking. This is what I wanted to see, right? I was just yelling for more...was just urging Rowan to do what she just did...destroy Punky. Now however I am staring down at the action by the ring and my eyes are losing focus. I have simply never witnessed such brutality in a wrestling match...or anywhere for that matter. Out of the fog my vision has become I suddenly see a small object flying toward me. I instinctively reach out and catch it, rolling it in my hand as I look down to see one of Punky's skully clasps, sent airborne toward the cheap seats. As I look down at the clasp I come to realize I was just kidding myself. Even while my heart races to see Rowan in the ring and the ref counting Punky out, it also aches as I see Punky crumpled in Gemma's lap.

The question from before has returned to my consciousness?

What am I doing here?

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Lord Tantalus on December 06, 2017, 04:45:39 PM

"I want them to fear me."

Rowan walks through my Mask Room, looking at each of the pieces displayed on my wall. She's wearing her typical uniform: black yoga pants, thin black tank top, tall leather boots. Her hair falls down over her shoulders like a dark storm. Her eyes focused on each of the masks. She isn't looking at them. She's examining them.

"Fear you?" I ask, watching her move. She's like a dark predator. Every step deliberate. When she knows someone's watching, she knows how to make sure they don't stop watching.

"Like the Road Warriors," she says. "Or Bruiser Brody. People were afraid to get in the ring with them."

I nod. "I understand."

She pauses, looks back at me. "But I want to lure them in. Make them want me. They want to put their hands on me. Want me to put my hands on them. And then..."

"Lure them into the web," I say.

She smiles. "Yes. Exactly."

"Lady DDT can't do that," I tell her.

She continues walking along the wall of masks. She pauses. "Why is this one in glass?"

"Because it's dangerous to touch," I say.

Her eyes narrow and her smile widens. "It's terrifying."

"In more ways than you know."

* * *

I watch the Rowan Chance in the ring. She's been hurt, but she's smiling.

And I see the people in the crowd. The tone here has changed. They've seen what she did to Megan.

They think it's hatred they feel. But they're wrong. It's fear. And desire.

They want her and they are afraid of her.

I nod, slowly.

Yes, Rowan. You've found it.

But the price was destroying what you loved the most.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 06, 2017, 08:27:48 PM

You know the worst thing about five minutes? All the adrenaline that's keeping you alive starts to fade and all the pain rushes up to replace it.

If I wasn't so fucked up, I'd be bouncing in the corner, trying to keep my adrenaline up. But I can't bounce right now. In fact, I can barely stand. So, instead of keeping my energy up, I sit down in the corner and try to get it back.

Let's evaluate things. I'm pretty sure I have a bruised or broken rib. My head tells me I probably have a concussion. Not too long ago, my heart stopped, so that can't be any good for me. I'm coughing blood. And my fucking mentor taught the one trick he never taught me to the woman I want to destroy.

Thanks, asshole.

Why? Why did he teach you that, Megan? What did you give up? I know you and I know your rules, so it couldn't have been...

...no. It couldn't have been that. You might have a hate for me that could fill the Grand Canyon, but you wouldn't have done that.

I'm trying to focus on now, but all I can do is flash back to that moment in the corner. The smile on your face. That fucking knowing grin. You knew, didn't you? He told you, didn't he?

I'm missing something. Something right on the edge of my mind. Something I've missed.

"THREE MINUTES!!!"

Dammit, Megan. How the fuck did you get him to teach you that?

Okay, stop it. Stop it. Get your head back into the ring.

He wouldn't teach me because... yeah. Because.

* * *

Vegas. Because Vegas.

Laying with you in that bed and you lean over and say, "Stay with me."

I laugh. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

But that's not what you meant. You started talking about...

There's a chapel downtown. You said we could go to a pawn shop and get rings. There's even a place called "The Fast Lane" where we could just pull up in a car and get married as we drove through. We could do that.

And in my head, I'm thinking...

"I'd...want it to be...more than that," I say, dodging what's going through my head. "You know, some rituals are important. I know you love pissing on tradition, but...I'd want that to be..."

You kiss me. "Of course. You'd want it to be FABULOUS!"

I nod, happy that you're happy with that answer. "Yes," I say.

You look away for a moment, open a Coors and drink it down. The whole thing in less time it takes most people to take a sip. You crush the can and look out that great big window that takes up the whole wall. Then, you nod your head. "Okay."

I blink. "Wh--?"

You turn from the window to me. "I'd do that for you." You snuggle up to me, coiling your warm body around mine. "But I won't wear the dress. You have to do that."

You're teasing me. But now, I'm ready to cry. Because you called my bluff.

"Meg, I..."

And that's when worry enters your eyes. It eclipses the excitement. Then, embarrassment eclipses all of it. Then, RAGE. You've opened yourself to me and I'm about to reject you. Sensing what I'm about to say, you speak first. "Don't say it."

"Megan, I..."

"DON'T FUCKING SAY IT."

You push yourself off the bed, reaching for your clothes.

"Megan..."

"Keep saying that name all you want," you tell me. "I'm not going to hear it."

"I want to."

You don't stop. Tugging on your sweaty gear because that's what's closest. You're not listening to me. So, I shout.

"I can't belong to you!"

You're pulling your punk tee over your head. "You mean you don't want to belong to anybody."

I don't know what else to say to keep you from walking out the door, so I shout, "I BELONG TO HIM!"

You stop. A slow turn. Your eyes...I'll never forget your eyes in that moment.

Your lips move so slowly. "The fuck you say?"

* * *

"TWO MINUTES!!!"

In the opposite corner. I'm not even looking at you. I'm looking at him.

What did she do, you bastard?

Your mask gives up nothing. No emotion. Nothing.

What did she do?

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: RedEnforcer on December 06, 2017, 09:47:49 PM

10 seconds and 5 minutes.

An odd way of putting things in perspective. 310 seconds just doesn't sound right. It's really been about 10 seconds and now 5 minutes.

All of us sitting her on the side watching this clash have just been spectators to probably the most physical therapy/intervention session this world will ever see.  The reason why this crowd seems so out of breath and tense now is because we've seen and experienced the roller coaster of the history between two women who loved (still love?) each other with a deep passion and are now airing out their grievances. 

This isn't a Festivus pole though. It's a squared circle where warriors have fought, giants have reigned, monsters and beasts alike have conquered and now these two women are colliding to finish each other.

We've seen a heart broken in return for a heartbreak. We've seen a woman's identity undone as the other finally believes she's found her own. Beauty, brutality and now it all is down to those ten seconds and now these five minutes.

Ten seconds that were counted after Rowan destroyed Punky. A fall was won. But the whole crowd knew it would be. No, the important part now is these five minutes.  Will the Live Dead Girl rise or has the dominant sexual goddess finally finished things off.

I think about everything we've seen...everything I know about these two.  My mind is just swirling, emotions are conflicted. 

After the bell rang, I was in shock. Seeing Punky getting stripped down and just destroyed.  Not only assaulting her physically, but doing emotional and mental damage. Attacking a woman at her sacred area as a way to shatter her self-image. That was the type of cold calculation you could expect from Rowan Chance.  But there's no way that Rowan would ever do that to Megan. Whatever is standing in the ring is not Rowan.

It was the heart punch.

It broke a seal.

What we did in Tokyo obviously didn't destroy everything. When Punky used his move against her, something snapped inside Rowan. She has ridden that dragon all through the second fall. The crowd can sense the change in attitude. It's why there's a shift in the mood.  She crossed a line for many, even the announcers.

I'm processing all this when I hear a very strange laugh.  Almost insane in its pitch and delivery. Who could be...

Oh wait...that's me....

My waking brain catches up to what my subconscious has computed.  And I start laughing...

Soon people around me are disturbed..they think I've lost my mind...

But no, they can't see...they are blind...in fact she is blind as well....

I take to my fight...laughter subsiding a bit..

I look over at Tantalus nodding at his creation....

"You FOOL!  You thought to make her your prize pupil. Your gifted one.  The most devastating force ever seen in the ring. But you've failed her."

I push against the railing, staring her down.

"Rowan...poor misguided child...you think you've already won?  You broke Megan's heart and created Punky.  Punky broke your heart and made you this fearsome being we see before us. But the cycle never stops turning. The play continues. On and on again are we caught up in this crazy web."

I push myself up higher on the railing, screaming like a madman, eyes blazing from under my mask...

"You, whatever you are....not Rowan...you've continued the cycle.  In stripping Punky away from her you've created your own doomsday."


"You have unleashed...MEGAN FUCKING DOW"


hhhahahahaHaHahaahaHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ~Rox Erotique~ on December 06, 2017, 11:44:49 PM

The ten second countdown doesn't worry me. I know that sounds strange... but I rarely worry about the inevitable. And there's nothing more inevitable that you losing this fucking fall.

Acceptance can be a wonderful thing. It's like a fire that burns away all your worries and fears, leaving you reborn anew. When you accept what you can't do it free's up your heart and your mind on what you CAN do. For example, I can't help Megan win this fall and put an end this fucked up match.

But I CAN have a drink.

I reach down and grab my little white Hilde Palladino clutch and pull out a Stirling silver hip flask that you got me after a particularly violent disagreement in Tennessee involving a barmaid, a window and a biker named Stumpy.

I unscrew the cap and take a long, deep gulp of the burning hot liquid inside, feeling it heat my throat all the way down and burn down all the fucking emotion that cxnt was choking me with.

"Aaaahhhhhh...." I sigh "Jack Daniels" I continue, talking to the half-a-corpse bleeding on my lap "Normally I'd be filling this with something... you know... good. But I had a feeling that tonight was gonna be rough so I should have a drink to match it. Plus... it's your favourite." I smile "So drink up baby, you've slept long enough" I finish, holding the silver flask above your face and tipping it over, pouring it out over the wreckage Rowan left me.

The blood washes away and your cut stings like a BITCH. it takes about 2 seconds before you splutter and gasp, panting and coughing to life

"See? I always told you this was medicinal" I smile softly, sipping down the last of the bourbon before setting the flask back in my little white clutch "You know... you've ruined my dress."

"Uugghnnn... I.... I can see...... uugghhhhhhhhh.... ss.... sorry 'bout that..." she groans back. her body trembling. I'm not sure I've ever seen her this badly beaten before. I mean she's taken beatings... we both have. But Rowan doesn't hit you hard, she hits you SMART. And right now Megan Dow is smarting pretty bad...

"S'ok pickle. We've spent most of our marriage ruining pretty much every possession I own, why should tonight be any different?" I smile, thinking of how many coffee tables you've suplexed me through, or how many doors and walls I've speared you through. My housekeeping bill is RIDICULOUS. "But you DO know why I wore white tonight, right?" I ask and she shakes her head, struggling to hold in her heartache as she lays there stripped bare and exposed like a raw nerve "Because I want you to remember your past. OUR past. Not your past with her..." I  growl, shooting the witch in the ring a snarl "But your past. With me."

"The day you wore white... for me."

"The day you promised your future... to me."

I see her nodding, remembering our wedding day

"Megan 'Punky' Dow in a wedding dress... hehehe" I chuckle, smiling softly as I hug her tightly on my lap "I never thought I'd see the day. Best day of my life though. But you know what I remember most of all about that day? Your shoes..."

For the first time I see a little smile creep on those bloody lips

"You lifted your flowing skirt and there... low and behold... the most beat up, shitty, dirty pieces of crap DC's I've ever seen. No matter what you were wearing you'd always be Punky"

My soft smile starts to harden and I look sternly into her eyes, a solid, steely grin on my face, the dry tears cracking as a fire starts to burn...

"Coz that's you, luv. You're Punky. Doesn't matter if you're wearing a $30,000 wedding dress or nothing at all. You're MORE than a stupid fucking t-shirt! You're MORE than a Left-Field theme song! You're MORE than some stupid fucking clasps in your hair! You're Megan! PUNKY! Dow! YOU'RE NOT A LOGO OR A BRAND OR A FUCKING TV PERSONALITY! YOU'RE A FORCE OF FUCKING NATURE!!! NOW YOU'RE GONNA GET YOUR ARSE UP, GET IN THAT FUCKING RING AND YOU'RE GONNA BEAT THAT PIECE OF TRASH SO HARD THEY HAVE TO SCRAPE HER OFF THE CANVAS WITH A FUCKING SHOVEL! YOU HEAR ME PUNKY!?!? DO YOU FUCKING HEAR ME?!?! NOW GET YOUR ARSE UP AND BLOW THIS BITCH AWAY!!!"

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 07, 2017, 04:52:57 AM

No matter what's happened to me in life -

- no matter how dark shit has gotten, no matter how twisted up my heart got, no matter how deep in my own head I was, no matter if I was dripping blood or snot or tears -

- Gemma has been able to pull me back.

Every time.

I just had my ex try to rip me apart - not just to bleed me out and beat me, but to rip apart my self-image, my femininity, my pride, my fighting valor, to fucking shred me.

But Gemma still has me in her arms.

You tried to force her to be the one that broke for me, that held my tatters at the graveside.

But she anoints me with whiskey, and I'm fucking born again.

Jack Daniels fucking stings. True fact. I've mentioned how I like it when it hurts, right? That applies to booze, too. Keep your fucking Bailey's. Give me something that snarls and bites. It also washes away the streaked ruins of my facepaint, and cleans my face of blood. My face is out there, glistening and undrawn. No cat's eyes, no black lipstick, no skulls. Just Meg Fucking Dow.

The trainers are finally allowed near me only once Gemma is satisfied that I'm on my feet - and I demonstrate my readiness to fight once I'm wavering on my boots in front of her seat by seizing her in both hands and yanking her into a kiss so hot it makes the blood stains on her dress steam. I press my forehead to hers and whisper "I love you so fucking much it's crazy.". The French doc checks my vision response before they apply a butterfly bandage to my split eyebrow to meet EU medical requirements for combat sports, despite my snarling protest.

I kinda wanted to face you through a mask of blood.

But maybe the time for masks is past, huh, Ro?

The timer's counting down as I wave the trainers off. Washed clean in Jack Daniels and kisses and fury, I slither over the railing to a roar from the crowd. Oh, it hurts. It HUUURRRRTS. My fucking cxnt is WRECKED. My abs have been tenderized by your windmill punches. The ache in my core makes me walk with a hissing painful hitch in my step. But I'm walking, my tattooed skin shining with sweat, and I grip the bottom rope and snarl as I haul myself up to the ring apron.

I hear Red shouting like a madman, and I give him a grin over my bare shoulder. My purple hair loose, clinging in sweaty twists, disheveled like I've just been fucked. Which I have. By a heartless little witch.

No fucking heart at all.

"I BELONG TO HIM!" you'd shouted.

I stopped, my hand on the door knob. And looked back at you.

"The fuck you say?" I couldn't feel anything in that moment. I was hollowed out by those four words.

"What the fuck you FUCKING MEAN you FUCKING BELONG to him?"

Him was only one person, of course. "Lord" Tantalus. The fucking prick who dressed like he was in a Jim Butcher novel and looked right through me whenever I saw him, dropping you off or fetching you. You'd disappear now and then. I knew he was a wrestler. He'd NEVER been on any show I was, somehow. But he was known. Kinda under-the-underground guy, and somehow he had a hold over you. But I didn't know what THIS shit was.

You started to tell me of his ART; how he was REMAKING you, making you BETTER, making you STRONGER, and he would make you PERFECT, and you went on and on and fucking ON and it was all sounding to me like some sick fucking bedroom game of whips and cuffs that'd gone too far. I shook my head, furiously scattering the tears that were gathering in my eyes, my sweaty ring attire rumpled on my sex-glazed body as I curled my fists so hard my nails bit bloody crescents into my palm.

"So what the fuck is THIS, Ro? What the FUCK has this been?"

"I love you, Megan. You love me. You just ... we were just ..."

You pointed at the bed, the sheets still twisted with the hours of passion, where we'd just been purring love into each other's ears. Your face was all - cracked apart.

Yeah, I thought. You look like that because I finally figured it out.

"You LOVE me, Ro? Is that what this is? I ask you to fucking STAY with me - I offer you my GOD DAMN heart - "

My voice was so ragged that I felt blood welling in my throat. It's what happens when you're trying to shout while you're choking on sobs.

"- and you CAN'T, because some fucking ASSHOLE is busy MAKING you into something - SOMETHING YOU AREN'T. BECAUSE RIGHT NOW YOU'RE WITH ME AND YOU DON'T FUCKING WANT THAT."

I ground the heels of my palms into my eyes so hard that they were red for almost a week, pressing myself back into the door.

You touched me. And I struck your hand away, hard. When I opened my burning wet eyes, you were down on one knee like you were the one proposing, looking up at me with those dark fucking intoxicating eyes.

"Please, Megan," you'd said, whispering. Hearing you say my name right then made me so fucking sick I wanted to die.

"Don't worry. I won't fucking waste any more of your time," I dragged my hand across my nose and lips, dripping snot, tears running down my chin. I've always been the ugliest fucking crier. "You can tell him you got rid of your little fucking lezzy side piece so you can focus on getting SHAPED right."

I jerked the door open, dragging my gear bag with me in one trembling fist, and walked out into the antiseptic glare of the hotel hallway, the blank idiots faces of the room doors staring me down stretching off towards the solace of the elevator. I looked back at you and it hurt me so bad it bled to see you there, naked and sweaty and staring after me. Even your tears were pretty. Like an artist daubed them on.

"See if he has time to chisel a fucking heart to stick into you."

And I didn't see you again. Until FTW.

What happens in Vegas, right? Ha fucking ha.

I step through the ropes, gritting down the pain and savoring the fresh sting of Jack Daniels ... and I see the look on your face. The twisted hate. Not just at me, not just at Gemma. Also at Thomas. And your hand, softly stroking your heart right where I struck. And I crook a grin as I slouch back against the buckles and go through some slow stretches, some breathing. But I grin because you've ripped off my shirt.

I bet you felt like a real bad-ass bitch, didn't you? You know how much love I put into my shirts. Each one is designed by me, drawn by artist friends in Portland and Chicago, printed at Colt Cabana's shop. It made great TV, ripping my shirt off. It made the audience gasp and everyone got a slightly better look at my tits. (And I got a little more sponsorship money! Thanks, Suplex Apparel! "Create Your Legacy" (TM)!)

But now my shirt's off, which means sooner or later, you're gonna see my left shoulder. You've seen me naked only once since Vegas - and that was when you jumped me in that hotel in Evanston when I was after you to get Gemma's ring back. You were waiting in my hotel room, in the closet, naked. You beat the shit out of me when I was getting ready to step into the shower, hatefucked me into drooling insensibility, then gave me a Widow's Bite on the shower tiles and sent Gemma a smartphone video of you facefucking my limp body. I'm sure you remember. You're so fucking nostalgic that way.

You really had fun fucking me up. But you weren't spending a lot of time *looking* at me. Not like when we were lovers, exploring each other's bodies with leisurely heat. Because if you weren't so focused on destroying me then, you'd have noticed I had a few new things. New tattoos, here and there. New piercings. And something else.

Right on my left shoulder.

You'll see.

I watch your face, the lights heating my stinging, Jack-washed face. My purple hair slick with sweat and whiskey in wet strands, hanging loose for the first time in the ring since I was 17 and finally figured out I should gather my hair up. I wrap my taped hands around the ropes and yank to hear them creak, feeling the aches in my body and shoving them down as the timer sweeps down towards the last few seconds. The referee is back in position, watching us with that strange little enigmatic smile. I keep cramming the pain down and stoking the fires of my fury.

Because it's the last fucking round.

And I'm gonna tear your god-damn head off your neck.

I have to. My wife wants it, see, and Christmas is coming up.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: BustyTiffany35 on December 07, 2017, 06:06:13 AM

The faintest of smiles touches my lips and my eyes feel a bit watery as I watch these two share a moment together. Then, breathlessly, I watch you move, pushing past the pain, my respect and admiration for you growing with every agonized step you take as ya head straight for the ring. Determined, relentless, nothing's gonna stop ya. You're going to fight for one more Fall, and you're going to end this. And when ya do, I hope ya get what ya wanted, because you fucking deserve it, gorgeous. I hope whatever comes at the end of this night is worth what you've been put through. 

Go get em', kid..

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 08, 2017, 06:52:16 PM

So...the third fall.

I stand on the opposite side of the ring and look at your ruined body. Your ruined spirit. Your punkytails are gone. Your famous t-shirt is gone. (For some reason, Leonard Cohen's "Famous Blue Raincoat" comes to mind.) You've still got fire in your eyes, but how much fuel does that fire have left, I wonder? Your flame always burned so bright, but I know the secret about bright flames. That's why mine smolders. So it can burn for a long...long...time.

The referee calls for the bell and I hear it ring loud. The people are going berserk now, screaming out your name, inspired by your..."courage." Most of them are chanting your name now. Rooting for you to come out on top of this.

I don't care. I don't care about them. This isn't about them. This is about you and me.

We both step toward the center of the ring. I'm holding my waist, limping because of the fire in my back. I look at the gash over your eye. Your wife may have cleaned it with whiskey, but blood is still trickling from the wound I gave you. It's going to need stitches and it's going to leave a scar.

That's good. Something she can look at every morning you wake up with her. Something on your face. Something to remind her of what I just did to you. What I'm going to do to you.

Circling the ring, watching you. Looking at every wince, measuring the pain you must be suffering. And I'm almost laughing.

The pain you're suffering. You deserve every ounce of it. In fact, you deserve some more.

"Oh, the plans I have for you, baby," I say through grinning, broken lips. "My lover. I've been waiting a very long time for this. I'm glad you got back up. Because I'm not finished with you."

And with that, my right hand swings up over my left shoulder, sending a chop toward that bare chest of yours that will sing in every goddamn corner of this place and make all those sons of bitches chanting your name shut their goddamn mouths.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: RedEnforcer on December 08, 2017, 07:58:37 PM

megan's gonna kill you
megan's gonna kill you
megan's gonna kill you
megan's gonna kill you
megan's gonna kill you
megan's gonna kill you
megan's gonna kill you
MEGAN'S GONNA KILL YOU

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Becca Blast! on December 09, 2017, 06:00:16 AM

This can't have been 5 minutes.  5 minutes in some weird, fucked-up-by-Barry-Allen timeline maybe.  5 minutes in a world that makes no goddamn sense.

5 minutes ago... Punky was a broken, disjointed toy.  I don't mean disjointed as in wobbly or tottering.  I mean her ability to move had been torn from her.  Whatever this.. thing... was had eradicated her, torn her to shreds and flung her to the winds.  5 minutes ago. 

And now... she's back.  Somehow.  A baptism of hooch and lust and bloodthirst had restored her to a point I hadn't thought possible.  5 minutes ago.

5 minutes ago, the fullback blonde was a crying mess, the masked hulk whispered in fear, and all I could do was... wail.  Like the true women of the mound.. the bean side, or as the fucked-up English called it, the banshee.  Now, the blonde is tight and hissing through clenched teeth, the slab of beef is laughing like a Maenad, and I... am awestruck.  5 minutes ago.

"Run, you fetid coward... run, Rowan, you refugee from a slime pit of hell!"  I'm fueled and raging as never before for someone else's fight.  If I can pour my spirit into this woman, I would... but she doesn't need it.

5 minutes has passed.  And grim Death herself is coming to the ring.

You should have left her those decorations, Rowan.  They made what she can do fun.  Now, there's nothing to hide what's going to happen to you.  And I'll be wailing joy over your grave. 

5 minutes after she buries you.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 09, 2017, 08:26:40 AM

It's not a great joy stepping out of the corner, and I don't bound out with my usual speed, because the center mass of my body still feels like a fucking Honda Civic crashed between my thighs, which makes every step hurt and makes my battered core pulse. Every hitching step a reminder that a woman who once claimed to love me just tried to destroy my womanhood with my wife watching.

In case anyone was considering what to do for the holidays, I'm gonna go ahead and not endorse having some psychotic vindictive bitch try to completely crush your pussy, despite how fun it might sound. Maybe just have some eggnog instead. But here we are - the bell fucking rang, and I'm out of the corner, ready to fucking fight.

I get a half grin as the crowd rallies behind Red's booming tiger's roar of a voice, starting a familiar chant but with a different name than what they usually use. I hear Becca's war cries, vicious and fierce. I feel Tiff's hotly intense eyes on me. And y'know something, Rowan? Y'know the best part?

They're absolutely fucking right.

You might've ripped my Punky shirt off and torn out my punkytails - but I'm still standing like DDP and Elton John before me, and I'm STILL gonna fucking kill you..

There's a slow thick gloss of blood above my eye, but the passage of time and the little butterfly bandage the French docs affixed have stopped it from sheeting down my face. We slowly circle each other, my blood-red Doc Martens Airwalking on the canvas already spattered with blood and sweat and drool. The crowd's roars echoing through the intimate French arena, each of us showing our pain in every movement, every breath. And then Rowan Chance just has to fucking get a word in edgewise. You purr at me. I growl back, hackles up.

"That's all right, darlin' - neither of us is fuckin' done yet," I snarl. My Oregon Badlands drawl is strong in my pain. "It's still gonna be blood for blood, and by the fuckin' gallon. And then - THEN we're gonna be fuckin' DONE."

And I mean that, Chance. This is our god-damn reckoning. No more betrayals, no more ambushes, no more taunting - you and me. Right here, right fucking now. We're gonna make like Vizzini and the Dread Pirate and see who is right, and who is dead. And I ain't fuckin' Sicilian.

You come lunging in, your arm snaking across your body and just fucking WHIPPING out. God damn, you're a precise little witch. I don't try to counter, or catch it, or dodge. I don't think I can, for one thing. Besides, you clearly wanted to get my tits so fucking much you had to take my shirt off, so fuck it. I tighten my back and shoulders, and take in a sharp fierce breath. I don't know how many chops in the tits I've taken over the years. I don't wanna think about it. Makes my tits ache trying to remember.

*SMACK!*

"NNNNNHHHH!" I groan through gritted teeth, growling as I take the hit and stagger back, biting back HARD to resist the urge to cradle my chest. I'd forgotten how much something as simple as a ragged tee-shirt helps with those, because getting smacked right in the tits with only a sports bra to protect me FUCKING STINGS. But I'll never forget my first months in Japan - when I felt like was getting chopped in the chest every fucking minute. I think of those times. I think of how fucking coldly disappointed my trainer would have been if I'd let my pain show. So I swallow it down as it hits, the aching bite across my vulnerable breasts -

- and I lunge back into you, striking HARD as plant my Docs and torque my hips, my own tattooed right arm bullwhipping across my sore chest and LASHING out in a sharp crescent arc, aiming to CRACK a chop right back into those luscious proud tits of yours in your lil' black corset as my face twists into a roar.

You wanna chop battle with me, Rowan?

FUCKIN' BRING IT.

"WATASHI WA ANATA O HAKAI SURUDESHOU!"

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Lord Tantalus on December 09, 2017, 09:12:51 AM

I stand quietly, hands in front of me, watching them both.

Rowan catches my gaze and I put my index finger up to the eyeslit in my mask.

She knows what that means.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 09, 2017, 09:24:20 AM

When your chop hits, I'm forced to turn and scream out loud. A samurai scream. Clenching my fists together, my face bunched up and I fucking

SCREAM!!!

Turning back to you...yeah...I do want this. Right here and right now. I want this.

So I send another chop against your pretty breasts and you send a scream right back into my face. Then, you give me a chop that might even burst the cheap seats' ear drums.

Chop, scream, chop, scream, chop, scream...

Exchange after exchange. Every slap against my chest is like getting hit by a red hot fire poker. As if it's scalding my skin. I have to scream not to cry out in pain. Fighting spirit, my ass. I'm not going to let you get the better of me here. Not like this. It's not that I can take pain, Megan. You know that. But nobody can hurt me like you can.

Watching your body move...the slick sheen of sweat on your skin. Your hair is wet and matted. Breasts nearly exposed with your sports bra. I can see the barbells piercing your nipples and I remember how you loved me twisting them when I put you on your back and made you my bitch.

Because you said "Please."

You trusted me then. Trust me now. I'm not going to stop hurting you until you can't get up. And you can hurt me all night long, Megan. But nothing...NOTHING...is going to make me admit you're the better woman.

NOTHING.

Another slap to your breasts, trying to hit those pierced tits of yours. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I just get your upper chest. And your face is getting redder...and redder...just like your chest.

But then you return the favor and make my upper torso feel like it's collapsed. It probably is by now. It's getting harder to breathe. And the constant impacts aren't doing my ribs any favors.

it goes on. Chop/Scream. Chop/Scream. Chop/Scream... Until...

...one of your chops hits me so hard, it knocks the wind right out of me. Makes my eyes quake and water. Makes my whole rib cage feel like every single bone has lava flowing through it. My lungs seize. And I'm forced to take a knee.

And the crowd fucking ROARS because you've promised to fuck at least half of them and the other half have Gemma's number. But here I am, on my knee, my chest enflamed. My olive skin is red from my neck to my corset. Trying to breath and I can't. Fucking ribs.

I hear Red start that chant and I hear the rest pick it up. But behind you...Tantalus is watching. And his eyes tell me everything I need to know. He puts a single finger next to his eyes. His blue eyes looking out. I see what's behind them. Roger Daltrey singing Pete Townsend's words, echoing in my brain.


If you're going to be a villain, then be a fucking villain.


I'm on one knee in front of you, Megan. I look at your knee. The one you can barely stand on.

Time to be the villain...

As you grab down at me, reaching for my hair...

... I sweep the leg.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 11, 2017, 06:06:23 AM

I was in Iwata Prefecture. I had just arrived, fresh out of Puerto Rico where I'd learned how to spill blood and duck when someone in the crowd was about to glass me, how to fight like a lunatic and pin someone down HARD so they couldn't get up and keep savaging you, to make sure someone STAYED the fuck down. I'd been in the business just over 2 years, and I was pretty confident in myself, rising from my humble beginnings in the Northwest to some pretty good undercard rookie matches in Puerto Rico.

And then I went into Kaientai Dojo and got my face kicked in and received a compound fracture to my self-assurance.

You don't learn anything the easy way in Kaientai. TAKA and the other founders didn't have a single god-damn thing in their lives go easy, and they wanted to make sure that lesson was passed on. You ran laps. You got kicked. You did push-ups. You got chopped. You made rice for everyone. You got armdragged for an hour. You cleaned the mats. You got chopped. You ran for a few miles before bed. You got slapped in the face as a way to say goodnight.

"Fighting spirit is more than just Inoki's way to sell tickets. It is what determines who truly shines in the ring."

Kazma was speaking Japanese, of course. I just remember it in English because I had to learn Japanese pretty friggin' fast, since every time you gave a trainer a confused look you got a smack in the head to get your linguistic skills kickstarted. He was training with me, the two of us doing linked-hands rowing sit-ups, our feet pressed together.

"You will be hit. You will be hit HARD. It will hurt, and it will keep hurting. But you must hit back, and you must hit back HARDER. THAT is what matters. That you take it, and you give it back. Yes?"

I nodded, sweat dripping off my nose. This motherfucker was half a foot taller and 90 pounds heavier than me, and doing sit-ups in sync with him was no joke. But I was listening.

Kazma smiled and slowed us, facing each other with our legs spread, feet pressed together, in our youngboy training gear. Well, young girl for me, which meant I had on a terrible fucking one-piece outfit since that's what young joshi get to wear. And then he let go of my hand and  slapped me in the face, HARD. Lights flashed and bells rung like my skull was a pachinko machine, and my pale cheek burned bright red as I turned my face back toward his, my eyes big as boiled eggs.

"YES?" he said again, a big grin on his face.

I released his other hand - swung my arm back and SLAPPED him back, a flat sound that echoed across the dojo, rocking the big young man back on his hips. When he turned his snapped-around face back to me, his lip dripped blood from a swelling split.

"YES." I growled back at him.

He grinned big, and nodded - and offered his hands again.

I took them, and we kept training.

Toshi. Fighting spirit.

You've got a fuckton of spirit, Rowan. You're more stubborn than almost any woman I've met in my life (Almost. I married the most stubborn), and you're nearly fearless, and you're fucking merciless.

But when you start a fire with me, I just keep blazing brighter and hotter until the fucking world burns. I don't burn out - I burn EVERYTHING.

Each chop you lash into me SEARS into my chest. My black SPLX sports bra takes the punishment and doesn't pop a seam but offers little in the way of protection, just snugly supporting my aching tits as they get slapped and smacked around like NFL wives. Each chop I lash back into you cracks across the Zenith and drives your tarty fucking corset laces into your shamelessly proffered tits as we ROAR into each other's faces.

And then I PLOW one into you that I can FEEL collapsing your happy little ribcage. Dropping you down to breathless to one knee. Remember when you were on one knee with me before, Rowan? Because I sure fucking do. And I bet your black little heart hurts almost as much as I mine did then - just less fucking metaphorically.

"rrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRAHHH!"

I roar after the blow, and the crowd rallies up their chant again as I flex my aching, stinging right hand, the tingles racing to the tips of my fingers, hot low sweet pain pulsing along the knife edge of my hand. "Oh sweet fuckery, darlin' ... it never gets less fun hurting you ... " I hiss as I reach for a grip on your sweaty dark hair, knotting it in my fingers, bicep tensing to drag you up.

And then your leg scythes out, low and whipping at an unexpected angle, and your heel slashes across the outside edge of my battered right knee, buckling it inwards.

"NNNNNYYYYYEAGGGGGGHHHHHH!" I scream a twisted tormented howl of pain as the unexpected agony flares up the swollen tissues and sends fire racing up and down the long nerves in my leg, sending me stumbling and collapsing to my back back on the mat, clutching my right knee in both taped hands with my head arched back, tendons standing out like live wires in my neck as I grit my teeth and dig my fingers into my knee to try to ease the shuddering pain of having my knee swept out from under me.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 11, 2017, 03:04:08 PM

The sushi bar. Our second date.

We're way too drunk. You on Asahi and me on saki. I'm drinking it cold because that's how you serve good saki. The itamae just keeps bringing us sashimi and we keep putting it down. We're laughing way too loud, but we're gaijin, so that's okay. After we share a whole plate of tuna sashimi, I lean in close and whisper something. Your eyes go wide and you almost shout,

"HOLY SHIT! YOU WERE LADY DDT!?!?"

I kiss you and shush you, laughing out loud. "Don't go telling the whole goddamn world."

You kiss me back, but then push me away. "Are you fucking kidding? That was you?"

The itamae's eyes go wide too. "You are Lady DDT?" he asks in Japanese, pointing at me.

I shake my head. "No, no," I tell him. "I know Lady DDT."

He smiles and nods. "Get her picture for me?" he asks.

I nod. "Sure."

He goes on making more sashimi. I look back at you. "See?" I say, still laughing. "See the trouble you cause? There's a reason I whi?"

You get up on the barstool and point at me. "Lady DDT!" you shout, loud and proud. "This is Lady DDT!"

I have to drag you back down. You land on that exquisite ass of yours and we're both laughing so hard, I almost fall off my own stool.

"It's not something I'm exactly proud of," I say.

"You should be," you tell me. "God, that was an awful gimmick." You stroke my hair, looking into my eyes. "But you made it work."

"Eventually," I say.

That's when a small group of fans comes over. They recognize you, of course, but they're all asking, "Lady DDT?"

I start to say, "No," but you're already there, nodding up and down. "Yup! This is her!"

I sigh and roll my eyes. "Cat's out of the bag, now."

They ask for our picture and you squeeze me, pulling my face close. "Hai!" you say, way too loud.

Phones come out and we're there, arm in arm.

After they leave, you say, "Did they really not allow you to use anything else? Just DDTs?"

I nod. "Yup." Take another piece of sashimi. "For six months."

You shake your head. "That sucks." You blink. "Hey, wait...didn't you use a figure four?"

I nodded. "Yeah," I said. "Got me fired." I wink at you. "But I won the belt with it. Won the belt, took it to the back and the booker took it away from me. Didn't even let me shower or get dressed. Threw my bag at me and told me to get out."

You kiss me. "You're such a rebel." You take another saki bomb and say, "You know, I was so hot for Lady DDT."

"Oh really?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

You raise your right hand. "'Sthetruth," you slur. "You looked so good in that lycra one piece."

"Ugh," I say. "It was itchy."

Then, you look at me with that mischievous grin. "Still got the mask?"



The next morning, I'm next to you. You're flat on your stomach, groaning something about saki bombs. I get out of bed and head to the bathroom, checking my phone for emails...and someone's sent me a link. There we are, the two of us, at the sushi bar, wrapped up together and smiling. Way too drunk.

PUNKY AND LADY DDT!

I just shake my head and smile.

"Cat's out of the bag."

* * *

But back in the ring, you're on the canvas, clutching that knee of yours. I put my hands and feet under me and slowly drag myself back to my feet. You don't even see me.

I limp over to you, clutching my side. My chest burns like you poured lava over it. My breath is wet and heaving. I sound like an old man trying to breathe. I watch you roll, grabbing your knee. I wipe the hair from my face and grin down at you.

I grab your ankle and give it a good tug, Ric Flair style, and listen to the wonderful sound that makes. Then, I use your wounded leg to flip you over onto your stomach. This ain't your grandpa's figure four...it's MINE.

"Time to go to school," I say, my voice sharp and cruel. And just like Ric, I do a little spin, holding on to your ankle, twisting it around my leg, and get set for the move that got me fired. Except you are face down and I'm face up.

It's better this way.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 12, 2017, 06:04:47 AM

There's some instincts you have to learn to overcome when you're in the ring. It takes a lot of people trying to hit you before you learn that flinching makes it impossible for you to do anything except get hit. It takes a lot of being kicked in the stomach before you learn how and when to tense up. It takes a lot of being fucking shoved around by people shorter and lighter than you before you learn the proper mechanics of a collar and elbow grip. But these are things you can learn. They're things that come with time.

Some instincts, though, can never be overcome. They're so deeply ingrained, so primal, that no matter how iron your will is or how much tougher than a proverbial fuckin' cheap steak you might be, you're not gonna stop them from happening. You get whacked in the goodies, you instinctively double up and clutch at them. You get jabbed in the throat, your chin tucks and your hands come up. And your knee gets ripped out from under you, and you reach for it. On an intellectual level or just from fuckin' long experience, you know that no amount of clutching makes anything actually stop hurting. It's just primal fucking lizard-brain deep-down instinct.

And that's why even though I KNOW I'm in the ring with a dangerous psychopath who loves hurting people, even though I KNOW I just had you down and if I could just score another shot to your creaking ribs I'd be able to have you too busy spitting blood to get at me - I can't help but lace my fingers over my battered knee, my teeth gritted painfully as I try to squeeze the damn thing back into shape. Your heel caught me right at the outside edge of the fucking patella in that god-damn sneaky little legsweep, and it feels fucking wrenched.

And then, of course, things get worse. Because I'm in the ring with you, and there's not a lot of other ways for them to go.

You stagger to your boots and snatch my ankle, clutching the heavy Doc in your hand and yanking my leg out. "NnNnNNNRRRRRRRRHHHH ..." I snarl like a fucking badger, my teeth bared as my whiskey-wet lips draw back in hate. My knee pulses in protest as you stretch my aching leg out, my sugar-skull knee-high sock bunched around my tensed calf, before you DRAG me over, rolling me over my left hip as I claw at the air, sitting up to try to reach you, to pry your hands off my ankle, to rip my fingers through your fucking guts like the walking dead to get a mouthful of fegata di puttana, fucking ANYTHING ... but you manage to drag me over onto my tits and aching belly. Having my leg stretched up like this does my brutalized pussy no fucking favors either. I immediately claw at the mat, trying to press myself up. My hair falls into my face in sweaty violet tangles, which is also fucking weird. God damn, I can't believe you ripped out my fucking skullies. You've always been so fucking jealous of my cool action figure looks and the fact that ToyBiz didn't want to make a Rowan figure during FTW because it looked too much like a dominatrix Cobra agent.

I know what's coming, of course. We've been in the ring together for so long, as enemies and partners, that I've seen your whole repertoire. That doesn't make it any better, surprisingly. It just means I know how hard to grit my fucking teeth.

Your legs vine around mine as you drop back to your ass, cinching my legs into a 4-shape and POURING pressure onto my bent right leg, torquing my fucking agonized knee, my right ankle locked into the back of my left leg as your leg drapes over my boot to drill it down.

"NNNNNRHHHHHNNHHHHHH, FUUUUCK!" I roar in frustrated rage and pain. A hold like this is more than just punishment, more than just targeting my throbbing knee. It's gonna slow me down. I was coasting on a surge of adrenaline from getting back on my feet and chopping you down to the mat, and that shit doesn't last forever. As it ebbs, my energy is gonna drain. My cheeks burn red with fury as I claw at the mat, pressing my hands to it and pushing myself up, trying to fight the furiously painful pressure of the hold.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 12, 2017, 05:11:32 PM

There's a moment when I look directly at the camera. All the action stops. Freeze frame. Just you and me.

The crowd is frozen. The announcers are frozen. It's just you, me and Megan. Little Megan. Screaming in pain.

And looking directly at the camera--the sound of the crowd completely silent as I wrench on the move--I start talking.



Until you've been in a submission hold, you don't understand what it means to be in one.

People think wrestlers tap because they can't take the pain anymore. That's not it.

They tap because their leg is about to break.

Think about that for a second. You can feel the bone in your leg about to SNAP. It makes the sound of a wet tree branch breaking. Sometimes, you can see the twisted, broken bones under the skin. You hear that sick crack and blood rushes under the skin, turning the whole limb purple.

That's what it means to be in a submission hold. Knowing you're about to lose a limb and the only way to prevent that from happening is begging the person applying the hold to stop. That's what a tap is, people. Begging the other person to stop hurting you.


I wink at the camera.


No woman has ever made me tap out. No woman has ever made me quit. No woman has ever made me say, "Please. Stop." No. Woman.

Now, you think about that when you see a wrestler yanking on a hold after the ref rings the bell. They aren't keeping up the pain. They're trying to do permanent damage.

Submission holds don't hurt people. They break limbs.

Keep that in mind.



Then, slowly, everything starts to move again. The sound of the crowd, like an old fashioned record player that was just spun up, revs up to speed. The people start cheering and booing. And Van Keep and Perle start talking again...

* * *

LVK: Punky is screaming in pain! We've seen this move before. Rowan has broken knees and ankles with it.

RP: She ain't Punky no more, Van Keel.

LVK: Shut up, Perle.

RP: I just saw Punky torn to pieces. Just callin' it as I see it.

LVK: I said Shut Up, Perle.

RP: Jeezuz, when did you find yer balls?

LVK: Just do your job and make comments, okay?

RP: Yeah, fine. The Artist Formerly Known as Punky is in a lot of pain and screaming like a stuck pig. And this psychopath Rowan Chance is laughing about it.



Yes, I'm laughing.

Watching your lithesome body squirming, face-down, as I wrench harder on the hold.

Seeing your fine little ass under your skirt. I get a wicked grin, reach forward and flip that skirt up. Then, with one hand, I reach forward and smack the sweet curves using the same techniques we both learned in Japan. The sound reverberates all through the arena. The crowd wants to chant a "WHOOOO!" Some of them do. Others just stand in awe.

"No legs means no MindFuck."

I SLAP! your ass again.

"No legs means no Forever Time Buster."

SLAP!

"No legs means no Master Exploder."

SLAP!

"Poor little Megan," I say, laughter all through my voice. "What are you going to do on the mat, babe?" Then, my voice drops an octave--a trick my Japanese ancestry taught me. "ARE YOU GOING TO OUT MAT WRESTLE ME, LITTLE BRAWLER? I DON'T THINK SO!"

SLAP!

And then...

And then...

(Oh, how you love that...)

I raise my hips off the mat. Grab your ankle. Arch my back so only my head is on the canvas.

And with your ankle in my hand...

...I PULL.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Vivianne on December 13, 2017, 12:37:32 AM

I may need professional help to sort through the wreckage this match has made of my emotions...if it ever comes to an end. Seeing Punky so thoroughly decimated to end fall two was hard despite my feelings for Rowan and desire to see her win. I looked at Punky's clasp in my hand and realized that what we all just saw was not wrestling. It was something far darker. I thought it was making me feel anguish once again, knowing what a Rowan win would mean for Punky...but I was wrong. The anguish wasn't for her...it was for myself. Sometime between the opening bell and now I seem to have abandoned any shred of a conscience I thought I had and the place within me where it should be has been filled with something much darker.

Actually, I know exactly when this happened...which is good because I will know what to tell the therapist later. Start of fall three. Rowan and Punky exchanging chops so vicious they could be heard plain as day even from the back row. Seeing Rowan take a chop so hard it dropped her to a knee...and then seeing her sweep the leg. Hearing Punky's screams as Rowan applied a vicious face down figure four. That was the moment. The moment I realized the screams were not causing me to feel dread...but rather excitement. Unadulterated excitement at what I was seeing and what I wanted to see from here. Part of me was horrified to realize I felt this way, but the rest of me told that part to shut up and sit down. I have a fighter to cheer for.

"YES ROWAN! YESSS! BREAK HER LEG!!!"

Oh yes...I'm going to need professional help when this is over...

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 13, 2017, 05:51:12 AM

The pain is immediate, huge and intense. My foured knee, my aching and battered right knee, bears the weight of your lower body and the pressure of your legs trapping it. Each flex of those long lithe muscles of yours pours a couple of hundred pounds of pressure into my bent leg, and at the wrong fucking angle. My patella feels like it's gonna wrench its way out of my leg and bounce across the fucking mat like a god-damn slapshot hockey puck. My ankle is dug into the back of my left knee, immobilizing that leg and digging it in. It's different than the pain of the traditional figure four - different, but certainly not any fucking better. And what your reversed four loses in the pressure of my ankle being barred into my shin, it gains in the additional pressure on my torqued knee.

And then you flip my skirt up, and I grit my teeth in a snarl of raw, unfiltered fury instead of just against the tide of pain.

*CRACK*

"NNNNHHHHHRRRRRRrrrrrrr ..."

Yep. That's the other reason you do the hold this way, like a fucking deviant.

Your hand CRACKS across my creamy ass, my sugar-skull patterned Lycra boyshorts providing very little in the way of making that NOT sting like a bitch.

(and I bite down hard to ignore the flush of heat that runs through me in an instant summer lightning storm because of the way the pressure of the smack runs through me, the heat washing me, making me clench even though it aches, fucking HELL

Your hand cracks again.

"NNNNHHHHRRAH!" I roar, my back arching. I press my elbows hard into the mat, my taped hands lashing through my loose, sweat-slick purple hair, knotting it in my fingers. My knee fucking THROBS as you talk your shit. You can't HELP talking shit. It's in your fucking nature. If you were in an action movie, you'd tell James Bond the whole evil plan before your henchmen had finished tying him to the Psycho-fraculator Device. But I don't tune you out even so. Because you're not just taunting me with what you're trying to take away.

You're telling me what you're AFRAID of, Rowan.

My moves are big. Impactful. I pick moves that are gonna hurt like nothing else and - and more importantly, I don't do wild moves. I don't dive, I don't slide, I don't flip. I stopped that shit in my early 20s. It pops the crowd and if it hits, it hits hard, but I've seen Gems crash her tits to the concrete after missing a Gemmasault too many times. No. Moves like the Mindfuck, the Master Exploder, the Forever Time Buster, the Psycho Killer ... these are moves that involve me WRAPPING YOU THE FUCK UP before I pick you up and put you down as painfully as possible. My repertoire of signature moves all have me in FULL FUCKING CONTROL when I hurt you ...

... and that's what you're afraid of, isn't it?

Of course, if I'm gonna get in FULL FUCKING CONTROL, I've gotta get you to stop smacking my ass while you try to break my god-damn leg, don't I?

You grab my left ankle, the extended leg, and YANK it back, stretching my fucking hamstring and tensing up my ass that's been smacked until it glows a soft pleasing ruby. My eyes SQUEEZE shut as I curl my white knuckles against my scalp, digging my squared black nails into my own fucking head until trickles of blood stain my purple hair magenta at the roots.

"NNNRRRAHHHHHHHHHHhhhnhhh ..."

"THINK, girl."

Jimmy "Squire" O'Dwyer was an Irishman who'd been wrestling since the late 70s. A World of Sport wrestler and a trained judoka, he became part of wrestling's British invasion with "Gentleman" Chris Adams and William Regal in the early 80s. He was a legend in Pacific Northwest Wrestling, and rightfully so - he was as dangerous a joint-bender as Gene LeBell or Marty Jones, and just as tough as fucking Fit Finlay. He was in his early 50s when I met him, a trainer at Raven's school with a nose webbed with broken crimson vessels and a body slouching into middle age but a grip that could bend metal and a talent for making your joints make popping sound like fireworks.

He taught the classes on how to not get your arms and legs snapped off.

It was autumn in Portland, and late afternoon sun was slanting in lazy gold shafts through the drifting dust in the repurposed warehouse over on Hawthorne and Cesar Chavez Boulevard. It was a beautiful day outside. The trees were turning into perfect fire on the slopes of Mt. Tabor, there was a crisp chill and the scent of apples from the farmlands on the Columbia, and I'd have appreciated it a lot fucking more if a middle-aged mad Irish bastard weren't trying to break my god-damn leg.

"Ye're not thinkin' proper, Meg'han."

I'd said he could just call me 'Meg' on our first day in the training ring together. Since then he'd been pronouncing my name like it was in a Lorena McKennitt song. I was on my belly, on the mat, my perky young tits squashed under our combined weight. He had my left leg bent over itself, and my ankle neatly trapped between his thighs as rolled his weight onto me. For a half-drunk man in his 50s laying on top of a tattooed teen girl, he was being a perfect gentleman. And also slowly putting breaking pressure on my leg.

He hadn't even applied the facelock part of the STF - he just had one hand on the mat for casual balance and another on top of my head, fingers pressed softly to my forehead, keeping my gasping sweat-slicked face from falling to the mat.

"I ... can't."

He was so fucking conversational, in his rich whiskey brogue.

"Whyzat, then?"

"My leg ... my ..."

"Oh, yer leg? Is this YER leg? 'cuz it looks like it's mine at th'moment, acculsha."

I groaned, low and aching and despairing, clawing at the mat. And then he SLAPPED the top of my head.

"DOW. Do ye wanna walk outta the gym t'day and walk back in t'morra?"

I nodded, with more than a little desperation, sweat running off me in shimmers.

"Then get yer leg back. And if ya wanna do that, ya gotta THINK. USE YER BLEEDIN' HEAD FER SOMETHIN' OTHER'N A PLACE TA KEEP YER SILLY FECKIN' PURPLE HAIR, GIRL."

And I got out that day. Took me a while to walk out of the gym, but I did that, too.

I slowly release my hair and deliberately curl my taped hands into fists, hard and fierce, and SLAM my fists to the mat, one and then the other. I take in a slow hot prana breath, in through my nose, out through my mouth. Forcing myself to be still. To create that moment where I can breathe.

I have a carefully cultivated reputation for being a fucking madwoman because I've speared people off of stages and attacked clusters of security guards with stolen nightsticks and once I hit Mercedes Martinez with a giant wok full of boiling lo mein when our Falls Count Anywhere brawl in GLEAM Wrestling left the arena and went to the Chinese restaurant across the street.

But when I need a moment, I can be as still as water.

You're bridged. You've stretched my left leg all the way out to try to hurt me more, to show me off, to demonstrate how fucking flexible you are. Your hips are up. Your shoulders are up. You've basically got just one point of contact with the mat right now with your legs wrapped around mine. You're using ME for leverage.

And I've got my knuckles in the mat.

And I don't need to wait for supernatural rage to take over to have a good punch.

I SLAM my right fist into the canvas with a ROAR, my arm tightening and bicep bulging as I THRUST myself off my right, TWISTING my hips despite the fierce SCORCH of pain in my tormented knee. I pour my core into it, the pain in my battered abs and pulsing cxnt and agonized knee all searing together into a hot fireball that I roar out like a fucking dragon as I ... am gonna ...

... dig deep and try to ...

... turn ...

... us ...

... OVER.

And let you taste your own bitter fucking medicine, bitch!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 13, 2017, 07:37:42 AM

LVK: Punky is trapped in the Nevermore Leg Lock, and she's screaming for her life!

RP: She's got to tap out or she's gonna lose that leg!

LVK: The pressure has to be incredible! You can almost hear the ligaments snapping in two!

RP: The pressure's all different in Rowan's version of this hold, Van Keel. It goes after the weakest parts of the legs: the tendons and ligaments as well as the weakest parts of the bones.

LVK: Punky's eyes are WATERING! Her face is crimson! I don't think she can hold on...wait...wait...she's trying to reverse the hold!


* * *



I discovered this hold completely by accident. "Bloody" Mary McGee was down on the mat, her belly on the canvas. I was dizzy from so many strikes to the head and wasn't seeing right. I knew I had to finish her off quick, so I grabbed her ankle and started putting on the figure four. And before I knew it, Bloody Mary was screaming bloody murder. I heard the bell and the referee was telling me to break the hold. I blinked a couple times and saw what happened. Out on the desk, Gordon Solie (The Third) was saying I'd invented a new hold.

After the referee raised my hand, I staggered backstage. And you were there. I fell into your arms. "Help," I said, softly.

You put your arm over my shoulder and lead me back to the dressing room where I proceeded to throw up in the worst toilet in Boston. (Still not the worst toilet in Scotland.)

When I recovered, you helped me get out of my gear and into the shower. An hour later, we were both drying off.

"What the fuck kind of move was that?" you asked me.

I shook my head. "No idea," I said, explaining what happened.

You laughed. "Better give it a name."

I pulled my tank top over my shoulders and breasts. Letting the thin material cling to my moist skin. "I'm horrible at coming up with names for moves. Have you heard my repertoire? Widow this and Widow that."

You put your hand on your chin. "Let me think... Something about Toil ... that's the technical term for a spider's webs used to wrap prey ..."

"Nah," I said. "No more spider imagery. I've overplayed it."

"Something about the Parlour, since that's what the spider said to the fly..."

I leaned down and kissed you on the lips for each word.

"No," kiss "more," kiss "spiders." kiss.

You giggled like you do when I kiss you. "Okay. Something ominously gothic. Darkness Rises ... Ooooh!" Your eyes went wide.

"How about...Nevermore."

I grinned, my eyes looking away. "That's an in joke," I say.

"Nobody else will know but you and me."

My grin turned into a smile. "All right. The Nevermore leg lock!"

You jumped up and shouted "YAY!" And then we left to find a hotel room. And a bed.

And another shower.


* * *


I'm watching Tantalus as you struggle. As I slap your ass. Thinking how he must have put his hands on it. Must have squeezed it. Run his fingernails over your soft flesh.

"Did he make you scream like this?" I shout. "Did he?"

And then you make your move. With only my head on the canvas, you use that to your advantage, slowly tipping us both over. I feel the pressure of the hold shifting as we slowly turn.


LVK: It's working! Punky is reversing the hold!

RP: That's an amazing feat, Van Keel. I haven't seen Punky do any mat work in a long time. Shows what kind of determination that girl's got.

LVK: You're trying to talk your way out of a beating.

RP: You're damn right.



You're almost over...almost got it reversed...

...when I start moving us back to the other direction. Dropping my shoulders down and resetting the balance.

I see your back arch and hear you scream. Pounding your taped fists on the mat.

"I'm going to break it, Megan," I shout. Then, I look at Tantalus.

"I'M GOING TO BREAK HER!"



LVK: Rowan is fighting back! Turning the Nevermore leg lock back on Punky!

RP: Punky's got to really fight now to get that move reversed!


The crowd is chanting your name. "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" I shout back at them. And that one moment of distraction is all you need to turn the momentum back to your favor.



LVK: And...and...and...

RP: She did it! She did it!

LVK: Punky has reversed the Nevermore leg lock!


Suddenly, I feel all the pain and pressure on my knees and ankles...feel the red hot pain of the tendons stretching in ways they shouldn't... I scream out loud. I've never felt the Nevermore on my own legs. And in a panicked moment, my hands reach down and untangle our legs. Fast.

Like you, the lizard part of my brain clutches at my knee and ankle. My eyes are shut tight and I'm biting my lower lip.

That. Was. Not. Good Pain.

I put my hands flat on the canvas and start to push myself up, feeling the damage in my legs after just a few seconds of my own move. There's no way you're getting up before me, so I'm not worried I have my back turned to you. You'll be clutching at the ropes to pull yourself up.

And that's when I'll start working on your back. Because fucking cold-hearted revenge.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: BustyTiffany35 on December 13, 2017, 08:46:01 AM

Come on. Come on. Come on.


Breathlessly I stare into the ring, all wide-eyed and flustered with my gaping mouth covered by both my hands. I'm still getting over that brutal chop fest y'all engaged in, which in all honestly had me feeling like sizzling hot welts were forming across my chest. And then, just like that, Rowan took ya down with such superhuman speed and precision - a gawd damn ninja assassin. She got ya down in the center of the ring within a blink of an eye, and has ya wrapped up in such an agonizing hold that every tormented, anguished groan that escapes your mouth gets me to shake with dread. My GAWD, Rowan's gonna literally RIP YOUR LEG OFF. I don't know how, but I just know ya have to break outta this. Somehow, someway, ya just gotta. There ain't no way you're gonna tap, just no fuckin' way. Your poor, tenderized knee looks like something outta some hard torture porn indie film that got banned across 49 States and some parts of Canada. And you'd STILL say that Rowan hadn't done ENOUGH damage to your knee to justify ya tapping. Fuckin' tough as hell, crazy kid.. I love you so fuckin' much...

Tapping is certainly outta the picture. No way will ya do that. So you're gonna fight your way outta this, you're gonna break free of this hold by sheer willpower alone no matter how much pain and agony you're enduring. Come on sugah, start fighting. Get back in this and get free and get back to whippin' this gal's ass and--

--then, Rowan starts spanking ya. Hard.

I feel my face flush bright red as those slaps and smacks become LOUDER with every strike, your taut, heavenly ass reddening quickly under the onslaught brought on by this deviant sadist. I start to flinch with every spank, my face just blushing harder the longer you're trapped in her torturous grasp. Soon I start to tune out the vicious smacks of Rowan's palm against your stinging ass, and while normally, watching ya get spanked is arousing on every single gawd damn level, right now the stakes are just too high to feel even a tinge of excitement at seeing this.

Well, maybe a lil' bit..


Come on.


You've been beaten, you've been bloodied. You've been tortured, tormented, torn asunder and humiliated. I stare at ya and feel nothing but dread bubble up within my stomach, spreading to every inch of my being. I stare at your beautiful face twisted in agony and the pain you're enduring is starting to bring tears to my eyes. But, you're not giving up - you're not even thinking about quitting. You are thinking though.. thinking of ways to escape, to fight back, to break free, and break Rowan's skull in once you're back on your feet.

Come on..

I recognize that kind of body language, I can see it in the sudden shift of your form, how suddenly focused you've become, rigid and still, trying to control your breathing, your pain threshold, your entire self. You're thinking..planning..the gears in your head are starting to really turn, plans forming in that beautiful head of yours at a breakneck pace. A lesser woman would have stayed down a long time ago, and probably would have stayed down for an entire week. But you? Something tells me Rowan's gotta do more, so much more, than she already has to put ya down for good.

Come--

You slam your fist down into the canvas so harshly it makes me gasp in shock. My eyes light up and I just mark the fuck out as ya twist HARD to the side, straining to turn over, to reverse Rowan's own hold, all the while ROARING like a gawd-damn fire breathing beast ready to slaughter anything that comes her way.

"C'MON MEGAN! THIS AIN'T OVER, YA AIN'T DONE YET! THAT'S IT! THAT'S FUCKING IT! YOU'RE SO CLOSE BABY! YOU'RE SO FUCKIN' CLOSE! JUST A LIL' BIT MORE! YA ALMOST HAVE HER!! FUCKIN' COME ON--YES!!!!!"

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 13, 2017, 11:28:48 PM

With my knuckles crunched into the mat and my muscles strained like high tension wire, I roll the Nevermore reverse figure-4 over, which does no fucking favors at all for my knee but at least lets me press up and pour the pressure into YOUR legs, stretching out those fucking ligaments. The satisfaction of your suddenly intense scream of pain - god damn, you ARE a fuckin' screamer, darlin'. Always loved that about you - is rich as creamery butter. It only gets better when you scrabble away from the torquing torment, unhooking our legs, and I can roll to my side, and clutch at the twisted knot of pain that throbs where my right knee was, digging my thumbs in to try to loosen it.

Fucking Nevermore. There IS no fucking balm in Gilead that can help right now.

I'm unable to speak beyond a snarled whispering hissed tumble of vile curses, not so much at just you but at the universe that let you exist in it and my knee for being so fucking hurtable.

"NNNhhhhhhhhffffffffffuckin' hell sonuvabitch BASTARD shittin' cocksuckin' whoremonger FUCKWIT shitsack cxntlickin' ASSMUNCH ..."

I roll over, instinctively going for the ropes -

- and I get what Callista Quinn would sometimes refer to as "a moment of clarity" whenever she'd wake up from a long facedown nap in a gin puddle and realize it was three days since she'd started drinking.

A wrestler's instinct when your leg is taken out from under you is always to try to get to the ropes. Even in a no-rules match like ours where there's no rope breaks, the ropes provide stability, support. A way to drag yourself up. To get on your feet, get your boots on the mat again. That's the most important thing that's drilled into you throughout your training if it's half-decent - get UP. If you're down, you can be pinned. If you're on the mat, you can be pretzeled. Get the fuck UP.

But no matter how hard I try right now, I'm not gonna get up to my feet before you do. You snaked out of the reversed Nevermore way before I could do any serious damage to those lovely legs of yours, and while your back and your ribs are still proper fucked, that's not gonna stop you from staggering over here and stomping me with those big fucking domme boots you love so much. And if I'm dragging myself up the ropes like a sailor in a monsoon when you come at me, I'm gonna end up with my back to you. And by the indignant stinging of my ass, I'll be DAMNED before I give you my back again.

But if I DON'T get up ...

The idea is a bitter pill to swallow. The idea of letting you think you've hurt me, of letting the crowd see me fallen ... again ... it burns in my fucking belly like napalm and bile.

But if I don't get up ...

... you won't be able to resist, will you, Ro?

You can never, ever pass the opportunity up to talk shit. And with me down on the mat, suffering from the damage you've done to me, from being trapped in the move you and I named together in that locker room down in Florida? Oh, you'll never in a million fucking years be able to pass up the chance to come hissing all sorts of wicked shit at me. Taunting, belittling, mocking shit. And I still won't get up.

I knead my knee and growl as I force myself to say it again in my head.

I. STILL. WON'T. GET. UP.

I'l lay here moaning and suffering and you'll have to come pick me up, by the loose tangles of sweaty purple you've made by stripping my punktails out, ready to show Thomas and everyone else that you're the fucking queen of cruelty, too wicked for a heart, too strong to break. Ready to show everyone once and for all how you're too strong for me.

And then I'm gonna give you somethin' you've had coming for a long time, sugartits.

So I wait until I hear your boots scrape the canvas. I push away the roar of the crowd - even that titanic lusty cry of my darling Tiffany, with her bust carrying a yell that would make an opera singer stagger backwards - and I push away the buzz of Larry and Rick from the overhead speakers carrying their announcing, and I LISTEN. I'm rolled over to my left hip, my right leg drawn up, cradling my knee and working my thumbs into it - because that part's not fucking acting, my knee is just FUCKED - and as soon as I hear you get up I push up on the canvas, half-staggering to my feet to a roar from the crowd before I gingerly put weight on my right leg and give out a perfectly authentic cry of pain, which is easy because THAT FUCKING HURT - "NNHHHHH FUUUUCK!" - and topple back to the mat, clutching my knee and rolling to the side - the side where I can watch you coming, and let you see the pain and frustration on my face, the blood running down my left cheek from my straining in the Nevermore lock reopening my cut.

And my nostrils flare as I take a slow breath in through my nose, and let it out through my gritted teeth. Finding my center. Forcing my fury to be leashed, for just a fucking moment. To let myself show the pain I'm in instead of forcing it down and burying it.

I hate letting you see it. I hate it like fucking poison.

But it'll be worth it ... if it draws you in.

LVK: DAMN it. Megan Dow goes down. It was a valiant effort to break that woman's hold and then to struggle back to her feet, but the damage may have been too much.

RP: Chance is takin' her apart, bit by bit.

LVK: It makes me sick.

RP: You're not exactly bein' objective here, Larry. You're the play-by-play man, I'm the one who has to add the friggin' color, right?

LVK: Megan Dow is a violent and unpredictable woman in and out of the ring, but she's always - ALWAYS - been kind to me and my family. She's my friend. And YOU are supposed to be her friend too, Rick.

*for the first time, "Precious" Perle sounds audibly irritated*

RP: GET OFF YOUR FUCKING HIGH HORSE, LARRY. YEAH, I like Meg. We rode together, I showed her some stuff to use in the ring, an' one time she beat up a guy who came backstage looking for me after some poker games went bad in Atlantic City. Hell, for that matter, I like Rowan. She's friggin' funny, and smart, and charmin'. I like BOTH of them but they're here tonight because they FUCKING HATE EACH OTHER. And that woman on the mat you're fawnin' over like she's Rocky fightin' Apollo STOPPED ROWAN CHANCE'S HEART in the first round, so there's no heroes here. Call the damn match.

LVK: ...

RP: Heh. Usually the blank take is my bit.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Becca Blast! on December 14, 2017, 12:29:58 AM

That... is a vicious hold... my knees ache just thinking of it... or maybe it's the narrow damn aisles.

No, it's the hold... and god love her, Punky reverses it... you can see the pain as Rowan abandons her own mischief to save herself.  But she didn't hurt as long as Punky did.... she's going to be in charge of this again as they get up... but she has to get up....

GetUpGetUpGetUpGetUpGetUpGetUp... trying by force of will to power her now... and she drops.. she can't get up.

Oh, God... after all this... is THIS how you want to do this?   She's going to get BUTCHERED!

And I can't stop it.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: RedEnforcer on December 14, 2017, 12:35:18 AM

This just hurts. Rowan has always had a nasty figure four, but to reverse it like that?

No amount of Miyagi warm hands are going to fix that knee anytime soon.

I?m back to sitting down and biting my mask and bouncing my leg like a man waiting for his first child to make an appearance. Or maybe it?s more like that child is doin an uneven bar routine and with each release I worry more.

I struggle and help Megan with body gyrations hat slam my seat neighbors back and forth as I watch her try, then finally succeed at turning over that leg lock and making the python ease her grip.

get up

Come on.

That is it...
Just a little

Motherfucker

She looks really hurt.
She?s staying down.
She should not let someone like Rowan see her be so vulnerable.

Come on
Come on
Come on


Wait....

Meg would most definitely not stay down that long.

What is she....

I rise to my feet again and just bellow...

You gawdforsaken vile snake. Stay away from her you piece of trash. You done hurt her enough you egg sucking dog


Maybe that will help Rowan decide to move in a little more quickly. That is your plan Megan.

I hope.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 14, 2017, 01:07:39 AM

I'm staggering up to my feet when I hear your scream and a sudden thud.

I've heard that sound before. It's the sound of your body hitting the canvas. I'd know it anywhere. I heard it a hundred thousand times on the road when we were the Daughters of Darkness, and every time I heard it, my heart ached.

It was the sound of your body hitting the canvas. Lifeless. Helpless. Beaten.

It meant it was time for me to jump through the ropes and outrace the three count, throwing my boots forward, kicking someone in the face.

I remember when you took that brutal Over and Under from that Smoky Mountain tag team, the Shitkickers. The blond one had you on his shoulders and the brunette came running off the ropes, leaping into the air and clotheslining your limp body as the blond fell back in an electric chair. You hit the canvas with that sound and everything in me--every nerve, every tiny bit of me--feared for you. I ran into the ring, the referee counting with every step. I had to make it... had to...

I know that sound anywhere. It's the sound of Punky hitting the canvas. And this time, my heart doesn't ache.

--okay, my heart does ache, but for entirely different reasons--

This time, I let loose a laugh that you've heard a hundred thousand times before. You'd know it anywhere. You've heard it when we were the Daughters of Darkness, and every time you heard it, it meant whoever was in the ring with me... was fucked. When I pulled Red off the canvas, lifting his heavy frame by his torn mask--torn by my hands--and kissed him hard before lifting him and twisting his limp body into the tombstone piledriver position. And the crowd suddenly turned ice cold, frozen by the sound of that laughter.

You'd know that sound anywhere. It's the sound of whoever is in the ring with me knowing that they are fucked.

I turn slowly. On my heels. Stalking across the canvas. One tall boot in front of the other.

Suddenly, that pain in my back fades to a dull roar. My head clears up. All of it as I see you on the canvas, struggling toward the ropes. Seeing the pain in your face. Dragging your limp leg behind you, sinking those thumbs into the knee, trying to numb the agony that must be rushing through your body.

My wickedest smile curls on my red lips. Red from the lipstick--the blood red you always loved--and from the actual blood I've coughed up since you stopped my heart.

"Did the little Purple Vixen fall down?" I whisper in my whiskey-soaked sultry voice. I bend over close enough for you to take a swing at me. But, not close enough. So your punch goes right by my nose without even dodging.

"Can the little Purple Vixen not get back up?"

Another wild swing. Another miss.

"That's strike two, Megan."

My right boot kicks out at your belly. Not with any real force at all. Just to show you, Megan, that I could.

"That's to show you who is in control here." Another light kick. "Because you love to give it to me, don't you? Love to serve it up to me and let me take it right from your little tattooed hands."

I watch you struggling. Watch you dragging your leg behind you. Stay in place long enough to watch your ass under that short skirt. It must be red and sore under that lycra. Let's make it a little more red and a little more sore.

And another SMACK on that fine ass of yours as you claw your way along the ropes. I watch your body flinch with pain and that other emotion we both know you're feeling right now.

I walk--yes fucking walk--along the side of you, avoiding your grasping hands.

Walking. Something you can't do right now.

I let you hear the clip-clop of my heavy boots as I do. Then, I get in front of you. Put my hand on the middle rope and squat down, bending my knees. The sound of my leather shorts bending with me.

Yes, I can bend my knees. Another thing you can't do right now.

Squatted right in front of your pained, sweaty face. Blood oozing from your freshly opened wound. You're in so much pain, you can't even talk. Just glare at me with those eyes of yours. Those lovely hazel eyes. Your lips are tucked in as you bite them. Your pale skin so wet. Eyes, too.

"You have tears in your eyes, Megan," I whisper as my hand wipes them away. Mock concern on my face. Amazement. "Real tears." I run my salty finger along my tongue.

"I didn't know you could cry. Maybe you do have a heart after all."

Then, I smile.

"But not for long."


You gawdforsaken vile snake. Stay away from her you piece of trash. You done hurt her enough you egg sucking dog


I hear Red's voice screaming from the front row. I look at him, just for a moment.

"Watch closely," I shout out to him. "This one's for you, Traitor Red."


I quickly snap my hand in your hair and jerk it back, trying to lift you up along with me.

Time for one...last...move.

And you'll make that wonderful sound one more time.

The sound of your body hitting the canvas. Lifeless. Helpless.

Beaten.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 14, 2017, 05:47:06 AM

Yep. There's that fuckin' laugh.

Sting's got his war whoop, Megumi Kudo had her fist-pump roar, Reckless Youth had his "KING OF DELAWARE!", Adam Cole just throws up four fingers and gets the crowd to do his catchphrase for him, and Rowan Chance laughs like a sexy young Alec Baldwin playing the fucking Shadow (you end up watching a lot of old movies in Greyhound stations). Heard it dozens of times in bingo halls and armories and sporting centers all across every fucking town on the map. Even knowing it was coming, even after all the times it's rung in my ears, it still sends a thrill up my spine. It means you're ALL fired up. It means you're ready to hurt someone.

It means you think you smell blood.

I can't let my sudden surge of hot toxic glee show on my face. Not least of which because I'm actually fucking bleeding, and my knee is not THAT much less pained than I'm letting on, so I don't exactly have a lot to giggle about, but also because I want you to keep coming. And of course you don't disappoint. Rowan Chance just NEVER stops coming.

(Ha! Right?)

I drag my leg behind me, making for the ropes. Face twisted up in pain and determination with purple hair hanging in sweaty slick tangles over it like Sarah Connor crawling for the shotgun in the steel mill. You come closer, and yeah baby, there's the shit-talking, low and wicked. You're all turned on, aren't you, my little raven? 'course you are. Seeing me all hurt never fails to get you fired up, you thirsty little bitch. You come closer, leaning in, and you clearly want me to take a swing at you.

Fortunately, like my pretending my agonized knee hurts, that's an easy bit of acting, since I REALLY want to punch your fucking teeth down your throat. I release my knee and SWIPE a wild shot at you, and you smirk in a way that makes me want to hit you even harder. I could really wipe that smirk off your face, reach up and snatch the waist of your little leather shorts and jerk you into me so I could REALLY tag your pretty face - but that's not good enough.

Not compared to what I've got in mind.

Somethin' sweet.

So I swipe again, and let you chuckle your little smug fucking chuckle that I kinda hated even when we were partners. You were smug like a clown wears greasepaint, fucking smeared all over you.

A little boot to my belly. "Hunnnhh!" I jolt a little, as you keep running your fucking mouth and give me another. "Unh-!" I paw at the ropes, dragging myself along them, a snarl etched on my face after that last little comment. Fucking bitch. If I could rip back every kiss from your lips I would. My head hangs as I grind my taped knuckles swiftly into my eyes while you put on a runway walk beside me, twisting my fist into one eye after the other to make them good and watery. They're already red and wet from the ferocity of the struggle in the Nevermore. I just wanna really fuckin' sell this shit. I want you DRAWN IN, you bloodthirsty little spider. Right into MY fucking parlour.

You come down to face me, all legs and bloody smile and well-remembered curves and lush silky skin and dark hair. Fuck you for being so fucking gorgeous.

Then you lick the streak of freshly knuckled tears up like Courvoisier (knew ya'd like that, fuckin' deviant) and I hear Red bellowing in the crowd. He's in full-on Low Country mode, and I have to bite my lip HARD not to giggle when he calls you an egg-suckin' dog. Fortunately it just adds to my air of furiously defiant agony.

Reddy knows. No fucking way he'd bust out "egg-suckin' dog" if he wasn't trying to get your back up.

And it works. I HEAR the raised hackles in your voice when you hiss at him and SNATCH my sweaty tangle of purple hair. You're gonna just haul me right up for the Widow's Bite, aren't ya? That's what you've been dreaming of since I made the challenge. Hitting that fucking move on me again.

But I ain't dreaming, Rowan. I'm remembering a road trip, from a run in a local fed near you in Arizona up to a show in Nevada. The sun was a blazing glare in an endless blue sky and all around was just endless red, and we'd been talking about the match the night before.

You'd been getting worked over pretty hard by Lucky Petra and La Titillier, a couple of Eurotrash girls with shameless sensuality and overly revealing attire. They might've been tarts, but they were tall and strong, lithe and powerful, and they'd been cutting the ring in half all night, beating you down whenever I stretched for a tag. I was frothing at the fucking mouth when they were setting you up for some sort of spike piledriver - and when I saw their manager Mssr. Pierre up on the apron distracting the ref so they could hit the doubleteam, that fucking tore it.

I'd stampeded into the ring and SHOULDERCHECKED the ref hard into Pierre so their heads clonked like coconuts, sending the Frenchman in the long blue coat tumbling to the concrete as the ref staggered and fell, not knowing what just happened. And I'd gone racing over, Docs airwalking the mat and punktails streaming behind me and SLAMMED an uppercut up between Lucky's thighs to pound her fucking mound as she was perched on the middle rope before giving her a pieface shove over the ropes to the outside to land with a boneshaking thud. La Tittilliere had dropped you from her standing headscissors and came and grabbed my shoulders from behind, so I mule-kicked my heel up into her cxnt as well, then turned around, yanked her hands off her aching crotch and hoisted her up for an atomic drop to finish busting her up before I shoved her down and took you by the wrist and the back of your shorts as I guided you as gently as I could to our corner, where I resumed my spot on the apron. I was holding the tag rope all nice and legal, reaching over the top for your hand as the ref shook his aching head and looked around at the moaning French chicks clutching their cootches on the mat, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.

We'd been laughing about that, and it'd come up that you'd never really taken a fucking mound pounding in the ring.

"Nobody's ever fuckin' crotched you? EVER?"

My eyebrows were halfway to my hairline. You just smiled, driving the big ol' comfy Caddy. I had to admit this was better than the Greyhound.

"Nope. They just assume a sexfighter like me...well, it'd be like trying to headbutt a Samoan."

I laughed, draining off some Sonoran root beer.

"Well ... I mean, sure, a big blind uppercut to your goodies is probably just gonna feel like that dude from New Mexico who kept his cowboy hat durin' the sexfight and didn't have any moves except rammin' you, but like - what if it was more ... precise?"

"Boys," you'd said, just laughing. I loved listening to you laugh back then. You'd kept your hands on the wheel at 10 and 2. "They think they can just hit you with 'MY BIG NINE INCH' and you'll just melt."

I tilted my head back and tore off a hunk of pemmican in my teeth, contemplatively. You heard the silence from the other side of the car and added softly: "Yeah. Sorry. That must be kind of gross, huh?"

"Naw, I'm just tryin' to figure out if nine inches is actually big or if you're bein' ironic." I'd grinned, chewing the peppered dried meat, my bare tattooed feet up on the big hot dashboard.

"But I'm sayin'," I'd turned towards you, drawing a leg up under me. "Like one time I fought this tiny chick, Princess Something or Other, right? Super flyweight, all aerial shit, I wrecked her up for 2 out of my 3 dates with the fed and she got so pissed off she demanded we go NHB for my last appearance. She ended up being stretchered outta there that night, but before that she hit me with this SHOT ... she had her middle knuckle out like she was froggin' someone's leg in middle school, right? Spread my legs and just DRILLED me on the mat with it."

I shivered a little bit, despite the desert's furious heat. "Just fuckin' NAILED my clit because she's either a fuckin' pussy assassin or I had walked under two fuckin' ladders and stepped on a black cat that night."

You'd grinned at me. "You sure that was bad luck?" Your dark eyes were wicked ... but you weren't answering my question.

My cheeks colored up hotly and I'd first punched your arm hard enough to bruise and then lunged over to suckle your earlobe, my tits pressed to your bicep before I remembered if I kept pressing to you I'd swerve us off the road and we'd die.

"Bitch! And ... I MIGHTA soaked my shorts a TINY bit ... good thing, though, was she was so fuckin' smug about that she decided she'd climb a ladder and hit a 630 on me. And there was no ladder set up in the fuckin' ring yet. Gave me plenty of fuckin' time to recover while she was wrestling the damn thing into the ring and getting it up and climbin' it. Let me tell you how well that went for her."

I propped my left elbow on my right palm, inked forearm straight up, and then I mimed it falling over with a little cartoon scream. "Aaaaaaaaahhhh - pppbbbttthhbbt." I added a pierced-tongue raspberry to indicate the sound she made hitting the concrete.

You were taking a sip of hot tea when I did that. Then it was it was dripping off the windshield and steering wheel as you snorted laughter.

"BUT," I'd added, "Point is, this little 4'11 hundred-pounds-soakin'-wet flippy-shit fairy princess COULD'VE fuckin' pinned me. My eyes fuckin' rolled like spinning jackpot wheels when she tagged me."

You'd gotten your breath back, and regained your grip on the tea-soaked steering wheel. "Sounds like something I should avoid," you'd said. Oh, so carefully you'd said it.

"Mmmmmm ..." I'd leaned in close, nestling up as you drove, and murmured in your ear, low and secret and teasing because I hadn't missed how much you DIDN'T want to discuss this. "... good thing no one is dumb enough to try to mound pound Iron cxnt Rowan Chance, huh?"

Your eyes came off the road for a second. Just a second. So you could look at me. "I make half my living pounding my pussy on things, babe. Even if they were able to...I'd just look back at them and grin."

I'd arched an eyebrow - and then my eyes got that gleam in them. And I got that smile. The mischievous one. The fuckin' dangerous one. I glanced at the road to make sure no trucks were coming and then curled up against your side, breasts warm on your shoulder, my left arm sliding behind you to stroke your hair, my right hand slowly running over your thigh ... running in silky snaking brushes inwards and upwards.

"H-h-hey!" You gasped. Gods, that sounded so fuckin' sweet. I had just one fingertip tracing your jeans, up the line of your hidden petals that I knew even through denim. Your legs squeezed on my hand and your cheeks flushed. THAT was new. Rowan Chance getting hot-cheeked at a little heavy petting ...

"You'd just look at them and grin ..." I purred.

"Stop that. MEGAN. I'm driving!"

My breath was hot and teasing on your ear, soft lips brushing it.

"But what if ... they knew just where ... "

My fingertip brushed you, just there. You grabbed my wrist, pulling us to the side of the dusty desert road one-handed in a cloud of red. Your voice was stern - but breaking.

"If you did it...yes. Absolutely yes."

You'd look at my deep dark eyes.

"But only you."

Things got interesting after that. We hadn't gotten much further that day, since that little pit stop on the roadside ended up lasting until sundown before we got dressed again.

But I never forgot.

And as you drag me up from the mat by my purple tangle of hair - loose from my punkytails, just dragging me up like we're in a hotel room and you're pulling my face up your bare glistening body, I end up on my knees, and my right knee screeches nails-on-chalkboard pain through my leg as my weight settles there.

And I crane my head up at you, and smile that smile. The dangerous one. I purr breathlessly up at you, face blood-streaked and glistening sweat.

"I ... remember EVERYTHING."

And I SWING my right arm up between your smooth olive thighs, my hand curled into a brutally tight fist with my taped thumb JUTTING out from it.

Aiming to just fucking DRILL a Stumptown Spike right into sexfighting champ Rowan Chance's iron cxnt ... the vicious dagger of my thumb driving right into the delicate peaked spot that a lover knows best.

That only I could hit.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 14, 2017, 06:13:02 AM

LVK: Rowan is making the sign for the Widow's Bite!

RP: That move is banned in seventeen countries. But not France.

LVK: No. Not France.

LVK: Me--Punky looks helpless. This is--


(a sudden pause. then... simultaneously, both men make a painful GROAN and the audience makes a single unified "OOOOOOOOO!")


RP: Did she just...

LVK: Yeah.

RP: In the...

LVK: Yeah.

RP: Holy shit.

LVK: Oh, yeah.


The shot hits exactly where you aimed. Exactly.

My body STOPS. Just. STOPS.

I was leaning over to pick you up. My hand in your hair. I stay there. For at least three seconds.

My eyes open wide. Pain. Surprise. And something else.

Something...else.

My lips tremble. My head, too. My eyes flutter and close.

My hand--my shaking hand--loses its grip on your hair. Fingers splayed wide open.

My voice makes a soft, high sound. You've heard it before. You've heard it a thousand times before. Like me trying to breathe, but I can't because my body won't work because of what you're doing to it. It's what you liked calling "The Herald of Rowan's Big O."

My body starts to shake. My face twists.

I fall to my knees. Hard. Fucking HARD.

The hand that was on your head lands on your shoulder. My other hand just clenches into a claw. Then a fist. Then back to a claw.

My head falls forward, landing on your chest, just between and above your breasts.

The hand on your shoulder slips and falls. Down to my side.

My other hand falls, too.

That's when you realize...all this time...I haven't been able to breathe.

You hear tiny gasps that reach the back of my throat and stop.

Like a woman with asthma.

You know exactly where I am. You've seen me in so many sexfights. Even got me this far once.

Once.

I'm doing everything in my power to hold it back.

And I can hold it back. You know I can.

But...I'm...failing.

And that is all I can do.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: RedEnforcer on December 14, 2017, 03:09:52 PM

I finish yelling and I see the subtle shift in Rowan's body language. I knew that line from the Funker would strike home. As much as this match has been about both of you working out your personal issues, you've both made it clear that you want to destroy the other in front of the people they care about.

So yes, I play the Adrian to Megan's Rocky and like expected you whirl on me. You think I betrayed you, but what you don't see is that you've betrayed yourself. Yes Megan hit you with the Heartbreaker. But it was in the ring and a wrestling move. But you, you took it far beyond the confines in the ring when you tried to permanently mutilate Megan in front of Gemma.

Maybe also when you stripped off her shirt and her braids it reminded me of the time you ripped my mask off of me. For all the love you have in you, when you strike in anger, you strike to kill. There's just something demeaning in ripping someone's identity from them. The whole lucha tradition of the mask is more a commentary on the larger idea of identity. There is power in the mask, in the legacy that one imbues the mask with. To strip that away is as much the death of a persona as it is a physical removal and reveal.  Perhaps that's another place where I felt like you went too far.

I'm a heel. I'm better at it than being a face. I cheat. I overstep bounds. But there's always that one caveat. It's all in the context and the rules of Wrestling. Wrestling is its own universe with rules and laws and tropes. And within those boundaries, you can do a lot of evil shit. Paul Heyman was the master of blurring that line, but always so very careful never to cross it. In my mind, even if not in yours Rowan, you crossed that Rubicon and what happens to you now is fully on you.

And if I can get your sexy back raised up at me long enough for Megan to hatch whatever plan she's got up her taped sleeve, well that's bonus. 
I know if it were me pulling this move, I'd go for something soft. Something delicate and something vulnerable. Two thumbs to the eyes will stop you in your tracks and give her time to rest up.

I half listen to your hissed venom launched at me and pay attention to what Megan's doing.  I know she's got a heel move coming. I sure as hell taught her enough.  The eyes, the ears, something soft...something vulnerable...

Well fuck me

I didn't teach her that.

Much more effective than an eye gouge.

Holy shit.

That reaction...

The way your body just...just shuts down...
That sound you make...I've heard an echo of it before...
Are you breathing?
You're right there aren't you?
Megan has you on the edge....and your grip is slipping...

You're about to fall...

Spectacularly

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Vivianne on December 14, 2017, 03:30:21 PM

Here it comes! I inhale sharply, holding my breath as I watch Rowan start to pull Punky up, certain we?re about to see that purple head spiked through the boards in Rowan?s deliciously vicious Widow?s Bite. Yesss!

NOOO!!!

The breath I was holding explodes from my lips in a wail as Punky?s thumb spikes Rowan in just the right spot, reducing her to a quivering mass seeming unable to move. This can?t be good.

Gawd Rowan...

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Lord Tantalus on December 14, 2017, 10:01:57 PM

Quentin Tarantino says his characters wear "uniforms" that identify their roles to the audience. If you see a man or woman in a black suit in a Tarantino film, you know exactly what they are. When I met Rowan, she wore a thin leather jacket over a black tank top and jeans. She had a pair of boots on that came up to her middle shin. Leather boots. There was no bra under the tank top. I quickly learned this was her uniform. It let me know exactly who she was--and what she was. She sat in the coffee shop with her hot tea, reading a Psychology textbook. Everyone was watching her. And when she used a finger to pull a strand of hair over her ear, I had no choice. I got up from my seat and asked, "Can I sit here?"

She looked up and then around the coffee shop, looking at all the empty chairs. She smiled at me. "Sure," she said.

We talked for a while. She told me she was studying to be a therapist. I told her what I was doing.

Then, she saw the ring on my finger. The triskelion ring. She said, "Is that what I think it is?"

I nodded. "Yes."

She said, "Can I see it?"

I held my hand out, not touching the ring, giving her the opportunity to take it off herself. She didn't hesitate for a moment. That was something I learned quickly about Rowan. When she wants something, she doesn't hesitate.

She held the ring in her hand, turning it over. "The way you're wearing it--on your hand that way--means something, doesn't it?"

"It does." I asked her, "How do you know that?"

She continued looking at the ring. "I'm studying to be a sex therapist. Specializing in taboo normalization." She looked up at me. "Helping people feel okay about their fetishes." She kept moving the ring through her fingers. Touching it. Rolling it. Watching me.

"That must be exciting work," I said.

She smiled. "It is." Then, she put the ring on her own hand. On the same hand. On the same finger.

I said, "That's my ring."

She clenched her hand into a fist. Her voice changed. Her tone dropped. And her dark eyes shined under her black hair.

She said, "Come and get it."



That night, I learned first hand about the now-legendary endurance of Ms. Rowan Chance. I can assure you, the legends are false. They don't match up with reality at all. She exceeds the legends.

She runs marathons to stay in shape. She practices yoga and belly dancing. When she was in college, she took classical dance training to add to her skills. And every once in a while, she grabbed a bag she kept in her closet and went out to a local club and danced for men with wide eyes and gaping mouths. Because she liked them watching her. And she liked being in control. They weren't in control of the situation, she was. And she liked denying them what they wanted.

"It's like paying to window shop," she told me once as we ate on the sidewalk outside the Italian restaurant. She was bulking up on carbs for the marathon next week. "They're paying to look at something they can't have."

"That's rather wicked," I told her.

She laughed. "You're one to talk."

We had been together for a month, although not truly together. She explained polyamory to me, something I thought I understood until I met her. "Polyamory isn't swinging," she told me. "I don't just fuck anyone."

"Were we even on a date that day in the coffee house?" I asked, my voice with a hint of tease to it.

"I knew I wanted you the moment you asked to sit down," she said. "I wanted that ring. And I wanted to see if I could take it."

I held up my hand, the ring settled on m finger. "And see if I could take it back?"

She didn't answer. She didn't need to. She called it "Top vs Top." A little game she thought she invented until I introduced her to the world of sexfighting. And since then, she was hooked.

But that wasn't her first love. Her first love was professional wrestling. Something I just didn't understand until she explained it to me.

I taught her sexfighting and she taught me wrestling. It was a fair exchange.



That was years ago.

Now, I'm watching from the front row, my thumb on the ring, twisting it around my finger. A nervous habit I thought I had vanquished. Apparently, I have not.

When Megan thrust her hand up between Rowan's legs, a part of me almost laughed. A part of me expected Megan's thumb to snap. But that's not what happened. Rowan's body just collapsed. Falling forward, falling into Megan's chest. Like a scarecrow falling from his perch. Limp limbs full of straw, his head kept on with twine. I see her eyes shut, her mouth open and lips dribble with saliva.

I have seen Rowan Chance in many predicaments, but not like this. Not like this.

The heart punch, I thought, was the end. I was wrong.

This. Right here. This is it.

If Megan can hurt her that badly and that easily...

Oh, my Rowan. My proud, strong Rowan. Seeing you limp and helpless.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.



And I see Megan. My Rowan limp against her body.

The Foxglove Queen's beauty is only matched by her merciless revenge.

I heard so much about her from you, Rowan. You came bounding to me, your eyes full of light and your lips singing songs. "Her name is Megan!" you said. "And she's incredible! We spent hours just talking and..." you paused. "You know."

And you blushed. You actually blushed.

"You're going to love her," you said. "She's a poetess. Everything she says is beautiful." And you went on. You didn't stop. Telling me about how she mixed pop culture with literature with mythology with street slang with kayfabe with punk rock lyrics. "She comes up with connections...she's like a punk rock pro wrestling Chuck Palahniuk!"

"She sounds fantastic," I said.

"I've got to get you two to meet." You were ecstatic. Jumping. Then, you said, "OH! I've got to go! Residency!" And you started bounding away.

"Didn't you just get off shift three hours ago?" I shouted at your back.

You spun around, dancing as you walked backward. "You're gonna love her!" you shouted. "And she's gonna love you!"



In a darker place. The door opens and a purple-haired vengeful spirit enters the room. Carrying a wooden mallet in her hands.

I sit calmly. If you wanted to hurt me, you wouldn't be waiting. You'd be doing it.

Words were exchanged. Some angry, some calm. Hours later, you left, that mallet still in your hands.

Then, months later, your second visit.

"I want it," you said.

I raised an eyebrow. "Exactly what would that be?"

"She said you never taught her the Heart Breaker."

I nodded. "I haven't."

You stood still for a long moment. "Teach me," you said. Like a command.

"Like all things," I said, "there's a price."

You didn't hesitate. Like Rowan, when you want something, there's no hesitation. "Name it."

I did. And you didn't hesitate. You pulled your shirt over your head...



...and now I see your naked shoulders again. As my Rowan lies in your lap.

I gave you the power to do this. You couldn't have done this on your own.

Beaten her? Yes.

But you did more than that.

I taught you the Heart Breaker for two reasons. One, because I wanted what you were willing to give.

But second...you needed to break her heart. For her to become what she wanted to be. I couldn't give her that. I loved her too much. No, in order for her to finally embrace the wrath and fury in her heart, she had to be hurt by someone she loved.

She had to be wounded.

She had to have her heart broken.

You did that, Megan. You did that.

And when I saw her destroy you, I saw the woman she always wanted to become. The dark and powerful weapon. The angry goddess of destruction.

Before she became the Goddess of Sun and Moon, Inanna needed to suffer death. True death. At the hands of the God of Death. Before that, she was incomplete. A wanton war goddess who wandered the streets of Babylon pulling soldiers out of taverns and fucking them in the streets.

That was my Rowan. A Goddess of the Moon. Powerful, but incomplete.

And after that heart punch, she faced the True Goddess of Death. Her death. Her symbolic death. A death more powerful than any physical one.

You destroyed her. You broke what Rowan Chance was. And helped forge what she is.


But I watch her, on your lap. Weak. Vulnerable.

And I know the transformation is not yet complete. Some of that girl I met in the coffee shop is still there.

She needs only a little more fire to purge it. To burn that girl away.

And you're going to give it to her, Megan.

The heart punch wasn't enough.

She still has to hang on the cross as Inanna did, hang on the Cross of the Goddess of Death and suffer until all of that Rowan was is gone. Stripped away.

Then... and only then... will she embrace what she is to become.


Give it to her, Megan.

Transform her.

Make her suffer.

And then, she will destroy you in heavenly hellfire.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 15, 2017, 02:43:54 AM

Back at the gym on Hawthorne and Cesar Chavez, Squire O'Dwyer used to have a thing he'd say when we got a move right. When you tagged a kick just where he wanted it thrown, when you pulled off an armdrag to drop the small of your opponent's back right onto a little X Squire had duct-taped on the scrummy canvas, when you hit a European uppercut that knocked someone's lights out briefly as the inside of our elbow hit them flush on the point of the jaw - he'd laugh his whiskey-roughened Irish laugh and say "Right on the button!"

He'd have fucking loved this shot.

Because this Stumptown Spike hit you RIGHT on the fucking button.

Funny. Normally this button turns you on, but it seems to have powered you off. Maybe Thomas should call tech support and let them know his TOY is broken.

You collapse down slowly. So exquisitely slowly, it's like the drop of a curtain after the lights go dark on the climactic scene of some fucking play about love and hate and betrayal and bloody cruel brutality. You don't topple, you don't cry out like you've been gut-shot ... you just sort of melt down into me, an ice sculpture getting hit with the slow kiss of a flamethrower, which kinda sums up our whole past pretty neatly.

There's that lovely high sound from your throat. Fuck, you even get your fun bits punched prettily. Your knees his the canvas with a satisfying thud even as it sends a cracked-tooth jolt through my own knee. Your hands drop from my tatterdemalion purple hair to my shoulder, and then to your sides as one convulsively clutches at nothing. And as your head slumps down to rest against my sweaty tits with the embroidered SPLX emblem pressed to your cheek, I keep my right hand just where it is, my thumb buried in your leather shorts, deep enough that it makes a soft creak with every slight move I make. Each little breath you draw presses you harder into the unbearable pressure of my thumb drilled into you at your softest spot as I keep my taped fist locked tight.

You gasp those sweet little gasps. I've heard those before, watching you with my lip bitten and my nipples stiff as some dusky tigress or smooth-shouldered man-beast took you to your limits. I even got you there myself once.

(No, it wasn't a league sexfight. I'm not a sexfighter. DAMN YOU, FUCK-PROMOTERS, STOP TRYING TO BOOK ME ON YOUR FUCKFESTS, GOD DAMN IT.)

But you're quivering on the edge right now, aren't you, Ro?

I could take you over.

I know I could. And as I shift my fist a tiny bit and the leather of your shorts creaks wetly and I feel your body quiver, slumped against me, I know that you know I could.

My left hand comes up, stroking your hair back, almost gently. My head dips, lips brushing your ear. My facepaint has been washed away, leaving them soft and pink, glistening with sweat and whiskey and blood.

"I could let everyone see you get fucked, Rowan. Isn't that what you want? Isn't that why you became a sexfighter? Because you wanted people to SEE you get fucked into a shuddering ruin? Wanted to hear the announcers call it?" I purr, soft and secret. Just you and me, close up. Breathing your scent as I cradle you against my chest - and I give my thumb a twist against you to jolt you.

"What do you think Larry and Rick would say, watching Unbreakable Chance spasm and drool? What do you think Red would do? Do you think he'd get hot, Rowan? I know Gemma would."

My voice is sweet purring poison. I grin against your ear.

"What about Thomas?"

A twist again. Another jolt. That high soft sound. Shuddered gasps. Your hands twitch at your sides.

RP: Is she WHISPERING to her? The hell are they doing?

LVK: It's just more ... of what these two women want to do to each other. I almost wish they'd just take chairs and take turns hitting each other like Axl Rotten and Balls Mahoney, may they rest in peace. They'd break each other's skulls but it'd be less brutal than what they've done to each other.

RP: They've really taken ya to a dark place when you're unfavorably comparin' 'em to Axl Rotten, van Keel. Jeezus. But seriously ...

LVK: Seriously?

RP: ... is Chance gonna cum or what? I got a fiver ridin' on this as a sidebet.

LVK: Young man, please bring me whatever whiskey they're serving. In a water glass.

"But there's just one problem with that sweet wicked dream of shame and pleasure, darlin' ..."

I give my thumb one last PRESS into you, with a soft squeal of damp, slick, hot black leather - and then my left hand TWISTS in your dark hair and YANKS your head back off my chest, cranking your neck back viciously as I snarl into your face.

"I DON'T WANT TO FUCK YOU, ROWAN."

The roar is loud enough to be heard all the way to the cheap seats so your fan boy can gasp in horror over it as my right hand yanks out from between your thighs and closes into a full fist, driving forward in a brutal cross aimed to just absolutely clock the FUCK out of your jaw. I don't think you're gonna be able to do much to defend yourself from it in the state you're in.

And then I move, dragging myself up to my feet on the ropes, and NOW I'm forcing the pain back down where it belongs, forcing it deep and stomping on it, internally snapping at my swollen and throbbing knee to shut the fuck up as it squeals in protest. I grab your dark hair and drag you up, to your knees, hauling you forward to hang you like a fresh kill over the middle rope, letting it bite into your belly. I make sure we're on the side facing Gemma. She'll want to see this.

I step forward, straddling your back, my long legs hanging over the rope and BLISSFULLY taking my weight off my knee, letting me sigh in relief and warm pleasure as I get to soothe my still-aching cxnt by pressing it into the hot sweaty smoothness of your bare lower back. My weight grinding you into the rope, crushing into your belly. I reach down over the top rope, sweaty hair hanging in long twisted tangles, and grab your wrists, dragging your arms up, hooking them over the top rope.

I can hear the crowd start to buzz. There's no 5-count here. No rope breaks.

Ha. Rope breaks.

You'll get it in a minute.

"I can do whatever I want to break you, Rowan," I grin, securing your arms your hands dangle inside the ring, swaying above the middle rope. I lock my thighs around your waist, securing my seat on your back.

"And I'm not in the mood to break your spirit or your heart or your love or any fucking metaphorical thing anymore."

I reach down, stretching my arms with a growl, my red boots swaying just off the ring apron as I drag my taped hands over your cheeks, lift your face ... and lace my fingers under your chin.

"I'm gonna cut to the fucking chase and JUST BREAK YOUR FUCKING BACK."

I snarl as I LEAN back, throwing all my weight back with my legs locked around your waist. YANKING you up to haul your head up to the top rope and crank your neck against it. Your arms trapped over the top rope. Thrusting my hips to force your fucking spine to bend the wrong way as I use the ring ropes to try to shatter your body.

I don't have a name for this rope-hung Camel Clutch. Beause I've never used it before.

Because I've never decided to just break someone's back with a whole audience watching before.

You said you wanted Thomas to remake you? Fine.

NOW HE'LL HAVE LOTS MORE LITTLE PIECES TO WORK WITH.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 15, 2017, 03:29:47 AM

That story about the ring isn't true. I actually talked to him for a whole hour before I asked to look at it.

But the rest is true. All of it. Every word.

And after that sledgehammer hit me in the jaw, I didn't see or feel or think very well. Just blurs of motion and sound. I don't know if she could have pinned me or not. I honestly don't know. But I don't think this is about pinfalls anymore. It isn't about putting someone's shoulders down to the mat for three seconds.

This is about something else now.

I feel rope being stretched across my belly and I think back to the first time Tantalus put rope across my belly. Then, around my back. My wrists. I was blindfolded. He kept asking me, "Are you all right?" And I kept nodding and biting my lip. I didn't need a blindfold because I was too excited to open my eyes.

Nobody is asking me if I'm all right now. Not as rough, taped hands wrap my arms over something hard and...is that a ring rope? Cable? Cord? And now lifting my chin. Pulling it up.

I feel that same cord on the back of my neck. The inside of your wet, sticky thighs on my back.

Only now am I beginning to understand.

And then... you WRENCH your arms, pulling my neck up. Arching my spine.

You know exactly how far my back can go. Years of yoga and belly dancing training have made me very flexible. One of my greatest weapons as a sexfighter and a wrestler. You know exactly how far I can bend...and you know exactly how far I can't.


RP: WHOAH...

LVK: Punky has put Rowan in a camel clutch that...to be honest ladies and gentlemen, I don't...I mean I can't even begin to know how to call.

RP: I can. I'll call it the JEEBUS GOD I HOPE I NEVER GET PUT IN THAT KIND OF HOLD EVER Camel Clutch.

LVK: You're a poet, Rick.

RP: You know it.



You bend my spine back so far, my face is turned up to the spotlights. I look like Stretch Armstrong or Mr. Fantastic. And I'm screaming.

"AGHH...FUCK! FUCKING...YOU BITCH! YOU FUCKING BITCH! I...I..."

The referee asks if I want to quit.

"NOOOOO!!!"

She waves at the timekeeper. "No!"

And you don't relent. You keep pulling. Keep shouting at me to quit. Quit while I can.

"I'M NOT YOUR FUCKING WHORE WIFE WHO CAN'T...AUUGGGNN...CAN'T TAKE A FUCKING PAPERCUT, BITCH!"

You really rear back with that. And I scream out loud. My breasts nearly pulling out of my leather corset. Somewhere in my mind, I'm thanking whoever invented body tape. Not that its hard to find my breasts on--


"AAACCCCHHHHHHFFFFFUFFDNDNNNNNNNNN..nnnnn..."



Somewhere...I hear the referee ask me again.

Your hands on my jaw, squeezing it shut. Spit spewing through my teeth. "nuh-nn-n-n..."

And something in my back...

... POPS.


"AAAAHHHFUCCKINGGODD! MEGAN!!!MEGAN!!!OHFUCK!!!YOU'RE BREAKING MY BACK!!!MEGAN!!!YOURRGGGNNNANnanan..."


The referee asks me again. "Do you quit?"

The pain in my body is kicking every nerve I have. With steel toed boots. On fire. Flaming steel toed boots. My whole body. Every inch of it.


you have to...say yes...don't let her hurt you anymore...say yes...do it...do it...your back is breaking...say yes...SAY YES...



"Y--y--ugggnnnn...fughh..."

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Vivianne on December 15, 2017, 04:11:42 AM

I don't gasp when I hear Punky scream at Rowan, though I do flinch when her punch slams into that beautiful face. No...words alone to not cause me to feel horror...but what happens next does. Seeing that wonderful, sexy body draped through and over the ropes and then YANKED back into a vicious camel clutch. Yeah...that pulls a gasp from me for sure, especially when NHB rules means no rope breaks. I know she's flexible. Gawd...it's one of the many things I find so alluring. But I also know she has had back injuries before and there is no way this is going to end well.

Even from up here I can see Rowan's body jerk. Something in her back went. No..no..NO NO NO!!! You want to know what horrifies me Punky? The scream that erupted from Rowan's lips. It causes me to freeze and hold my breath. The ref asks and she is struggling. Wavering. She should give. It's the smart thing to do. Give up and save your back Rowan. Save yourself from permanent injury. Just say yes...



I suddenly remember the day I told Rowan how I felt. Taking a chance with someone I only knew for a short time, yet could not get out of my mind. I remember her beautiful face when I told her. I remember the kind look as she explained to me why I could never have her. About Tantalus...and Megan. She didn't tell me everything...far from it...but she told me enough. Enough to know she will be forever linked to her former partner. Enough to know she can't give up. Even if she wants to...she simply can't.



So I scream. Not that she can hear me from up here, but I scream. I scream to keep myself from breaking down from the horror I am feeling.

 "COME ON ROWAN! DON'T GIVE UP!! COOMMEEE ONNNN!!!"

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Jessi the Country Cougar on December 15, 2017, 05:33:05 AM

I've been slowly working my way towards the ringside seats, admiring the ebb and flow of the match from many different vantage points and making soft little coos and purrs to myself as each of the warriors in the ring put on a show Zeus himself would have declared worthy of Olympus.  I know Megan's skill and fighting spirit personally..intimately even.  And while having never faced Rowan her reputation is impossible to ignore. 

By the time I make it to my destination, that delicious pop comes from Rowan's back like a champagne bottle being opened to celebrate.  I grin wickedly as my body tingles as I see the stubborn determination and refusal to submit even when it's the smart thing to do.  Logic says to take a defeat quickly and spare yourself an injury that will sap your strength in the long run.  But logic very rarely has a place inside the ring once the blood starts pumping and every nerve in your body feels like it's attached to a New York subway's third rail.  Pride and ego will overrule logic and reason everytime, no matter the consequences.

"Come on Meg, pull harder! If she can still make noises you're not doing it right!"

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: RedEnforcer on December 15, 2017, 06:19:38 PM

I watch with the same mix of surprise and excitement as Megan makes her point with her thumb.

I can see it. That look on your face. Sooo close.

Right on the edge. In fact there are times when I've taken you to that edge...and left you there...

So close..

But Megan doesn't want that. People have seen you in your sexfights. No she wants something more.

Fuck me that punch makes my jaw hurt. And then I see her drag you to the ropes. Oh, this is nasty.

I definitely didn't teach her this. But damned if I'm not gonna use it.

And there you are, clad in your leather...almost overtaken by pleasure and now swallowed whole by pain.

You can bend. Lord knows I know you can bend. But your abilities only go so far and Megan's strength, rage and leverage are going to push you past those limits.

I've seen you like this before as well. And it gives me the same reaction. In fact I find myself sitting straight up. My jeans feeling tighter as I see you on display in blessed agony. I can feel my own hands on your olive flesh pulling you back, hearing you groan through my fingers covering your lips. And you feeling how hot that makes me with my groin pressed against your straining back. I've had you in several camel clutch holds. I know what it looks like and what it sounds like when you fight. And I know just how much.....I enjoy hearing and seeing you like this.

I lick my lips subconsciously.

POP

Loud enough for all of us to hear it. Suddenly I'm worried for you. Yes I want Megan to beat you, but not permanently injure you. It's why I got so mad at you for what you did to Megan.  This now is no longer a wrestling hold, it's an implement of torture.

Fuck.

I look over to see the worried faces in the crowd. They all heard it too. I wonder what Tantalus must be thinking now.

My eyes move over on him and his body language seems off. I would expect more of a sense of concern, worry or fear. I'm not reading that at all.

No

He can't be...

That motherfucker is looking expectant!?!

What did he do to you Megan? What did you agree to that had him teach you that move?

He's playing chess with us again. Using us as his tools to accomplish his goals.  He did it to me when he first contacted me and sent me that Bane mask in a fight against Rowan.

He did it in Tokyo when we needed to take care of Aika.

And I can see his dirty fingers all over this. 

He's using you

Because he wants his Rowan. Not the best Rowan.

His Rowan

Ahhhh fuckin hell...

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 15, 2017, 07:38:51 PM

My legs wrap your waist, my inked thighs crushing just under your ribs. My skull-patterned boyshorts, all candy grins from the grave on black, grind into your back as I turn it from a smooth supple display of perfect olive flesh into Fig. 1 of a future medical textbook display: Patient's back prior to reconstructive spinal surgery. My skirt of ragged strips of coffin lining drags over your skin. *I* drag over your skin - the cxnt you tried your best to destroy, to mangle in front of my wife is still swollen, still hurts like broken glass ... but I've fucked in broken glass before. And it's hot. Can you feel that heat, Rowan? I guess I was lying when I said I didn't want to fuck you.

I just meant I want to fuck your broken useless body.

My hands are laced DEEP under your chin. You interlock your fingers under the SHELF of the jaw, that's the secret of a really good clutch. Some assholes try to just grip the chin, but no, you get in deep. The knife dges of your hands right against their throat. And your thumbs press to the hinges of the jaw, like THIS. It's a GRIP on their head, like you're trying to rip it off its fucking moorings.

I feel that POP under me. How could I not.

It sends an electric thrill that curls my fucking toes in my Docs. My blood red boots hanging in the air, giving my knee a needed respite as I grind my hips into you, using my weight and my leverage to torque you in fucking half.

You and everyone else here remember when Gemma and I destroyed your back.

Some of like Red and Thomas remember further, to when Jenny Dare famously fucked your back up. I know you sure as fuck remember that.

But I remember even FURTHER.

We were in Chicago. It was one of those fucking lake-effect winters outside so we hardly had a house since no one wanted to go through the driving snow and lung-freezing wind to pay 15 bucks for a one-off wrestling show promoted by some never-was from Heartland Wrestling. But we were booked, The Daughters of Darkness against the Queens of the Loop, a couple of local girls with a post-apocalyptic kinda Road Warriors-ish tribute gimmick. Bryn Mawr and Juneway. They wore shoulder pads made out of cut-up tires like in Demolition Man and road-map facepaint. Swear to the gods, that was their thing.

Obviously, we were working heel.

The main event hadn't been able to fly into O'Hare with the snow, so the promoter told us to make our match fuckin' No-DQ Tornado rules to sell it to the fans more. His greasy little announcer cooked up some cockamamie story about us feuding with these idiots all across the Midwest to get the 57 paying customers REALLY psyched up for our "grudge match".

And I'll give it to those bitches with the silly names and god-awful gimmicks - they hit fuckin' HARD. And they were strong.

And at some point one of 'em, Bryn Mawr I think, the bigger one with linebacker shoulders and the streak of red in her spiky brown hair, she hit you with a tilt-a-whirl backbreaker, catching you as you came at her, and all three of us looked at you - I was in the middle of punching my way out of a bearhug from the big busty German-looking chick with the blonde braid, musta been Juneway - when your scream fucking pierced the little VFW hall. I'd NEVER heard you go off like that after a move in the ring. Normally you were restrained to the point of being creepy, smothering all your pain in little gasps and growls. But as you hung over her knee, you were HURT ... and they KNEW it.

I immediately went for Juneway's eyes to try to get to to you, furious and terrified for you - and she tucked her head and RAN me into the corner, and the buckles shook as she crashed me in - and she just fucking held me there, not even fighting, just wrapping her arms around my waist and burying her body into me, securing her arm around the middle rope to hold me. I pounded on her back, but that bitch must've weighed 210, and I wasn't getting anywhere.

"RO!" I roared, clawing at her back, at her stupid fucking leather vest, trying to get to you.

Bryn grinned as the crowd roared in idiot nasal Chicago delight - and took your chin and your hip and FORCED you down. She wasn't as heavy as Juneway, but she was big enough to be a proper Road Warrior tribute. Spiky haired cxnt had half a foot on you. And she was strong as fucking hell, and I heard it as she BROKE you over her bent knee. Your screams ...

... and it went on and on.

Because you wouldn't give up.

"JUST GIVE! JUST FUCKING TAP! LET HER FUCKING GO!"

I was half insane, not even fighting properly, out of my fucking head with worry for you, fear for you.

And you just gurgled and shook your STUPID HEAD every time the ref checked on you.

Finally after so long - TOO fucking long with you NOT GIVING and Bryn just holding you there like fracturing a woman's spine was a winter hobby - I managed to grab Juneway's idiot braid and DRIVE my knee up into her face since the fat load was just laughing and holding me in place, breaking her fucking nose and shoving her off me as she squealed. And then I snatched a chair up Bryn had brought in earlier before you stopped her with a cxnt punt, and I brought it down on her head as she looked up in surprise.

And I hit her again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

I hit them both until that chair was broken apart in bleeding hands.

They were both just twitching on the mat, unrecognizable in masks of blood.

I didn't even bother going for a pin. I made sure they were fucking down and then I gathered you up. Every movement made you moan out in a way that broke my fucking heart.

The crowd was dead silent, since they thought they'd just paid 15 bucks to see a crippling and two murders.

(The Queens of the Loop were fine, eventually. Slight skull fractures. They were back in biz in like nine months and had some neat scars to make themselves look more bad-ass. They made sure never to ever get fucking booked anywhere near me, though.)

There was no fucking doctor here at this god-damn outlaw nothing show. So I carried you myself. In my arms. Trying to hold you as carefully as I can.

"Megan - it hurts," you moaned.

"I know, baby. Shhh. Shhhh, it'll be okay," I panted. I didn't know it would be okay. I was sure it wouldn't. I don't think I'd ever been scared of anything so much as the thought that it wouldn't be okay that winter night in Chicago.

I didn't know where to go. Finally I took you into the little back room that served as a locker room - I think it's where the VFW guys changed into their parade uniforms - and kicked my duffel over, spilling out my street clothes. I laid you down as carefully as I could, facedown on them.

You trembled with so much pain.

"Shhhh, Ro. Shhhhh, pretty raven. It'll be okay." I was assuring myself as much as you. More.

I ran my hands as softly and carefully as I could over your back.

And I could feel how crooked it felt through your laced fighting top even before you screamed.

You tried to stop me from using your phone to call 911, because you gasped that I never called a doctor. It's true. I taped myself back together with duct tape when I was bleeding and I pulled my own joints back into place and once bit a broomstick and slammed my dislocated shoulder into a door until it was back in, but that's because I'm a fucking idiot who thought I was Mick Foley with tits, I explained. You are getting an actual doctor.

I think you would've stopped me if you could've moved. Because it was like tapping out to call for help.

Remember?

And now we're way past Chicago. And we're way past my heart breaking for you.

But we're not past you being TOO FUCKING STUPID to give up.

"I KNOW YOUR BACK IS BREAKING, ROWAN. THAT'S WHY I AM FUCKING DOING THIS TO YOU."

I snarl, my head hanging back. Each word snapped out viciously, bitten off at the trailing ends. My boots thrust out in the air, knee pulsing with pain as my quads lock under your ribs, hips crushing into your spine and smearing my sick excitement along your olive skin as I haul your head back over the top rope.

"JUST FUCKING GIVE UP!"

I JERK your head back, thrusting into you with each snarled word, my purple hair whipping in sweaty strands, my tented pierced nipples outlined in black Lycra.

"YOU -

- WILL -

- FUCKING -

- BREAK."

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 15, 2017, 11:08:12 PM

"I can't move my legs."

The dressing room was ice cold. Fucking promoter wouldn't even buy a space heater. In the middle of winter. In Chicago. But it didn't matter. I wasn't feeling the cold.

"Megan... I can't move my legs."

You cradled my head, holding my cellphone in your hand.

"Ro, I need your passcode."

"I...ohfuck. Megan. MEGAN. ICANTMOVEMYLEGS!!!"

Those last words degenerate into sobs. You hold me hard and shout, "SOMEONE FUCKING CALL 911!" Then, you look down at me. "Baby. Shh. It's just a stinger. It'll pass. Trust me. I've had a dozen of 'em."

I'm sobbing like a frightened girl. Snot and tears. My body is shaking. I can't control it. I'm not even thinking of hypothermia. I'm just staring at my legs that won't move.

"It's all right, baby," you whisper to me. "It's all right."

"MY BACK! MEGAN! I CAN'T..."

"Shh..." you whisper, stroking my wet hair. "It's all right. Shhh..."

* * *

"MY BACK! MEGAN! I CAN'T..."

But your voice isn't soft and cooing this time. No. It's cruel and cold and heartless. You aren't trying to reassure me. No.

You're letting me know that you're going to exploit my biggest weakness. And you're going to finish what those bitches started in Chicago.

Your hands are tight over my chin. I'm almost bent into a ball. The top of my head could reach the bottoms of my boots if you pulled a little harder. If you had the strength to pull a little harder.

That POP was either a rib breaking lose or one of my vertebrae snapping out of place. I don't know which it is...but I can still feel my toes. Feeling them tingling. Numb.

The referee asks me again. "Rowan...do you quit?"

"Go on, babe," you say. "Tell her you've had enough. Tell her I'm too much."

You lean in tight, whispering in my ear. "Say our safe word." And you bite my ear hard.

My voice screams out. Not just in pain. Something deeper. A pitiful sound. Almost a whimper.

"SAY IT!" you shout at me. "FUCKING SAY IT, CHANCE!"

You wrench back again and I scream again. My arms flying free from the ropes, flailing about.

"I..."

"SAY IT!"

One of my hands lands on something that isn't a rope. It feels soft and creamy. And smells... smells...

"ungggnnn...qu..."

"SAY IT, YOU FUCKING PAIN SLUT! ADMIT IT!"

My hand tightens on it. Feeling its round shape. Bone. Flesh.

Your knee.

I can feel the swelling. Bits floating around in there that should be attached to something.

You pull again. I scream. And my fingers squeeze. Just out of instinct.

I hear a gasp.

Your knee. Your fucking knee.





My hand raises up...fingers curling... trembling...barely able to move...almost no strength...

...just like before. Just like when I hit you in your little soft space. The one that's going to need months of recovery before your slut wife can use it.

And my hand SLAMS down on your knee. Fingers out. Finding all the soft spots in a knee that nobody should touch.

And I know them all. Don't I Megan?

Because I spent years learning them. While you were bar brawling and drinking and fucking anything that had tits and half a brain, I was training. Learning. Becoming.

I know all the soft spots on your body. I know how to touch them to make them sing. And I know how to touch them and make them scream.

And your swollen, busted knee. My fingers. Digging in. Five points of pain, like a pentagram, all linked together by nerves.

Right on your fucking knee.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: The Second City Wrestlerette on December 15, 2017, 11:27:22 PM

Reading this makes me cry...I miss you all so much!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Emily Layne on December 16, 2017, 12:25:54 AM

Quote from: Lisa Starr on December 15, 2017, 11:27:22 PM

Reading this makes me cry...I miss you all so much!

This is so cute! ❤

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 16, 2017, 06:44:39 AM

My knee hasn't really haunted me as badly as your back has. I've been in some bad leg locks, but everyone's used to leg locks fucking you up, so it's not surprising when I'm kinda hobbled after a Texas Cloverleaf or whatever shitty MMA kneebar the kids are using these days. No one thinks twice about it. And when I'm icing my knee down after a match, I do it in private. Announcers generally don't catch on - I do yoga, which helps. In fact, I've probably done it for at least as long as you, I just don't dare people to bend me in half all the fucking time to show off. And I do the Coldstream Guard calisthenics Squire taught us and the Kaientai Dojo stretches, each and every day. I run like a motherfucker every morning, hung over or not, and I don't think about how my knee makes little creaks after I hit a superkick or a Shining Wizard sometimes.

But as much time as I spend NOT thinking about my knee or my other aches and pains and scars I've gathered over the years, as much as I try to forget about the scars YOU left on me over the fucking years, as much as I gut through it and keep going ...

... y'know, it's fuckin' hard to forget old hurts when your ex gets an arm free of the ropes you were trying to break her back in and digs her fucking fingers into the knee she's been trying to pop loose all night.

First your hand just flails and finds and it squeeeeeezes, and I can't stop a snaking hiss of air through my teeth as I'm hung over you. My legs twitch just a little, sunk into your sides. It's the tiniest little thing. But there are no tiny moments of weakness with you, huh? I dig my fingers in hard under your jaw but your hand comes up and SLAMS down and your fingers DRILL into the swollen tissue, under the skewed bone cap, digging into the patellar nerves, twisting into the tendons. Your fingers bite into me like fangs, sinking in deep, and my head whiplashes, sweat and blood arcing off my twisted face.

"AARRRRRRHHHHH FUUUUUUCK!"

I try to hold on.

I really do.

I REALLY want to break you, and I know I was so fucking close. SO close.

But ... my quad isn't tensed so much as BUNCHED, spasming and cramping from the pressure of your claw digging into my busted knee.

For a moment we're hung in a perfect chao of torture, my hands locked under your jaw and thumbs drilled into your cheeks, my back arched and legs spear-straight over the middle rope, locked around you, quivering and jerking as you dig your fucking talons into my ravaged knee. You're bent so close to in half, your destroyed back spasming, your face dripping sweat, your busted lip bleeding down your chin.

I try to hold it.

But I can feel the tendon starting to go, and the pain is breaking my leverage, and my hands finally twitch just enough for you to jerk at my knee and break my grip. I topple backwards off you with a rough thud, using the chance to RIP my knee out of your grip as I hit the canvas. "NNNHHHRRRRRNNHHH!" I snarl, incoherent as I roll to the side, cradling my knee AGAIN. I'm so FUCKING furious that I slam my taped fist into the mat, again and again.

I had you. I HAD YOU. I FUCKING HAD YOU. I SHOULD HAVE SNAPPED YOUR BACK LIKE A GOD-DAMN TOOTHPICK.

"FUCK. FUUUUUUUUUCK YOU, YOU MASOCHISTIC LITTLE RICH GIRL!" I roar in wounded, twisted fury.

It feels like a lot of this bloody, brutal, viciously personal brawl has been about remembering what was. What we were. What we shared. What broke us apart. The moments that defined everything about us over the years, laid bare before the crowd and written in violence.

But the memories of what was don't come in moments like this.

They're all washed away in the cleansing fire of how much I fucking hate you.

LVK: And Rowan Chance BARELY escapes! Good LORD, that rope-hung Camel Clutch was absolutely VICIOUS.

RP: Goin' to the knee was smart. She's a smart chick. Kinda psychopathic for my tastes, but I can learn to live with that.

LVK: Do you really think she'd let you live, Rick?

RP: ... y'know, no matter which of these nutcases wins, I got no better'n 50-50 odds of gettin' out of France alive. And I wish it was the first time I'd had to say THAT.

LVK: Rowan Chance may have saved herself the match, but what's been the cost to her damaged spine? And can Megan Dow even STAND?

RP: Maybe they'll both end up crippled and I'll get away clean.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 16, 2017, 08:00:14 AM

"Hurting people is easy."

Tantalus saying that. A dark room. Almost no lights. Just the sound of chains. The flicker of a candle. He's wearing his red jacket and his mask. Everything else is black.

"You just need two things. The knowledge of how to do it. And the will to do it."

The sound of his foot steps on the hard wood floor. He walks in a small circle.

"I've watched the matches you asked me to watch. Evaluated your...style."

The slight sound of chains again. And leather stretching.

"Flamboyant," he says, raising a finger. "But not effective."

He makes almost a full circle, back to where he started. There are no windows in this place. Only darkness, the candle, him, and the chains.

"I'm going to teach you how to hurt someone with the slightest of moves."

He steps forward, the candle lighting his eyes behind the mask.

"Is that what you want?"

The chains rattle. And my muffled voice makes a soft, whimpering sound.

"Very well," he says. "Let's begin."

* * *

Back in the ring, a few moments ago, you said the words.

""Rich girl."

They echo in my head. Along with my own voice. A sudden SLAP and my words.

"Don't you ever fucking call me a rich girl again. Or it'll be OVER between us."

There are a lot of echoes in my head. But right now, they're overshadowed by the pain.

I fall to the canvas, the impact making me cringe. Making my body freeze. My hands clench into fists and then claws and then fists again.

My toes are tingling. But I can move them. Yes, I can move them. I cough and it feels like I swallowed a poker that's been sitting in a winter fire all night. I check my side. Yeah. I've got a floating rib. I shake my head. Spit blood on the canvas. Try to move.

No, my body says. You don't get to do that yet.

I look at you. On the mat. Clutching your knee. Trying to wish it back to health. But that's not going to happen.

"You're not getting up any time soon, Megan Dow," I say, blood in my mouth.

I put my hands under me. Push myself to my knees. And I crawl.

That's right. I fucking crawl toward you. On my hands and knees. I bet you like that. In fact, I know you like that. Watching me crawl across the hotel room floor toward you. Your eyes shining so bright. Your lips wet with anticipation.

"Rich girl."

Those words sting my memory again. Not just sting. Lingering in there like a fucking scab you know you should't pick.

Every inch I move is agony. My chest. My spine. My whole core is gone. I know you've hurt my back. I know I'll be in the emergency room tonight. But you'll be there, too, bitch. I'll make fucking sure of it. There's no duct tape for you tonight. No cheap ass locker room remedy for what I'm going to do to you. You'll need fucking doctors. And I won't be the one making the call. You can argue with your goddamn wife about it. Be goddamn proud. Tell her to fuck off when she dials 911 because you can't fucking walk. Tell her that calling the doctor is tapping out. That admitting you aren't tough enough. And shame her for using a credit card to get you accepted into the emergency room.

I crawl. Right up behind you. And I use your goddamn shoulders to push myself up to my knees. Behind you. Using your body to keep myself up. I grab your loose purple hair and hold your neck in place. Remembering Thomas' words. Saying them out loud.

"Hurting people is easy."

I raise my right hand, holding your hair with my left.

And kneeling behind you, my right hand sharp, like a razor, the edge of my palm strikes right below the base of your skull, right at the top of your spine.

I watch your body jerk. It takes a moment after the impact. Your arms spread out and your fingers clench. Then, you fall face first. Flat onto the canvas. Flat. Motionless.


LVK: OHMYGOD. What was that?

RP: I've seen Rowan use that before. In Japan. Used to be the set up for... oh shit.

LVK: The Widow's Bite?

RP: Yeah. Shit. I gotta stop this.

(The sound of Rick's headphones hitting the table and a muffled conversation. Shouting between the two men.)

RP: You don't get it! She put Meg in a fucking COMA the last time she used that move!

LVK: We can't get involved, Rick!

RP: Maybe YOU can't get involved.

LVK: Remember last time? Remember?

(A long pause.)

RP: Yeah. I remember.

(The sound of headphones being picked up.)

LVK: Sorry, folks. We're back.

RP: Yeah, we're back.

LVK: Rowan looks seriously hurt. Barely able to stand. Even if she could lift Punky, I doubt she has the core strength to pull off the Widow's Bite.

RP: If she does, there's nothing stopping me from jumping in the ring. You understand that Van Keel?

LVK: Rick, don't force me to get security.

RP: I said NOTHING, Larry. NOTHING.



Lifting your prone body from the canvas takes everything I've got. You're limp now. But you're not limp enough for a three count. And fuck revenge. I want this to be OVER. If three seconds ends this--once and for all--then so be it.

I get you up to your knees. Your body heavy. Dead weight. Hook your head in a front face lock. Close my eyes. Breathe. Reach around your waist and fucking

LIIIIIIFFF--OHFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKGODFUCKINGDAMMIT!!!


LVK: Rowan is actually lifting and turning Punky's body...

RP: She's going for it.

LVK: Stay down, Rick. Stay down.

RP: She's going to paralyze her, Van Keel.

LVK: STAY DOWN!


The pain in my spine makes my legs quake. My knees nearly buckle. But I lift your body and twist it, turning it. The tombstone piledriver position. Lifting and turning until your legs are above my head. My arms tight around your waist. Your head just an inch below my knees.

I'm going to jump. And when I come down, I'm going to fall into a full splits. And your head is going to hit the canvas, shoving every last vertebrae against the one next to it. Cracking your skull. Jamming your neck.

That's what's going to end this war, once and for all, Megan. That's what's going to end you.

Once and for goddamn all.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ~Rox Erotique~ on December 16, 2017, 10:56:01 PM

Am I choking? I don't think I've taken a breath for minutes... I'm as pale as a porcelain vase and just as fragile as I teeter on the edge of sanity watching this horror show...

The Nevermore was a killer, just watching your legs tangled the wrong way as she hissed and poured bilious spite over you was as infuriating as it was soul crushing? Then I witnessed what I thought was your moment of triumph.

Can I even call it that? A fucking TRIUMPH?!?!

In what sick fucking universe is watching you maybe break another woman's back a triumph? No. I'm watching with pure trepidation. A part of me wants you to stop? to break the hold. Because I'm afraid. I'm afraid that if you do this? If you BREAK her? The Megan I love might never come back. That's a path to a dark place for ANY wrestler, let alone one as borderline as you.

But then moments later what I thought was terror turned out to be nothing but an entr?e to the nightmare feast that was to come?

I watch as she breaks your hold, both of you crumpled onto the canvas like a car crash? blood leaking from you like so much gasoline among the wreckage and strewn limbs.

Then she gets up

"No..." I gasp meekly, my heart pounding in my chest

She drags you up?

She flips you upside down, your body hanging there like dead weight?

"Oh god... Oh please no..." I croak, my words stuck in my throat as I start to tremble, sat there in my white wrap dress covered in my wife's blood, suddenly the thought of seeing her break Rowan's spine would have been a mercy to the horror about to come.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 17, 2017, 02:31:56 AM

"You're not getting up any time soon, Megan Dow."

Always gotta talk like you're the fucking Spectre, don't you? Christ on a fucking crutch. And ME on a fucking crutch. I grit my teeth and snarl, my bloody cheek pressed to a canvas that is now splattered with the essence of both of us in a beautiful Pollock. I dig my thumbs and fingers into my seizing muscles and try to force my knee back into place. Doesn't have to stay there for long. I just need it long enough to finish kicking your ass and burying you in a shallow grave, and then I can spend a nice relaxing month rehabbing it with the help of Gemma's expensive doctors.

Know what the best part about all Gemma's money is? She earned all of it herself after starting off as poor and trashy as I was.

For that matter, *I* have money these days. I have a club in Portland, a promotional company that runs shows from Vancouver BC to San Francisco, and I'm a partner in Suplex Apparel. I have royalties from my merch line, my video downloads (including the SUPER popular Punky by Night apartment series, which Sadie got me into), and a Japanese video game appearance. *I* could afford to pay some elegantly manicured guy with really excellent skin and a sober haircut to tell me what titanium parts he'll need to put my knee back together.

But here's the thing, Rowan: I don't fucking CARE about all that. That's FUTURE MEGAN'S problems, and I've never really given a flying fuck about that bitch.

I just need to crush you and break you and rend you apart and leave you in the fucking dust of yesterday NOW. If I just had a roll of fucking duct tape ...

... and then your hand crashes into my neck as I'm on the mat, and everything goes swimmy.

It's not black-out dark. It's not even grayed out like I was after you fucked me up on the outside. It's almost like being really, really drunk - in the "Scene Missing" stage of the evening, the time of night when you do things that you'll always regret and never remember. Normally I love that part of the night. Right now it's kinda fucking inconvenient.

Blood runs down my face, thick but slow, mingling with the sweat. Painting my features in a different kind of death mask than the candy skull I started the night with, one Poe would have favored. My eyes are half-lidded, lips parted softly with the slightest silver trickle of silvery drool cobwebbed between them as I unroll to the mat. My loose purple hair, stained with my blood and ripped loose from its battle tails, strewn around my head in sweaty coils. What's left of my ring attire clings to me like a second skin, crumpled and soaked in sweat.

I can feel myself getting dragged up in a vague sort of way, and I know it's something to be alarmed about, but mostly it's a relief to have you taking my weight. Like when we used to help each other to the back after a hard match. Remember that, Ro? Like in Chicago. Or that night the Carolinas. Or Baltimore, Philly, Fort Myers, Chattanooga ... we were always holding each other up.

Until we both let go.

Of course the relief is kind of mitigated, ya might say, by the fact that you're hauling me upside down.

Even with chop to the neck blitzing my nerves and sending tingles down to my fingertips, that sets off alarm bells.

I can hear Rick's voice over the sound system. I made sure the announcers were piped in through the Zenith's pretty excellent speakers because I always fuckign hated going to wrestling shows and having to go watch them online afterwards to hear the announcing.

RP: You don't get it! She put Meg in a fucking COMA the last time she used that move!

Fun fact: it was not a coma.

I was just off the grid.

Losing to you really fucked with my head, Rowan. And not just because you spiked it into a fucking steel stage and sat on my face. So after I recovered and got out of the hospital, I left the scene, stopped taking bookings ran my business interests from a distance, and stayed up on a farm in the San Juan islands north of Washington, raising dwarf goats.

I'd probably still be there today, on my way to becoming one of those old lesbians that you find up in the Northwest, with long silver braids and little round Mrs. Claus glasses and hand-knit sweaters ...

... if a certain British madwoman hadn't gotten angry about me ignoring her calls and emails and flown and ferried and cycled out to find me. I was glad to see her. She was determined to drag me back to the mainland by force if necessary. My reunion with Gemma was emotionally intense, physically brutal, and destroyed most of my little farm as we beat the holy hell out of each other around it. She was in top fighting shape, but I'd been working out like Rocky in Russia out on the little island farm just to burn off my anger and energy every day. It's hard to say who won, because we both ended up stripped bare, bloody, soaked in sweat and having extensive and furious sex in the garden while the goats looked on amazed. To this day, the smell of nasturtiums and spring onions turns me on way too much. After more talk, a few more brawls, and a long night of drinking where I realized I was falling in love again, she got me out of the San Juans, and back to work - to join up with her and with Calli Quinn and Red and Emily Layne and Tiffany and a handful of other legends and lionesses of the scene to premiere FTW.

Y'know, it was Gemma's idea to invite you there, Ro. And we all know what followed after.

Funny, isn't it?

Maybe not funny. But you've gotta laugh or you'll die.

... it occurs to me that as Joey Ramone said, my brain is hanging upside-down.

RP: If she does, there's nothing stopping me from jumping in the ring. You understand that Van Keel?

LVK: Rick, don't force me to get security.

RP: I said NOTHING, Larry. NOTHING.

Well FUCK.

Even as I make a note to send my boy Rick a ticket to Amsterdam and a token for the House of Blue Lights, I realize you're about to spike my fucking head into the mat.

And that AIN'T happening.

My right hand slides up, taped palm rasping over your hip, black nails gleaming dark against the creaking leather of your little shorts. I dig my fingers in to the waistband and SHOVE, pushing your shorts down a bit over your hip, flaunting your stupid fucking tattoo as I kick my left leg HARD, just POUNDING my thigh tattooed with the big cameo of the Victorian zombie girl against your face, then snake my left leg to drag over your face and get it next to my right, so both my red Docs hang over your right shoulder, breaking your balance.

With a snarl, I grab at your halter in my left hand and DRAG myself back as I push with my right hand, yanking myself up your body, tits mashing into yours as I force myself out of your grip, letting my long legs hang behind you to DRAG me back over your shoulder and LANDING on the mat behind you, taking almost all my weight on my left leg and STILL snarling in pain at the jolt to my right knee. "NNNNH!"

I act on wrestling instinct, not bothering with conscious thought since right now my conscious thought seems to be a lot of monologues and flashbacks.

Hobbled on my left foot, I cinch my arms behind yours, hooking my forearms inside your elbows and locking my fingers at the center of your agonized back. "Three seconds 's good enough for you, you fuckin' floozy," I growl through the blood on my face, tensing both arms - and with a grit of my teeth against the pain that's gonna make my dentist very happy, I plant both my boots and lean forward - only to snarl and HAUL you up!

LVK: SHE GOT OUT! Punky escapes the Widow's Bite! GOOD lord ...

RP: Chrrrrrrist, I'm gettin' too old for - HOLY HELL!

With a battle roar, I DRAG your big black boots up off the mat, hauling your body over mine as I ARCH my back - you like that, Ro? You're not gonna do THAT for a few months - and swing you over me. My style in the ring is often pretty brawling and chaotic - but when I drill a suplex in, I'm a fucking machine.

With your arms jacketed behind you, I take your weight up and over with my face twisted in agony as my legs bear the weight, tucking my head and PLANTING you on your neck and shoulders and letting you feel that delicious jolt of ALL your fucking bodyweight run down your ravaged back and bent ribs - and I keep my fingers locked and my arms tensed, my sweaty purple head planted to the mat - and I try to go to my toes with my body arched to HOLD the bridge for a pin!

LVK: TIGER SUPLEX! MEGAN DOW WITH A BEAUTIFUL TIGER SUPLEX OUT OF NOWHERE!

RP: GET HER, KID! Damn, her fuckin' leg, though!

I'm not a kid, Rick, I'm well too far into my 30s to be doing this kind of mad shit. Bless your pervy old soul.

He's not wrong about my leg, though. With a throaty groan, my right leg collapses - so I try to hold the bridge with just my left leg, arms locked to underhook yours, keeping your shoulders to the mat with your body folded in half as my back arches me into a partly-collapsing bridge.

Yeah, I'm like a collapsing bridge, Rowan.

Fucking dangerous to cross.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 17, 2017, 04:19:50 AM

I had you.

I fucking HAD YOU.

But you managed to squirm and take advantage of my back and slide away.

You learned that from me, bitch.

And suddenly, you're behind me. And so are my arms. And my feet are off the ground.

And as soon as that happens, all that pressure on my legs shifts to my shoulders. And that means pressure on my ribs. And that means I SCREAM. Even before I hit the mat.

And fuck, do I hit the mat.

The back of my head slams against the boards, almost scraping across the canvas. My shoulders ram down. My core shifts with the impact, meaning everything that's floating around in my chest jolts. That sends a waving torrent of agony through my chest. My body is upside down. My head ringing. I can't see.


RP: She hit the canvas like a bag of hammers!

LVK: Rowan's shoulders are DOWN! The referee counts! ONE! TWO!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 17, 2017, 05:20:11 PM

"ONE!"

The elfin referee, with her pale eyes,

"TWO!"

Tolls the rhythm of your demise.

"STAY THE FUCK DOWN!"

I roar, the top of my head pressed to the mat, purple hair spread out in a halo around me, my bloody cheek pushed to the cracked curvature of your back, my arms cinched tight behind you, locking your elbows, trapping your arms against my body.

My body is arched, breasts offered to the arena lights in my sports bra, ripe sacrifices for the altar. My abs locked tight, traced in muscle, as tight as when you used to bring me to the edge and keep me there.

Remember that, Ro, the times we loved to wrap around each other and bury ourselves away from the world?

Remember that, Ro, how we broke each other apart, over and over?

Remember that, Ro, how we tried to pretend that being in love was enough to mortar over hurting so much?

Remember that, Ro, how we found what we loved most in each other and ripped it out of each other in big steaming bloody handfuls?

Remember that, Ro, how I had to get my skull driven into steel and my spine compressed by you and be driven right out of the world before I realized I still had a heart I could give to someone?

Remember that, Ro, how I just tried to break your back?

If you don't fucking stay down -

- I swear to every fucking god listening I will do what I have to do.

Whatever it takes to finally break away from you.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Lil Tina on December 17, 2017, 05:23:44 PM

Thanks for sharing you two; fantastic stuff!  Glad to see yer still around and active Meg

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 17, 2017, 07:46:10 PM

It isn't that you don't notice the count. It doesn't sneak by you.

It's trying to get your body to move before she hits the mat the third time. And with a spine that's ready to snap, floating ribs and at least two concussions, that's not an easy thing to do.

So when her hand goes down the second time, I'm screaming at my body to react. The pain sends noise through my nerves, preventing the signal to get through. Thoughts move faster than muscles. I was telling them to move for two seconds. I only hope they make it before...


LVK: CHANCE KICKS OUT! CHANCE KICKS OUT!

RP: holy shit

LVK: The match continues!

RP: i was kinda hopin' it wouldn't.



My body flips over and I land on my belly. You land on your back, still clutching at that knee, taking every opportunity to delude yourself into thinking the damage isn't permanent. I can see that through blurred vision. Watching you use your magic Mr. Miyagi tricks.

And with my face half against the canvas, I start to laugh.

"No, Meg," I say through bloody teeth. "Not this time."

And just beyond you...I see little Lisa Starr...

What are you doing here, little star? This isn't the place for you. I remember you. I remember being backstage in Minneapolis. It was something like 40 below outside and even with the heating in the building, it must have been only sixty degrees. Your beautiful pale skin was sweating, your gear stuck to your skin, leaving no room for imagination. Not that you were wearing enough to invoke imagination anyway. And you came backstage after your victory and I was there, still in my leathers, wearing a silk robe over my shoulders. And smiling.

"So...you're Lisa Starr," I said. "I like what I see."

You stopped cold. Pun intended. "H-hi, Rowan."

I stepped up close and put my finger in your hair, pushing a blonde and blue lock over your ear. "I like your repertoire. Could use a few more brutal moves, though. Something a bit more..." My finger in your hair twirls and the rest of the fingers grasp, pulling just a little hard. "...something more...painful."

I feel and see your body shudder. "Oh," you said, stammering your words. "Um...are you flirting with me?"

I nodded. "Baby, it's cold outside. And there's a suite at the top of Millennium." I stepped a bit closer, the heat of your body feeling so good at that moment. "It's bigger than most two bedroom apartments. I can order food and some wine. And the bathtub is like a Jacuzzi. For all your aching limbs." I run my hand down your arm and find your fingers. Lifting your hand to touch my leather corset. Your fingertips landing on the top of my breast.

"Uh..." you say, looking to the left and right. "Aren't you with Punky?" You bite your lip as your fingers touch my breast. Your eyes fluttering. "I...mean...she's..."

And that's when Punky's inked arms wrap around your waist from behind, her tongue tasting the sweat on your ear.

"What's the matter, Starr?" she asks. "You aren't interested in a handicap match?"

And that's when pretty little Lisa Starr just melts between us.

Minneapolis was a long time ago. And I see Lisa Starr out there. Melting. Again.



LVK: Both women are still on the canvas. Neither of them has moved. The referee is making the ten count, up to three!

RP: Maybe if they both stay down, this will be over. That would be nice.

LVK: But Rowan is pushing herself up. I don't know if Punky can even stand.

RP: Come on, Meg. Get up. Get the fuck up.



I use the ropes to pull myself up to my feet, trying to keep the screaming in my back to a minimum. All the while watching you. Watching you try to put weight on your leg and failing.

I limp over to you...not because of my knees or ankles, but because of my spine...and lift your left arm.

"That leg is done, Megan."

I twist your wrist and send a powerful KICK to that spot under your arm that I punched before. Not as powerful as I want: my back won't allow that.

"Now that the leg is done...it's time to start working on the rest of you."

I watch you fall on your back, clutching your arm. I grab the other one. Lift it straight up and send another kick in the same place. Just as I do, I see Red out in the crowd.

You've been talking a lot of crap, Red. A lot of crap.

I point down at Megan. "You picked the wrong horse, masked man!" I shout at you. "And because of that...I'm going to make you suffer. And the way I'm going to do that...is take her apart. Piece by goddamn piece. I'm going to fucking hurt her beyond the point she's ever been hurt before, Red."

I pause. Lean against the ropes. Lean out at you.

And I shout a name. You know the name. Then...

"...I broke Punky. Now, I'm going to break MEGAN."

I throw you a kiss.

"And there's not a goddamn thing you can do about it. Little boy."

Then, I turn back to the ruin and wreckage that is Megan Dow.

Time to finish this.

Pick up Megan by the hair.

Drag her up to her knees.

Grab her around the waist.

No escaping this time, Megan. Not this time.

And fucking LI--LI--LIFT!

Screaming like a slaughtered pig. Pulling you off your hands and knees. Dead lift.

But I'm going to put you in...



LVK: ROWAN IS GOING FOR THE WIDOW'S BITE AGAIN!

RP: That's a big mistake, Van Keel. Never go for the same move twice.



f-fuck. s-something...in...my...back...

ignore it. fucking ignore it.

finish this. finish HER.

do it.

DO IT!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Vivianne on December 17, 2017, 08:26:58 PM

A hand slaps the canvas...a feminine voice calls out in French..."Un!"

Gawd Rowan...kick out!

A second slap...a second call..."Deux!"

Come on Rowan...KICK OUT!!

The hand goes up again and I can't watch, closing my eyes and holding my breath.

LVK: CHANCE KICKS OUT! CHANCE KICKS OUT!

The call over the sound system causes my eyes to snap open. Causes my breathing to resume...and my heart to start again. Damn Rowan...that was too close...

More counting now..."Un!...Deux!...Trois!..."

More pleading now...Come on Rowan...get up! Get up!! GET UP!!!

She's up...

The kicks shock Punky though even from up here you can tell Rowan can't put everything into them...the way she limps is making my back hurt just watching.

The fury in her voice as she taunts the big guy in the mask. I'm not even sure I would do that from the other end of a shotgun, but that's Rowan.

Her back is fucked...everyone knows it...yet she is hauling Punky up again. Going for the finisher again? Her back twitches...that can't be good...her face snarls into a grimace of pain...but she pushes through it. I realize I am wringing my hands together, pressing Punky's clasp into my palms as I do. I can hardly watch...but there is nothing on Earth that could make me look away now.

Finish this Rowan! Finish HER! DO IT!!!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: RedEnforcer on December 17, 2017, 09:53:46 PM

The French have a phrase for it. A Grand Guignol. And no, I am not pretentious or super high class. I came across that phrase from one of the best comic books of all time, James Robinson?s Starman. That book (and Magnum PI) helped shape my love for Hawaiian shirts. Yeah in South Carolina. I kinda stand out.

Anyway a Grand Guignol is a form of entertainment that is extreme and horrific. Figures a civilization that had a long history of wars would have a phrase like that.

That is what is going through my head right now as I see Rowan do as Rowan does and somehow survive defeat. It takes a lot to put her shoulders to the mat but this night, I shudder to think what is going to do the trick.  Neither one of them want to lose this, it means way too much to both of them.

And then I see Rowan rise. I have been in car accidents and looked in better shape than she does now as she shambles over to Megan. Megan herself looks to be just 8 seconds away from the ICU.

It was Concord. No it was Charleston. Wait it was both.  With Megan it was a crummy little Motel Six in Concord. With Rowan, I finally gave in to her request to be able to pick out the hotel in Charleston.  I did not expect a Marriot. And with her I could tell it still was not what she really wanted, but she did not want to show she had money. Which is fine. Grow up in a Mill town like me and go to school with sons and daughters of doctors and lawyers and you recognize money. I never cared because I could see she was a good person despite the money.


Anyways, I did with them something I do with all my special students. No, not that you perv.

I gave them my last Jedi master lesson.

Reddy, why that movie?. When you said War Games, I thought you meant the match.

War Games. An early 80s movie birthed from the fear of these new fangeled devices called computers meeting the oppressive atmosphere of the Cold War and nuclear annihilation. Perfect Date movie.

So we watch and those two both make fun of different things, well except they both said Matthew Broderick was better as Ferris Bueller, but then we got to the end. The big message of the film was that some battles can only end in mutually assured destruction.  I let that hang there and said nothing. My hope being that somehow that message gets through when they step in the ring and they are smart enough to realize the game board is tic tac toe and it is time to play a new game. 

I see that that lesson has been forgotten or worse ignored.

Rowan shouting breaks me from my reverie and she is doing her taunting. Believing I have made my choice between the two. I have not. This hurts. Deeply. I feel like we are approaching the line where my patience is about to go away.

And then she says the name. My name.

I have kept my identity a closely guarded secret. In fact no one knows my whole name. And there are only three who know my true first name.

When Rowan says it, I know she is using it as a weapon. I clearly hear you.  Under my mask my skin goes white.

As she sets Megan up again, I feel myself moving.  Shoving people out of my way. Not towards the ring, no towards that Gaston LeRoux wannabe who created all of this.

?Tantalus, use whatever sway you have on Rowan right now to get her to stop! ?
I grab that leathery morherfucker by his collar as he ignores me.


?Tell her to stop or she is gonna kill Megan.?

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Lord Tantalus on December 17, 2017, 10:26:20 PM

I have just four cold, empty words for you, Red, whispered so only you can hear them:

"I haven't chosen, either."

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 18, 2017, 10:30:34 PM

You barely break the bridge off the tiger suplex, the jerk of your body dragging my irritatingly useless right leg against the canvas. My knee is starting to darken above the sugar-skull adorned black Lycra stockingas blood rushes into it, deforming the grinning skulls on the stocking into monster faces. I hiss through my teeth, biting back another barrage of curses to save my breath for better things like cursing you for the vile cxnt you are, and push my palms into the broad slab of my quadricep, kneading my sweat-soaked thigh to try to open up the blood vessels a bit, to stop my knee from getting livid. I need to be able to move it, even if it hurts. Even if it's agony. Even if it feels like plunging my fucking leg into molten steel, I need to be able to move it enough to help finish my quest to fucking destroy you.

Whatever it takes.

I'm focused on my knee, fucking AGAIN, trying to drag myself up and snatching at the middle rope when my leg gives. I can hear the groans even over the sound of my own ragged cry. My purple hair is hanging in fucking blood-painted face, driving me crazy. I didn't just wear the punktails to create a brand and a distinctive merch-friendly look; I wore them because they kept my fucking hair out of my face. I wore them because bitches instinctively reached for them when they wanted to drag me up by the hair, which meant my scalp hurt less and I always knew where their hands were going. I wore them because Gemma likes to hold me by them when I go down on her.

I wore them because they were MINE, and that's all you want in your pathetic little controlled pain-slut life these days, isn't it, Rowan? What's MINE.

"That leg is done, Megan."

You take my wrist.

"At least I can still do a sit-up, you fuckinNNNHHHHHHH." I groan as your black boot drills into my side, crunching into the nerves under my arm with a bit less precision than your strike back in the first round. That arm jitters as I force my fist to curl shut, damping down the sizzling reaction as you take my right arm and drive another kick into that side. "NNNNGGGHHHH ..." I groan, jolted again, rolling to my back where I lay in a bloody faced sprawl, twitching arms sprawled to my sides for a moment and my aching right leg jutted off to the side. It's not a strong look for me.

Fortunately, you take the time to run your fucking mouth some more, and I have a moment to breathe. And I take it. And I listen.

The crowd is alight. The Zenith is completely full, and while a lot of our friends and enemies and wrestling luminaries are crowded into the colorful front few rows, the rest of the seats are taken up by people who are just here for blood. Sure, we each have fans out there, diehards and try-hards and marks who live and die for us, but mostly they just want blood. And they're getting it. Mostly from me, admittedly, but whatever. I've always had more heart than you anyway. Because I have a fucking heart.

Take away the faces (and masks) you know and love (and hate), and the crowd is just a vast animal. When you make your living in the ring, you have to learn to use the crowd. Feed off their hate, thrive off their love. I've done both often enough. It's funny; a crowd full of furious faces twisted in rage can get you just as fired up as an arena chanting your name. More, sometimes. But tonight neither of us has focused much on the crowd - except for a few people in it.

And in that moment of crowded, bloodthirsty stillness, I hear you spit Red's name.

Red is a veteran who gave us his time, and his knowledge, and his training. We've BOTH learned from him, we've both traveled with him. Fuck, we've both fought him, plenty of times - but we've also trusted him. We've shared secrets with him, and our hurts with him. He's the reason I was able to survive on my very first tour through the Southern territories. And he came here for BOTH of us, Rowan. It's not his fault you're such a maniacal cxnt that even he couldn't stand to keep watching it happen.

Fuck that.

You're not getting away with that. Spit on me all you fucking like, bitch, but you keep Reddy's name out of your whore mouth.

I force my arms to move, bullying my way past the shock to my nerves. I drag my right leg up and groan a hot bloody groan as I FORCE my knee to bend. And then you come swaggering over, getting a fistful of my blood-streaked purple hair, and drag me up as I snarl.

You wrap your arms around my waist, and my heart races in a way it hasn't at the feel of your touch since Vegas.

You REALLY want to hit the Widow's Bite again. Going after it with the single-minded determination of a fucking Terminator.

And I can't fucking let that happen.

I can't.

Losing to you once nearly ended my career after you ripped my fucking heart out and then went on to beat me in Viking Hall. The woman who'd told me I wasn't enough for her spiked my head into the steel stage and sat on my fucking face to pin me. Doing it twice?

I don't know what could bring me back from that.

So as you strain and scream to try to drag me up, I act out.

My legs push down and my boots press to the mat, drawing a low guttural roar of pain from me as my knee takes my weight. My left arm cinches around your slim waist and my right arm swings in a short vicious arc as my taped tattooed fist PISTONS into your ribs. Into your busted fucking rib. Hard to miss you cradling your side like that, babe. Let's see if I can push that shit into your lungs.

The sound from you is like a tortured animal in a PETA video, and your arms come loose. I stagger, swaying in agony to stay upright, but you're crumpling, folding around your tormented ribs. My swollen, battered cxnt aches and throbs with each movement and my face is awash in blood again, but I come upright, limping but grinning through the mask of the red death, and I YANK you into me by that black hair, pressing your head against my hip as I lace my arms under yours and pull them up behind your back, flaunting your ass to the crowd in your little shorts as I keep you bent over for them to enjoy like the showy little trash you are.

My hands lace at the center of your back, my arms flexing hard, the nerve shots still sending tremors through them but moving on a course of pure adrenaline soaked rage.

"KISS THE FUCKING MAT, LADY DDT!"

I mentioned how much I love Mick Foley, right? How much I aspired to be like him? The first time I ever met him we talked for two hours, two hours sitting backstage at a New Jersey show, two hours of laughing and telling stories and comparing notes on the fine arts of crashing into people, and how I'd started training without graduating high school - and he ended up kindly but firmly telling me if I didn't get a college degree he'd make sure I was never booked on any show he was on. I went on to get my English degree from Reed College online, because of that. Not that I think I'm ever gonna end up as an English teacher - mostly my degree just gives me poems to think about when I'm concussed. But because Mick Foley said so.

But another thing I like about Mick Foley is his moveset. Intense. Brutal. And efficient. When he was working all scarred up and sore from the Japanese deathmatches, he needed a move that would take less of a toll on his body than diving off the apron with an elbowdrop. So he came up with a way to control someone swiftly and efficiently - and then break their fucking face.

The Double Arm DDT.

I JUMP off my left leg, swinging my lower body forwards with a pained snarl past your left hip like a furious and bloody kid on a swing, leaning to my left side and letting you take ALL my bodyweight on your doubled over, bound frame. No hands to save you, jerking you off your fucking boots so you drop facefirst, driven by me -

- to just SPIKE your face into the fucking mat. Viciously. Undefended. With over 240 pounds behind it.

I'm tired of having to think about how beautiful you used to be me to me, Rowan.

Let's make you as ugly outside as you are within.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 18, 2017, 11:32:51 PM

That whole time I wore the Lady DDT mask, I never did the double-arm variant. The gimmick was already so stupid and I didn't want to disrespect the man who owned that move. Sorry Mick, you aren't just good.

It takes you a long time to set up the move. You're hurt. You can barely stand. Unfortunately, I can't stop you. There's no stopping you now. I think I spent all my reversals in the first fall and the beginning of this one. I don't know if I have any left. Before you grab my right arm, I'm struggling to keep it away from your grip, clutching my leather boy pants, as if that could keep you from pulling it into position. But you do, and I clench my right fist, ready for the impact.

So when you invoke the name and plunge my head toward the canvas, I taste the irony. But only for a moment. Because the next moment, my head SLAMS against the canvas, against the boards. Rocking my skull, my neck...

...and sending shards of pure pain through my spine.

I don't make a sound. I don't curl up or cup my head. I just fall.

My body landing on the canvas like a bag full of steaks. My left arm spread out to my side, my right arm bent, my hand just next to my lips. Legs spread, too. My olive skin not just moist, but wet.

Face down. Unmoving. My right hand might have blocked some of the blow. I don't really know right now.

That's when I taste the blood.


LVK: Rowan is busted open! Blood seething through the open wound!

RP: That's not a cut, Van Keel. That's a tear. She ripped Rowan's head open with the impact.

LVK: Both women are now bleeding, but while Megan's wound is...oh, good Lord. Rowan's forehead is GUSHING like a fountain.

RP: That's what happens when you go hard way, Van Keel. It's a rip, not a cut.


I can feel it. With every pulse of my heart, a beat of my blood floods from my forehead. A thin red line. Blood drooling from my forehead to the mat.

I'm now on a clock. Every heart beat is a tick toward oblivion.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 19, 2017, 05:52:42 AM

We land with a BRUTAL jolt, and I bury my yowl of alley-cat agony when my knee shimmies from the impact under a lusty battle cry "FUCK you, Rowan!" Something to get the marks on their feet as much as to give me something to roar. My hair whips back as I sit up, panting. Licking my own blood from my lips. It's spread out now, painted with sweat more than tha running thick and fresh. The nasty gash over my eye is gonna be there, though. That's not going away.

None of this is.

But I want it. I want that scar so I can point to it when I'm talking to some wrestlers about our battles in a pub somewhere, showing each other where broke our arm or where we got skewered with broken table bits ... I wanna point to my eyebrow and say "I got this the night I fucking destroyed Rowan Chance."

That's the only thing I want from you now, Ro. The only gift you can give me.

You look like you fell out of a fucking plane - facedown on the mat, your left arm sprawled up, right fist tucked up by your head like you're all sleepy, your legs all sprawled out wide like you're waiting on the bed for Thomas to come home like a good little pup. I could maybe go for a pin here. But I have a feeling ...

... I have a feeling 3 seconds is gonna be an eternity tonight.

Neither of us can tolerate a loss to the other. That's the problem with a blood feud; it all ends in blood. Submission might work. One of us being forced to admit to the other that we can't take any more. But that means one of us would have to tap out, and it seems kinda obvious from how fucked up we both are right now that that's not gonna happen. Seems like we'll have to do something ...

... brutal.

LVK: What an absolutely VICIOUS DDT!

RP: Meg threw her whole body into that, Van Keel. But she kept the grip low, and was leanin' in like that because she wanted to HURT Chance, not just stun her. The impact was meant to mash her face, rip it against the canvas, not to jar her skull.

LVK: ... is modifying a DDT to maim someone instead of incapacitate them for a pin something they teach at wrestling school?

RP: Not really, Van Keel. They teach it after the wrestling classes let out and the good kids all go home and only the deviants are left. It's something you learn hanging out with bastards when you've got a head full of enough bad wiring to ask how to really fuck someone up.

LVK: So ...

RP: Yeah. I showed her.

Guess that's where we are, dollface.

We have to make it worse so it can come to an end.

I remember a movie Reddy showed me. It was back near the end of one of our tours, I think. Charlotte? No. Concord! That was it. Funny little 80s flick.

It didn't have as many explosions as I normally like in my movies, but I liked it. Plus Reddy made popcorn and I had bourbon in a motel water glass with a crazy straw he got for me at the Piggly-Wiggly in Laurinburg. And I remember it had a hook to it. The computer, Joshua, figured something out about war.

The whole bit about some wars being so destructive that the only winning move was not to play.

I bet this is killing Reddy. Not just seeing what we're doing to each other, but seeing what it's bringing out of us. All the dark, nasty horror that roils down inside us is all bubbling over, flooding the ring with ichor.

But it's too late, Reddy. The siloes are emptied. The birds are in the air. And Christopher Reeves is too dead to fly up into the sky and save us.

The only winning move is complete annihilation.

And so I sit up, taking your shoulder and shove you over onto your back. Your legs unfurl, your glistening thighs jolting softly from aftershocks, and your face thickly painted in blood from the ragged gash I ripped in your forehad, leaving a splatter on the canvas where you hit. Your right hand unfurled from the nerve-twitch fist it was locked in, your left arm almost limp. I glare down at you through the sweat-and-blood crimson glaze on my face, and shift my left leg over to straddle you, sliding over your taut bare belly. I snarl - no, I GROAN in pain as I drag my swollen right knee on the canvas. As much weight as possible is on my left knee, and on my ass planted on your belly, but every fucking twitch in my knee sends fucking DAGGERS through it. It's swollen, livid, brutalized. It feels ... uneven. It's FUCKED.

But I can live with that, Ro - as long as I can fuck you up worse.

For just a moment as I slide my left hand up your face, tape rasping on your skin, smearing your blood over your pretty dazed features and closed soft lips, I remember all the other times I straddled you, in hotel rooms and motel rooms and locker rooms and the backseats of taxis and once in the lobby of a dentist's office, shocking the nurse, not least of which because we were there so I could a broken tooth capped after it'd gotten cracked against the ringpost, so I had a mouth full of bloody gauze.

Good times.

I ball my right fist, and crank your head back with a fistful of bloody black hair.

"Wanna kiss, Ro?" I purr, low and throaty and rumbling through the snarl of pain as my knee throbs and my cxnt aches as it presses to your belly and my whole body hurts like I've been fucking run over - and then I begin to DRIVE my fist down into your forehead, over and over and over and over -

and over and over and over

- with a flurry of close, vicious pounding punches, each one aimed into the gash on your head. To rip you open. To rip you apart.

To do what I have to do.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 19, 2017, 06:23:09 AM

Picture this.

I'm on the mat, on my back. Both arms out to my sides. Legs splayed out. My face covered with a red mess. Every other second, another gush from my forehead. And on my chest is the woman who I couldn't wait to see every day of my life. The fucking was incredible, but it was more than just that. I've got fuck buddies. She was something else. Someone incredible. The most important person in my life. And she's on my chest, one leg extended because she can't bend it because I've smashed her knee--possibly beyond repair. And her face is just about as bloody as mine. She's got my head held up by my long, raven blue-black hair, now matted with sweat and blood. Just enough to keep my shoulders off the mat. And with her right hand, she's pounding the gash she just made on my forehead with taped fists. Over and over again. My body barely responds. My mouth is open, but my eyes are shut. And every punch she delivers, my body just twitches.

"You want a kiss Rowan?" you scream, pulling my face up. Close enough to deliver that kiss.

And in my foggy brain, I remember what I'm supposed to do now.

* * *

"I trained with Scotty," you told me that first night we met, sitting on the ring apron, eating cheap hot dogs and drinking warm beer. You had a beer. I had water from the tap. "Who trained you?"

I took a bite from the hot dog, trying not to choke. And, for the first and only time in my life, I lied to you. That first night.

"Lance Storm's school," I said. "I wanted to be him so bad."

It was a lie I'd prepared. Practiced and rehearsed. You didn't notice. Or, if you did, you kept it to yourself. Or, you wanted me so bad, you just ignored it. But it never came up again.

I lied, Megan. The very night we met. I didn't learn from Lance Storm. I learned from another man.

A terrifying man. He beat the shit out of me every day for so many days, trying to make me quit. But I never did. He held me in holds that don't have names. They aren't complicated enough to have names. On the mat, moving my arm an inch. Just a fucking inch. Making me scream out loud. He'd slap my face and told me I sounded like a girl. Then, he'd go to work on my legs.

I never told you about my time with him because...I didn't ever want you to thin of me that way. Helpless and screaming, begging for my life. A man--a MAN--on top of me, brutalizing me. Not sexually. Never. He didn't want that nor did he need it. I paid him a lot of money to show me pain, to make me hurt in ways even Tantalus couldn't. And after eight months of brutal torture, I arrived at the little private dojo I bought for him. Yeah, I paid him. A whole fucking lot. More than you've ever seen in a year, Megan. I paid him to fuck me up and fuck me up hard. And after eight months, I sat in front of him, my body shaking, wracked with the pains of the day and month before, and he offered me tea.

Then, he taught me secrets.

* * *

"YOU WANT A KISS, CHANCE?" you shout again. Bringing my head up. Close enough that our bloody lips are almost touching. Close enough that the smell of my blood and the smell of your blood are distinct.

You didn't see it, did you? That moment before the double-arm DDT. When my right hand grabbed my trunks. You didn't see it.

You growl at me. Your teeth bloodstained. Lips dripping crimson.

You didn't see it, did you? After the DDT, my right hand by my mouth. You didn't see it.

"You don't get my kisses anymore," you hiss, spitting blood in my face. "SHE does."

That's when my eyes open. That's when my lips pucker. My cheeks expand.

You had Scotty, Megan.

I had Mutoh.


LVK: WHAT THE--? ROWAN JUST SPRAYED A...A...

RP: Purple!

LVK: A PURPLE MIST INTO PUNKY'S FACE!

RP: Oh fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: RedEnforcer on December 19, 2017, 06:19:12 PM

As I look in the ring and see Megan get out of a concussion or even worse, I realize there's nothing to be done. Tantalus can't call off Rowan. And when Megan goes in and locks Rowan's arms for the Underhook, I know Gemma can't stop her. 

This is a blood feud. These two really loved each other back then. And whatever tore them apart ripped into their souls. I thought Megan's torn half had been regenerated by Gemma. I thought the FTW angle was just that, an angle. But seeing these two now, it was more than that. It was the opening salvo that's lead us here. Looking at the two, "here" could be anywhere. I doubt they're seeing or hearing much beyond those ropes.


I shove my way closer to the action, sliding down the front row to watch and barreling over anyone in my way. A gendarme comes to say something to me and I snarl. A feral, guttural snarl. He moves out of my frame of sight. I have to watch this.

I look and see that Rowan is split open like a melon. Not a nice cut, but a nasty jagged gash. The Muta Scale pops in my head. Back in the early 90s (Or the Stone Age as Megs would call it) The Great Muta had a match with Hiroshi Hase that was one of the bloodiest ever seen at the time.  The internet, such as it was, buzzed about it. Somehow pictures got posted on rec.sport.pro-wrestling and the Muta Scale was born. Matches would be listed on a scale of 0.0 for nothing to 1.0 Muta.  Yeah we were some crazy ass fans at the time. We were making memes before there were memes.

Anyways, I find myself gripping the rail hard because I'm looking at about a 1.2 to 1.3 Muta issue here. Megan's cut was nasty, but on the level of annoying, however you can work around it. Rowan....she's bleeding too much. My throat gets dry and I watch as Megan moves to mount her.

Ok, pin her and we can all go.....

FUCK FUCK FUCK

Megan...gawddammit....

I can't find words. Megan isn't just wailing blows. Trust me, she can throw hands. But when she sizes someone up like she's doing now...  Put it this way, a guy with a shotgun is gonna miss more often than he hits. Put a guy half a mile away with a .50 Cal and he'll make your head explode.

Right now, Megs has put down the shotgun and picked up the .50 Cal. Each blow is precise, effective and punishing. It's gonna make Rowan bleed more. And gawdfuckingdammit Megan knows that.  I can feel my pulse in my ears with each blow. Once...twice...a third time..

Then Rowan yells something and ...

Fuck me, purple mist.

Keiji Mutoh you madman. You taught her well.

Oh, remember that guy I mentioned earlier, The Great Muta. That painted faced Japanese wrestler who came over in the late 80s to the early 90s and had some serious classic matches with Ric Flair and Sting? Moonsaults all over the place. Charisma for miles.  And Asian Mist?  Well his real name is Keiji Mutoh. 

When Rowan came to me to do a tour in the Carolinas, because everybody on the indies does a tour of the Carolinas for one reason or the other, she was referred to me by Megan. I'm not sure when or how they met but I get a phone call from a most likely drunk Megan telling me to haul ass over to Charlotte-Douglas International and pick up "Ronan Chats" there. So there I am in just my beat up orange Clemson Tigers hat, a pair of my dad's old mirrored aviator shades (old bastard never liked to show his eyes to new people, one of the superstitions/ticks he passed on to me) a WCW Four Horsemen t-shirt (you know the one, black with four white chesspieces) faded jeans, black canvas Chuck Taylors and a hastily scrawled white poster board that said "Ronan Chats" on it.

I'm thinking, it's one of Megs's friends, right?  You've seen Megan, business casual to her is an oversize black t-shirt that works as a skirt and her Doc Martens. Everything else optional. Till I yelled at her that she needed more on in the hotel or we'd get kicked out. And to be kicked out of some of those dives took some effort. So that's what's in my head and why I'm dressed like I am. I figured what the fuck, grabbed the first semi clean shirt in my bag, my hat to tame the wild fire engine growth on top of my head that threatened to make me look like Ronald McDonald and wrote out the sign and waited.

There were some winners on that flight. The one that stands out was the cute baby that waved at me after her brother tossed his sippy cup at me and splashed it on my shirt. Joy. So I'm holding this sign one handed and wiping my shirt off with a blue handkerchief I carry in my back pocket when this elegantly dressed woman comes by me and stops. She looks at the sign and looks at me. I finally notice I'm being stared at and as smooth as I usually am I whip my head around in an almost snarl, cock an angry eyebrow up and say "Can I help you?" with the exact opposite emotion that phrase should be filled with.  And then there goes that smile. The one that's just at the edges of the lips.  Amusement restrained. Because this woman never expended more energy than needed, not even in facial expressions. I did a quick look up and down. Because I'm a guy and we always do the up and down. It's part of our reptile brain. Sensible shoes for a long flight. A smart skirt that allowed enough freedom to be comfortable but still very professional. A blouse that said professional as well, but..there was something else there.  A restrained elegance and sexuality. Oh, this woman was from money but was taking pains not to show it. Why she was concerned with me I didn't know. I was just waiting for her to laugh at the big lug and go on her way but then she cut her eyes over to the sign. 

"I think that's me."

A voice like aged whiskey flowing over broken glass. If that voice told me to go run and play in traffic at that moment I would be still dodging cars.
It took me a moment to register what she said. I must have had a dumb look on my face. Well what you could see of my face. Thank God I was wearing those aviators. She just stood there patiently, waiting for the ape to put two and two together.

"I'm sorry?"

Snappy comebacks are my jam baby. You know how when you go to drink tea and you think it's tea but what hits your tongue is Pepsi. Now you like Pepsi but your brain was saying "tea" so the reaction is complete confusion. Well there was Pepsi standing in front of me.

"I think that's me"

A little smile, no hint of aggravation, just calm confidence.

"You're Megan's friend?"

She just smiled and said, " my name is Rowan Chance."

It wasn't the first time I looked like an idiot in front of her. We were sparring and she was showing off the flexibility of body and mind that is her trademark. So basically, she was frustrating the hell out of me. So I busted out a move my trainer taught me. And she fuckin' danced away like she was programmed.

"Wait, time out. Lance Storm taught you that?" 

She blushed and just gave a noncommittal response. I let it go.

See one of my trainers was the Great Kabuki who himself was trained by a mad Japanese man named Hiro Matsuda. One of Hiro's later students was one Keiji Mutoh.  Who when he came to the US hooked up with Gary Hart and was billed as Kabuki's son. It worked because both men had such similar training. Training they passed on to their students. The move I busted out had exactly one counter I knew of. One.  And Ms. Chance performed it flawlessly. I looked at her with new eyes. I upped my assessment of what she could handle. I leaned into the training and accelerated it. I wasn't passing on stuff Kabuki taught me at this point, but stuff I picked up from Dusty and Jack Brisco. But I could see she had some connection to Kabuki. It wasn't till later I realized it had to be Mutoh.

If she's tapping into that training. The kind of balls to the wall insane dojo training Mutoh had. The root of which was an intense hardass who broke Hulk Hogan's fucking leg the first day of training. If she's tapping into that. Fuck....

This is going to get much worse.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 19, 2017, 07:18:51 PM

Each crunch of my knuckles into your forehead jolts your body.

Each impact from my fist splatters blood across the black and red tape. Across your twisted face. Across my thighs as I lean over you, as focused on drilling punches into your ravaged face as on anything I've ever done.

The gash is ripped and bruised and pulsing blood. Nothing pretty about it. That's something that won't stitch shut clean. You'll end up with a scar like a jagged lightning bolt, except there's no love to save you from the death curse I'm about to lay on you, you heartless cxnt.

I stop for a second, my right leg pulsing with pain as it angles off to the side, my weight resting on your body. You look so fucking ... crushed.

I jerk your head up by the hair, peeling your shoulders off the mat.

I snarl into your face, roaring hate at you, blood masking us both.

You need to know. You need to KNOW that we are fucking done. If you're too concussed to understand me I'll carve it into your back. This match isn't just about redemption, just about revenge, just about proving who's better. It's about all of that, but more than anything else for me - it's about ripping you out of me like a deep jagged barb that pulls a pound of my bloody fucking flesh with it and being DONE with you, no matter how much it hurts.

That's when your cheeks puff up and your lips make a bloody kiss.

Fun fact:

During our run as the Daughters of Darkness, I was the one who used mist. I picked the trick up during my time in Japan, after graduating from the pain and relentless work of the Kaientai Dojo into the greater pain and more relentless work of a tour of Japan with Ice Ribbon. As a born and bred ECW mutant, I naturally sought out the man I thought of when I thought of mist.

Yoshihiro Tajiri was freshly back from WWE, just getting started with HUSTLE, the Fighting Opera, when I found him. (HUSTLE's championship was as gold and black spiked baseball bat. God, I fucking wanted it so much.) I've kind of started an urban legend about all the weird shit he made me do to learn the art of the infamous poison mist, but that rumor was really his idea. He just agreed to teach it to me after a night of drinking Asahi at Motion Blue, a jazz club in Yokohama. He was happy to teach me when he learned Raven had trained me - over the next couple of weeks, he showed me the formulation, how to make the caplets, how to stash them, how to palm them and get them to your mouth, how to bite down, how to resist the bitter toxic surge of the poison on your tongue, and how to spit a proper plume.

His only real price for doing so was that I tell everyone he made me do all sorts of weird deviant things so youngboys wouldn't be knocking down his door to learn the art. And I had to buy the Hibiki whiskey after each training session. Nothing else BUT Suntory Hibiki premium whiskey, he said, would get the poison safely off your tongue. Since Hibiki was about 18 dollars American for each double he downed, it wasn't a cheap secret. But even so, I have a great story about how he made me dress as a schoolgirl with a live octopus draped on my head if anyone really gets insistent.

I didn't bust out the mist too often, but I was the one on the team that did it, blasting green clouds into the faces of our rivals at opportune moments. And I remember now thinking back ...

... you never asked me about it. Never asked me where I got the caplets, where I kept them, how I got them in my mouth.

You never asked.

Makes sense now.

The purple - you fucking cxnt - mist surges from your lips, and catches me at point blank, full in the face. Painting the gash in my eyebrow, my sweaty cheeks, getting in my nose, in my bloody mouth, in my eyes.

"AAAAAAIIGGHHHHHHHHgggghhHHnnhhghh ..."

I topple off you, writhing. My hands clutching my bloody, misted face, the purple and crimson making an otherworldly color.

My body jolts on the canvas, unheeding of the agony in my knee as I spasm with chemical pain searing me. Overriding everything.

Here's the thing about mist -

- see, you can spit whatever you want into someone's face and sting their eyes and distract them. Beer. Water. Tobacco chaw. I wrestled a girl once with a Miami princess gimmick whose valet would pour her a bellini in a tall flute for her to drink and then to spit into your face. And that works fine.

But mist is ... something else. There's herbs. Crushed salts. Extracts. Chemicals.

And each one is formulated. Green mist is the one that Tajiri used, the one he taught me. It's the versatile mist - it stings the eyes and nose, and makes you choke and cough. Black mist is something a little more forbidden - it STEALS the sight, leaving you blinded even with your eyes open until it's washed out. Red mist BURNS. It makes you feel like your face is on fire.

I don't know what you've put in this shit but

everything

starts to

swirl.

The pain doesn't go away. I can't see anything with my hands clutching my face.

But I can see

dreamsvisionspropheciesnightmareslustsandfancies

something ...

it's Minneapolis and I'm clinging to Lisa Starr's lithe body and nuzzling her ear from behind and you're in front of her and I look up and your eyes are black just black voids that suck in light and suddenly I want to drag Lisa away from you and take her somewhere safe but instead we go upstairs and

it's Philadelphia and I'm sitting on the hood of the car eating a Philly taco and you're looking at me sneering at me looking at me like I'm nothing like you're everything and you ball me up and throw me in the trash with the greasy wrappers and drive away in a cloud of Tom Waits and

it's Tokyo and Tajiri is drinking a shot of whiskey and saying Kanojo ga shitte iru no wa subete, kurayamideari, zankokuna shujin no fureaidesu like he is telling me something secret and behind him there is a man who has no real face he hides it behind paint behind masks and his heart is full of poison just as yours is it could be someone Great or it could be Thomas or it could be both and

it's Reno and I'm at Tiffany's house her big huge championship house is all white and silver and platinum and furs and elegance and class and I love it there BECAUSE I don't fit and she loves me because I'm so different and we're cuddling on the couch and she's murmuring my ear with silk plush lips that she knows how bindings work and how girls are trapped and that a spider is trying to keep me keep me wrapped and not let me go and

it's the Waccamaw wetlands in South Carolina and the longleaf pines are rustling and whispering and Reddy and I are hiking in the sun because we had to get away from the ring and from the cars and from the violence for a bit and just GO and he looks at me without his mask and he says you know she won't ever forget she won't ever leave it alone she won't ever be done the only winning move is not to play and

it's London and you're wrestling Gemma and I should have been there I was supposed to be there but she went alone gods damn her and you and Thomas have her trapped and her arm breaks and I hear the snap even though I wasn't there and I scream and the word is no and it lasts forever and you're trying to pull her ring from her finger but it isn't yours it will NEVER BE YOURS and

it's Portland and Scotty is there and I introduced him to you and I was so proud and so happy I thought my heart would burst and you were charming so charming and so beautiful and he was dressed like he always is like me in ragged denims and leathers and sleeveless tees like me I dress just like him his best girl he has my picture on the wall at the gym because I'm a story with a happy ending and he smiled and you traded stories and I beamed and felt like a schoolgirl and you stepped away to get drinks and he turned to me and his eyes were so intense he wasn't Scotty he was Raven and Raven has the most intent gaze of anyone I've known and he said Be careful with this one Megs walk softly and carry a big fuckin stick because she's dark so dark inside and

it burns

it hurts

it won't stop hurting

LVK: Megan Dow is hit with that ... purple mist. And she is down. She's twitching ... drooling ... good lord.

RP: This isn't fucking right, Larry. I can't ... naw, we're not doin' this. This is over. This is fucking done.

*the sound of headphones thudding to the table*

LVK: Rick! RICK. You can't ... oh for the love of god. Stop him!

*there is a struggle, just off-mic, with Rick cursing and at least one gendarme howling in French when he takes the famous Precious Perle eye gouge*

LVK: I'm sorry, folks. RICK! STOP! I'm just ... this is insanity. Maybe ... maybe it's over. Megan Dow is down after that ... VILE mist hit her. I've never seen Rowan Chance do that. Ever. She must have saved it just for tonight. What kind of human being ...

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 19, 2017, 09:46:15 PM

Through the blood and sweat in my eyes, through the red hot pokers running up and down my spine, through the fountain of blood gushing from my forehead spilling my life all over the canvas, I look at you...

... I look at you...

... I look at you...

... a faerie queen, wounded and poisoned on the forest floor...

... a post apocalyptic valkyrie fallen from her steed, her sword broken...

... a...

No. Shake my head. Spit the purple haze from my lips.

Purple haze. That's what we called it, Megan. Do you like that?

He said I'd have to be careful. Don't let it stay in my mouth too long. And part of me chuckles. And the chuckle makes my back ache even more.

Shake my head again. I'm on my side, blood almost squirting from my forehead. Shawn Michaels would be proud.

But you're on your side, too. Laying there. Twitching. Your eyes wide open, your mouth drooling. Staring away at visions or dreams or nightmares or whatever's going through your head right now. You have no idea where you are. You may have no idea who you are.

That's what the purple haze does, Megan. Just for you. A bit of alchemy I made...just for you. Just in case. Like Batman keeping a little piece of Kryptonite...just in case. But I didn't make it alone. I had help.

I slowly push myself to my knees, my back begging me to pin you. Right here. Finish it right here. But what I know and my back doesn't is that somewhere in that little girl lost head of yours, you'll hear the count. I have to make sure you don't hear anything.

And there's only one move that will do that. The one that held you down for the three count before. And if I'm honest, it's the only move I know that can do it. That's why I haven't gone for a pin yet. I may be the Unbreakable Rowan Chance...but you...

I'm on my knees, erect. I look out at the audience, their faces slightly twisted, like they all stepped out of a haunted Polaroid. The mist is still in my head. But not like you, Megan. No. Not like you.

You look like Morpheus in the last few moments before he breaks. Cold sweat. Rolling eyes. Bubbles on your lips. Head rolling like the vibroman in Jacob's Ladder. I look out at the audience and I see Tantalus and Red sitting together. My two masked men.

I cross my arms, and in classic Arn Anderson style, I give them the signal.

It's Over.

Somewhere behind me, that retired doofus who thinks he taught me anything I didn't already know is being held back by security.

You picked a side, Rick. That means you're The Enemy.

I lift pretty little Megan's head by her pretty purple hair. And I pause long enough to whisper into your ear...

"Muto didn't help me make the purple mist, little dreaming Queen..."

I bite your ear. Sharply.

"... your Thomas did."

I wrap my arms around her waist. And I twist. Pulling her up into position.

She's dead weight. Her arms and legs, rubber. Her arms fall straight down. Her legs bend backward and split. There's no resistance. No reversal. Her body is helpless. Twitching. Her mind ten billion miles away falling into a black hole.

There's no stopping me, Thomas. There's no stopping me, Red. Your poet is finished.

My hands are locked behind her back. Hands to wrists.

And with your legs spread, in this position, your mound right in front of me, I can't help myself.

I open my bloody mouth, extend my tongue...

...and give your pussy a long, lascivious liiiiiiiick.

Watching my masked men as I do.

Then, I make the little jump.

Make my legs spread.

And feel both of us descend toward the canvas.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: RedEnforcer on December 19, 2017, 10:28:34 PM

Wait...Purple?

No...she wouldn't just add food coloring to make a point. Not her. Not in this set up. No, she's prepared. If she mixed it beforehand and stashed it like she was taught, there's more than just a color change.

I look on and see Megan. But it looks like Megan's not home. Leave a message.  I've..no...never seen her drool like that. I've seen Megan concussed, knocked out, passed out trying to drink the Sandman under the table and sent to dreamland by the nastiest choke holds you've ever seen. But I've never seen her so completely out of it.

Ohshit. Ohshit. Ohshit.

I turn my head for a moment because..he twitched...Tantalus twitched.

"You know something about this don't you" I hiss between gritted teeth.  I'm so mad right now I need to punch something. But he just sits there for a moment.

I glare at him.

Trying to use the force of my stare to make him do something.  Or say something. Hell at this point I halfway expect him to light a damn cigar and say "I love it when a plan comes together."

But while I'm doing this...I forget...

I forget to keep my eyes on what's important.

My....

And there's a shift in the atmosphere so quickly, like a million souls just decided to hold their breath.

And I turn back to the ring...where I should have been watching....

And I see Megan upside down and just oh so helpless. Looking wrecked...

Rowan muscling her up even though she's got to be low on blood from the rip on her head....

Before I can even process what I'm seeing...

She falls

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: The Second City Wrestlerette on December 19, 2017, 10:50:09 PM

Seated way back in the arena, hidden in the masses. A black hoodie on, with the hood pulled over my head. Not wanting to be seen, not wanting to be heard, not wanting to be noticed. Ever since FTW has dissolved, things have been going downhill for me. I lost touch of my partner, my best friend(s)...so what is left to fight for anymore?

And then...something caught my interest. Is this a flashback? Back to the past? Rowan vs Megan? Wanting to tear each other apart? There was no way to miss those news. And I just had to watch this...live. No way around.

Now here we are...these two seemingly looking to kill each other. I've seen other familiar faces in the crowd, closer to the ring...it's weird, to say the least.

I've watched most of the match without a motion. Maybe a tear rolling down my cheek here and there, when I started wondering why it wasn't me in that ring right now. Since everybody knew, and still knows, that I was the show back in FTW. And ever since it all fell apart...I've wished nothing but suffering upon these women. And here they are, trying to kill each other...couldn't be better.

When Rowan gets Megan up, I take a deep breath, gulping down the last bit of whiskey I had in the bottle before getting to my feet, muttering "It's been about time somebody killed her..." before I turn to leave. Heading for the nearest exit, I stop on my way, peeking back at the ring to see the impact. Thinking <...and even if this doesn't kill her, this isn't over. She will pay, one way or the other...THEY will ALL pay!>

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Lord Tantalus on December 20, 2017, 12:33:26 AM

As Megan lays on the mat, her eyes staring off into the void, I feel Red's glare on me. But I say nothing. I give him nothing.

It worked perfectly. Exactly as planned. Rowan waited too long to use it, but her pride kept her from utilizing the weapon until it was almost too late. She could not use it when Megan held her in the camel clutch, and that hold nearly finished Rowan. When I saw her struggling, nearly saying the words, I wondered if the alchemy I prepared for her was wasted. But now, watching Megan's empty eyes, I know it was not.

Yes, Red. It's exactly what you suspect. Rowan came to me, just as Megan did. Both of them seeking a weapon that would finish their enemy. And both of them paid a price.

Now that I watch Megan's body lifted into position for the Widow's Bite, I know this is over.

A pity. Rowan prepared one more weapon for you, Megan. And I was eager to see her use it.

Even more than the poison I helped her prepare for you.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 20, 2017, 02:42:29 AM

A Jolly Holiday With Punky

The sky is bright as bright can be -
It's purple, shore to shore.
I'm sitting down and pouring tea -
And Calli wants some more.

She's wearing rabbit ears, it's odd;
She seems a bit dismayed.
"Megan," she growls, "I swear to god,"
"I'd best be getting paid."

Even in this place of dreams
Quinn's quite mercenary -
"Christ, Dow," she groans, "Your lack
Of meter's most extraordinary."

Let's see you do fucking better, bitch.

"Well, obviously that's not going to happen. A) I can't fucking stand gimmicky promos, and B) I'm not the one hallucinating."

I'm not HALLUCINATING, I'm ...

I stare at my tea. It's swirling, and there's lights in it, spiraling all the way down into the endless void at the bottom of the cup where I should be able to the see the leaves that are the tasseomantic heralds of my future.

... admittedly, tea doesn't do that normally.

"Also you fucking hate tea. I poured you a perfect cuppa once and you smashed it on the wall."

'Cuppa' my ass. You're from fuckin' California.

"Oh, shut your junkie mouth. I won't have you spoiling my gimmick just because you've been bloody drugged."

I blink, and my eyes look through the back of my head. The purple sky is swirling, alight with diamonds.

You may have a point there.

We're on a hilltop, carpeted with rich golden grass, and all around us is a wood. A dark wood. Passing along a distant road that winds through the endless forest, I can see some sort of dark coach, pulled by horses so black they drink the light, and if I narrow my eyes and peer through the shadows I can see inside the

- Carriage held but just Ourselves-
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For his Civility,

"Christ. From Marlowe to Dickinson. Really ranging through the Great Poets 101 catalogue, aren't you?"

Fuck off, I like Dickinson. You can sing all her poems to ... wait. What do you mean, 'from Marlowe'?

"That was the last poem you were thinking of when this happened before."

When what-

She smiles, and her teeth are blood red.

"When you got dropped on your fucking head by Rowan Chance, you daffy cxnt."

The world cracks apart

-- into fractures of jagged lightning and black glass that

--- reflect me a thousand times, my body jolting as it hits the mat, legs spasming as they drop in a wide sprawl and

---- my aching cxnt steaming from your tongue through my shorts but

----- I can feel the impact, the crunch of my skull into the boards and the drug is there but it's scoured away in a fiery wind and

my hand twitches ...

my love
my heart
my soul

towards Gemma before

... curling on the mat.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 20, 2017, 03:22:08 AM

LVK: OHMYGOD! OHMYGOD! OHMYGOD!

RP: Let go of me, you sonsofbitches! Let go of me!

LVK: Meg--Pun--she... her whole body seemed to just... crumple... then topple. Like a tower, laid waste by a catapult of fire and stone. Just... she's falling forward. Onto her back. Her arms and legs are...

RP: Don't you fucking taser me! Don't y--

LVK: Ladies and gentlemen...I've only seen this once before...and that doesn't make it easier. Rowan leapt into the air, holding Megan in the tombstone piledriver position, and as she hit the canvas, she performed a full splits, sending Megan's skull straight into the mat. The impact on her neck and spine must be... she was unconscious after the last time. Rowan could have held her down for a one hundred count. I don't...


You aren't the only one who feels the impact.

As I land, legs split apart, I feel the momentum send red hot slivers of pain up my spine, then back down again. And I scream out loud, sending a shout to whatever gods or goddesses there might be. It isn't a victory howl. It's just pain. All pain.

I watched your abs when we fell. Jolting, like a bowl of muscles and jelly falling to the floor, almost bouncing. And when I let go of your torso, I watch your body fall before me.

Your arms out.

Your legs split.

All that fine, silky skin. All that ink. Laying before me like a sacrifice.

You are a sacrifice. To rid you from my life once and for all. To burn you, but not in effigy. To destroy you. Everything that is you.

Do you think me destroying your pussy was an accident? Or an oversight? Or me taking advantage of an opportunity?

No. Oh, no.

And as your still body lays before me, I see the faces of my masked men. Ashen under their hoods. And as they watch, I slide my hips forward, putting my split legs on either side of your face. Letting my sweat and sex rest over your nose and mouth.

Then, I reach forward, bending my belly over your belly, letting you feel the breasts you used to beg me to touch. And I hook your leg.

Yes. That leg.

And finally, I pull it back. Not gently. Not kindly. I hook my arm around your knee and JERK it. As I arch my back.

Oh, I'm going to pay for this...but it's going to be worth it. It's so going to be worth it. To see her face. Yes. To see her face.

I arch my back. All the way. Thrusting my sex down on your face. All you can smell and taste is ME, Megan.

All you can see.

All you can smell.

All you can taste.

Is ME.

And I arch my back. All the way. The pain won't let me smile. I scream. My eyes shut, my teeth gritted.

I want to smile, but I can't. I can barely open my eyes.

And look at your pretty wife in her blood-splattered dress.

As I QUEEN YOU.

Your broken knee in the hook of my arm.

Looking at her upside down.

I can't smile. I want to, but I can't.

So I just grit my teeth. As blood oozes from my forehead.

And glare at your pretty wife.

The referee drops down for the count.

And somehow... somehow...

...watching her...helplessly...watching US...

...summons my smile to my lips.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ~Rox Erotique~ on December 20, 2017, 03:45:08 AM

"Oh god..." I gasp, my voice low, rasped, broken.

I didn't wanna be here... I didn't wanna be in this country... I didn't wanna be in this fucking CONTINENT!

But you insisted I come here. Sit ringside. Witness your glorious victory. Glory... There's no glory here. Just bile and venom and all consuming hate. I guess that shouldn't surprise me though, I've been in more than my fair share of grudge matches in my time, Hell, Lisa fucking Starr back there being one of them (Why does every girl who hates me wanna break my arm?) But this is something else.

This sickens me to my core...

I watch as that psychopath blasts my wife in the face with her toxic purple concocsion...

I watch as she scoops her up and laps at her pussy...

And I watch as she drops into the perfect splits, SPIKING my wife's skull into the boards with a force that could crack skull and crush spine.

The silver hip flask falls from my fingertips and crashes to the floor as my eyes blur instantly. the whole world ahead of me is a flood with tears. 10 thousand screaming fans suddenly drowning in mid air.. the ring and the bloodied, broken carcass of my wife is distorted in a sea of sorrow.

I lift my hand to my eyes and wipe the tears away, the world coming back into painful clarity as I see her hand reach out for me right before she blacks out in a crumpled heap...

"Why Megan... Why the fuck did you bring me here... why on EARTH did you think I'd want to see.... THIS?!?!" I scream, turning around and looking at the exit, unable to take anymore heartbreak from Rowan Chance or her sick mind today.

And that's when it hit me.

A sobering slap in the face.

I turn around again, my hands on the railings as I look at my unconscious wife and I start to burn. The bile boiling in the pit of my clenched stomach. The cold sweat that's covered my clammy body feels hot as every muscle in my core tenses, knuckles whitening as I grip those railings so hard the frame starts to buckle.

I rage with a furious fire that was sparked from a simple realisation. She didn't drag me here for my benefit. She dragged me here for HERS. I've spent this entire time dreading every punch, every lock and every impact when I should be sucking it down and FIGHTING for my wife!

Maybe it's too late... but then again a lot of people have lost a lot of money betting the odds when Megan fucking Dow is involved.

Rowan crawls over her, planting her arse on my wife's face and hooking, of all legs... the one she's maybe ruined tonight and as she smirks at me I fucking glare back with a seething, unleashed fury. and I roar. I roar at my wife the only way I've ever known how. With love, charm and caring tenderness

"Megan! MEGAN! MEEEGGGAAAAAANNN! YOU FUCKING LISTEN TO ME YOU LITTLE cxnt!"

That's about as tender as I can be when Rowan is sitting on my wife's face.

"I DIDN'T COME ALL THE WAY OUT HERE TO WATCH YOU FUCKING LOSE, DOW! I COULD'AV DONE THAT AT HOME AND SAVED THE $6000 DRESS YOU JUST BLOODY RUINED WITH YOUR BLOODY BLOOD!!!" I continue, rousing my KO'd with with my melodious encouraging serenades...

"I KNOW YOU'RE HURTIN' BABY! I KNOW IT! BUT YOU'RE GONNA BE HURTIN' A FUCK TONNE MORE IF YOU LET THIS SKINNY FUCKING CREEP GET THAT PINFALL! DO YOU HEAR ME! I'LL KICK YOUR FUCKING ARSE IF YOU LOSE TO HER YOU TWAT! YOU'RE MEGAN FUCKING DOW! YOU'RE MY FUCKING WIFE! AND MY WIFE DOESN'T LOSE TO LITTLE FUCKING RICH GIRLS!!! YOU HEAR ME DOW!"

"SO GET UP! GET THE FUCK UP DOW! LISTEN TO ME!!! GET THAT FUCKING SHOULDER UP! DO IT YOU FUCKING FUCK! GET THAT SHOULDER UP!!!"

I scream and roar, as I rage against the railing like a tempest...

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 20, 2017, 04:00:51 AM

... it's dark - there's nothing but ... dark heat. there's only ... what dreams may come in that sleep of ... kindly stop for ... nnnnh. i c-can't ...




















_{... Gems?}

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Vivianne on December 20, 2017, 04:01:57 AM

She did it! She nailed her!

YES! YES!! YESSSS!!!

Oh...Punky is fucked up now. Drugged and spiked through the boards.

All that's left now is for Gemma to come and pick up the pieces while the better woman watches her cry while doing it.

Gawd Rowan!

YESSS!!!!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: RedEnforcer on December 20, 2017, 04:18:48 AM

Move dammit!! Move!!!

I?m seated hands gripping the hell out of the railings. Wound up tighter than Usain Bolt in that microsecond before the starter?s pistol fires.

Megan isn?t really moving. I see her hand beckoning to Gemma. But is that her or just part of the Fencer?s response.  Is there nerve damage. Spinal contusions..is she

Is she fucking insane????

Rowan cannot. Oh gawd.  Darlin don?t bend like that. Your spine. Your ribs. The blood still flowing from your head.

It?s too much.

All of this.

This whole gawddamn match is too much. 

Why can?t they just forgive....

Is it really worth this carnage? Is destroying someone you once loved worth all this?

Gemma is pleading in that angelic lilt of hers for Megan to rise using most devilish speech.

I move to say something.


And stop.


If

If this count goes on.

Will this finally be over?

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 20, 2017, 04:20:57 AM

I feel nothing from you, Megan. Nothing.

No movement. No twitch. Nothing.

The referee is on the mat, raising her hand. And I can tell all of you, that count is either lightning quick or as slow as molasses in January, depending on where are. Right now, it should be January. But I see her hand rise up and the next thing I know, it's hit the canvas.


"ONE!"


And you. Don't move. Not a muscle. Not an inch. NOTHING.

The referee's hand goes up a second time. And now, everything blurs into slow motion.

My eyes blink at the blood and sweat and I see another ring. Another venue.

My body being lifted by milky white tattooed arms. My own arms crossed in front of me.



"Time's up, Rowan," she says. The red she sprayed into my eyes is still on her lips. She pulls me up by the straps of my tank top. One of them breaks in her hand.

I'm barely able to stand, so Gemma helps me. She's laughing behind me.

I can't do anything. I can't protect myself. I can't see straight. I feel a broken rib moving inside me. I just look at Punky through damp hair.

All the while, I never stop looking at her. Never stop the link between our eyes. And, for a moment, I see something change.

Just for a moment.

"I have to," she says. "To break the spell you have on me. I can't let anyone get to me the way you do."

My lips shudder a moment before they move. "I want you to do it," I tell her.

She looks at me, confused.

I tell her, "Because it will do the same for me."

I see Punky's brow furl. Her eyes fill with anger. She looks at Gemma. "Lift her up," she says.



You almost broke my back that night, Megan.

But you did break my heart.

The referee's hand remains frozen in time. But my spine...does not.



LVK: Rowan is arched back in a perfect...no...she just... she just FLINCHED! She's erect now. She can't maintain that arch in her back!



I gasp air through my teeth. My back arching the other way, bending me forward, releasing a little of the pin's tension.

But that doesn't matter. You're finished.

You're done.

I'll stand over you. Like this. Out. Unconscious.

And you'll be NOTHING.

Like you tried to make me.

Like you tried to make me.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 20, 2017, 04:44:31 AM

The smell of your pussy is one I know as well as I know the scent of spring rain or hot pizza. All things that have been on my lips in many happy moments in life.

And this makes three times you've put your cxnt on my face in anger. To shame me. To ruin me.

I don't

- like that scent any more.

I prefer nasturtiums, and spring onions.

The smell fills my head.

The tang of the drug.

The taste of blood.

The creak of black leather against my lips.

My head pulses. Pounds. Everything hurts from my compressed neck to my sweat-soaked tangle of bloody purple hair. My head feels like a time bomb.

tickticktickticktickticktick is that a countdown is that The Countdown

My spine is a line of ice and fire, lightning crackling down every nerve, my body limp and sprawled.

Wrecked.

Fuckin' WRECKED.

There's no way to get up. No fuckin' way.

I'm still in a haze and I ...

... fuck what the hell is that

It's Sunday morning and I just want to lay in the big four-poster but for once Gemma doesn't have the big hangover I do and she wants to go do stuff and I'm groaning and trying to bury my head under the pillow and she's straddling me and gleefully shouting down into my muffled face my head pounding

head pounding face muffled Gemma shouting

what's she saying

get up

fucking get up

My left boot ... twitches. Doc Marten doing a tiny bit of Airwalking.

My taped and blood-spattered right hand curls, just barely.

Could just be spasms.

Yeah.

LVK: The referee is counting! Mercifully, this may be over

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 20, 2017, 05:11:09 AM

"TWO!"

The referee's hand finally hits the mat.

She doesn't say "TWO!" but that's what I hear. Je parle tr?s bien le fran?ais, merci.

Almost there. Just one more second. One more fucking second and I've proven to you just who the better woman is.

Not to you. No, my dear. You already know the answer to that question.

No, I'm not here to prove it to you.

I'm here to prove it to Gemma.

Oh, you didn't know that, Megan? You didn't know what this was all about?

And Thomas. The way he speaks about you. The way his eyes shine.

And Red. That same shine.

They all love you so much, don't they?

Well, they're looking at you now. And their eyes aren't shining.

They're seeing me fucking QUEENING you.

And your body doing little more than TWITCHING.

The referee's hand goes up for the third time.

This is it.

This is fucking it.

No more Punky.

No more Megan.

No more poetic, longing glances as they speak your name in fucking hushed revered tones.

They see you for what you are: a poor street kid with wanna be dreams. Who wishes she was a roadie for Black Flag. Who wishes she was a jobber for ECW. Who wishes...and wishes...and wishes...

No more memories of your body laying next to mine.

No more memories of you kissing me.

No more memories of that shower in Venice. When you--



..m-meg...





NO.

FUCK YOU.

YOU BROKE MY FUCKING BACK, YOU BITCH.

YOU AND YOUR DIRTY WHORE WIFE.

YOU MADE ME GO TO HIM.

AND BEG FOR THE MASK.

SO I COULD BURN YOU OUT OF MY LIFE. OUT OF MY MEMORY. OUT OF THE FUCKING WORLD.

YOU MADE ME BEG

TO HIM

AND HE DIDN'T EVEN MAKE ME PAY FOR IT

BECAUSE HE SAW WHAT YOU DID TO ME

HE GAVE IT TO ME

AND TOLD ME TO DESTROY YOU

AND...

And...

And...



It's over, Megan.

Finally.

After FTW.

After Japan.

After Viking Hall.

After all of it.


It's finally over.

It's my pussy on your face.

Hooking your broken knee.

As the referee's hand descends...

...me watching...

...them watching...

The referee's lips open...

...hand about to hit...

"TRO--"

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 20, 2017, 05:52:18 AM

This is a story made of twisted tales.

This is a story of dark betrayals.

It's blood for blood (and by the fucking gallon).

It's dominance and submission.

It's secrets and lies.

But really?

This is really just a story about a girl who fell in love.

She fell in love with someone just a little dangerous. Okay. A lot dangerous.

She fell in love with someone who was bad for her in such a good way.

She fell in love with someone who showed her things she never imagined and things she'd always dreamed.

She fell in love with someone who kissed her until her toes curled and her leg lifted of its own accord to press the sole of her boot to the wall behind her because she felt the world falling away beneath her.

She fell in love with someone who knew more about the world than the girl had dreamt in her philosophy.

She fell in love with someone brilliant and funny and merciless and so heartbreakingly gorgeous it was unreal.

And the best thing for the girl about falling in love with this beautiful amazing storybook woman ...

... was when she helped me break your fucking back.

I COULD'AV DONE THAT AT HOME AND SAVED THE $6000 DRESS YOU JUST BLOODY RUINED WITH YOUR BLOODY BLOOD!

That's Gemma. And she's dropped an aitch. She only does that when she's really mad. Fuck. I'm in trouble.

DO YOU HEAR ME! I'LL KICK YOUR FUCKING ARSE IF YOU LOSE TO HER YOU TWAT!

Her voice is like an angel screaming in boundless rage as it shakes the pillars of Heaven, determined to bring it all crashing down.

My body shifts, just barely, a breath drawn in raggedly, muffled by your cxnt. The referee's count is making deep-set wrestler's neurons fire angrily.

And Gemma is so mad. Can I get her flowers? Is anywhere open that has flowers? Why the fuck does my head hurt? And why is it so fucking dark?

YOU'RE MY FUCKING WIFE! AND MY WIFE DOESN'T LOSE TO LITTLE FUCKING RICH GIRLS!!! YOU HEAR ME DOW!

Everything hurts. EVERYTHING.

I'm so far into the gray that consciousness looks like a sunset.

But Gemma is barreling over that horizon towards me, a shooting star driven on rage.

She's pulled me up every single time she's found me down. Taken me by the hand and dragged me back from dark places. Built me back up when I was broken down to jagged bits. She put my heart back into me and then let me put place it in her hands. She had every reason not to trust me, not to believe in me, not to be with me - and she is. I was tainted goods when I came to her. Broken and betrayed and untrusting. And she kicked my ass until I realized I was still alive and kissed me until I melted. I love her more than I can say. I've tried to give her everything I can, EVERYTHING -

- and that's why we're here, Rowan.

My greatest gift to my wife will be to fucking twist you out of my life, dripping blood and venom from your hungry little parasitic fangs, and throw you into the fucking dirt of the past and stomp you FLAT.

But first I have to try to move. The ref has counted twice. Twice.

TWICE IS BAD.

Everything hurts. EVERYTHING HURTS. My face is tingling with whatever you fucking hit me with, smeared into my nose and lips by your cxnt. My neck is drilled, my head crunched and throbbing, my poor lifted knee twisted and torqued and swollen and screaming. EVERY GODS-DAMNED THING HURTS.

_{I could just let it end ...}

But my Gemma ...

LISTEN TO ME!!! GET THAT FUCKING SHOULDER UP! DO IT YOU FUCKING FUCK! GET THAT SHOULDER UP!

... said to fucking move.

The referee's hand is coming down. The shadow of the TROIX is on the canvas.

And my inked right arm, with its matryoshka and its rose-woven gun and its mandala and its tangle of Oregon wildflowers and its sacrificial dagger all tattooed into my flesh, all the art that I've etched into my skin, my knuckles spattered with your blood and wrapped in grip tape, the glossy black nails sunk into my palm in a taut electric fist -

- SHOVES up at the sky for just a twitching moment.

The little elfin referee with the slicked blonde hair and the pale unforgiving eyes gives the smallest of smiles, and comes up to her knees after seeing just a hint of the ring lights glaring between my right shoulder and the canvas, her angle perfect even with you perched on my fucking face.

"DEUX! DEUX!"

She throws up two fingers.

LVK: ... WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 20, 2017, 06:04:06 AM

... no.

Your arm came up. It just shot up.

... no.

And the referee sits up on her ass in those tight little shorts and holds up two fingers. TWO FINGERS.

...no.

And the crowd screams.

...no.

And Tom and ...and Red... are looking.

NO.

And Gemma.

NO.

And...it was the Widow's Bite. Nobody's...nobody's ever...

NO.

I'm sitting on my ass. Just looking at you. My eyes wide. My hands open. Your body thrown over to the side after breaking the pin. Laying in a pool of blood--yours or mine, or likely both--just barely breathing...

NO!

The Widow's... my...

...looking at you coughing, spitting up blood.

And I hear a voice. Screaming the same word over and over and over again. A woman's voice. A madwoman's voice. Screaming. Not shouting. Screaming. And she won't...fucking...stop.

NO!

NO!

NO!

NO!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Callista on December 20, 2017, 07:27:55 AM

Quote from: ThePurpleVixen on December 06, 2017, 06:51:56 AM

The countdown begins.

(... and Gemma and I know how you feel about The Countdown, don't we, Rowan?)

(Where's my royalty for that, bitches?  ;D)

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: BustyTiffany35 on December 20, 2017, 09:06:30 AM

Megan is in such a horrifying state, her condition is so bad it's painful to look at her. It's sickening, unsettling to see her like this. I can't get over how wrecked she looks, how utterly destroyed she appears. And I especially can't ignore how much I fuckin' hate Rowan right now. This is personal, this is between them, they're settling the score - but still, fuck you, Rowan Chance. Fuck you.

I stare into the ring, and in this breathless moment, something is making me think back about that one time she came over to visit me.



Hey sugar, I'm not coming.

WTF WHY

I'm with a friend right now.

Who???

You know who.

OMG really Tiff?? That punk chick??? Everyone's here, like EVERYONE. but u would rather be with her??

I look away from my phone and stare over at the gal curled up beside me on my expensive white sofa. The smile on my face deepens as she's in the middle of telling me 'bout a match she had, this one having taken place just a little over a month ago in Philadelphia. It was brutal, it was intense, the halls of that arena echoed with rage and violence. Her words formed the most explicit pictures, her alluring voice drawing all these images of carnage and destruction. The way she spoke about the match, using such vivid detail and infectious passion, it was like I was right there in that sweaty, rowdy, raucous arena, front row centre, watching her go to war in that ring. And when she got to the part where she was thrown - no, fucking DRIVEN - through a double-stacked table, which was engulfed in flames, her lithe, taut body crashing through burning wood and sharp metal until it collided with the cold concrete of the arena floor, I thought for sure this story was over. But it wasn't the end. Far from it. The ending to this match wouldn't culminate to its explosive finish until much later, until she's broken a few kendo sticks wrapped in barbwire over her opponent's skull, until she's been driven through a bunch of steel folding chairs, until she dove off a fucking balcony to the deafening roar of a bloodthirsty crowd. She's a fuckin' Terminator.

And I sat there and listened and marvelled at her resilience, her toughness, her grit. I listened and smiled and wanted to be nowhere else but here, with her, curled up by my side, trading stories of our most vicious matches over drinks of hard liquor and wine. It's been a lil' over a year and a half since we first met, since I started a tour in the Midwest and she jumped me after a match that I had in a promotion out of Chicago, and she tied me up into a straitjacket and proclaimed she was going to make my life a living hell just because I was the champ of that promotion. Already it's been a lil' over a year and a half ago, in that time we've been trading wins and losses, beating each other silly, upping the ante every single match we got involved in, and always, always coming back for more. We couldn't get enough of each other, she hit me, I had to hit her back even harder, and then she'd come after me to hit me back even more harder. And gawd, when this gal hit ya, when she threw ya across the ring, when she's really torn into ya, it hurt. It hurt real fuckin' good. On top of that, she'd find newer, more explicit and more lecherous ways to humiliate me. It'd make me chase her from promotion to promotion, just wanting to drill her gorgeous face into the canvas and beat her senseless for pulling that stunt she did back in Missouri that one time.

And then, something changed. Spiteful hatred morphed into reckless obsession, evolved into begrudging respect, and changed into something.. into something. Affection, fondness.. lust, probably? We still beat each other stupid, I would still try and figure ways to make my Flatliner hurt her even worse than the last time I'd hit her with it, and she would still tie me up even tighter and parade me around ringside like a conquered trophy whenever she got the chance. But, after a bit of time, I realized I didn't hate her like I thought I did. I should have, I mean gawd, the amount of shit she used to pull on me, I was within every right to. But.. that just wasn't the case. I didn't despise her, I never truly hated her. I respected her, I admired her skill, her dedication to her craft, to this sport that we both loved so much. I grew to like her. A lot. She was all I ever thought about, all I ever enjoyed thinking about. She really, truly ignited something inside me that's laid dormant for a long, long time. She gave me some kind of purpose, a reason to continue wrestling, to further my career and keep going. And somewhere in the midst of our feuding, we both started to just.. talk.

After shows, we'd pass each other in the halls, and she'd smile that mischievous smile of hers at me and I'd nod to her with a warm look on my face. It was a start - if we'd so much as smell the other's perfume we'd end up in a brawl. But we were finally starting to act civil with one another. Soon, I'd find her hunkered down in a hallway post-match, and I'd limp over and bring her a fresh icepack to sooth her shoulder or neck, or she'd find me in the parking lot and we'd sit there on the hood of my car and have a few beers that she stole from the concessions. If we didn't bang each other up too badly that night, I'd see her at a club for the afterparty, or a bar up the street from the venue the show was held at, or I'd find myself knocking on the door of her motel room, or sliding the keycard that she casually slipped into my cleavage earlier into the lock of her hotel suite, or finding her waiting at my Airbnb, mischievous smile and Punky-Tails and all. A year and a half ago we were at each other's throats, now, the 2nd Guest Room in my home in Reno is practically her room whenever she visits Vegas.

Now, I'm here, teasing her "Punky-Tails" while she talks about how she caved in some unlucky bastard's sternum with a flying elbow drop from the ring apron. I turn my eyes back to my phone for a moment, frowning at the text messages that flood the screen. I'm supposed to be at the Marquee at The Cosmopolitan for a big party that's populated with the kind of crowd I run with: the elites, the rich gals, the fancy famous people, the two-faces, the fakes, the toxic, shallow, sycophantic douchebags of the entertainment and pro-wrestling worlds. I was supposed to be there about an hour or two ago. But she showed up a few hours earlier, while I was getting ready, unannounced, uninvited, but definitely always welcomed. And I don't wanna be anywhere else but here.

My thumb glides across my phone's screen, typing in a response that requires no thinking on my part, sending the reply as quickly as I can so I can get back to paying this purple-haired vixen my full attention.

You bet your ass.

We demolished my liquor cabinet that night as we traded stories about fighting in Japan, in Mexico, up in Toronto, down in Philly, over in Chicago, or the NYC underground. And I remember wrapping an arm around her shoulders, giggling about how I knew she's really a T-1000, whispering drunkenly into her ear "sugah, they'd kill ya in the hardest, in the worst possible way - and you'd just walk it off." Then, I started talking about Shibari and she got that grin on her face again..



Maybe it's that blistering, vile mist that's covered your face.

Maybe it's having to watch your skull and neck get compacted into the canvas courtesy of that jumping Widow's Bite.

Maybe it's the fact that you've been ripped apart and dragged through hell and back by this merciless witch for almost an hour now.

Maybe it's cause ya look like a fuckin' corpse.

Maybe it's all of that. Regardless, it's all making me think of that time you visited my home in Reno.

We're back in the present. You're down on the mat, covered in blood, in sweat, in whatever the fuck that purple mist is made up of. Your knee is mangled, your perfect body is battered, you're buried under Rowan's enticing ass. The count is in, the ref's hand slapping hard into the mat. Your wife is screaming so loudly it pierces my ears, but I don't care. I agree with her, I want to scream with her but I can't find my voice - too choked up on my emotions, on my fears and concerns for ya. So my hopes ride on her bellowing, raging shouts, on her rallying war cry. And ya kick out.

You kicked out.

Rowan planted ya with that Widow's Bite. And you kicked out. Rowan leapt into the air with you upside down, slamming ya head first into the canvas, the boards compacting your neck. And you kicked out. Rowan nearly put ya out for good, and you gawd-damn magnificent, beautiful, crazy bitch, you kicked out.

Rowan killed ya, and you're just gonna walk it off.

But ya have to get up first.

"C'MON MEGAN! GET UP! ON YOUR FEET! IT'S TIME YA GOT SOME KILLIN' DONE!"

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: The Second City Wrestlerette on December 20, 2017, 05:49:31 PM

Standing near the exit, just peeking back over my shoulder at the ring and the action in it. Seeing the Widow's Bite connect...a little grin comes across my lips as I see the pin. Taking a deep breath, she's finished...FINALLY!

As the arm comes down for three, I step through the door...then I hear that eruption. Freezing on the spot, I slowly turn back around and see...that arm up. "No...fucking way..." I mumble, growling, my hands ball to fists, body tenses. My fingernails dig into palms to a point I actually rip my skin open. "End her...already!"

My eyes drift from the ring, to the first row of the crowd, seeing Red there, Tantalus next to him...I got a seat there in my invitation, but didn't want to go there...NEVER wanted to be there again. So close to everyone...but maybe that's how it should be. That's where I should be...and I start working my way through the crowd.

Hands in the pockets of my hoodie, head lowered as I silently slither through the masses. Playing with a note in my right hand, just a small piece of paper...and the recipient isn't far now. A few rows behind my empty seat, my heart pounds. Rowan's having a mental breakdown in the ring...but I'm busy with myself here. Do I dare? Do I not? Maybe it's the alcohol that I'm still trying to get used to, maybe it's something else...but there is one thing I know for sure. Punky NEEDS to be finished...once and for all! And if Rowan can't do it, I will...but I'll need some help...

I silently step out of the shadows, taking my seat ringside. Not making any eye contact with anyone. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, nervously playing with the note in my hands as a bit of my blue hair falls out of hoodie, dangling in front of my face. I take a deep breath and then slip the note on the lap of the guy next to me - Tantalus. When, or if, he picks it up and unfolds it, he'll read a hastily scribbled line, saying no more than "We need to talk"

I raise my head, staring straight forward at the ring...I can almost smell the blood

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Emily Layne on December 20, 2017, 07:45:41 PM

I watched the first two round and big part of the third one from a seat far away from the first rows, not wanting to be noticed by the old friends members of the FTW.
I never liked to get under the spotlights and honestly I am not interested on getting with people who can say something like:
"Hey do you remember when blah blah blah?"

But I had all eyes for anything that happened in the ring and even outside of it.
I followed the whole action and I'm not really surprised with the cruel grudge happening between Rowan and Megan.
It was clear since when I joined the FTW that these two had a long history behind them.
When I was booked in that tag team match in the first ever PPV I still didn't realize that.
But during that match everything was clearer, that's why I left the ring, leaving Rowan at the mercy of Gemma and Punky when they mercilessly broke her back.

And that was also the reason I didn't want to be in this club watching this match, but now I am here.
They asked me to get back old connections and get a contract.

After Megan spiked Rowan's head on the mat with that vicious DDT, I stepped outside for a cigarette. (Yeah I know I shouldn't smoke, my trainer told me that so many times but can't help, I need it when I'm nervous)
..and this thing is making me nervous.
I'm not the type like Tiffany or Gemma. I'll never get up from my seat to scream out and catch the attention of people around.

As the cigarette is over I noticed Lisa about to exit the arena only to stop herself and she turns around heading back through the audience as she takes a seat next to Tantalus.

I follow her, making sure she doesn't see me and I notice there is a empty seat next to Red with the name Sadie Davis on it.

Sadie, where is Sadie?

Knowing her she probably wasting time at the buffet.

I step through the audience, a big pair of glasses is covering my eyes as I look down at Red.
He doesn't even look at me, too busy watching what's happening in the ring.

"Posso?" I ask him but getting no replies from him, it's always hard to know where he is looking as his mask covers the facial expression but I can tell that his eyes are away from me.
So I sit down next to him, without really permissions but who cares?
Everyone is watching inside of the ring, wanting to know how this will end.

"About time..."

I can hear his voice.
Does he mistake me for Sadie?
No, that's impossible, he knows that it's me.
Then something catches the attention of my eyes as I see Lisa passing a note to Tantalus.
I push my elbow to the side, tapping on Red's big bicep.
He slightly turns his head to the side away from me.

Then our eyes are again in the ring as I lean backward on the seat.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Callista on December 20, 2017, 09:02:48 PM

*A lone figure slips into the back. The figure is dressed simply, and inconspicuously. Blue jeans, black boots, and a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. Dark glasses completes the ensemble. The hoodie hides some of the figure of the person beneath, though at a shade under six feet, it's either a tall woman or a very slender man. The figure's lips curl as she looks on.*

What perfectly imperfect timing. We know what this is called, don't we Megan? The "hope spot". I sneer derisively at the very concept. Yes, at the very concept of hope. What utter rubbish.

Hope is nonsense. Hope is foolishness. Hope is failure portrayed as noble by fellow failures.

"Hope" is what the beggar in the gutter feels, knowing he can't crawl out on his own. He hopes one of the passing souls will save him from his plight, even as they all try to pretend he doesn't exist.

"Hope" is what the widow in the casino shoving her social security check into a machine one quarter at a time feels. She's not even hoping for life-changing money any more. She's just hoping a passing manager will comp her a buffet ticket and she won't have to go home for another cat food dinner.

"Hope" is the vain belief that there's a chance that the world isn't what it appears to be, that people don't behave as they will according to their nature.

I'm above hope. Beyond it, some might say.

I wasn't always.

Once I had a plan. It wasn't a complicated plan, (at least the first parts of it,) which seemed a virtue. Get talented individuals together in a mutual defense pact. Run roughshod. Get what you want. The plan got a bit esoteric after that, but the first phases seemed the picture of elegant simplicity. I wouldn't have thought "hope" was a factor.

But I was wrong, wasn't I, Megan? I did indeed have an unseen dependency on hope, and like all plans that relied on hope, those plans failed.

No, that's not quite right. If someone hopes the sun rises tomorrow, their hope will almost certainly come true. The problem is when your hope is for something improbable. Or impossible, as mine was. Any hope that someone can go against their nature is, at the very least, improbable. In your case, it's impossible.

The foundation of sand I'd built the temple of my plan upon was that you and Gemma could put aside that one element of your nature that neither of you ever truly can. That all your other desires, for success, for victory, for power, fame, fortune, for ANYTHING, could be stronger than your ultimate desire: self-destruction.

And like all such hope, it died in darkness, forlorn and forgotten. It died on the very second step we took, which was, of course, the first step you walked beside me down my path of destiny. When you chose a vessel of madness on which to hang our sign.

Which is why as I stand here, seeing the shock and awe and joy and anger and bloodlust and the regular sort of lust played out on the faces of the people around the ring, I don't hope for Rowan to destroy you. She might be the instrument of your destruction, but inevitably it will be destruction that you yourself engineered.

I'm just hoping to watch and smile as it happens.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Lord Tantalus on December 21, 2017, 07:57:04 AM

I. PRELUDE

When Megan's arm shoots up, I stand. Up off my seat so fast, it nearly tips over. Hands on the railing.

I'm not alone. Nearly every other viewer is on their feet, screaming, cheering, booing.

I just stand, silent.


II. ELEGY
She comes to me wanting a secret
To destroy the one she loves
I am not the only one she lies to

She comes to me wanting a secret
To burn the memory from her heart
Who am I to deny what she desires

She comes to me wanting a secret
And she's willing to pay the price
Eager to sacrifice everything

I can see what she wants
Because I want it too

The others only see brutality and blood
They want it to end
But I see their beauty and love
Their dark and haunting duende


III. EPIPHANY
After the sheer destruction of the second fall and after the poison made especially for her and after the Widow's Bite...

Megan did not stay down.

Megan did not stay down.

Megan did not stay down.

Rowan is blind with fury. She was so certain. All of us were.

It was the perfect pin. Like the poison, designed just for Megan. To keep her body down for three seconds.

Three seconds.

After all that...

Megan did not stay down.


IV. PRAYER
Now, Rowan.
Now.

You came to me wanting them to want you.
You came to me wanting them to fear you.

She will not stay down.
Not until you give it up.
Not until you let it go.
You can't stop her.
You can't deter her.
You must destroy her.
Destroy Megan.
And let them watch.
Destroy her.

Even a single ounce of love you once had
will hinder you.

That moment.
I saw it.
We all saw it.
For that moment saved her.

You must burn it all away.
I gave you the mask to show you the darkness.
But you don't need it.
The darkness is within you.
Embrace it now.
Take it to your heart.
Let it burn away the love you once felt.
And you will be what you always wanted to be.

A dark, vengeful goddess.
Full of lust and fury.
Destroying any who fight or fuck you.

I gave her the heart punch because you needed to see.
You needed to see what she was willing to do.
You wanted to beat her.
She wanted to break you.
And when she came to me, looking for the heart punch
I knew she would unlock the goddess within you

You wanted to beat her.
She wanted to break you.

The moment I met her,
So many years ago
I knew she was the final piece of the puzzle
Your love for her knew no bounds
And I knew she was too weak for you
She would betray you
She would be blinded by your beauty and brilliance
And she would betray you

And that was when I knew
That betrayal would unlock the goddess inside you

It is your destiny.

This is the moment.
This is the moment.
This is the moment.

Destroy her.
Destroy the one you love the most.
The one who betrayed you.
The one who tried to break you.
The one who haunts your days and nights.

You will never be free of her
Until you destroy her.

This is the moment.
This is the moment.
This is the moment.

Embrace it now.
Embrace it now.


V. APOTHEOSIS
"EMBRACE IT NOW, ROWAN!"

I shout from the metal railing.

"EMBRACE IT NOW!"

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Virginia Dare on December 21, 2017, 09:56:08 PM

I see I'm not the only one wearing a hoodie low over her eyes.

When I heard about it, I had to see it. I've had rivalries with both women. I arrived telling myself I'm not on anyone's side.

I saw the first fall and the Heart Breaker that I've felt before. It put me down so hard, the trainers needed to use smelling salts back in the locker room to get me back up.

And the second fall. There were parts I just could not watch. I heard Punky had gotten married and when I saw Rowan throw Punky's body on Gemma's lap, wearing that white dress, I understood what that meant.

That's Heel Rowan. I've fought her so many times. I thought maybe that one match may have driven away the darkness in her soul, but I was wrong: it is back or it never left.

Watching Punky lay still on the concrete for those ten seconds was an eternity and I wondered if she would be able to get up at all. When she did, I felt something stir in my stomach.

Later, when Gemma screamed at her to get back up, I felt tears in my eyes.

When I saw the Widow's Bite, I felt it. Just like so many times I felt it before. Those tears I tried to lock in my eyes came rolling down my cheeks. I put my hands in front of me, biting on my knuckle.

Kick out! Please! Kick out! Knowing that nobody does and nobody ever does. That includes me.

But then the referee raises two fingers and I SCREAM at the top of my lungs, jumping like a high school cheerleader.

It isn't over. She's still in this!

I shout "GO PUNKY GO!!! DON'T GIVE UP!!! YOU CAN BEAT HER!!! I KNOW YOU CAN!!!

That's when I realize my shout has echoed over the whole room. I pull my hoodie back over my --

NO. THE HELL WITH THAT.

I run up to the front rail, my blonde hair falling out of the hoodie, flowing behind me.

"KICK HER ASS PUNKY! DO IT! GET UP! GET THE HELL UP! DON'T LET THAT EVIL BITCH WIN! IF I CAN KICK HER ASS, YOU CAN DO IT BLINDFOLDED!"

I realize then that I'm standing on the opposite side of the Red Enforcer who's sitting right next to Tantalus.

I smile nervously and give a little wave at Red, hoping Tantalus doesn't think I'm waving at him. Although, he's a bit distracted yelling something occulty and creepy at Rowan.

And then I realize I'm standing right next to Gemma. I smile nervously and give a little wave. "Hi. I'm uh... a big fan of your wife."

Yeah. As of two minutes ago.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Vivianne on December 22, 2017, 12:37:42 AM

The shoulder comes up...

The entire crowd rises to their feet...

The ENTIRE crowd...

Except for one...

One who falls into his chair and holds his head in his hands...

One who has questioned why he is even here, though deep down he knows...

One who is now rocking back and forth nervously in his seat, wrapped in his own arms as if they can provide comfort...

One who now watches the woman he can't get out of his mind sitting in the ring and screaming...

One who is quietly repeating the same word over and over...softly enough that none of the cheering fans around him can hear...

"Rowan...Rowan...Rowan..."

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: RedEnforcer on December 23, 2017, 06:41:08 AM

I still have no idea how I should feel.  I sit there and watch Megan find the will somewhere to get a shoulder up. It takes Rowan a bit to register it. Tantalus beside me springs up amazingly.

Many things happen at once. It is a blur of things going on. So confusing I am not really sure what happens when.

Sadie, no Emily sits beside me. Rowan is crying out a harsh No. Lisa slips Tantalus a note. Tantalus is up and yelling at Rowan.

All of this happens but in a wild, wibbly wobbly haze of time.

And I am still here not wanting to pick one side or the other. I just do not see how I could choose between these two women who mean so much to me. How could I?  If only I had some kind of sign.

And then my eyes move out from the ring and towards Gemma. And I see another ghost from my past.

A familiar blonde mane of hair. And suddenly I am in the past.

A match that has never aired. A match where I saw the truth behind Tantalus and Rowan. Promises from Rowan for anything I would desire if I turned my back on a woman I fought, gained respect for and stood in the corner of. Turn on this good, loyal woman and I could have it all. I almost betrayed. But I could not sink that low.

And there she is. Daredevil Jenny Dare. A paragon of virtue who had her own battles with Rowan. And as evil as Rowan was, Jenny is equal measures good.  Total opposites.

Jenny appears, sees me and waves.

Tantalus is screaming out for Rowan. Jenny appearing and waving.

I smile and rise.
I catch Jenny?s eye.
I give her a nod. And silent thanks for helping me remember. Remember the devastation these two, Rowan and Tantalus are capable of unleashing.

MEGAN! GET YOUR ASS UP AND FINISH THE JOB!!!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Katherine The Great on December 23, 2017, 07:58:53 AM

"BOORRRRRINGGGGGG!!!"

The Athletic Blonde's voice boomed over the din of crowd. If she could do anything in life besides be a pain in the ass, it's be noticed.

"What are you looking at?" she sneered at the shocked couple sitting next to her, one of them wearing a "Punk Is Fuckin' Dead" tee shirt, a small skirt and some ripped fishnets. It took her a few seconds to notice that the person had a five o' clock shadow and a prominent Adam's apple.

"Only in fucking France..." she shook her head and grumbled.

"Kit-Kat, put a sock in it and leave those people alone." The Large Man said, still glancing over towards the front rows, having decided that talking to Gemma, at his point in the night, might not be the best idea he ever had.

"But Daddy, they were..."

"I said...be quiet!" The Large Man snapped, finally looking over to see his only daughter slumped in her seat with her arms crossed over her chest. Her Samsung Galaxy S8 lit up in her hand while she watched a YouTube video about Russian car wrecks

"I said...be quiet", the Athletic Blonde mimicked, making a screwed up face while she mumbled, just out of her father's ear shot.

"I can't believe you're not watching the match. This is history in the making!" The Large Man said while shaking his head. "Do you realize just how much these tickets cost?"

"Not as much as it's costing them." the Athletic Blonde absently nodded towards the ring where the mayhem seemed to be spilling out into the front rows.

The Large Man just shook his head in disbelief. "Kit-Kat, your mom and I have been training you since you were twelve. We taught you everything we know, our parents knew, and their parents before them. You soaked it all up like a sponge and have generations of knowledge locked away in that chaotic brain of yours. I brought you here tonight, mainly, so you could do something you haven't done in many years."

The Athletic Blonde made an annoyed face, but didn't bother to look up from her phone, "And just what might that be?"

The Large Man looked over with a profound seriousness in his eyes.

"Learn."

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Becca Blast! on December 23, 2017, 03:10:47 PM

My brain is about to overload from all the images and memories... collisions that don't expend themselves completely, but leave gaps in my mind that spill over from one into the other as they rushed to be filled.

Megan cripples Rowan with a shot that I remember Gemma using on me... in the back of a pub where the only thing rougher than the unadorned brick walls was what we were doing to each other.  Why was a then-childless Navy wife in the back of a Liverpool pub learning the precise point where agony and ecstasy mixed?  There's a whole arena full of people here who don't have to ask that question.

The Fullback Blonde who looks bound to her chair now, lost in her own waves of hope and despair as the battle somehow turns to Megan's knee being crumpled.

An ethereal icy wisp on a blue-tinted guitar chord appears.  Lisa.  I haven't forgotten you, dear.  One day we WILL meet again...

The luchador must be the Red I've heard so much about, defying logic and whatever that mystic bastard is throwing around.  He's as dangerous as any of them, from what I'm told.

Megan's NOT pinned?  No wonder the Dunwich Horror down there is chanting again.  My marrow freezes at the snatches of sound, but every synapse is alight... what the Hell does he KNOW?

And, out of nowhere, "BOORRRRRINGGGGGG!!!"  I'd know that high-pitched nasal whine anywhere.  Daddy Dahl's Little Princess.  Once again showing how little she gets or appreciates anything about this life, even the opportunities handed her on a silver tray atop a satin pillow.  But, soon enough, I will teach her the purpose of humility.

But the one thing that isn't important right now is little Kit-kat Bars.  It's what's happening down there.  Where some newcomer has added her voice to Red's...

I know Celtic mysticism.  It's gotta be in threes.....

"MEGAN!  YOU PROMISED TINA THIS PUS-RIDDEN WHORE'S HAIR FOR CHRISTMAS!  GET OFF YOUR FOCKIN' ASS AND DO IT!"

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: The Second City Wrestlerette on December 24, 2017, 02:26:38 AM

I try not to focus on the match too much. Emotions running high for my very own reasons. And everyone around me being so damn excited doesn?t help one bit.

Just staring straight forward, I catch a glimpse of Becca, eyes meeting for a moment before something Bimbo-sounding blares through the air. I see the Doll there and growl. I want to let her know something, and see only one way to do that...pulling out my iPhone7  and texting her. ?I?ll beat your ass! One Dark Night in Paris!? Along with my hotel and room number

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 26, 2017, 07:34:42 AM

The world is tuning in and out, like I'm twisting the knob on the radio of the Rent-a-Wreck somewhere in the Dakotas between Pierre and Fargo where the radio can barely reach across the plains. It's like getting little snatches of song and quavering cries of hellfire and brimstone in the midst of the rolling sea of static.

"-TIME TO GET SOME KILLIN' DONE!"

That sounds like Tiffany. My Platinum Queen. My wild western darlin'. Years of brawling with that veteran with the giant hair and the enormous chest and the fantastic depths of fighting spirit led to us getting closer and closer the harder we hit each other. It's so different than what happened with you and I, Ro. You and I started off with instant heat, just melting into each other. That made it all the fucking worse, really - when we came apart, we ripped each other to pieces. And since then it's just gotten worse. Neither of us will let the other stop bleeding.

It has to stop, Rowan. It has to fucking stop. Tonight.

I've taken your fucking poison. Yours. THOMAS. Thomas' fucking dark alchemy. It's still making my head swirl. My brain is twisting, wrapping around itself, pulsing with the echoes of the dreams the fucking ichor tainted me with and ringing from my skull being driven into the canvas. All that force. All that hate. The fucking Widow's Bite. And I kicked out. Somefuckinghow.

Gemma's voice still ringing as I lay on my side, smeared with your blood and mine. The smell of your sex and sweaty leather shorts still strong in my nose. My eyes are glassy and faraway and my parted lips pant for gulps of bloody air, coppery and thick.

You're screaming.

I like that.

"-THE HELL UP! DON'T LET THAT EVIL BITCH WIN!"

Is that ... is that fuckin' Jenny Dare? I gotta still be hallucinating. Jenny Dare just fell off the fucking map a while back, right after FTW folded. Like so many of my other friends. I haven't been in the ring with her since that time in Texas with Terry Funk's branding iron, and here she is, big as fucking life, still looking as fresh and beautiful as a god-damn sunrise in Amarillo. And she wants me to get up. I bring my hands up, and slide them along the mat, the grip tape painted with blood. Yours and mine, Rowan. Yours and mine. Blood sisters, just like always.

My palms press the mat, and I roll my hips over with a slow aching groan as my battered distended knee touches the mat. I'm gonna have to beat you with my head half staved-in from your fucking finisher, with your fucking poison on my face and with my knee ripped out from under me, twisted away like the bottom of a GI Joe's leg wrenched off by an eager child.

This is gonna fuckin' hurt.

But everything worth doing does. I grit my teeth, my purple hair hanging in bloody strands around my face in a madwoman wreath. Whatever you fucking misted me with, your gift from your puppetmaster, seems to be losing a battle against the intense wash of adrenaline and endorphins in my system. But the last of the drug burns in me so intensely that I swear I can fucking almost see Callista Quinn out there in the crowd, hiding her rabbit ears under a hood.

I can see so many faces. Twisted with bloodlust. Alight with fury. Dark with despair. Radiant with wonder. We're driving the crowd animal mad, teasing them more and more as we drive each other further and further. Taking them with us as we dive fucking headfirst into madness - just like that time I tackled you off the stage in FTW, remember? How much do you remember from the time with the mask, Ro?

'cuz these days I get the feeling it wasn't much of a fucking mask at all.

I've got to get on my god-damn feet.

"-YOUR ASS UP AND FINISH THE JOB!"
"-OFF YOUR FOCKIN' ASS AND DO IT!"

Seems like Red and Becca are in agreement.

My neck and skull and knee and adrenal glands all file formal protests against the idea of standing up, and the rest of my body files sympathetic motions pro tempore to counter the idea of fighting any more. Regrettably, there's enough votes from the crowd to veto the protest.

So I gotta fuckin' get up.

My arms flex and I push myself up, dragging my left boot under me and planting my red boot, thrusting myself up with both arms, my battered right leg dragging behind me. My sweat-glossed face is streaked with blood, my loose purple hair clinging to me. My black SPLX sports bra is painted onto my tits with sweat and spattered with blood, my pierced nipples outlined in Lycra. My wide black leather belt, studded with chrome spikes, is still wrapped around my hips, cocked at an angle from the grip around my waist for the Widow's Bite, with my skirt of red velvet strips skewed all over my glossy thighs. My sugar skull boyshorts are crumpled and soaked. My knee socks are rucked by my fuckin' leg injury, but at least my red Docs are still gleaming and ready to kick your damned ass.

I palpably hurt, dripping blood and sweat as I drag myself up to one knee, hands splayed on the mat in a Hacksaw three point stance that's only barely keeping my wavering form up off the canvas. Every fucking instant hurts, but fuck it. The crowd wants me up, so up I get. Kinda.

You're still screaming "NO NO NO NO NO" over and fucking over.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah ..."

My voice is thick and dark, the voice of Ophelia rising from the waters with her throat raw from coughing her way back to life. I spit on the mat. There's some blood from my busted mouth and some blood from my forehead and some blood from your face and a bit of black facepaint and a bit of swirling purple poison. Looks like Cthulhu fuckin' hawked a squamous loogie on the mat. I glower at you, my eyes blazing like the noon sun on broken glass in a dive bar's gravel parking lot.

"You talk too fuckin' much."

The fey little referee with the slicked coif and the perky tits, exuberant at the idea that more blood will be spilled for her to delight in but showing no more than a gleam in her pale eyes, deftly waves us together again.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 26, 2017, 06:07:40 PM

You're slowly getting to your feet while I remain on my knees, screaming that single word over and over again. Watching you get back up.

My eyes are distant. Almost looking through you. Unable to believe what I'm seeing. Just screaming.

And suddenly, for no reason at all, I remember laying with you on the hood of our rental car in Cleveland. You drunk on beer, me drunk on wine. So typical. Both of us aching and hurt. We lost the match that night, but I didn't care. I was with you. We were laughing. And your body so warm against mine. A hot Cleveland night, but you were hotter. And we were so drunk, you actually said...

* * *

"I'm the Joey Ryan of pussies."

I stopped. Looked at you. "What the fuck?"

"I am," you said, nodding in that way you do when you're drunk.

"Darling," I said, "You're drunk. You know damn good and well that I'm the Joey Ryan of pussies."

"One time," you sit up, waving your hands as if to illustrate the action, "a chick grabbed me by the pussy and I was like RAAAAAAAAAHHHH! and arm dragged her with it."

Without missing a beat, I sip the wine straight from the bottle and without moving, I say, "Mine delivered a piledriver."

You look at me, those gorgeous eyes of yours flashing. "THAT SEEMS UNLIKELY!"

"That's nothing compared to the tie it did a top rope hurracarrana."

You lean back on the windshield. "One time my pussy put on a sharpshooter. Around the ringpost." You take another swig of bear. "I called it the Holiday in Cambodia."

"The Holiday in Cambodia? Like the Dead Kennedy's song?"

"And the name of my ringpost figure four." You nod proudly. "All my moves are named after punk songs. The Psycho Killer. The Holiday in Cambodia. The Mindfuck. No More Heroes."

"That isn't your move, that's Bret Hart's move!"

"Well, he's dead or something so now it's mine!"

I'm laughing so goddamn hard, and you just keep going.

"Blitzkrieg Bop. Forever Time Buster. Bad Brains."

I'm still laughing. "Fucking indie darling with her five hundred goddamn finishing moves."

"Signature!" you shout. "They're signature moves!"

"Fine," I drink more wine. "Signature moves. And how many finishers do you have?"

You sit up primly. "That's more like it." Then, you stick out your pinky as you sip the beer. "I...I mean, I've changed finishers quiet a few times. So like... three. Generally. Maybe five."

I'm giggling. You're giggling. Your prim demeanor vanishes and Punky returns. "Shut up! I'm very versatile!"

"Versitile? Is that what kids are calling it these days?"

"FINISHERS ARE AWESOME! FUCKIN' AWESOME! People are like, OH MY GOOOOOD SHE'S KILLED HER AAAAHHHH!"

I laugh some more. "Honey, you're a lesbian." I sit up and wave the wine bottle, pressing it against my chest. "I... am versatile."

You snerk in that adorable way that you do, tilting your Steel Toe IPA back so it clinks against your teeth as you drink it. "Yer whtever's a step beyond versatile. You're like...sexual duct tape."

"So you're saying I'm like the Force? Like the sexual Force, right? Light side, dark side, binds the galaxy together?" I giggle madly and swig more wine.

"PFFFT!" You blow a cloud of beer mist into the night sky, swinging your hand across your lips. "Goddammit, no. You're not the Force! The Force...surrounds us and binds us together. It doesn't...reverse cowgirl anyone." You giggle again, with a little hiccup in it and you chase that down with more beer.

I raise an eyebrow. "Are you so sure?" And a very drunk smile. "Have you been in my reverse cowgirl, babe?" I wave a dismissive hand. "Of course not. You don't have the right plumbing."

You take another long, contemplative swig, propped back on your left hand, slanting that shoulder up to turn on your right hip towards me a little, legs in tattered black jeans brushing yours. "Maybe I would'n need plumbin' to see it. Jus' the right kinda toy," you slur a little, grinning with your cheeks flushed.

I look at the bottle. "You're right. Totally right. This drinking straight from the bottle shit is...the shit."

I lean closer, almost nuzzling your pierced tits in your fresh warm long-sleeved Misfits shirt against my bicep.

"Yeah," you say. "Glasses are for bitches." You overarm your empty bottle into the parking lot. It wicks off into the darkness, end over end, and smashes somewhere past the lights.

I hand you another one from the pack. You put the bottle in your teeth and bite, a little throaty snarl that shears the cap, foam spilling over your lips as you spit the bottlecap away.

"Speaking of reverse cowgirl..." I look around. Left, then right. To see if anyone's watching or listening...

Then, I lean in and whisper way too loud...

"I fucked Red."

You bray laughter, sagging back on the car hood. You look up at the cold winter stars, tilting back the beer and soaking in the warmth. Your leg sprawls out, your ratty Van brushing your calf.

"Did he keep it on?" you ask.

I wink at you. "I wouldn't let him take it off." And then, I can't take it. I collapse on you with laughter, the wine bottle hanging loosely from my fingers. "He was so sweet. I couldn't help it."

But then, I recover from the laughter, looking up at you from your chest. My face so serious.

"I think...I may...have ruined him for other women."

I try to keep serious, but my smile is cracking through.

You look down at me, raising your head to rest it against the slope of the rental's windshield, your loose purple hair tumbling as you look at me over the slope of your breasts. Your left arm curled behind your head, elbow pointing at the sky, your left leg hanging off the hood, your right leg vining slowly with yours. You giggle-snort, then try to look sober.

"His dick...nnhhee...will never be the fucking same." Then, you look at me with those big hazel eyes. "Ro. Ro. I have t'know..."

You crane your head toward me, stroking my back with the bottle.

In my most serious voice, I say, "Yes, Megan?"

"Did his cock have a mask on?"

I'm trying so hard not to laugh, I nearly fall off the car. "N-no..." I say, sitting up, mimicking your prim and proper tone from earlier. "No, it did not." Then, I look right into your beautiful hazel eyes.

"But it did have a hood."

Your spit take is more epic than anything Paul has ever done. I hear your glass bottle fall and smash on the parking lot pavement.

"GODDAMMIT RO, I DROPPED MY BEEEER HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!"

Your laughing so hard, you start gasping. Kicking the hood of the car.

"Don't worry," I say. "There's more be--" I pause, looking over at the empty case. "Oh fuck. No. There isn't."

"Ah, fuck. S'okay. I'm drunk enough."

I shake my head. "Nope."

"Oh fuck. Goddamn that was hurting funny."

I lay back down on the window with my bottle of wine and my Megan. You're rubbing your eyes and then you're running your hands through my hair, curling into me.

"By the way," I say. "Did you see that fuckin'...what the fuck did she call herself? Giggling and jiggling all over the place?"

"Blaaaah!" You loll your head back and stick out your pierced tongue. "I dye my hair purple and bleed in front of crowds for a living and I still find her to be a fuckin' attention whore." You wave your tattooed hand. "To stand out as needin' attention in a room full of fuckin' pro wrestlers takes some doin'. That's like standing out as an anorexic in a room full of French models."

I spit up some wine. "Jeebus. Neer do that when I'm drinking!"

You snort, your right hand curling to boop my nose with a finger. "S'just wine. Not anythin' important."

That's when my eyes open wide. "OH! OH!"

"What?"

"OH! HOLD ON!" I hand the wine bottle to you. "Hold this!"

You take it reluctantly. "Aw man. What if someone sees?"

I wave at the empty parking lot. "Nobody will see!"

You're holding the wine with the disdain of someone holding fish guts in a newspaper.

I slide so gracefully off the hood, falling over the side from your view. Then, I wave an arm up over the side. "I'm okay!"

"Aaaand she's down," you laugh.

I get the keys out of my pocket and click the...the...the...thingy...to pop the hood. Er trunk. Yeah, trunk.

"THE TRUNK RELEASE!" you shout. "NOT THE HOOD!"

"We should not be driving," I say.

"I'm not sure we should be walkin'."

I hit the button again and the hood pops under you.

"AUGHH FUCK!"

"Sorry!" I shout. I hit the other button. The trunk pops open and I grab what I'm looking for. I come back with two things in my hands. First, a six pack of beer. I hold it up. "I found these! And they're still cold because they've been in the trunk all night.

But I see you there, the hood of the car open, with your legs dangling over the open mouth, your head and shoulders piled against the windshield and your tits in your face.

"Ro," you say with a grim voice.

"OHMYGOD! I'M SO SORRY!"

You arch your hips up and smack your ass down to shut the hood again with a heavy clunk.

I hand over the beer. "Sorry."

"You're forgiven," you say, grabbing the beer. "For now." The other thing I have is a silver Halliburton case. You haven't seen it yet because you're peering at the six pack. "What's this?" you ask. Then, you shrug. "Fuck it. It's beer." And you open a bottle, swigging half of it down in a heartbeat.

I put the Halliburton on the hood of the car. You look over at it, your head and shoulders listing. "Whazzat?"

I slide the case across the hood, making a scraping sound. I look at your bootprints in the hood. "Um...we got insurance, right?"

"Uh...sure." Your eyes dart back and forth.

"Good," I say, reassured.

"Yeah, let's go with that, I totally have insurance. So much..." you look back down at the case. "Is this a gun? Are we gonna hunt the most dangerous game?"

"NO!" I shout, a little too loud, laughing again. "STOP ASKING THAT!" I tap the suitcase, hopping back on the hood.

"It was funny the first two hundred times," you say, eyeing the case.

"Go on," I say. "Open it."

You look at me. "Is it Marcellus Wallace's soul?"

I wink. "Maybe."

"If John Travolta kills me because I see this, I'm gonna be real upset."

"He's already dead," I say. "Bruce Willis killed him."

You fumble for the catches, trying to open the thing, biting your lip. "Pfft. You don't know where we are in the timeline..."

"Neither do they. Open the fucking case." More wine.

"GET A LESS COMPLEX CASE, RO! GOD! FUCK!" You punch the ase and the clasps pop. "Always works." You open it as dramatically as you can with a slight sway as you sit up.

And just like the case with Marcellus Wallace's soul in it, there's a golden glow on your face.

"I uh...spent some cash and replaced that shitty belt they gave you. You know. The one that looked like it came from the '70's?"

You stare at it a long time. The purple skull and crossbones on the front, outlined in black. The leather dyed dark purple. The words, "Portland Wrestling Champion" arched across the top and bottom. The sodium parking lot lights throw a yellow glow that makes the gold shimmer mystically, and the dark purple stands out. You reach in slowly, stroking your fingertips over it.

"It was vinyl. The one they gave me. Vinyl an' leatherette an' plastic."

But then, your eyebrows lower. Your mouth frowns. You point at the nameplate.

"It says 'Pinky.'"

I shrug. "Yeah. The silversmith fucked up. I'll get that fixed."

Your face remains the same. "It says 'Pinky.'"

"Well...you could always dye your hair..."

I fully expect something to happen here. Either you're going to slug me for spending so much money on you or you're going to slug me for the nameplate, or you're going to kiss me.

And for a long time, I'm left there wondering.

You bite your lip hard. "It's really pretty." Your soft throaty voice a rasp, struggling not to break. "S'beautiful."

"Just like you," I whisper.

That's when your voice breaks and I see your eyes get wet. You rub your hand across your eyes. "Tha's cheatin' when I'm tryin' this hard not to cry like a pussy."

I have to sniff. "Now don't you go fuckin' lose it this weekend!"

You tilt your head at me. Bent over the case. Your eyes are shimmering bright. "I'll fuckin' break a cxnt's fingers if she tries ta so much as touch it." Then, you reach up and grab my hair with forceful fingers. "C'mere."

And our lips find each other. Molten and soft and beery and full of wine and high, soft sounds of need.

I break the kiss. "Don't rip the shirt," I say. "It's Red's."

You laugh. Then, I kiss you back.

* * *

I'm on my knees. You're on your feet. After the Widow's Bite.

I'm on my knees. And you're on your feet.

I shake my head, blood squirting from my forehead.

"No."

Up on one knee.

"NO."

Up on my own feet.

"NO!"

I'm standing now, too. Right in front of you. Tits to tits. Nose to nose. My forehead squirting blood on your face.

"NO!!!"

Nothing clever. Nothing cunning. Nothing even pretty. I'm not even here anymore.

My hands grab for your throat. Ready to squeeze the life right out of you.



(I cannot take full credit for the flashback. It's based on a very long drunken chat between myself and The Purple Vixen.)

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 27, 2017, 03:32:08 AM

It's no easy thing getting back to your feet after you've been killed. Ask Jesus. Took that dude three days and he was a jacked carpenter. My skull got fucking spiked into the canvas with our combined bodyweight from the drop, pounding my head into my neck like a jack-in-the-box being slapped back into its box. And that was AFTER you fucking drugged me. The fucking Widow's Bite. The move that ended the brawl in Viking Hall, and almost ended my time as a wrestler.

I don't KNOW how I'm back on my feet, any more than a vampiress knows what dread forces drag her back from the grave. Or actually ... maybe I do know. It's some mix of ferocious determination, raging adrenaline, and the mystical supercharge of an audience, yeah - but more than anything else, it's the fact that Gemma's here. That what was missing in Viking Hall. Then it was just the woman that I'd loved proving she was stronger than me by spiking my head into the steel and planting her cxnt on my face. This time there's something new in play; the fact that my wife wants me to get up and kick your little plutocratic ass.

You're staring right through me, screaming again and again and again as I press my hands to the mat and stagger drunkenly to my boots. My legs feel like rubber - except for my right knee. That feels like a hot bag stuffed full of wet concrete and jagged rebar. But eventually, to the pulsing soundtrack of your screaming, I'm up on my feet. The crowd's roar is enough to buoy me up like a rising wave. Fuck, I never get tired of the crowd's energy - love you or hate you, as long as they ROAR for you. The crowd's a beast that feeds on excitement, on passion, on fury, and right now they're all fucking glutted.

And then you come rising up like a fucking banshee, still screaming over and over and over, and you come right at me.

I'm trying to clear my ringing bloody head of both the concussive impact and the residual twisted haze of the drug you misted me with. I've gotta figure out how you're gonna come at me; some sort of nerve strike, probably, or you're gonna go for a leg pick on my bad leg, or try to snatch my wrist to yank me into one of those criss-cross armbars or-

- NOPE well fuck me sideways you're just gonna fucking choke me.

Your hands lock on my throat as you scream "NO!" over and over, not even entirely seeming like you're sure what you're doing. It's so fucking primal, so aggressive and artless, that it ends up catching me completely off guard. I was expecting Rowan Chance, merciless mistress of joint locks and the dark arts. I got a fucking Hammer horror film instead. I stagger back, immediately grabbing instinctively at your wrists because it's hard to remember years of training and the proper defenses to someone actually lunging at you and trying to choke you when you're fresh off a fucking hallucinogenic piledriver and your ex is coming at you like a fucking Romero zombie.

"Ggaggkkk-!"

Staggering back under the force of your assault, my right knee - which was already kinda on the fence about this whole 'getting up' thing in the first place - shrugs and gives up, dropping roughly to the mat, hitting with a rough that that draws an agonized strangled howl from me, my hands on your wrists as your thumbs start to crush my windpipe, leaving me on one knee in front of you. Almost like I'm proposing, but with my face locked in a snarling scream as you try to choke the life out of me and yours distant and glassy and coldly unfeeling.

This kinda feels like the last time I tried proposing to you, actually.

LVK: And after MIRACULOUSLY getting to her feet after SOMEHOW escaping the Widow's Bite - and I want to apologize again for losing my compsure there, folks - Megan Dow is now being STRANGLED by a relentless and seemingly PSYCHOTIC Rowan Chance! This is insanity, ladies and gentlemen, given flesh in the form of these two maniacal women in their quest to destroy each other and themselves!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Katherine The Great on December 27, 2017, 04:54:20 AM

It's no easy thing getting back to your feet after you've been killed. Ask Jesus. Took that dude three days and he was a jacked carpenter.

One of my favorite lines in this whole thing. Love it!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 27, 2017, 09:31:02 AM

I was saying "Yes."

Over and over again. My eyes were screaming it as they watched you throwing your clothes in the bag.

Yes, I love you.

Yes, I want to stay with you forever.

Yes, I want to be yours.

Yes, I want you to be mine.


Over and over again. But you couldn't see that. Couldn't hear it. All you heard was the "No."

You didn't hear, "I can't." You just heard "No."

I was saying "Yes."

And now I'm saying something else as my fingers throttle your throat. Screaming it into your face. Watching it turn red. Watching your lips--once painted black--turn blue. Watching your eyes bulging from your skull. The wound on your forehead has stopped bleeding because I'm squeezing your throat tight. And you're down on a knee...

"DID YOU KNEEL FOR HIM?" I scream in your face. "DID YOU BEG FOR HIM? HUMILIATE YOURSELF? DEGRADE YOURSELF?"


I see the anger in your eyes. The rage. The hate. I pull your face closer.

"WHAT DID YOU FUCKING DO, MEGAN?"

Your eyes start to twitch. Your breath rattling in your throat. I feel your limbs weaken, your fingers on my hands loosening. It's almost over. Almost finished.

YOU are almost finished.

And I see Tantalus standing in the crowd, his hands on the rail. Just over your wet, bloody purple hair. Standing. Shouting something at me. I can't hear it. Probably shouting for you to fight back. His new favorite. I don't care.

"She'll tell me!" I scream at him. "Watch! Watch and learn, you sonofabitch!"

I hoist you back to your feet. Your eyes flickering, lips trembling.

Pinning you won't get you to tell me what you gave him. So, I have another plan.

I pull your drooping head up and using your cadence...that little adorable squeak in your voice...mimicking you perfectly... I shout as loud as I can so even Gemma can hear...


"Tick. Tock."



LVK: HOLY... ROWAN IS LIFTING MEGAN UP INTO THE DOLL BREAKER!!!

RP: Whu? Whus goin'...

LVK: THE DOLL BREAKER! PUNK--MEGAN'S MOST BRUTAL SUBMISSION HOLD!!!

RP: Whar? I dunno see...

LVK: Arched across Rowan's shoulder...her spine bent...COULD THIS BE THE END? MEGAN SUBMITTING IN HER OWN HOLD???

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 28, 2017, 06:07:41 AM

Obukan Judo, Portland, OR

I was twelve years old, and going through the same old drill. My partner takes my lapels up high, I step into her and capture her wrist and lapel, twist my back against her chest while pulling her arm over my shoulder and lean forward, hauling her weight smoothly over me in an ippon seio nage. I help her up, we bow, then I grab her lapels and she does the same. I'd been taking classes at Obukan, a school founded for the Portland Japanese community back in 1938, since I was eight. I knew the drills. They were part of my life, like watching Monday Night Raw and listening to The Descendents' Everything Sucks.

Sensei Koyama came by, and saw the look on my face as I helped my friend Rat (her real name was Vicky. She was 12 years old like me and her parents let her wear a rat-tail with buzzed sides. I thought she was so fucking cool) to her feet after another pretty damn crisp shoulder throw. She patted my back as we squared off. "I know it seems like the same thing over and over, yojo, but one day someone might come out of the darkness and take you by the throat, and you will be glad you have done this so many times." She smiled softly, and clapped her hands once, to let us continue, and I set my feet for Rat to throw me onto the tatami again.

But y'know, Sensei Koyama, you never had me and the rest of the young judoka practice our ippon right after being fucking drugged and taking a god-damn Tombstone piledriver and having my fucking ex-lover's toxic cxnt on my face. I mean, I'm not sure how we WOULD have practiced that. There would have to be a king hell of a parental permission note involved at the very least. But it really would have fucking helped me right now.

So instead of throwing you over my shoulder, or grabbing your thumbs and popping them free, I get choked down to one knee. My windpipe closed off and blood pounding in my ears, that horrific tension building in my crushed pulse. My sweaty blood-streaked hair hangs in my face as I feel my lungs burning. The worst thing about being fucking strangled is that you're intensely AWARE of everything that's happening, even with your carotids shut off and your windpipe closed. And I'm intensely aware of the heat of your breath as you scream in my face, wanting to know what arrangement I made with Thomas. It's kinda funny, really. If you were looking anywhere other than right into my big ol' hazel eyes (currently feelin' a little on the rheumy side), you'd see.

My hands get weak as I'm trying to unlock your grip -

- and then, thank fucking Eris, you let go. Because Rowan Chance has gotta talk some shit..

"She'll tell me! Watch! Watch and learn, you sonofabitch!"

You drag me up, hobbling on my busted knee, what's left of my attire painted onto me with sweat and blood and saliva and my own unwilling arousal. I snarl at you as much as I can, my cheeks livid and eyes coal-red, my throat bruised and breath a panting rasp.

There's so much hate in your eyes that it's like looking in a fucking mirror.

"Tick. Tock." You're trying to sound like me, but you don't sound as fucking cool as I do (AND I DON'T FUCKING *SQUEAK*). You've always been fucking rubbish at impressions. You're the only wrestler I know who can't do a good Dusty Rhodes. It always ends up sounding like Foghorn Leghorn.

On the other god-damn, you DO manage a fairly fuckin' convincing impression of my Dollbreaker.

(Remember kids - the Dollbreaker. It's one word. Just like Cher or Sting.)

You wrap my waist and HAUL me up, which must be fucking excruciating on your brutalized back but is actually kinda nice for me for just a moment as my weight comes off my leg. And then you bring my legs up and over, and I end up hung on your shoulder.

I started using the Dollbreaker regularly back in 2015 or so, shortly before FTW started. It was Gemma's suggestion.

Somewhere in the north, I can't really remember where because we were drunk. Was it Lancaster? Or Blackpool. Might've been Blackpool, UK

"You have a lot of great strikes and big hits, pickle, but you need something that's going to slow these little bitches down. Something to make the little cxnts AFRAID of you." Gemma was a fucking master at the art of stopping someone from ever wanting to move again. I went with a backbreaker because a lot of her offense was back-centered, like the Backstabber and Hellbound, and I wanted to play into that. I decided on the Canadian-style, the overhead gutwrench backbreaker rack, because I got fucking hung out to dry in one by Vanessa Kraven back in 2010 during the NEO WWWC World Cup, and it felt like I was god-damn broken in half. I practiced the damn thing for weeks straight, hoisting sacks up onto my shoulder until I could get 220 pounds up in one move, then moving on to joint dummies to get the positioning right, then finally the fun part - finding jobbers to let me test it on them. I'd say the worst part about being an infamous wrestler for such a long time is all the injuries I've racked up and all the enemies I have now. The best part is a toss-up between having a bunch of cool shirts and it being so easy to find pretty girls who will let me brutalize them in wrestling holds for free.

It's a brutal fucking hold. Your whole body weight and the very laws of gravity work to snap you in half, the centerline of your spine planted right on the attacker's shoulderblade. Your legs hang down, your arms are at the wrong angle to do most anything, and the attacker can wrap their arms around your ribs - like you are right now, and just CRUNCH you.

Of course it's a cool hold, god damn it. It's mine.

"NYYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

My head hangs down by your tits, my loose rat's nest of sweaty purple hair brushing your thighs, my tits testing the elastic on the SPLX sports bra as my back is arched and strained. My boots hang down your back, right leg almost dead and left leg kicking.

It really fucking hurts. REALLY fucking hurts. Good to have that confirmed. I mean, I was pretty sure it did after all those girls screamed OH GOD IT HURTS and tapped out when I did this to them, but y'know, science.

Tony's Saloon, West Ritner St, Philly

Tony's was where all of ECW got drunk over the years. Even after there was no more ECW, there was still Tony's, technically Anthony's Saloon and Crab House. Tony's was where Big Dick Dudley threw Blue Meanie through the wall. Tony's was where Sandman finished a keg and then headbutted a brick wall. I was drinking there with Scotty, way back in the day.

"Ya know how many times people have tried to god-damn DDT me?"

I giggled into my beer. I always got giggly around Scotty. Couldn't help it, even after I'd known him for years and he'd gotten fat. Even after the TNA run. He was still Raven to me.

"If you do somethin' good, kid -" I was still 'kid', a decade into being a wrestler - "- then learn how to stop someone from doin' it to you, because they're gonna try. It's the bitterness and envy inveterate to the human spirit." (I loved it when he got all Raveny)

I might've been too out of it to stop you from choking the fucking life out of me two-handed like fucking Jason Voorhees, you vindictive little bitch, but NO ONE FUCKING GETS MY SHIT IN BUT ME.

My hands come up, lashing out at you. One thumb twisting at your eye. My fingers digging into that brutal bloody rip in your forehead. PAIN. Immediate vicious pain to the face, getting that old mammalian hindbrain flaring to get you to flinch.

And I TWIST my hips, snarling past the flare of pain in my wrecked knee, turning in towards you to shift my weight, getting you to stagger. I know your back can't take that. You could lift me, but no fucking way you're gonna hold me with your spine all cracked like downtown asphalt.

I can feel you stumbling, feel your back giving in, hear you try to bite back the cry of pain with my fingers digging like a hag's claws at your face. Your grip slips and I slide down, rocking my hips, slithering over your shoulder and down your back, my breasts dragging intimately against you for a moment so I feel the skirl of your skin like soft lightning against my nipple piercings. But the intimacy doesn't last. I make sure to land heavily on my left leg, my right boot just barely pushed to the mat.

I'm behind you. For just a second. You're staggered, blinded. Off-balance.

Time to get my shit in.

Zandig Academy, Blackwood, New Jersey

"Oh, FUCK, Masada! That move is cool as fuckin' tits! Can I use that?"

"Are you gonna hit me with that hammer if I say no?"

"I absolutely am."

"Then feel free."

(Look, not all my stories are these big huge philosophical things.)

Standing close behind you, I dip my head under your right arm and wrap my left arm around your shoulders, getting a collar grip on your corset. My taped right hand drops low, smearing blood on your calf as I hook a grip behind your right knee and drag your leg up, breaking your balance. I take a deep breath - for just that one calming moment of Zen -

- and I bend low and SNAP up off both legs with a roar of exquisite pain, hoisting you up in the air. I use my grip around your shoulders and your hooked leg to tilt you back, my back arching with your lower back pressed to my left shoulder, tilting you over the axis of inevitability until your boots are pointed at the lights and your head is pointed at the mat ... and then I KICK my legs out and drop back, driving your full bodyweight down onto your head and neck with the leg hook backdrop driver that I call -

LVK: THE MINDFUCK! PUNKY ESCAPES THE DOLLBREAKER AND SNAPS OFF THE MINDFUCK!

RP: FUCK yes! GOD DAMN my head hurts.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 28, 2017, 06:57:06 AM

Sometimes, everything goes wrong.

Sometimes, you can feel it going wrong and there's nothing you can do to stop it. You know exactly what's happening and there's nothing you can do to stop it. Before I even hear Van Keel scream the name, I know what it is. I've seen you do it a thousand times. Seen women's bodies crumple like accordions and stay down for ten minutes after taking the move. Watched you pin them while you were smiling at me, knowing what was going to happen between us later. Hooking that leg and holding them down for the three count. Fuck, it could have been a three hundred count. Their bodies go up, there's that moment you like to call "the moment of zen," and then the crash.

And it makes the same sound every time. Like the boards could break. That twerk of your hips--no not "twerk," assholes--the arch of your back. Like a goddamn spring. People know I'm flexible because I show it off. You don't. But I know for a fact you could give me a run for my money as most bendy bitch.

I feel it. I've never felt it before. All the times we faced each other, I never let you pull off this move because I knew how hard it would hit. My head, my neck...

...my back.

So, I studied that move. Studied it. Figured out a dozen ways to avoid it. Dodge it. Make sure you could never do that to me. I could flip over your head and land on my feet behind you. I could elbow your face, cut it off before you were able to get it all the way locked in. Not that I'd have any time to do that. I could twist in your grip, turn it into an arm breaker, pulling you down to the canvas with me. Mount your back with your arm between my legs, my knees keeping you down. I could flip up and grab your head between my legs and go for a flying head scissors. Or catch your neck and turn it into a reverse DDT.

I had a dozen ways to block this move. A dozen plans, a dozen contingencies. And now I'm here.

Sometimes, everything goes wrong.

Sometimes, there's nothing you can do to stop it.

In the air. Falling backward. My head aimed at the canvas. Those boards are going to make that sound I've heard a thousand times. It's so goddamn fast. You're so goddamn fast. You never know how fast until you're actually there, and then, it's too late to reconsider. Either you're timing works or it doesn't.

It's too late for the elbow.

It's too late for the reverse DDt.

It's too late for the arm breaker.

It's too late for anything.

I feel you arching your back. Feel your hips unlock and...



... my head hits first. Like a rotten melon, I feel all the brains inside my head mash to the back of my skull, then ricochet forward, making my eyes go blind. My lower jaw slams up into my upper jaw. First thing you learn about falling is to clench your teeth. Saved my tongue so many times I can't even think about it. I feel the impact knock sense out of my head. Right through the front of my face. Slow motion replays make me look like I was in a wind tunnel. My head bouncing off the mat a full two inches before it comes back down and hits again.

My shoulders hit next. Making my body crunch like one of those thousand beer cans you crunched with one hand. My naked belly ripples like someone threw a rock into a pond. My arms splatter down on the canvas, hands open. My legs flipping over my head. Tall boots. Tips touching the canvas over my head. Bent in half. All of me bent completely in half. Folded like a paper airplane. Somewhere in all that, I feel that floating rib. It slashes something important inside of me. I can feel that. I taste blood.

And finally, my back.

Bent so far so quickly, it has no option. It simply gives up. I feel an electrical charge shoot down my spine, right down to the tips of my toes and right back up to the top of my neck.

My hands go numb.

My feet go numb.

Everything stops hurting.

Everything.

They say the mind gives up before the body does. That isn't always the case.

Sometimes, everything goes wrong.

Sometimes, there's nothing you can do to stop it.

My body remains in that position for a moment. Legs up over my head, tips of my boots touching the canvas behind me. Arms splayed out.

And slowly, very slowly, I list to the side. Tipping over like a ship that's been struck by lightning and caught wayward by a renegade wave.

Tilting...

Falling...

And with one final unintentional movement...

...fallen.

I'm on my side on the canvas. Both arms and legs curled in front of me. Like a dead spider. My face covered by bloody, sweaty hair. It twitches as my lungs exhale once. Just once.

My exquisite form, covered in sweat and blood, my olive skin shining under the lights, still and nearly motionless.

Gravity pulls my torso back, making my upper arm fall down to the canvas. Both arms flat. My waist twisted to the side, legs bent and together.

I cough. An awful wet sound. Blood on my lips.

Blood squirting from my the wound on my forehead.

One hand twitches...

...then stops.

Everything...






...stops.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Vivianne on December 28, 2017, 07:23:39 AM

Rowan's head hits the canvas hard and bounces...I spring from my seat...

Her shoulders slam down...my hands ball into tight fists, crushing the punky clasp I am still holding into my left palm...

Her legs and arms flop...and she folds in half...

The crowd roars, but I don't hear them. I don't blink. I don't breathe. I don't move...and for a few seconds neither does Rowan...

Until she falls on her side, arms and legs curled up. Broken...

Coughing blood now...

Broken...

Just like my heart, seeing her like that...

Broken...

Rowan...no...no...no...

Rowan...

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: RedEnforcer on December 28, 2017, 07:45:10 AM

I can be a real stupid sunuvabitch at times. I tend to be all fire and passion first. My aw shucks, just a Southern Gomer Pyle type did not fool either Megan or Rowan.  For some reason both of them wanted to see past the funny accent and old school ways. Which is why I am here now.

I never liked rollercoasters. Too much jerking about one way then the next.  That is what this match has been. One crazy ride that makes Space Mountain look like a slide in a park. But the worst thing about roller coasters is that initial rise. You go up slowly to a specific height designed to create enough potential energy for the coaster to travel the length of the track at a specific speed. As a rider, you never know when that sudden drop is coming. And that is what kills me. That anticipation.

I cheer in Full throat for Megan mostly from my distrust of Tantalus. And when I see Rowan choke Megan down. I feel justified. Then the Dollbreaker. Yeah Rowan is out of control and needs to be stopped.

I keep cheering when Megan slides free.

Then she grabs Rowan from behind...the leg....

And I feel like I am rising on that initial slope again. Clack Clack Clack Clack.

Fun fact, the Skull no, Mindfuck hurts. Like a bitch. If you are lucky all you get is a mild concussion.  If you are unlucky, the damage is devastating.

Megan hit me with one to set up a three way dance we had in the past. At the time I had no idea there was bad blood between them. But I should have seen it. I jumped the gun and powerbombed Rowan  through a table. A little too hard. Megan got so mad she green misted me and then proceeded to Mindfuck me. That is a good name for it because you become as disoriented as a movie critic having to watch Inception, Memento and Primer back to back to back before writing a paper on them. 

She was supposed to do a simple clothesline or something. I forget honestly. Then she was to finish off Rowan. But I got careless. And she went through the roof screaming about how I had cheated her of her revenge. I knew they had recently started feuding but I had no clue how deep the feelings went. Not until my brains got scrambled so bad I started talking like Forrest Gump.

And even now with her knee fucked up and some blood loss and all the other punishment, Megan has Ro up for that Mindfuck.

Clack Clack Clack Clack

Time slows for me and I see that lovely body jacked into the air.

All those times I saw the heel Rowan leave my mind and all I can see is that smirk when she read her name that I mangled on that poster board at the airport. All I can smell is that scent of her hair mixed with sweat as it cascaded over my masked face as she looked down at me.  My fingers could touch that olive flesh, so soft and warm. My tongue tasting the sweetness of her lips as they pressed against mine. And all I could hear was that voice, that husky, breathy voice saying my name. My real name.

All that flashed in my mind as I saw part of my heart break while another part slammed her into the canvas. All thoughts of evil faded as I watched my lovely Rowan rise into the air, bend, and fall. 

I can be a stupid sunuvabitch sometimes. And now I felt very stupid for watching these two dear women destroy each other before my eyes.

Rowan slumps to the mat after a car crash of an impact. And I slump down to my seat.

I look at my hands and they are wet.

Drops of moisture slowly appearing on my hands as I see more proof of what these two are willing to do, how far they want to take this.

And I sit there. Not able to do a damn thing to stop it.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on December 28, 2017, 07:17:54 PM

The Mindfuck is quick. It slices like a hammer. Hook the leg, wrap your shoulders, up and over in less time than it takes to open a window and jump out, and ends up pretty much the same way.

The Mindfuck is brutal. It shows no fucking mercy. Gravity and momentum become my tag team partners and the sheer drop means you hit the mat with all the grace and gentility of a head-on collision between a Vespa and Optimus fucking Prime.

Wrestlers often end up defined by our finishers. No one can think of Steve Austin without thinking of the Stunner. No one can imagine Ric Flair without seeing that little twist around the knee to set up the Figure Four. A finisher is more than just a hard-hitting move we use to get the fans to pop - it's a move we practice, again and again. It's a move we learn to hit from any angle, that we can hit in our sleep, and often have to. I once ducked a clothesline, snatched my opponent up from behind and hit a Mindfuck, got the leg-hook pin, and raised my fist in victory while I was so fucking out of it from being DDT'd on the ring apron that I didn't realize any of that had happened until I saw it on TV the next day. It's YOUR move. Anyone can do what I just did to you - hook the leg, wrap the shoulders, up and over. But only I've practiced it enough to learn the torque of my hips, the arch of my back, the shift of my grip to get you to just the right fucking angle to hit like you do.

(Well, me and Masada, but whatever.)

We were talking once. This was early on, when we'd first met and I still wasn't entirely sure about you. Just an unusually hot chick with an unusually late start in the game, who said she was trained by Lance Storm up in Alberta but moved like she was from fucking Yamanashi. Just a brilliant girl with a wicked smile who was doing more in her first year on the circuit than some of the women I'd worked with who started before I did. Just a beautiful woman who made my toes curl in my boots when she smiled at me in that wicked way of hers.

Just you.

We were sitting on the apron, boots dangling off it, and I was drinking a beer I'd boosted from concession. I'd stolen you a mineral water.

"Any fuckin' move can put some bitch down for 3 seconds if it hits the right way or at the right time. A fuckin' hiptoss can knock the wind outta you if you land wrong, someone lays across your tits and hooks both legs and puts their weight down, and before you're even sure what's happening you lose. But a PROPER finish - that's a move you KNOW, right? Like down to your fuckin' bones. A move that puts someone down and it doesn't matter if the fucking Tarot is auspicious or not or how they land - they're god-damn DOWN. An' that's what you're goin' for." I nodded, drinking my beer back with my eyes just fuckin' riveted to you while I was trying to be cool about it.

Your eyes were so fucking knowing even for a kid just getting started. You were my age, I think - I still dunno how old you actually are - but you were a kid. Everyone just starting was a kid. It's the rules.

"Isn't the three count all that really matters?" you said, your lips curved in that sly smile.

I waved the beer bottle grandly, gesturing big. I always talk with my hands. It's the Ukrainian bloodline. "Yeah, sure, fuckin' ... you can schoolboy someone or get a fucking victory roll or tuck 'em with a La Magistral and get their shoulders down and you WIN." I grinned, bright and wicked. "But if you hit a solid finish, they're down for however long you wanna keep 'em down. You can do ... anything." I waggled my eyebrows. You just arched one and I felt my toes curling again as I kept my grin on. "If you roll 'em up, you just get three seconds."

Your smile was like cream billowing through coffee, like moonlight on the water.

"What's the fun in that?"

And here and now you hit the boards like a fucking Space-X rocket going off the pad, spiralling off into flames and ruin.

I bounce up off the impact, ending up sitting slouched on the mat with you crumpled behind me, my red Docs sprawled out and my right leg at an angle, my knee throbbing. I take a deep breath with just a little erotic shiver.

That wet gasping racking sound you just made, choking on your own blood after I crunched you in fucking half?

THAT'S the first real pleasure I've gotten out of you in the last few years, Chance.

I guess I could drag myself up and plant my ass on your face, get my pussy on your lips, grind my hips on you and taunt Thomas about what a little broken toy I've made you. Give Gemma a show. Get Reddy's masked little buddy all attentive.

But fuck that. My cxnt hurts because you tried to fucking mangle me. And I don't need to show off how fucking broken you are. Your twitching bleeding performance does that all on its own.

Instead I go for a pin Squire O'Dwyer described as "a cross body with yer full attention, see". I grab your ankle and drag you over to me, your body sliding on a slick of blood and sweat. I lay across your right side, my weight pressing down on your chest, flattening your tits with mine. Okay, you can't escape a LITTLE sexual symbolism in this game. My inked right arm dips and hooks under your inside right leg, curling just above the knee, YANKING that leg up high, getting your hips off the mat and letting everyone on that side of the ring enjoy the view of your ass in your little leather shorts. My left arm curls up tight at the elbow, and I SLAM my forearm down into your slack bloody face and GRIND it into your right cheek, mashing your blood-masked face down into the mat.

"Fuckin' count her," I snarl.

LVK: That move hit Rowan Chance like a truck hitting a deer, folks. These women have fought themselves out of some brutal situations, but I just can't imagine how she'll get up from this.

*a faint coughing and a cracking gurgle of liquid*

RP: Ahhhh. Shit, frog whiskey ain't too bad. Listen, van Keel. Anyone else was in that ring, I'd say this match would have been over 30 minutes ago. Now? We'll see how it goes.

The referee has been nearby all along, angel of dark mercy with her coif still smooth and slicked, her striped shirt opened enough to show a casual insouciance of white, perky cleavage and a hint of taut belly. Her pale eyes are still alight with evil satisfaction. She slides crisply into place with swan's grace and dips her head to check your shoulders - for someone who seems to enjoy seeing us in pain so much, I can't fault her fucking professionalism.

"UN!"

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on December 28, 2017, 08:18:49 PM

"How did you do that?"

We're both in the locker room. I'm taping up your shoulder because you don't know how to do this without beer and duct tape. I'm using actual medical training...

...except I don't tell you where I got it from.

Taping up your shoulder because we just had to shove it back into the socket and you shouldn't be moving it for a month or something...

...except you have another match later on tonight.

A goddamn tournament. You signed up for a tournament. This is Saturday night. We were in Philly for Dreamer's show on Friday, flew to Chicago right after that for a Saturday afternoon show, then drove to Minneapolis for this mess. The promoter is stoned and loaded on cocaine, the other wrestlers are bar brawlers who don't give a shit about the rules, and you've already fought two matches and you're getting ready for the third. The main event.

"How did you fucking do that?" I ask again. I finish up the bandage, taping it tight. I saw you kick out of a goddamn pile driver on the apron. Your body fell over the bottom rope back into the ring and the bitch put her feet up on that same rope. But you kicked out. I'd never seen anything like it.

You kicked out.

You just suck down more beer and shrug...then wince because of your shoulder. "I dunno," you say. "I just do."

I saw you do it so many times. I was sure you were finished. Your head bobbing from the impact of some godawful Japanese drop move, your body just dropping, face first. The referee counts... "ONE! TWO!..." And you get your shoulder up.

Pain has always been an ally, but sometimes, I ask too much of our friendship. I've taken finishers before. But I've never kicked out.

All of these thoughts would be going through my head...if I was conscious.

But I'm not conscious.

So when the referee slams her hand down a second time and shouts "DEUX!" I'm still flat on the mat, my head pushed down by your elbow, unmoving, eyes shut. I'm not feeling your breasts pushing down on mine. Not feeling the weight of your body. Not feeling the impact of her hand slamming down on the canvas. Not feeling the numbness in my toes and fingers. Not feeling the volcano in my head. Not feeling the lava squeezing through the nerves and muscles of my spine.

Not feeling anything.

...feeling anything...

...anything...

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Virginia Dare on December 29, 2017, 09:40:20 PM

I'm no fan of Rowan Chance. I've fought her all over the world and the woman is just pure evil. However, you can't deny her skills or her ability to withstand pain. I've never met anyone who could take as much pain as Rowan, and trust me, I should know. I've hurt her in every way one human being can hurt another human being. And if truth be told, I'm the reason Punky is doing a number on her back. Megan Dow knows. I know the two travelled together a lot--God knows why a woman like Punky would be attracted to a woman like Rowan Chance--and I know Megan knows every inch of Rowan Chance's body. That means she knows about the time I nearly broke Rowan's back trying to make her say "I quit."

That's right. I'm the one who put a chink in her armor. The one Punky's been exploiting all night.

I've been hurting Rowan all over the world and she's been hurting me back. But when I watch Rowan's body bend over backward in that awful, ugly way, I wince.

I've heard stories of Punky's...MindF...yeah--her move--but I've never seen it. Not until now.

Watching Rowan hit the canvas that way and watching her body fall that way and watching her now so still on the canvas.

The referee dropping to make the count. One and two and...

I'm no fan of Rowan Chance. But right now, sitting next to Megan Dow's wife, I'm quietly praying she stays down. Not because I hate her with every part of my body, but because I never want to see any human being ever get hurt like that again.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on January 01, 2018, 03:02:17 AM

Here's a funny thing about time.

It's an illusion.

I mean, the way we perceive it is. Matt Sydal tried to break this down to me once when we were hanging out in RVD's comic shop in Battle Creek, doing droppers full of mescaline and eating a boysenberry pie. I still don't remember where we got that pie. It was good, though. Tasted kind of like a Thursday in late August.

Anyway, Matt was telling me that time is a DIMENSION, right, just like the ones we perceive moving in normally in our day to day lives, and that what we perceive as time going forward is just us moving through that dimension - we're just constrained because we can only move one way. "Not me, though," he confided in me, his eyes gleaming like can openers. "I'm gonna learn to go ANYWHERE in the time stream, and then I'm gonna meet Owsley Stanley."

Then Rob wanted to watch BraveStarr after that, so we did. I remember being deeply concerned that the horse could talk.

But here's the thing - he was right. Time isn't a concrete thing. It feels like it is when we parcel it up into concrete ticks on a clock or measure it out in coffee-spoons, but it's really not. Here's an example:

The first time I got to really TALK with Gemma was ... amazing. I'd been kinda obsessed with her since my career started. There may or may not be video of me shot by one of my bitch roommates in my dorm at the Kaientai Dojo unknowingly being taped as I rubbed myself into a panting lather while watching one of Gemma's matches. I fucking ADORED Gemma. And then our first match, in Katie MacCoy's amazing SPARK league, was fucking awesome. SPARK was after we'd met but before really connected, Ro. Before the Daughters of Darkness. It was ... fucking fantastic, utterly brutal. Everything I'd hoped and more than I'd dreamed. I had to get so vicious with her and dig deeper than I had at any point in my career up until then just to get past her tricks and her tenacity and her power and her brutality. First match I ever won with a pussy claw, actually. Kinda got us off on the wrong foot as far as friendship goes, though; we ended up in a bitter sort of feud that lasted a long time, until it finally softened as we realized how much alike we were. The first time we sat down and TALKED was after a SPARK show later down the road. We'd been out drinking with some of the girls, including Callista Quinn - which must have terrified the barman when he saw he only had so much gin left. Gemma and I had ended up sitting next to each other, and whispering into each other's ears increasingly drunkenly as the crew told stories and traded barbs. Eventually everyone left; Calli wandered off with that Quebecois girl she liked, and Gemma and I were left there, and when I slung my arm around her shoulder and started to move in for a drunken kiss, she rested her hand on my knee and told me why it had bothered her so much that I'd beaten her in that first match. I went on to tell her what I'd envied about her and what I admired about her. We talked about growing up on different sides of the planet and how we'd been trained, and then the publican was meaningfully ringing his last call bell right next to our booth and I realized we'd been talking for five hours.

It felt like we'd just started talking. I'd swear in a fucking court of law that not fifteen minutes had gone by. Not that my oath means a LOT in a court of law. At least not if you believe those whining lawyers who are always after me.

Time went by so god-damn fast that night it was like I was racing through it.

But now?

I'm laid across your chest, my right arm curled tight around your smooth olive thigh, keeping your leg hoisted high in the air, your domme boot wavering like a flag of surrender. I can feel the crushed slow rise and fall of your breasts in shallow, sleeping gasps. My left forearm is crushed into your limp face, deforming your pretty features, grinding your blood-soaked face down, pressing your left cheek hard to the canvas. Your shoulders are flat and you aren't fucking moving as the sadistic little pixie of a French referee counts the "DEUX!"

You aren't moving.

All she has to do is bring her hand down again.

One last slap of her hand and we're fucking done. I've fucking proven what I needed to prove, broken you down, and we are god-damn DONE.

In front of EVERYONE. In front of my wife, in front of your pimp, in front of Reddy and Emily and Tiffany and Becca and everyone who showed up wearing a fucking mysterious hoodie. In front of a few thousand wrestling fans from all over Europe and the Americas and even a few Japanese fans here to see the rematch between Aika and the Ribingudeddojoshi. EVERYONE will see me finally put you the fuck down where you belong and leave you in the god-damn dust of the past with other broken shit I don't need anymore.

If she'll just put her fucking hand down.

How long can it really take, god damn it.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on January 01, 2018, 09:02:01 AM

"THREE!"

The referee's hand slaps down on the canvas and the bell rings. I don't hear it because I'm still not really there.

You drop the grip on my leg and it falls lifeless to the mat. You take your elbow off my face and it remains there, turned to the side, bleeding on the mat.

Van Keel is screaming about the match finally being over. And I imagine your wife is jumping up and down with joy. I also imagine Tantalus is sneering behind his mask...or perhaps smiling. And little Lisa Starr is...doing whatever she's doing. Seeing me beaten. Knowing that I can be beaten now. That must be inspiring.

And you look down at me. The finality in your glance. You've wiped me from your life. I'm done. Nothing. Not even a shadow. I imagine you finally feel free of me. That my voice will no longer haunt you. That the feel of my skin or the touch of my fingers will no longer sneak up on you when you're making love to your wife. That's what I imagine...

















I imagine a lot of things happening right now. I imagine them because they aren't happening.

I don't hear the referee's call or the bell because I'm not really there. I'm here. With you.

What's really happening is the referee's hand is less than a second from hitting the canvas. All those images and thoughts in my head. But the one that stands out above all the others...is that look on your face. Your eyes as you look down at me.

We're over Rowan Chance.

That's what they say.

I've never kicked out of a finisher. Ever. That's why they're called "finishers."

But that look and those words.

We're over Rowan Chance.













LVK: OHMYGOD! SHE KICKED OUT! AT NINE AND NINE TENTHS! ROWAN CHANCE KICKED OUT OF THE MINDFUCK! I'VE NEVER SEEN...I'VE NEVER SEEN ANYTHING LIKE THIS IN MY LIFE!

We're not over, Megan Dow.

Not yet.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on January 01, 2018, 10:13:18 PM

I collect cool words.

That's kinda surprising, right, because I tend to talk like the love child of Dennis Leary and Sam Kinison, but it's true. I've got a pretty extensive vocabulary, actually. And it's not all just wrestling shit; I'm generally perspicacious (totally). It's part of being an English major (by mail - thanks LaSalle!). Part and parcel of the whole bibliophile gig.

I gather these weird little lexicological gems up and use them gleefully at unexpected times when people don't see it coming because I say "fuck" more than I use the traditional English articles.

One of my favorite words is "myoclonic".

I've always been a very vivid dreamer; I dream huge, colorful, involved, twisty fucking landscapes of intrigue and strangeness and sex. But I sometimes have a hard time going to sleep; I'll be up late researching something that caught my interest, or I'll still be kinda drunk but not drunk enough to be sleepy, or I'll be thinking about a new way to piledrive someone, or I'll be sore from getting driven into a brick wall, or I'll be angry about how I sprained my hand punching the guy who drove me into a brick wall.

When I fall asleep hesitantly and distractedly, my dreams sometimes jump the gun and start before I'm fully asleep. The body isn't ready to go into REM quite yet and so it doesn't shut down right, and you get a little twitch that makes everything sorta zap. Your dreaming brain often communicates this as suddenly tripping or falling or being jumped on in your short little stint in the dream theater.

That's a myoclonic jerk.

It happens when you're technically asleep but something isn't ready for you to shut down yet.

I put you to sleep, Ro.

I know that. No one goes as limp as you did and is still technically awake.

You did the same thing to me just a few minutes ago, with drugs and a dropping Tombstone to plant my head into the fucking mat. I was dead. I was fucking DEAD to the world. I only woke up because my wife yelled at me, which is how I wake up about half the time (the other half I get up and then I yell at HER).

No one's yelling at you. Thomas is apparently out of verse for now. Red's just quietly staring. No one's dragging you out of the black I just put you into -

- but here you are. A jerk of your body that's enough to get your shoulder up off the canvas, and that fucking little smirking cxnt of a zebra pops up on her knees and throws up two fingers.

"DEUX! DEUX!"

The movement of your body pushed me just a little bit back, and your hooked leg drops from my grip. I slide back off you and take a long slow breath.

I'm not gonna sit here and grab my head and scream over and over and over like you did. Because I'm not a fucking crazy bitch.

... okay, I have that shirt that says PUNKY: ONE FUCKING CRAZY BITCH and has the black and white shot of me diving off the balcony at the Hammerstein with only my purple hair and red boots and the blood on my face colored in. But that's like ... a different kind of crazy.

I'm not gonna spaz out here. So you kicked out. So fuck it.

Just gonna-

"YOUGODDAMNWHOREWHYTHEFUCKDONTYOUSTAYFUCKINGDEADYOUUSELESSBLEEDINGTWATYOUREAFUCKINGCORPSEANDIKILLEDYAANSOFUCKINHELPMEILLKILLYAAGAINANDTHISTIMEYOURENTOGETTINGUPEVERTHEFUCKAGAIN!"

- okay, so maybe a little less serene than I was intending.

I had you.

I get a ragged growling breath in after that fresh tirade, tasting the blood on my lips. I roll over, wincing in agony at the surge of fresh pain in my knee, hobbling to my feet. You're still laying there like a fucking haddock on ice at the Pike Place Market, and even if you DID dig deep enough into your supernatural reserves to kick out, you're still DONE.

You can't GO as hard as I can, Rowan.

THAT'S the stone cold fucking truth.

I hobble up, and get to my feet, glaring down at you, letting out a breath that's less of a centering Zen prana and more of a draconic hungry snarl. Your face is just PAINTED in blood, your forehead still pulsing weakly from where I ripped it open. I bend down and lace my fingers in your black hair, slick and maroon with blood, and start to peel you up.

I know exactly what I'm gonna do.

I'm gonna crush your kidney, drag you to your stupid fucking sex boots, fold you up and stuff your head between my legs, yank your arms across your chest - and break your fucking back again. With the Psycho Killer, my straitjacket powerbomb.

This time I won't have Gemma putting her knees in your back as you drop.

So I'll just have to make sure I swing you down hard enough to turn your fucking vertebrae into dust myself.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on January 01, 2018, 11:12:53 PM

Waffle House. Motherfucking Waffle House.

Well, at least they had a secret menu. That's kind of cool.

We're sitting at the bar--because of course we are--and you're slopping down something that barely resembles food. There's eggs, I think, and hash browns maybe and is that bacon? I got tea and a salad.

"I don't think this is lettuce," I say, lifting and dropping wilted green sheets of...something.

"Shoulda gotten the grits," you say through mouth fulls of... "food."

I shrug and tell the waitress, "Excuse me. Can I just get some eggs? Scrambled. Nothing else? Please?"

"Sure honey," she says. "Don't like the salad?"

"No."

She takes it away. You laugh at me. Then you ask, "Hey, how did you move so fast that one time?"

I shake my head. "Which time?"

"You know." You finish off the bowl and spin your chair so your legs hop up on my lap. "That kick you did just before your comeback. Just before you tagged me in." You give me an eye. "You moved like...Mutoh."

I feel my heart stop.

"You know how he just explodes!" One of your red boots taps-taps-taps on the other. "You moved like that. Where'd you learn that? Lance's school?"

I nod, pick up a fork and twirl it. "Yep. I mean, no. I just watched him. You know. Tapes."

I can feel the way you're looking at me. Just feel it.

You know, don't you?

"Okay," you say, spinning back in your chair, taking your legs away. And your red boots.

The waitress gives me scrambled eggs swimming in grease. "Here you go, honey."

I look at them. Then, I look at her. "You couldn't even be bothered to pour the grease out, could you?"

She glances at me, confused. I lift the plate and let the grease pour off onto the table. To my right, I hear one of your classic snerks.

"Fuckin' Rowan Chance," you say through black lipstick lips. But you don't look at me.


* * *

"DIEU! DIEU!"

That's something I hear through water. Like an echo. Muffled.

I can barely think. Barely react. I don't know where I am...but I do know who I'm with.

Because I can smell you. Smell your sweat, smell your blood, smell your sex. All three.

I know who it is lifting me by the hair.

I know who it is.

And for some reason, Verdi suddenly fills my skull...


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZDFFHaz9GsY



And so when your hand reaches down and grabs me, your fingers coiling tight... my body just reacts.

That's the secret, Megs. The secret he taught me.

The mind is faster than the body. When you know what to do, you just do it. Fast. Hard.

My limbs move with the speed of spider's legs. My legs snapping up. My arms grabbing you.

Pulling you down.

Down...

Down...

Down...

One heel over your shoulder...

The other shin under your chin...

Arms up above and behind your head...

That arm you used to grab my hair trapped...


In a heartbeat...less...pulling you down toward the hold that has never failed me.

It's time to finish this, Megan.

Time for me... to give you...


One. Last. Kiss.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Virginia Dare on January 02, 2018, 02:23:01 AM

Pounding my hands on the steel railings, I stand up shouting: "NO! MEGAN! DON'T LET HER CINCH IN THAT HOLD!"

Ohdamnohdamnohdamn...

I've felt that hold. I know what it does to you.

I know what she does to you once you're in it.

"FIGHT IT MEGAN! FIGHT IT!!!"

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on January 02, 2018, 06:04:52 PM

I'm pretty fast.

I don't wanna brag (haaa, no - I fucking love bragging) but I've been called "snake fast" by SEVERAL Midwestern regional announcers of varying degrees of respectability. I once superkicked someone so fast they didn't even have time to finish their sentence (they were in the middle of saying "Megan, I swear to God, if you fucking superkick me one more time at the breakfast table, I'm going to fucking k-". Love you, Gems). I hit people so fast they don't know they've been hit until their head bounces off the canvas. I'm like a fuckin' molotov - I'm full of alcohol and I EXPLODE. I'm so fast I turn off the light switch in the hotel room and I'm in bed before the room is dark.

Okay, I borrowed the last one from Muhammad Ali, but I'm fast is the fucking point.

But you, Ro.

You don't ALWAYS move quick, is the thing. You don't sprint, you rarely dash. Your movements in the ring are mostly controlled, smooth. And then you just fucking lash out. And I remember one night in Peoria, which I always assumed was a city Bugs Bunny had made up until I wrestled there (Peoria Civic Center, represent! Big ups to the jitterbug plate at June Bug's Diner), I was on the apron, and I was sweaty and bruised. I'd just barely gotten off a proverbially hot fucking tag to you after getting spun and whipped and leaped on all around the ring by these quick little girls who thought they were the fucking Jumping Bomb Angels. And I saw the way you ducked a high roundhouse kick and just ROSE like a fucking storm, seizing the girl's head as she staggered off the whiff and dropping her in a reverse DDT before she'd even realized she'd missed.

"'Lance Storm' my everlovin' fuckin' ass," I'd muttered through a half grin, my arms draped on the second rope as I rested on one knee and recovered, sweat dripping off the end of my nose. Lance Storm is a brilliant wrestler who's an absolute fucking mastermind at striking and mat work, like most Canadians, and he's not slow - but he's not FAST.

Not like you.

I probably should have said something that night. I didn't. I didn't really even tease at bringing it up until a couple weeks later, at the Waffle House in Jefferson City (BEST smothered-covered-capped-and-country hash browns north of Mobile). I'd just teased a little, to see what you said. And you hadn't wanted to talk about it. Your lie was so heartstring-tuggingly bad that I just dropped it.

I dunno. Maybe if we'd talked about more things out in the open and hadn't had so many secrets in the dark and ...

... that's just the blood loss talking.

Point is:

You're one fast little cxnt, Rowan Chance.

Which is why you're able to snatch me in that fucking hold so quick as I bend over to peel you off the mat like a wet decal and finish you off.

From fucking corpse to a clutching spider in a breath.

The gogoplata is one of those moves that everyone tries. Taker using it all over the PPVs and Shin Aoki choking Nagata out fucking cold with it and Joe Rogan calling it over and over in breathless panting excitement as fighters try to lock it in has led to all sorts of fighters trying the complex, elaborate choke when they should really stick with a fucking headlock and make sure they can get that right first. It's not a reliable hold - there's so many moving parts that you have to make sure you get in correctly, and escape can be as simple as just standing upright.

But you're so fucking fast.

Your legs wrap around, hooking my shoulder as you trap my reaching right hand. Your hips lift, pressing your folded shin into my throat, and I can feel the pulse race in my ears like a sudden rush of kettledrums. I know how to fight this. I do. I've had to, since I've seen you choke so many fucking people out with it. And it's not just the choking, it's the ...

... the way you put the hold on.

My left hand comes up, flailing and then snatching at your jaw, PUSHING it hard back, forcing your blood-soaked face to crank back at the crowd upside-down as I plant my fucking red Docs and LIFT, my abs flexing brutally tight. All I have to do is stand and break your grip, and you're on the fucking mat.

All I have to d-

"NNNNAGHHHHHHH!"

My right knee doesn't agree to the plan, and just crumbles. I drop hard, to my knees, and the pain JOLTS me again, making my spine whiplash in electric agony as my right leg spasms when the brutalized swollen knee crashes into the canvas.

And I'm trapped.

"NNNGHHHHHNnononono ..." I snarl like a mantra, the pain etched all over my bloody face as your shin sinks into my throat. Crushing my voice away. Crushing my windpipe shut. Pinching off my carotids. Your hands laced behind my head.

Your face staring up at me, so fucking close.

NO

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Vivianne on January 02, 2018, 06:40:21 PM

I have seen Rowan use this hold before, and the outcome is always the same. Nobody escapes it. Well, I have heard rumors that Gemma did once, but I was not there to see it. She locks it on so quick that Punky is trapped immediately. Yes!

YES!

YESSS

Yesss Rowan!! CHOKE HER OUT!!!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on January 02, 2018, 08:17:50 PM

You move so panicked. And I am so calm.

Slowly increasing the pressure. Pulling your face down. Pulling your lips down.

My face is a mess of blood, sweat and hair.

My shin presses hard into your throat and I see your eyes begin to bulge. Your nipples tenting your sports bra. Your left leg kicking and digging at the mat while your right leg is folded useless under you. You paw at my chin, struggling to keep my lips away.

And somewhere else, laying on a beach in Florida, you whisper to me, "Your lips are like a drug." And you're kissing me. Over and over and over again. Just that. Kissing. Over and over and over again. Listening to the water rush up on the shore. Hearing the sounds of a Parrothead party somewhere down the beach. You never could get enough of kissing me.

But back in the ring, when your face is so close, I can feel the bloody brush of your lips, I whisper against your mouth.

"You are mine."

And I know both meanings of those words are sinking into your panicked brain.

And then?

The kiss


The kiss you will never escape.

And as I kiss you, I'm whispering between your lips. A little poem, just for you. I suck at poetry, but I wanted this moment. Right here. When I had you. I finally had you.


I've got you
I'm in your blood
In your brain
In your dreams

I've got you
And you can never ever escape me
Whenever you touch her
A part of you is touching me

I've got you
No matter how much you lie to me,
No matter how much you lie to your wife,
No matter how much you lie to yourself,
You will never
Ever
Escape me


And with your mouth wide open, gasping for air as my shin slowly crushes your windpipe...

My mouth plants a kiss on yours.

Deep. Dominant. The kind of kiss that made  your toes curl. That made your back arch, pressing your tits up into mine. The kind of kiss that put your hands above your head and made your eyes scream, "Please..."

My domme kiss. Quick. Powerful. Sudden. Like a Mutoh kick.

And just like that, I'm away again, having snatched whatever breath you had left.

I've got you, Megan.

Finally...

I've got you.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on January 03, 2018, 05:06:39 AM

"NNNGHHKk-!"

There's a panic that sets in when you're really, really being choked. And a throat choke triggers every fucking biological terror lurking in the evolutionary cobwebbed corners of the hindbrain. I know, consciously, that I need to FIGHT this. I need to hit you, to free my arm, to dig my leg under me and plant it, to break your balance, to roll us over, to gouge your eyes, to go for the ropes and throw myself through them, to do fucking something, to do god-damn anything.

But instead, my left hand is clutching at your shoulder, skidding off the sweat glossing your olive skin. My left leg is digging blindly for purchase, rocking off balance as my red Doc Marten skids across the mat. My hair is hanging in my bloody face, and my eyes are bulging. My vision's starting to tunnel a little and that's never good. There's no good tunnels to be goin' through when you're in the fucking ring. Bruiser Brody is not waiting in the light to call you home. But the blood vessels in my eyes are bursting. I can feel them, heavy as fucking marbles. My eyes must look red as fuckin' Invader Zim's, and just like him, I'd love to destroy this god-damn planet right now.

My hips bob with the swaying struggle of my left leg, my right leg folded awkwardly, crumpled and pulsing with pain. My chrome-studded belt is still on, and my little panelled skirt of tattered red velvet coffin lining strips, most of them clinging to me with sweat or whatever.

My hand presses to your chin, but I can feel the crazy rush of adrenaline and cortisol, the pulse of my blood, and my blurring vision means I'm not ... I'm not fucking STOPPING you ... my hand skids off your slick bloody jaw with a wet rasp of grip tape.

You whisper against my panting ragged lips, and my left foot drums on the canvas, kicking frantically at the ma as you draw closer.

nonononononoNONONONONONONONONONONONO

My right hand clutches at a bloody fistful of your hair, trying to stop you. I can't stop your words, your filthy fucking venomous lies, from sinking into my gasping brain. I can't ...

... my throat is closed, not closed but CRUSHED, and my eyes are fucking bulging and red as fucking coals, my back is twisted and my leg is crumpled, my taped hand is pawing over the fucking canvas, and my heartbeat is pounding so loud it's a drum in my fucking ears ...

... and you kiss me. Your lips CRUSH against mine, and you rip the breath out of me.

My body spasms, twisting in your grip like electricity is going through me.

My blood-red eyes ... roll.

Crescent white showing like an idiot moon.

My parted bloody lips sag, and drool trickles from my busted lip onto your tits.

LVK: ROWAN CHANCE HAS THE WIDOW'S KISS LOCKED IN, AND MEGAN DOW IS TRAPPED! This may finally, FINALLY be reaching an end, ladies and gentlemen!

RP: Meg, c'mon, kid! Oh fuck, she's fading. Fuck. She looks like a gutshot horse.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Virginia Dare on January 03, 2018, 06:07:02 AM

"NO! MEGAN! FIGHT IT! FIGHT IT!"

A "Don't Tap Out!" chant starts and I join it, slamming my feet on the floor, banging the metal railing.

But her arms are going limp. And her leg has stopped kicking.

She's stopped trying to escape.

I can't even look at Gemma.

I remember being in that hold and I remember how I escaped, but after she's taken so much I don't know if Megan can.

"YOU KNOW THE ESCAPE!" I shout at her. "YOU KNOW IT! DO IT MEGAN!"

The words get caught in my throat and I remember Rowan choking me with her shin, pulling me down for that awful awful kiss.

"TAKE HER TO BRAZIL MEGAN!"

I'm about to scream but I feel my belly quake. Say it. Say it.

"TAKE--TAKE THAT--TAKE THAT FUCKING BITCH TO BRAZIL!"

I can feel my cheeks reddening and I don't care.

You've got to escape, Megan. Don't let Rowan win.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on January 03, 2018, 06:33:09 AM

Little Dead Girl...
Do you really believe you can pull this off?
Do you?
Your bad leg...
Your blood loss...
How many concussions do you have right now?

Come to me
Kiss me
Sleep
And dream
Surrender
And let me...destroy you
The way you want
The way you know only I can
A demonic dance of sex and violence
I'm the only one who knows the steps
I'm the only one who can truly send you into nothingness
You can't fight
You know you can't win

But more importantly...

You don't want to win

You want to be destroyed
I'm your Shiva
I'll always be your goddess of destruction and lust
I always have been
You may have gone to her for love
But you came to me for destruction

And I'm destroying you now
Locked behind the wrong side of the gate
"Abandon All Hope..."

As I suck your breath with my kiss
Crush it with my shin
Realize now
It's over
And you
Are mine

Kneel
Beg
Plead with me
And I'll give you everything you want


Then you see a shift in my eyes
A softening of the hard darkness

My lips part and whisper in a voice you haven't heard in years

"Admit it...and I'll let you go."

And again, you fully understand both meanings of that.

"Just say it, Megan..."

You feel the pressure lessen...just a little. Just enough to let you speak.

"Admit you need me... and I'll let you go."

My grip releasing...just a little.

From my hands and my eyes. And my heart.

Just say it...

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: RedEnforcer on January 03, 2018, 03:36:44 PM

How is this still going on? Never. I have never seen Rowan kick out of a finisher.

Never

That sinks in. I have seen Rowan fight for years. I was even her opponent for many many matches. Sometimes I was her partner. I have seen her take so many finishers. And not once be able to get up. Why? Because by the time her opponent would try a finisher Rowan had already given everything she had to win. And some days that speed, that will just was not enough. And at that penultimate moment, I would look at Rowan and see her exhausted body. Totally spent in both mind, body and soul. And like a blacksmith swinging his hammer down one last time on a weakened weapon, I would use my finisher and shatter Rowan. And the three count would come.

I thought after that Mindfuck, she was done. She had to be. But from some other place Rowan found one more surge in her.

And now, it is Megan that is trapped, embraced in the Widows Kiss.  When Rowan first snapped it on, it looked like it was pure reflex, muscle memory borne from days of practice practice practice slapping on that move so much she could do it in her sleep. But as the hold has lasted, Rowan gained more and more strength. That iron will snapped back. And the hold got harder. Sunk in.

And Megan, oh Megan. So crafty, so smart. Such a brilliant wrestling mind. Surviving so many attempts to put you away, even one of the most brutal assaults I ever witnessed right in front of your wife. You were as surprised as we were that Rowan kicked out. But you did as you do and went right back to work. When I met you, I could tell you had been kicked around by life. Bitchslapped and blindsided and pretty much treated like a chew toy by Life. Despite all that, you kept that insane sense of humor and bright outlook. Because even at your lowest, you have hope.  Many times I found myself, the older wiser one, leaning on you for support. An oasis. And right now I see you drifting. Oxygen being deprived and yet you still scrap and struggle and claw. Because you always have. 

Fuck me this match is gonna kill me.

And then, I go from looking on worriedly and snap seated up.

I saw it. I have seen that hold and been in that hold enough to notice. Subtle. But...

What are you playing at Rowan? Why did you ease up?

What more do you want from her?

No, what more do you need from her?

And why does my face feel so wet?

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Virginia Dare on January 03, 2018, 03:55:36 PM

Not a lot of people know Rowan Chance as long as I have. Not a lot of people have fought Rowan Chance as much as I have. And I've hated her. I think she's really the only person I really ever hated. She broke my shoulder. She broke my ankle. She--she forced Red to cut my hair.

And watching this match--this isn't a match. I don't think there's a word in the English language for what this is--I've been hoping Punky would win. But more than that--I've been hoping she would destroy Rowan, once and for all.

Do the one thing I couldn't do. I couldn't bring myself to do it. Put that kind of blood on my hands. I don't want to hurt people but I want to win and if that means I have to hurt you then so be it. But what's been happening here has made my heart jump right into my throat. But what made it all worse was what just happened.

Red saw it, too. He stands up just as my breath catches in my throat. My hand over my mouth. I try to catch his eye for a silent acknowledgement:

Did we just see the same thing?


I saw Rowan's eyes and I heard her whisper. And in that moment I knew--I knew--that she loved Megan. Not in the past. Right now. So much that it was breaking her heart. And--in that moment--all the hate I've ever held for her vanished.

She had fallen in love.

That Rowan Chance who broke my bones and cut my hair and took my championships and laughed over me when she did--she had fallen in love.

And I just can't hate her anymore.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Becca Blast! on January 03, 2018, 07:45:10 PM

This.. isn't happening....

She had her... but somehow Rowan got out of the Mindfuck...  my mind is fucked just thinking of it.  And she's choking Punky out in that damn gogoplata...

Someone's screaming down there... a blonde with an unbelievable body... it can't be her... how many legends are IN this place... but I can hear that Tidewater drawl slicing through the din... then it stops.  No... someone has to keep up the flow.  If she knows how to break this... .Punky needs to know we're aware...

"TAKE HER TO BRAZIL!   TAKE HER TO BRAZIL!  TAKE HER TO MOTHERFUCKING, SEWAGE SWILLING, GODDAMNED BRAZIL!"

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on January 03, 2018, 08:15:59 PM

I'm still fighting.

I'm always still fighting.

It's just that I'm not fighting a battle I can win.

It's a battle against the crushing pressure on my throat, against the way you've stolen air from my lips, against my crumbled and throbbing knee not supporting me, against my aching pounding bleeding head with my brain still battered from getting fucking Tombstoned, against the blood on my tongue from your soaked face like poison wine, against your hands laced in my soaked hair, against gravity and physics and motherfucking inevitability.

But the funny thing about certainty is that there isn't any. That's why I'm a Discordian.

Your grip eases.

My throat flexes as you stop crushing me into your shin quite so hard. There's a ragged choking bloody breath that feeds me with just enough hot searing oxygen to keep me going. Your hands relax their vicious grip on my head for just a moment.

And those dark eyes soften, and for just a moment I'm with Ro.

Look. I know if someone were to, I dunno, read a subjective account of this match in some kind of narrative format and somehow have an insight into our memories and our thoughts, then they might somehow get the impression that one of us is good and one of us is bad.

We're both bad. I'm not a nice person. I love the people I love and I'm loyal as a fucking wolfhound, but I also inflict dramatic physical harm on a whim. I once tackled Red into a brick wall outside a bar and messed up his shoulder before a match the next day and there wasn't even a reason for it. He didn't see it coming, I was just dramatically reacting to a vastly incorrect thing he was saying about Star Trek or some fucking thing. I DON'T EVEN REMEMBER EXACTLY WHY I TACKLED ONE OF MY DEAREST AND MOST BELOVED FRIENDS INTO A FUCKING BRICK WALL.

I'm not some fucking heroine. I don't wanna brag but I've had more bounties put out on me in the territories than fucking Michael Hayes. I'm VICIOUS. I hurt people, often in brutally creative ways. I met my wife by jumping her with a fucking steel chair as she was coming down the aisle after a match. I WASN'T EVEN IN THAT FEDERATION (this was before our fist match in SPARK), it was just the best way I could think of to get her attention. I'm fucking BROKEN. I'm PUNKY.

... but when I was in love, I was just Meg. And once I was in love with Ro.

The way your voice drops that throaty whiskey thing you did in the ring and just sounds soft and more like the brilliantly clever I used to share stories with all night. The way your eyes looked more like dark chocolate and less like coal. Even the lines of your face soften under the thick crimson mask.

And my right hand curls in your hair. Softly. My bloody black nails just barely scritching your scalp.

I loved you, Ro. I loved you so fucking much I thought it would kill me when it ended. I thought the world fucking revolved around you. All I wanted, all I needed, all I fucking hoped for was just you, in my arms, every night forfuckingever.

And I'd say it.

I'd say it not to get out of the fucking brutality of this hold but because right now at this second it feels RIGHT, because while I hate Rowan fucking Chance, the fucking spider, the fucking attack dog of that bastard hypnotist - I love Ro, the girl who danced with me to a Jimmy Buffett song. The girl who sat with me in the parking lot and laughed until we fell over. The girl who held me and told me it was gonna be all right when I was bleeding or hurt and it made me cry not because it hurt but because I wasn't fucking hurting ALONE for once in my life.

And I loved her. And she looks like she's right here, coated in blood.

And it'd work, Ro.

I'd tell you how much I needed you. Just like you want.

I'd say it ... except.

It won't work.

It'd work - if you hadn't come to fucking Wales before the match.

Fucking Wales

It was still raining.

It was always still raining.

The doorbell rang. It rang again.

I was in bed, upstairs at Rox Manor. It was a quiet night. I'd given the staff the night off, Gemma was halfway around the world doing a deal in Shanghai, and I was home alone eating Guinness ice cream and watching old Misawa matches in bed on my laptop, wearing an ancient Wesley Willis shirt ("Rock Over London. Rock On Chicago.") and cotton shorts. I opened up the home security app suite, because who the fuck would come to Gemma's giant manor in the middle of fucking Wales in the rain at night, and through the unblinking camera eye I saw you standing on the front porch.

I stared at my screen for about a minute, probably, blank as a fucking slate.

I'd literally just finalized the agreement for the match in Paris. The Jack Daniels people were on board, the Zenith was booked, the insurance waivers were ready. We needed to formally sign the contract, but the agents would handle that. Everything was ready for me to finally burn you out of my life.

And you were here in fucking Wales.

"Come on Megan! It's raining out here!" Your voice crackled through the intercom, wirelessly fed to my computer.

I sighed and because my better judgement was in Shanghai (and you know you're in dire fucking straits in life when GEMMA ROX is your model for clarity of thought), I clicked the talk button.

"... it's literally ALWAYS rainin' in Wales," the intercom blared, and the camera over the door whirred as I zoomed in on you. "What the hell are you doin' out in the arse-end of Albion, Chance?"

I say arse sometimes now. Happens when you're married to Gemma.

"Guess!" you said bitterly through wet hair that'd fallen down over your wet face, dripping down your wet coat.

Upstairs, I smirked. "... auditionin' for a part in the next Ring movie?" I said innocently, my grin audible even through the intercom.

Your eyes narrowed. "That's not funny." And you held up a leather document pouch. "The contract. I brought it myself."

"It's KINDA funny ... "

There was a long silence, and then a long sigh. Upstairs I sagged on the bed like Atlas looking at the globe he had to pick back up. "Why'd you bring that here, Rowan? We know what we're fuckin' doing already. Do you really want this shit to happen now?"

You remained still as a fucking statue, holding it up. Looking at the camera. A flash of lightning lit up your face, pale in the moonlight. Not your usual tone. Dark eyes even darker against it. Your soaked hair pitch black.

You didn't say anything.

Obviously this wasn't right.

But you didn't say anything.

"God damn it, Rowan," I finally muttered. But it wasn't a fierce snarl. I was saving my snarls for Paris.

I was just ... weary.

I was doing Paris for a fucking one dollar fee because I wanted this to be over.

Because I wanted to live my life without you showing up like a vengeful fucking ghost.

I wished Gemma was home so I could have her go out there with a shotgun to clear you off the property. Maybe I should've just done that. It was my shotgun, anyway. But I knew already I wasn't gonna. There was no good reason to open the door to you -

- but I had to know why you were there.

"Fuck," I muttered to myself, just for the sake of something to say, and got out of my nice warm bed, pulling a heavy velour robe on as I went down the stairs because it was fucking cold in the front hall with the freezing rain, and I opened the door, leaning  against it. I stared at you for a few long beats. And remembered the last time we did this, in Portland.

"How's my fuckin' line go? 'You look like a drowned rat', right?"

You were wearing a heavy London Fog coat. No hat. Black gloves which made me somewhat concerned. Your makeup was running, smeared by the rain, making you look like you belonged to a goth band. Or maybe Hole. "And I think mine is something along the lines of 'Can I come in?'"

I rubbed the heel of my hand into my eye for a moment, every line of my body both weary and wary. "Yeah, yeah, you can fuckin' come in. I don't think we're gonna fuck and go get bibimbap in the mornin' like last time, though." I slid my hands into my big robe pockets and looked you over a long moment. My hair was down, loose for bed, and I had no make-up because I was at home. I just looked like Meg. I even had some light brown roots showing since I wasn't gonna bother touching up my dye job until just before the show.

"C'mon," I tilted my head and stalked inside, my bare tattooed feet padding on the palazzo tiles of the front hall. "Shut the door all the way. You'll hear the alarm beep."

You did, for once, listen to me and shut the door all the way. Your high heels click-click-clicked behind me because of course Rowan fucking Chance wears stilettos to go visit an ex she's agreed to fight in a fucking deathmatch. You were looking around the front hall. The architecture of Rox Manor is old and well-preserved. High ceilings. You can smell the good Welsh wood just walking in. "Nice place," you said as we passed into the eastern room. You tossed the wet leather messenger pouch on the long breakfast table that'd look like a dining table to anyone who didn't live in a manor house. There was a soft leathery wet thump. "It's in there. Ready for you to sign."

Then, you undid the belt of the coat and let it fall off your shoulders.

You were in a long, black dress. Slender, thin. Slit up to your thigh. Spaghetti straps. And your olive skin was moist from the rain. Wet against the dress, making it stick to all the right places.

I got a shiver up my back that I really didn't fucking want to be there, hands in my pockets, my big soft robe draped around me, neck to ankles. As covered as I'd ever been around you, actually. But that dress. I remembered that dress.

I took a long slow breath, and leaned back against the morning room archway, looking at the pouch sitting there on the breakfast table so I didn't have to look at you in that clinging slit dress. The DINING table is way longer, one of those grand old English lord's tables that can seat an oil painting's worth of people. Gemma's house is ridiculous and amazing. It's full of history that neither of us owns, and we wreck it all the damn time by slamming each other into it. I love it.

But I didn't love the way you were IN it, like a shadow of the past.

"The fuck are you doin' here, Rowan. Any fuckin' courier in the world would've brought that. You could've sent it to the Jack Daniels team or Zenith management or Gem- my fuckin' agents like you're s'posed to."

"Got anything to drink?" you asked. "Place like this must have an excellent wine cellar. Or maybe even whiskey." You weren't looking at me. You were looking around the home I shared with my wife. Taking it all in. Admiring it, even.

Letting the light play off your soft, wet skin.

I let my eyes drift half-shut just so they could stop seeing the dim light gleam on you. It was mostly dark in there, since I had been in bed and the staff was off and Gemma was off doing Gemma Business. Your olive skin. I'd seen it up close, in starlight and harsh arena lights and candlelight and headlights. I knew how every inch of you feels under my fingers. I knew how every curve of you tastes.

"'course there's fuckin' drinks. I live here."

I stalked past you, robe swirling, and stalked towards the bar, two rooms away. I jerked my head for you to follow. The bar is a hunting lodge type - except Gemma and I have taken down the animal heads. All the wooden plaques on the walls are mounted with wrestling gear.

Boots. Masks. Weapons.
Tops and bottoms, tacked into place.
Each one marked with a tasteful brass plate indicating the date of capture and detail of the hunt ("Tara Tornado's sparkly red headband, taken after a Stroke of Midnight, Peoria Civic Center, 09/18/15").

Behind the bar, there's Gemma's G-Force cricket bat, and the Red Queen, mounted on hooks where you'd normally see rifles in a pub, or axes or whatever.

Your eyes fixed on my mallet right away.

"There she is." you whispered.

I glanced up and half-grinned. "Yeah. Haven't carried her around since ... " I flapped my hand, giant robe sleeve making whooshing sounds as I looked like a fuckin' depraved wizard. "... y'know. Tokyo." The head of the roque mallet is still somewhat - blackened. Which makes no sense. It's not like your mask was rigged with pyro. Whatever. I moved behind the bar and took two doubles glasses down, and I built two neat Laphroaig 12 years.

"I had something special like that once," you said, your voice half-elsewhere. Then, your voice came right back, and brought bitterness with it. "Until someone broke it."

"Yeah, well, don't turn into a fucking ghost monster and break everyone's fuckin' arms and maybe your toys won't get smashed." I glowered, sliding the whisky across the bar at you and drinking my own off in one long pull that did NO justice to the Islay single malt peated libation. I slammed the glass down and glared at you, hands wide on the bar, looking like a pub owner dealing with a customer who has an outstanding tab.

"What. Do. You. Want. Rowan."

"Maybe I wouldn't have had to turn into the ghost monster if someone hadn't tried to paralyze me for life with her fucking wife." You picked up the glass and shot the whiskey down.

"As to what I want..."

You rolled the glass in your fingers, delicate as magic.

"I want another drink."

You grabbed the tall green bottle with its simple white label and refilled your glass. Then you started just fucking walking around the lounge. Letting the dim light of the moon shine through your dress.

"... feel free." I offered after you'd snatched the bottle in a voice so heavy with irony it attracted magnets. I drummed my fingers slowly on the bar, watching you. I wished I'd turned more lights on in there. There were a few trophy and accent lights on, but it was dim and moonlit from the bay window.
And you looked too fucking pretty this way, ill-met in the moonlight.

You stopped in front of the big window, looking back at the Red Queen behind the bar. Your face was pained with memories. And your fingers lightly touched a spot where I knew you had a scar. I knew because I put it there. It was tiny, but it never fully went away. Some never do.

"I'll tell you the truth, Megan. I wanted to see you."
Still looking at the Red Queen.

"I wanted to see the house. Wanted to see you in the house. Wanted to see what kind of life you made without me. Wanted to see what kind of life you ran away to." You smiled humorlessly and drink down the rest of the whisky. "To tell you the truth, Megan..." You poured another glass. "I wanted to see the consolation prize."

My eyes went flat. Flat as fucking stones.

Then I shrugged, leaning one hand on the bar, flapping my sleeve airily. My voice dripped with honeyed sarcasm.

"Sure. It's a pretty nice silver medal, I guess, bein' here in a giant house with a successful, brilliant, gorgeous, dangerous, captivating woman who loves me unconditionally, doin' whatever I want all day and becoming a better wrestler and exploring the world and meetin' fascinating people who come here just to share in our lives."

I leaned closer, my eyes going mockingly wide.

"But imagine if I was living the fucking DREAM, right?"

I grabbed the Jack Daniels that I force Gemma to let me keep behind the bar, and poured it off. Not even Gentleman Jack. Not even Jack red label. Straight up plain black label cheap-ass Jack.

"I could live with YOU and THOMAS. OOOOH. We could wear MATCHING CORSETS!" I giggled mockingly, breathily. "WHAT IF HE LET US WEAR MATCHING COLLARS, RO, CAN YOU IMAAAAAAGINE? When he took us for fucking walkies we'd look SOOOOOOO cute."

I faded into a sneer. "You dumb cxnt."

You just stood still, quietly smiling. Holding your glass.

"This is us, Megan. You and me."

You pointed at your aged Laphroaig whisky bottle. The one that cost at least three digits. "Me..." And then you pointed back at the Jack Daniels on the bar with my hand around its neck.

"...and you."

You finished your peated whisky off and put the double down.

"You never knew quality when you saw it. And always settled for second best." You poured another glass, looking so fucking satisfied with yourself.

I shook my head with a roll of my eyes, drinking my Jack and savoring the long dirty burn. And when I spoke, I was grinning. Looking at the cheap familiar faux-vintage Jack Daniels label. The only reason I don't have a shirt based on this design is that EVERY FUCKING INDY WRESTLER DOES.

"Gemma drinks this with me when I wanna drink it. She can stock fucking Laphroaig. We have a bottle of Royal Salute Diamond Jubilee back here. We have Suntory Kakubin Black Special. But she drinks this with me."

I poured another shot.

"Because I like it."

I drank it off, and sighed contentedly.

"She doesn't force it down with a sneer. She doesn't BITCH about it the whole fucking time. She doesn't think that you're only worth what you cost."

I poured another shot, and snapped it down, and grinned, bright and merciless.

"But when ya put it that way, darlin', it makes sense you're with Thomas. He must spend enough on you to make ya feel reallllly special. Like a fucking Pomeranian with a velvet bed."

"THIS ISN'T ABOUT HIM."

My eyebrow rose a little as I tensed my fist on the bottle. There was angry Rowan. Hi there. Been a while. But you stopped yourself, raised your chin, regained your composure. "This is about you. And me."

You put the glassware down, your knuckles so white I was sure it was gonna burst in your hand until it clinked to the table. Then you stepped closer to the bar. That smile you had fully repainted on your lips.

"It's a nice house. Nice bar. Nice whiskey."

You came closer.

"But be honest with me Megan. Really honest..."

You stepped right up against the fucking rail.

"Can she fuck you as good as I did?"

There was a bitter, knowing little smirk on my face.
You were really putting on your full show, your body serpentine and fucking perfect. You looked like liquid sin poured into that dress. I let my eyes rove you. Let you see me looking. Meg and her big hungry hazel eyes, dilating when they see what they want, bright as an alley cat. And I drained off my Jack, so you could smell it on my breath, the smell of punk clubs and shitkicker bars and biker cocktails. The smell of America's back roads and cheap alleys. I leaned across the bar, almost close enough to kiss.

"Ro," I said softly.

"You're so fucking broken you think that the fuck-games you play are love."

You stared hard into my eyes.

"That wasn't a 'YES.'"

Well, that fucking tore it. I can yell pretty fucking loud. There's a reason I'm the Human Trigger Warning.

"BECAUSE IF I SAY 'YES' YOU'LL FUCKING SAY 'OH YEAH' AND THINK IT'S A CHALLENGE OR A GOD DAMN INVITATION, YOU FUCKING LUNATIC!"

I leaned closer, reaching out for you, as if desperate to drag you back from wherever the fuck your head was right now.

"IT DOESN'T FUCKING MATTER, ROWAN. IT'S JUST FUCKING SEX. YOU CAN BUY THAT SHIT."

I slammed my Jack down, hard enough to jolt whiskey over my fist.

"I'M TALKING ABOUT GOD DAMN LOVE."

You just stood there and let those words echo around the room for a little bit. Watching my chest heave. My pierced nipples were jabbing at my thin shirt under my open flapping wine-red robe. Then, when the room was quiet, you corked the whisky bottle. And I could see on your face that I felt you'd made some kind of point. And I knew it was too late to get through to you.

"Let's go sign the contract."

I sighed and leaned back, against the expensive racked bottles. I took a drink right from Jack's neck.

"No."

You looked like you'd been slapped. I didn't even have the energy to grin about that.

"Send it to my fucking agent. I'm done playing games with you, Rowan. I'm just ... I'm done. We're done. That's the whole fucking point."

I flapped my hand back the way we'd come.

"You're welcome to the whisky, and you know where the fucking door is."

And then we were d-

"YOU FUCKING COWARD!" you screamed, throwing the Laphroaig to the floor in an expensive shattering puddle.

Oh.

"YOU RAN AWAY THAT NIGHT AND YOU NEVER CAME BACK! YOU LEFT ME THERE!"

Your voice was starting to crack.

"THEN YOU...THEN YOU...Th-then you..."

You looked down at the broken glass.

For once I wasn't the one who was screaming. That's a rarity.

"I asked, Rowan." My voice was softer than it'd been in a long time with you. "I asked, and you said no."

I shook my head, and drank more Jack to swallow down the rage and sadness that was surging up.

"I don't ask twice. And you said NO."

Your head snapped back up from the glass and you screamed with wet glistening dark eyes.

"IWASSAYINGYES!"

You let that hang in the air. Then, you raised your chin in that haughty Chance way again, blinking hard. Your stalked back to the morning room, heels clicking, and grabbed the contract out of the leather satchel. The pen, too. It was one of those fancy ones, I saw as you came back in. How fucking formal. But I was still staring blankly into space as you threw the pages back to the last one, and signed your name.

"You want it to be over?" you asked, not sounding like you at all. "You want to be done with me? Once and for all? Forever and a day?"

You thrust the pen and contract back at me.

"Sign it."

I was just staring blankly after you as you stalked out. And staring blankly as you stalked back. I looked at the pen as if uncertain what it was, and back at you. At the contract, and back at you. My mouth worked slowly.

I shook my head, suddenly, viciously, as if clearing a dream from my head, a wolf with a fucking bee in her ear.

"Yo- there wasn- what the f- WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU ON ABOUT?"

I was so angry and confused I sounded like an overheated and drunk teakettle starting to bubble through the spout. Then I found clarity in one important line.

"YOU SAID NO, ROWAN. YOU SAID FUCKING NO, I REMEMBER BECAUSE I WAS FUCKING THERE!"

I threw my bottle overarm, smashing the far wall and whiskey-soaking the black floral mask I captured from a girl named La Rosa Negra de Santa Juanita back in Guadalajara after a Dollbreaker in 2016.

I was roaring.

"WHAT KIND OF STUPID FUCKING MINDGAME IS THIS? ARE YOU FUCKING SLIPPING IN YOUR PSYCH TRICKS?" I was back at the bar, fists clenched, tendons in my neck standing out. So fucking angry. "JUST PRETENDING YOU SAID SOMETHING ELSE STOPPED WORKING IN THIRD FUCKING GRADE."

And you slapped me. Right across the bar. My head snapped to the side, my cheek burning in a red handprint that glowed like embers, my purple hair swirling with the impact. Your voice was coldly furious. Betrayed.

"I begged you to stay. Begged you. BEGGED YOU. I've never begged for anything in my life. Not even for him."

You were close enough to kiss, and I could smell your perfume even through the rain. It was the one I liked from before, not the one you've been wearing lately.

"I couldn't say yes, Megan. Not with words. But if you were paying attention, the rest of me was screaming 'yes.'" You shook your head. "You just couldn't hear it."

I took a long, slow breath. It wasn't a prana breath. There was no Zen to it. It was a breath that shivered because sobs that were fucking four years old were trying to bubble back up, rotting and ancient. I deliberately turned my face back towards you, not looking at you. I looked down at the bar. My hands slid over it, smoothing my palms on the walnut. I spread them wide apart, as if getting ready to play the piano.

I tapped my left forefinger down.

"I asked you to stay with me. To be with me. To be with me."

On the other side, I tapped my right forefinger down.

"You said no."

I took another careful breath. I was pretty fucking well along the road to being drunk, but the rage and adrenaline and confusion and booze were all swirling enough to leave me sounding relatively sober.

"The next time I saw you, you put my head into a fucking steel stage and rubbed your cxnt on my face."

"Forgive me," my eyes cut up at you at last, red and BURNING. "I'm not seeing the fucking Princess Bride true love in that story."

(So it's my favorite movie, so what. No, YOU'RE a pussy.)

You looked away and I just stared at you. You took your own long breath and your voice came out sounding thick. "Would you have done otherwise?"

I snorted. And looked away.

"You could have put my head through the metal. And you wanted to." You managed a smirk as a tear rolled down your cheek, as unexpected as desert snow. "I just did it before you did."

I gestured with both hands, helplessly. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me this before that? Why the fuck didn't you tell me the next god-damn night?". My volume was rising, sharply. "IF THIS IS TRUE, WHY THE FUCK DID YOU .... "

I clutched the sides of my head in both hands like I was putting myself in a temple crush and dropped my elbows to the bar with a thud.

"No. I'm not ... this doesn't fucking ... just no. NO."

None of it made any fucking sense.

"Megan..."

I shook my head, held in both hands, and didn't look up.

You took the contract in your hands, one at each corner, as if to tear it. "I could just..."

I reached out and took it. Not looking up. My left hand cradling my forehead. I blindly grabbed the ornate silver pen and scribbled a loopy twisted version of my name near enough the line to please the lawyers. And I set it down. My right hand came up and covered my eyes, and tears pattered on the bar, not stopping.

"It's too fucking late, Ro."

You nodded. Taking the contract in your hands, neatly closing it up and folding it. "You're right."

And you laughed.

"You're goddamn right."

I couldn't even be bothered to fucking sigh. Because of course. Of course you fucking laughed. Of course it was another pointless fucking mindgame. Ro, the girl I loved, is fucking dead. There's only you now, Chance. You slapped my hands away from your face so I'd look at you as you fucking monologued.

"I'm going to fucking BREAK YOU Megan Dow. You hear me? I'm going to make you PAY for what you took from me."

You levelled a finger at me, drawn up with your dark glee, delighted at springing whatever sort of trap this was supposed to be.

"My spine."
"My mask."
"And my heart."

"You broke all of them. And now... I'm going to break YOU. And your fucking second-prize wife is going to WATCH."

I just looked at you, letting my tears run. I didn't wanna stop them. Even if they were four years old and sour and dusty with the sand of Vegas. I wanted you to see them. Because this wasn't a trap, Rowan. You didn't reveal any dark secrets. You just proved to me why nothing good could ever come out of us being near each other, ever again.

I crooked a gentle little half-smile, my elbows resting on the bar.

"The mask wasn't yours. It was Thomas'. Just like everything else about you."

I tilted my head, looking at you and remembering what you were. And how it was gone.

"I wasn't the one who broke your spine. That was Jenny. But maybe I'll finish the job."

I took a soft sighing breath, and smiled at you sweetly as I did that night in Chicago when your back was so hurt.

"And you never really had a heart, Rowan." I shook my head, tears still sliding down my cheeks. Old tears. "Sorry, Tin Girl. It was just a ticking clock after all."

The kind that counts down.

But I smiled, soft and gentle.

"... but I loved you anyway."

I pointed back towards the front hall.

"Get the fuck out of my house."

You nodded. I didn't know or care if any of that really hurt you. It didn't matter.

"Maybe I don't have a heart." And you grinned all wicked and evil again as I just looked through you. "But you do. And so does Gemma."

You turned your back on me, going to retrieve your coat.

"It'll be fun wrecking you with her watching."

Your body slinking under the black dress. You turned to grin, over your shoulder.

"And I'll make extra sure, win or lose, she won't be able to fuck you for a year." You shrugged the jacket on my shoulders. "Or maybe forever."

I chuckled, soft and dark.

"Sex is the only fuckin' thing you can see, isn't it?"
You just looked blankly at me. I don't think you'll ever understand what I meant. I tried, anyway. "Is it like being the Predator? The world is all saturated colors and pulsing cocks for you to jump on and hot cxnts for you to grab?"

I met your eyes, and my red teary ones were steady, and I didn't see the girl I'd loved anymore. Even a little of her. She was gone.

"I'm gonna beat you, Rowan. I'm gonna beat you so that everyone sees you beaten." I snorted, raw disdain. "'Unbreakable', my fuckin' sweet ass. Now get your collared whipped little butt back home before Thomas sends out the dogcatcher."

You grabbed the cut hem of the dress and pulled it up so the edge of the tattoo is just showing. So fucking lewd. Not even any artistry left in it, just flashing me like a 19th century hooker.

"Nobody's done it yet, baby. I'll see you in Paris."

You tied up the contract in the document pouch and let yourself out. And I just sat at the bar for a while, and then I went back upstairs. I wanted to finish that Misawa match.

See, I always finish what I start.

And that moment, that slacking moment where you ease up.

You don't want me to say I need you because you love me. It's just another fucking game. All everything is, in the whole fucking world is games to you.

So let's fucking play.

I can breathe, just a gasp. Just enough. The hold is loosened, just enough. You're staring at me, waiting, waiting for me to gasp out my soul.

Instead I force my right boot down, and ignore the crunch and twang and clank of my wrecked knee as I FORCE that fucking leg up, my left boot finally finding the mat and digging in, my hand tight in your hair, left hand cradling the back of your neck, yanking your head against mine. My knee is agony, screaming agony, but I ignore it and plant my red Docs. I can hear people screaming, people I love, who want us to go to fucking Brazil.

Our foreheads crushed together, blood sisters sharing an oath.

"I NNNNNNNEVER FUCKING NEEDED YOU!"

I roar at you, wasting the air I got as I DRAG you up. Every fucking muscle tensing, my abs fucking shredded, my shoulders rounding and biceps defining, my legs quivering as I DRAG you up wrapped around me, into the fucking sky, hoisting you up for everyone to see.

... and really, roaring in your face was a mistake, because I needed that air. My eyes roll back and I go rubber - and fall forward.

Driving your back into the mat with both our full weight behind it, in a what can be charitably called a deadweight powerbomb, blood and saliva running from my slack slips.

Slack.

But smiling, even in the black.






(If you've made it this far, congratulations! You just read an incredibly elaborate flashback taking place in a wrestling match and there's probably an animated ad of some girl sucking another girl's toes just above it. Fun fact; this post was as long as 1.5 Rime of the Ancient Mariners, and it had way more tits. Full credit goes to Rowan for roleplaying out the flashback with me even though we both ended up crying over it because we're huge dorks. <3 )

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on January 03, 2018, 11:21:47 PM

Stupid.

Stupidstupidstupid.

What the fuck are you thinking? What the fuck are you doing?

Tighten the goddamn hold you stupid, weak bitch. TIGHTEN THE GODDAMN HOLD.

Need? What the fuck does need have anything to do with it? END HER. FUCKING END HER. END THIS. END THIS AND GO HOME.

But all it took was that moment. That moment and those words. I allowed you enough breath to speak and enough breath to think. Because beating you wasn't enough.

"You can beat her or you can win." That's what Tantalus told me. "You can't have both."

"Fuck you," I said. "I can have both."

Well, those words are coming back to me now as your eyes reignite and your fingers clutch in my hair and your arm begins to lift me off the canvas.

My face against your face. Blood on blood.

Your blood.

My blood.

Our blood.

That's what makes the ritual. Binding us together...

...or breaking us apart.

I squeeze your throat, trying to crush that larynx before you can do anything else.

"You're going to break that knee of yours," I say against your lips. But even as I say the words, I know you don't care. You could break every bone in your body and you wouldn't care. So long as it meant you'd be rid of me. Breaking the bond.

I'm high up. All my weight down on your throat. Still face to face. My blood pouring down on you like red rain.

I look right into your eyes. That moment when I'm suspended in the air, both of us locked together. Bound together. Ready to destroy each other.

Your eyes flutter.

All the strength leaves your body.

You collapse.

And then...both of us fall.




My back hits square on the mat. Then, the back of my head bounces. Like I fell twenty feet onto a brick wall.

The last thing I feel is a shockwave of pain from the tips of my toes to the tips of my fingers.

My hands lose their grip. My legs lose their grip.

My body arches over backward, landing on my chest. One foot on the bottom rope. The other dangling off the apron.

As everything fades to black, I















LVK: OHMYGOD, WHAT AN IMPACT!

RP: BOTH WOMEN ARE DOWN VAN KEEL! AND I DON'T THINK EITHER OF THEM ARE MOVING!

LVK: PUNKY WAS LOCKED TOO LONG IN THE WIDOW'S KISS AND PASSED OUT AS SHE WAS TRYING TO ESCAPE!

RP: YEAH, AND SHE ACCIDENTALLY POWERBOMBED CHANCE INTO THE NEXT MILLENIA!

LVK: THE REFEREE HAS BEGUN A TEN COUNT! WILL EITHER OF THESE WOMEN BE ABLE TO ANSWER IT?

RP: I'M PRETTY SURE I CAN'T ANSWER IT. I DON'T KNOW HOW THEY'RE GOING TO.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: RedEnforcer on January 04, 2018, 05:42:19 PM

Well here we are. Both women pretty much completely spent. And it?s all their fault.
Megan and her bullheadedness. Rowan and her need to be unbreakable.

Pretty much the physical embodiment of the proverbial irresistible force driving headlong into the immovable object. I?m not sure what drove these two apart. I bet looking at it now, it would seem like it had to be some life altering tragedy for this kind of carnage to result. But in my life lots of tragedies develop from the simple want of a nail.

For want of a nail the shoe was lost.
For want of a shoe the horse was lost.
For want of a horse the rider was lost.
For want of a rider the message was lost.
For want of a message the battle was lost.
For want of a battle the kingdom was lost.
And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.     

That is what this feels like to me. I see my two...friends....no, more than that...I see them lying there just having gone nuclear on each other.

There is no winner here.
No happy ending.
No last minute save.
No run in from the back to turn the tide.

This is where we are.

And I just pray those two survive.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on January 06, 2018, 07:46:06 AM

LVK: And referee Am?lie Lacroix now glancing back and forth - she's officially confirmed both women are down, as if there was any doubt possible after that vicious choke and that catastrophic powerbomb landing.

RP: It looks like a god-damn plane crash. One down on her face in a puddle of blood an' one sprawled on her back an' danglin' half in the ropes.

LVK: Despite the crowd's protests, Lacroix is signaling she's going to begin the count formally. If this count goes to 10 ... both women lose this fall, and this match is a draw. These two women have literally given their all in what I would normally say is a heroic effort. But there was no heroism tonight; just a grim determination to destroy each other.

RP: Fuck. I think the only thing worse than one of 'em losin' is BOTH of 'em losin'. This will NEVER end if this count finishes.

LVK: ... you're not going to try to jump in again, right?

RP: Not until my heartbeat gets back to normal. Fuckin' tasers.

"UN!"

I'm past dreaming.

I'm on my face, my left cheek on the mat. Blood running down my forehead, blood and saliva dribbling from my parted lips. Blood for fucking blood, and by the fucking gallon, like I always say.

My arms are ragdolled - one above my head flat on the mat as if reaching towards you and one limp at my side, fingers curled against my taped palm.

My back barely moves, my breaths so shallow they barely lift my chest against the mat.

My legs are sprawled, right one jutting off to the side, almost straight as pulses of agony from my wrecked knee make my calf tense and quiver - but that's the only real movement. The left leg bent at the knee, my bootheel almost tucked up against me. My blood red Doc Martens are still for once, not shuffling or kicking.

Aside from the faint tidal breathing and the slow drum of my heart, the pulse of my blood and drip of me against the canvas that's been my home for so many years, I'm finally at rest.

I embrace Chaos. It's in my nature. (And I don't mean like the NJPW CHAOS, even though I like those boys and I have some CHAOS gear that Will Ospreay gave me last time we hung out in Dublin. I mean, I'll never be able to wear it IN New Japan, because that's not how those shows work, because gods fuckin' know you can't let someone with tits wrestle on the same card as fuckin' Goto, but whatever. Also, did everyone see Ospreay giving me such a sweet tribute with the purple hair and attire at Wrestle Kingdom? He's such a nice boy. I should get Gemma to fuck him. Wait. Where was I?)

"DEUX!"

Right. Chaos.

I'm a Discordian. I act unpredictably. I believe in uncertainty wholeheartedly. This makes me difficult to deal with, dangerous in the ring, and absolutely fucking maddening to Callista Quinn. Entropy - for me everything in life is just about embracing entropy. You can't fight chaos; order is a fucking lie. You can just dive headlong into it, into change and evolution and turmoil and madness. The UNIVERSE is constantly rolling along the endless roller coaster of entropy.

Except in one particular case.

Robert Boyle talked about it, way back before anyone should have been able to envision such a concept. Because it was the 17th century, he called it primum frigidum (also what people call Calli). Now we just think of it as absolute zero.

It's a state of the lowest possible temperature, which means the least possible movement. Absolute zero is the only moment in the fucking universe when the slide into entropy stops.

This ring is at absolute zero.

"TROIS!"

No one's moving. Entropy has stopped.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on January 06, 2018, 04:55:46 PM

I've got nothing left. Nothing.

There's more of my blood on the mat than there is in my body. My back has given up. My head doesn't know where it is.

I've got nothing left. Just...nothing.

I hear the referee counting. She's already up to three. "TROIS." Whatever.

I'm down. And there's no getting up. I don't even know if I'll ever get up.


"QUATRE!"


This isn't about you, Tom, but I'm thinking about you. How we met in college. How you trained me. You were all into magic-with-a-k and Crowley and Joseph Campbell and Fraser's Golden Bough. You were so fucking hot and I needed to have you. You called yourself an "anti-alchemist." Turning the sublime into the vulgar. And for a while, I was your Scarlet Woman. You liked turning goddesses into whores. Dismantling the proud into the subjugate. And I resisted you. I wouldn't let you subjugate me. You punished me and punished me, but I wouldn't submit. And that made me special. I never submitted to you. And that put me in a special category.


"CINQ!"


And here's your special girl, laying on the mat, unable to move. I can't get up. I've been...

...no, I won't say it. I wouldn't say it to you and I won't say it to her. Not ever.

You gave me the mask to show me the darkness in my own soul. To be what I wanted to be, you said I had to see it. To embrace it. To be it. I became the vengeful spirit, Aika. She could never be destroyed. And when I needed that darkness, I came back for it. Every time I put it on, I destroyed something. Wrong. I destroyed two things: my opponent and a little bit of myself. And when I needed it against Megan, you were reluctant. I didn't understand why. It was as if you felt using it against her would... yes. She did. She shattered it. Sent Aika back to whatever shadowy place she came from.

And sitting alone with you afterward, you told me something I never understood.

"I was hoping you'd realize you didn't need the mask."

That's what you told me.


"SIX!"


But now I'm laying on the mat, unable to move.  She's wrecked me, Tom. I took everything from her. And she's wrecked me.

...you didn't need the mask.

I need it now. I've always needed it when things got dark. So I could get darker.

...you didn't need the mask.

I do need it. I can't fight her without it. I've beaten her. But...I can't just beat her. I need to break her. To finish her once and for all. And I can't do that without Aika.

But then, I hear a voice. A voice I don't recognize. It speaks to me as loud as thunder, as soft as morning dew:

"There never was an Aika."


"SEPT!"


My closed eyes open. That voice. It wasn't yours, Tom.

It was mine.

"There never was an Aika."

That's my lips moving. That's my voice speaking.

Magic always comes in threes. Say it again.


"HUIT!"


My lips move.

"There. Never. Was. An Aika."

It was always just me.

Those lips? They smile. A wide, wide smile. Blood between my teeth.

And suddenly, my body moves.

Like a marionette being lifted by strings. From a prone position to standing. My raven black hair now almost crimson. My face a thick mask of pain.



RP: OHFUCKSHIT!

LVK: Rowan has...

(The sound of a chair being overthrown.)

RP: I'MFUCKINGOUTOFHERE!

LVK: Oh, God. Dear Lord in Heaven.




And I'm smiling.

There never was an Aika, Megan. It was always me.

Finally, Tom. Finally.

I feel it. In my heart.

I'm not afraid. There is no pain. There is no love.

I roar. Aika never roared.

That's because I'm not Aika. What is it you always called me, Megan?

Rowan. FUCKING. Chance.

I'm not Aika.

I'm Rowan.

But I'm not your Rowan.

I'm not even Tom's Rowan.

I'm the Rowan I always wanted to be.

But love held me back.

My love for you, Megan.

My fists clench and all the pain is gone. The pain in my back. The pain in my head. All of it.

I clench my fists and all the love is gone. My love for you. Like the blood from my body, it's laying in pools on this canvas mat. Seeping through it. Dripping between the wooden boards.

Gone.

Just. Gone.


Along with any love I ever had for a piece of meat like you.

The piece of meat laying face down in front of me.

That's all you are to me, Megan.

And I...

I am very, very...hungry.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Vivianne on January 06, 2018, 05:44:43 PM

I watch the count climb and think this is surely it. A double count out. A draw. What will that do to these two? As much as losing will destroy one of them, this match ending in a draw after all of this would crush them both. It simply can't end that way...but the count is climbing and they are not moving.

WHAT?!?

Rowan just rose from the dead like the Undertaker and...wait...she looks different. I can't explain why I think that, but even from back here I can see a difference. Whatever she was looking for...perhaps she found it? I hope so. This madness needs to end...and soon...

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Virginia Dare on January 06, 2018, 07:54:58 PM

oh no.

no.

NO!

"MEGAN!" I scream. "GET OUT OF THERE! GET! OH GOD! MEGAN! GET UP! GET UP! PLEASE! GET UP!"

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: The Second City Wrestlerette on January 06, 2018, 09:14:26 PM

My eyes narrow as the transition takes place and everything about Rowan just...changes! I growl and rise to my feet, fists clenched. Your lips move, reading them. You keep repeating there never was an Aika. Shaking my head as you try to make yourself believe it was ALL in you that whole time. Growling "No..."

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Lord Tantalus on January 06, 2018, 11:46:17 PM

Calmly, I put my hand on Lisa's shoulder.

"Sit."

And under my mask, I can't help but smile.

At last.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: BustyTiffany35 on January 07, 2018, 02:54:56 AM

I don't trust my eyes. I just don't. What I'm seeing in the ring right now.. this cannot be happening. How could it? Everything that's happened tonight, everything that she's done to her - Megan broke her fuckin' back, she's bled her all over that ring. She escaped the Widow's Kiss by powerbombing her into next month. She had stopped her heart at one point - she stopped her heart.

So how is it possible that Rowan got up like that? How is it possible that she's standing right now? How is it humanly possible that she got up after all that? How. How. HOW??

Rowan. What the fuck are you.


Megan. My eyes drift down to her body. She still hasn't moved. She's hurting, Gawd she's hurting. Every inch of me is screaming to do something, every single fibre of my body is burning 'cause all I wanna do is help her so badly. But, no. I restrain myself, I tell myself for the hundredth time that this ain't my fight, she doesn't need or want or care for my help, this is her war and she is the only one who can finish this war. And I know, deep down through the anxiety and fear and concern and the nauseating whirlwind of emotions, I know somehow, someway, she'll get back up. She'll fight on. She'll survive whatever Rowan, no. Whatever that thing is.. she'll fight it, she'll endure, she'll survive, she'll tear it to fuckin' pieces and give it the hard goodbye. She'll.. she'll get through this. She has to. Please, get through this Megan. Please..

My fingers wrap around the guardrail, gripping it so tightly my knuckles turn white. My lips curl back, I'm leaning over the rail, I'm screaming.

"MEGAN. YA GOTTA GET UP BABY. YA GOTTA GET UP NOW. CAUSE SHE'S UP. SHE'S UP AND SHE'S COMING. MEGAN. END HER NOW." 

..make her stop.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on January 07, 2018, 04:05:27 AM

The count is ticking down.

And there's nothing.

The crowd is gathered up, watching like mourners at a funeral.

And there's just nothing.

I've bled and I've fought and I've had my cxnt wrecked in front of my wife and I've remembered every fucking thing I love and hated about you.

And now there's just darkness and no dreams and not fucking anything. Just NOTHING.

And the canvas is shifting and there's a voice talking and I don't even hear it. Any more than I hear Rick and Larry, any more than I hear Am?lie, any more than I hear my wife and my friends and the screams of the fucking crowd, any more than I hear my own slow heartbeat in my ears. I don't hear my heartbeat. I don't feel it.

There's not a single fucking thing. There's fucking NOTHING.

"It takes someone really broken to wanna be a wrestler as much as you do," Scotty says to me as I'm sobbing in the alley beside the gym. I showed up to practice every session this week and now my young body hurting too much to get to the bus stop to go back to the collective house where I'm crashing, and I'm so helplessly furious at it for failing me when I just want to keep GOING. He's crouched down, resting one hand on the top of my head. Not even really soothing. Speaking like it's a fucking benediction.

NOTHING.

Red looks at me, as I'm wrapping duct tape around a barbed wire rip in my forearm after a matinee hardcore brawl in Mobile to make sure I can get to the next show that evening on Tuscaloosa. I'm streaked in blood and sweat and beer and I've left some girl getting stretchered out back in the ring, and I have a bloody napkin stuffed into my ear from getting hit in the side of the head with an axehandle, and I'm slurring from the fucking head injury as I'm talking about getting going, getting on the fucking ROAD. I haven't even gotten the money for this show yet. And he gently squeezes my shoulder, and he has those big ol' Dixie eyes looking into mine. "What happened to make you like this, darlin'?"

It's NOTHING, IT'S GOD-DAMN NOTHING.

Gemma looking into my eyes when she finds me alone in the dark, sitting on the far side of our bed, staring at the wall. Running my fingers over my tattoos. Over my scars. Music blasting in my headphones so loud that it's pulsing. "Come back, pickle," she says, her mouth moving. I can't hear any sound, though. Sometimes I do this, I get away from everything, sit away from EVERYTHING because

THERE'S
JUST
NOTHING.

And when I'm young I'm so fucking young and I have all this hope and then people die and people hurt me and people leave me and I'm alone, I'm alone all the fucking time, I hurt all the fucking time because I FEEL so fucking hard and the only thing that makes sense is my first poets my REAL fucking poets, the ones who screamed vengeance and bellowed fury and snarled laughing smirking despair at the god-damn world, my Rollins and my Rotten and my Strummer and my Ramone and my Siouxsie and my Biafra and my Styrene.

Punk isn't a motivation - it's a fucking roar of anger at the bleak world because the whole fucking WORLD is rotten, it's enough to make you fucking sick to look at it, it's full of people who are already fucking dead. EVERYONE is fucking dead. We're all just living to die, here to fucking go.

The single most important line ever sung in punk was screamed by Johnny Rotten.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO FUTURE"

That's what people see in me, the jagged bits. The parts that taste the blood and smile. The most broken pieces that dig the FUCK into me, through the love and the laughter and the loyalty, that cracked parts that dig down DEEP into my fucking marrow and GOUGE me, and the pain leads me to dive off stages and charge into women wielding fistfuls of shattered glass and to run someone headlong through a flaming table. Callista Quinn once said that all I seem to do is seek ways to destroy myself. My Gemma said that I laugh in Death's face and kick him in the crotch to try to really piss him off. Because when there's fucking NOTHING, when there's NOTHING AT GOD DAMN ALL, when everything is fucking BULLSHIT, when the beast is slouching and the hour is fucking nigh and NOTHING FUCKING MATTERS ...

... then it doesn't MATTER what fucking happens, because you're already fucking DEAD.

Am?lie is staring in mild surprise at you as you rise up off the mat like a broken doll. Her raised delicately-shaped eyebrows and slightly widened pale eyes are as close to open-mouthed staring shock as the sociopath ever gets. It's the most surprise she's ever shown in the ring, and she takes a cautious step back.

She misses counting "NEUF".

But I fucking don't.

When I wrestled in Japan, I scared people.

They called me Ribingudeddojoshi.

Because I'm a motherfucking living dead girl.

My hand comes up off the mat and seizes a matted bloody sweaty loose handful of my own dark violet and crimson hair.

And I fucking DRAG myself off the mat by my own fucking hair, my face glistening with blood and sweat and a skeletal grin, all my teeth gleaming. And I keep YANKING, peeling myself off the fucking canvas, getting my left leg up and coming up, rising from the fucking grave, because PUNK IS FUCKIN' DEAD.

It ALL still hurts. EVERY FUCKING WOUND hurts as I get to my fucking feet, not just coming up gracefully but SHAMBLING, CLAWING my way out of the grave.

But the hurt doesn't fucking matter as I get my boots under me and yank my hair back, pulling my eyes wide, and I snap my head forward and SPIT a thick mouthful of blood at your smiling face, my crushed throat searing hot, my taped hands coming up in front of me as I shamble towards you, my right knee pulsing.

LVK: ... I have no idea what I'm seeing right now. None whatsoever. I-

*dead air*

... I have nothing.

RP: *distantly* WHY ARE THESE DOORS LOCKED?!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on January 07, 2018, 06:51:19 AM

(Ladies and Gentlemen, the incomparable Lawrence Van Keel...)

Folks, I don't know what to say here. I really don't.

These two women have put each other through Hell and now they're standing in the middle of the ring and I honestly can't tell you how they're standing.

Rowan Chance and Megan Dow are circling each other now. Predators, each trying to prove this ring is their territory.

And it's Megan Dow who makes the first move, sending an elbow straight into Rowan Chance's cheek!

Rowan backs up a step and she delivers an open hand uppercut right under Megan's jaw!

That staggers the Living Dead Girl, but she recovers quickly enough, sending a fist right into Chance's forehead!

Chance almost spins with the impact! But then, she comes back with another open hand strike, this time to the throat!

It looks like that blow caught Megan off guard as her hands grab under her chin and Chance takes advantage, grabbing Dow by the hair and OHMYGOD! what a brutal open hand uppercut!

Megan stumbles back to the corner...but comes right back out with three hard elbows straight into Chance's face! Now, Chance has fallen to one knee and Dow grabs the Black Widow by the hair and delivers a POWERFUL right cross that nearly knocks Chance to the canvas!

These two women are moving with the slow and powerful deliberation of TITANS! The toll of this match is clear. Each cannot defend the strikes of the other. These are two soldiers dragging themselves through a war with their bare hands, leaving every ounce of blood, sweat and tears behind them!

Chance is down to both knees but A BRUTAL OPEN HAND STRIKE TO MEGAN DOW'S KNEE SENDS PUNKY RIGHT DOWN TO THE MAT, SCREAMING AND GRABBING THE INJURED LIMB!

CHANCE FALLS BACK ON HER KNEES, HER ARMS AT HER SIDES!

Megan is pulling herself back up again! Both women on their knees...Megan's injured leg stretched out behind her to protect it. And... ANOTHER BLOW TO ROWAN CHANCE'S HEAD! Megan seems to be targeting the open wound, trying to make it open even further!

And Rowan RETORTS with a blow to the belly! Another! And another! Megan buckling under the attack!

Both women are gasping for air now, exhausted after this incredible exchange.

Megan...is saying something to Rowan. I can't quite make it out but Rowan SPITS IN PUNKY'S FACE! More blood than saliva! That blinds Megan for a moment and...

OHMYGOD! ROWAN HAS GRABBED MEGAN'S HEAD IN A FRONT FACE LOCK! IT'S THE PERFECT PLACEMENT FOR THE THREE FIRES DDT!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: RedEnforcer on January 07, 2018, 05:30:29 PM

Watching. You never know how helpless you can feel until you are at a point where all you can do is watch. Two women trying to do their best to just destroy each other.

Those real catfight videos you see where tempers flare and hair is pulled and clothes are ripped are displays of quick burning passionate rage. Give enough time and that anger dies out.

What we are witness to here, in that very ring, is a slow building, venomous boiling overspill of hatred that happens when love doesnt just die, but when it is crushed and rots and decays.

I...

I cant stand this.

They have pushed themselves past the point of sanity and are existing and fighting on a primordial level.  Order versus Chaos.  Intellect versus Emotion. Fear versus Will.

Who am I cheering for?

I look at that bastard beside me and his body language shifts to contentment, no pleasure. Motherfucker has been waiting for this moment.

One day buddy. Your mind games and machinations will lead you to a spot in a ring opposite me. And I Will Crush You Like The Insignificant Bug You Are.

But not today.

Today, I look at that ring.

At those women.

And I just pray they survive.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on January 08, 2018, 09:31:29 AM

We've beaten each other fucking senseless.

There's no art to it. We're past art. There's no dodging, no blocking, no countering, no real interplay. Our arms are almost ragdolled ... but we work up the will to hit each other, dragging our arms into place against the forces of gravity and blood loss and exhaustion, like Jacob Marley struggling against the chains he forged in life. My elbow crashes into your face and closes one of your eyes in a nasty swelling, as blood gushes from your ripped forehead and flows from your moaning mouth. Your fist pistons into my belly and my abs are just crumpled after brawling for over a fucking hour, and after you hung my arms over the railing in front of my wife and pounded my core into a bruised mess. Your knuckles dig into my fucking spleen, and bloody spits mists crimson from my gasping lips.

It's not pretty. It's less pretty than the end of a fucking Rocky movie. We're both just pounding each other into hamburger.

Because eventually one of us is gonna get staggered just enough. Just the fuck enough for the other to hit one move.

Just. One.

That's the point we're at now. We've dragged other by the scruff of the neck through hell. Our heels have left long raked lines in the burning coal, and there's only been one set of footprints at a time. How fucking sweet.

But now we're here, and we're both out of gas. I'm used to fucking digging deep, but I'm way past any point I've gone before. I've been knocked out and pinned long before this by women way less deadlier than you who I hated far less. And I've fucking been in the ring with you when you were put away for good by moves far less brutal than the ones I've planted you with, by women less experienced and vicious.

And this is what it really comes down to, I guess. Neither of us CAN lose to the other. So much of us is tied up in this, so much of our past, so much of our rotten and decayed love, so much of our furious and toxic hate, so much pride and so much rage and so much betrayal and so many secrets and so many lies that neither of us CAN lose to the other. It's gonna destroy the one that loses. It's gonna leave her nothing but fucking ashes, to lose so much in front of everyone. Viking Hall almost did that to me, and that was the semi-main event of a card we were sharing, without anyone we knew in the audience aside from Straw Hat Guy (I'm still going through life with the humiliating burden of getting my face sat on in front of Straw Hat Guy). This? This is EVERYTHING.

And so we're each digging down deep into ourselves, to the fucking roots, through the living soil to the fucking bedrock, dragging up resources that should never see the light of day, burning fuel we'll never get back. Each of us is willing to destroy ourselves to win this fall. That's what it comes down to.

Larry's right. We're in a war, and this is the last fucking battle. Get the seven bowls ready. Open up the boat full of Aragorn's ghosts. Someone call King Frank to bring his horn and summon Aslan.

One of us is gonna break. One of us is gonna hit ONE MOVE, and be done.

Just ONE.

And of COURSE you spit in my face you horrid fucking cxnt!

You cinch my head under your arm - and since I already got spiked half-conscious with the Three Fires DDT earlier, I have no intention of having THAT happen again, or any of your other fucking DDTs. So with my head locked under your arm, breathing the hot scent of your sweat with the curve of your breast pressed to my cheek, swaying on one knee with my body aching and my bruised belly pounded breathless. But I ain't dead yet - my hands snake over you, restless as an eager lover, my left hand stealing up your back to grab a sweaty bloody handful of black hair and viciously CRANK your head back at the lights - and my right hand slithers over your blood-masked face and splays out and fucking DIGS in, raking at your eyes, ripping at your cheek, my thumb hooking inside your mouth and GOUGING it. Your muffled, gargling bloody screech warms my fucking heart.

You jolt off me, losing your facelock, and bat my hand away to frantically clutch at your face - and I straighten up, slowly. Panting. My breasts heaving in my sports bra. Sweat is glazed over my entire body, running slow and thick as I'm fucking dehydrated. My blood is fucking soup. No, it's CHOWDER. Painted on my face in fat greasy runners. I take your corset top in both hands, yanking it up, bunching it and straining it, hearing a few laces pop as I mound your tits towards your chin.

"FUCK your own toxic cxnt, Chance!" I snarl, SNAPPING my head forward from my knees, and just CRASHING my forehead, made thick as oak from my Irish/Slavic bloodline, right between your eyes with a sharp echoing

CRACK.

Your eyes cross and I sway back for a moment, seeing stars flashing in pretty patterns before I shake my head viciously, scattering sweat and blood, and see drool trickling from your lips. I grin, feral, and slowly hobble up to my feet, using you as a crutch as much as I'm womanhandling you up with me, hopping almost on one leg. Any pressure on my right knee makes a broken glass squeal run through my head. But I can get to my feet. Foot. Whatever.

And I can drag you with me.

"C'mon, sugartits ... up we go ... that's my girl ..." I growl, sweat and blood beading off me, my eyes almost glowing with baleful fire. My left leg trembles a little. It's been doing a lot of work tonight. But fuck it, I can sit down in a hot tub for a few weeks after this. Gemma won't mind bringing me food and booze and occasionally draining and refilling the tub.

The only fucking thing that matters

THE ONLY FUCKING THING

is putting you DOWN.

I take your left wrist in my right hand, and bring your arm behind your back as I press into you, my body nestled close to yours with an intimacy long dead belying the tingling in my pierced nipples. And I stare into your glassy eyes as I SHOVE your left hand into your own shorts at the small of your back, trapping it there. My left hand keeping a policeman's collar grip on your corset, bunching it in my fist.

My right hand draws back, slowly. Methodically.

Moving with a cold cautious sadistic precision.

My elbow thrust back tight.

My right palm flat towards you, my fingers curled for the strike.

"I know I told ya you never had a heart, Chance," I murmur, almost against your lips.

"... so I guess I'm just gonna stop your clock."

And my tattooed bicep flexes as I prepare to give you another taste of Thomas' gift. The Heart Breaker.

Just.
One.
Move.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on January 08, 2018, 05:17:45 PM

An eye rake. A fucking eye rake.

Sticking your thumb as hard as you can into my eye and ripping down. That's what you've got, Dow? That's it? The legendary Megan Punky Dow--mistress of a million signature moves (Trademark that, bitch)--sticks her goddamn thumb in my eye. Got a name for that one? I bet you do.

The Glasgow kiss snaps my head back (bet you haven't trademarked that, have you, fucking Gene Simmons of pro wrestling) and I'm double blinded. Your thumb and your fucking forehead.

Then, I feel you pull my head back by the hair. And I hear your taunt about my heart. My eyes are shut. Head still reeling. You cock your palm back and send it straight to my chest.


And my left hand catches it. With my eyes closed. My fingers curling and squeezing around yours.

I twist my hair out of your grip and slowly open my eyes. And I let you see what's in them.

Nothing.

Before, you saw our past.

Sitting on the hood of the car when I gave you the belt.
Fucking like rabbits in bed while old wrestling video tapes played on the TV.
Tag teaming as the Daughters of Darkness.
Your leg. My back.
Vegas.

But now, you look and you see Nothing.

Before, you saw the love we once shared and was lost.
Before, you saw the hatred that kept me on my feet.
Before, you saw the jealousy that burned in my belly.
Before, you saw the envy that kept me from fully embracing you.

Yeah, jealousy and envy.

We're perfect counterparts, Megan. Me with the big picture and you with the details.

I never was good with details. Keeping track of the little things. But you...you don't just obsess over them, they piss you off when they aren't right. I remember you getting so angry at me for missing our flight in Houston. I fucked up the time zones and we were stuck in the airport for 16 hours. You screamed at me until airport security threatened to use a taser, then you spent the rest of the time drinking in that airport bar, spending way too much money on watered down drinks, and you refused to talk to me. Even after I apologized.

But what I had was the big picture. Overarching themes. Storytelling. And you loved that about me. Especially in bed. When I'd weave a tapestry of possibilities. Where are we tonight? In a dingy gym? In an abandoned alley? Or maybe on a star ship slowly descending into a black hole with only one escape pod left...and there's you...and there's me.

I'd lay the groundwork and you'd fill in the details. That's why we were so perfect, Megan. And that expertise for details made me envious of you. How you know every detail of every arena, armory, bingo hall or high school gym we ever wrestled in. And where we ate afterwards and what we ate. Those details always drove me crazy. Because they were always missing in my stories. But you...you were the one who could list them off the top of your head.

And jealousy?

I remember seeing the picture of you and Gemma in your wedding clothes on her website. (No, I'm giving out the URL, you can go find it yourselves, you fucking assholes.) I printed out that picture and carried it with me for years. Looking at it before every match. One night, Red caught me. I tried to stuff it away in my bag, but he saw it. He also saw the tears I was trying to hide. Red asked me if I was okay and I told him to fuck off. I destroyed the woman I was wrestling that night. Yeah, I don't remember her name and I don't remember where it was and I don't remember what I had to eat after the match and I don't remember the name of the guy I fucked afterward; fucked him so hard he passed out.

I can hear you now. "Boys," you say with that snerk of yours.

Jealousy and envy and rage. They've been keeping me up this whole time. But they aren't in my eyes now.

And as I catch your hand as you send Tantalus' Heart Breaker at me, and as I twist that arm--hard enough to bend, but I don't have the strength to break it--I let my gaze settle on yours. Let you look in. Let you see...

...the rage is gone.
...the jealousy is gone.
...the envy is gone.

All that's left, Megan...is Nothing.

Time can stretch, like you said before. And in the heartbeats me catching the palm strike and me twisting your arm and us sharing the gaze, you see all that I laid out. All of it. But the fact of the matter is, what I say next takes only four words and sums it up perfectly.

With blood on my tongue, I whisper this:

Your raven...is dead.

Because that was what was keeping me from finishing this, Megan.

Throwing you on the railing in front of your wife? That was your raven.

Beating your pussy into a pulp? That was your raven.

Your raven dropped you on your head and sat on your face.

And she could have done so much more to hurt you. But she preferred not to, just like the Scrivener. Because something was holding her back.

And that something was you.

Her love for you.
Her jealousy of you.
Her envy of you.
Her hatred of you.

All of that held her back.

But all of that is gone.

Your raven...is dead.

And with your twisted arm in my grip, I remember sitting in a Japanese hotel room watching Jake Roberts. The Lady DDT gear was at the foot of the bed, sweaty from the match I had that night. I was looking for DDT variants. Because the promoter would only allow me to use that one move--and it's thousands of variations--I needed to keep my repertoire fresh.

And then, it hit me. A variant I could use that...

...no. I couldn't use that. Not even in this shitty Japanese promotion with the exploding ring posts and glass and barbed wire and...no. I couldn't use that. I didn't want to hurt anyone. I mean, I did want to hurt people, but I didn't want to take them out of the business. That's evil fucking heel bullshit. So, I tucked it away. Just forgot about it.

...until right this very moment.

Oh, Megan. Your cruel little heart is going to love this. And you're going to know exactly why I put it away.

Step-by-step.

Your arm curled as far as I can twist it, I pull on your hand and turn your arm, pulling you toward me. A face-to-face hammer lock.

You know about hammer locks, don't you, Megan? You know exactly how easy it is to pull a shoulder right out of the socket. To snap an arm. So easy. So goddamn easy. Everyone's forgotten about hammer locks. So busy with their super dragon spin dive slams, they've forgotten the simple, elegant and brutal beauty of a hammer lock. One extra ounce of pressure and I can put you in a cast for a year, Megan. You know that, don't you?

And as I pull the hammer lock on, that presses us together. Face-to-face. Breasts-to-breasts. Hips-to-hips.

You can see right into my eyes, Megan. Look right into that blackness. That pitch, empty space. That Nothing.

As you writhe in pain from the hammer lock, my right hand hooks around the back of your neck. My forearm under your chin. A blatant choke, but one the referee can't see. And that right hand reaches under your chin and grabs my left forearm.

See, I met Jake once. Met him at a Comic Con. I told him I was proud of what he accomplished both inside and outside the ring. We talked about addiction and recovery and healing. I've got some expertise in that field--I wasn't always a pro wrestler after all, and you can see the proof hanging on my office wall, the proof that calls me "Doctor Chance"--and I told him I was an independent wrestler and was using the DDT as a finisher. Nothing fancy. Just the DDT. I felt it was a fucking crime the WWE turned the most brutal and effective finishing move ever into a goddamn transition hold. He liked me. Flirted a little. And when I asked him the secret of the move, this is what he told me.

"Everyone thinks the headlock is important." He chortled. Yeah, he chortled. "It isn't. It's the speed of your own body pulling their head down to the mat. And the impact on the head isn't what makes the move powerful. It's the impact on the spine. That's what stuns them and knocks them out."

I thought about that as I sat in that shitty Japanese hotel watching videos. And I'm thinking about that now. Because I know you're thinking about it now, Megan.

See, this isn't a standard drop DDT. This is a spike DDT. Like the one Edge used. Where I lift your body up and drop it straight down on your head.

Starting to see it, aren't you, Megan?

But I'm not going to lift you by your trunks. I'm not going to grab your trunks and pull.

I've already got your arm and neck.

Starting to see it, aren't you Megan?

My hands are locked under you. Pulling the trunks is just pulling your own weight up by your hips.

I've got your head. And I've got your arm in a hammer lock. My hands locked under you. I'm going to lift you up using both of them: your neck and your arm.

Lifting you by the arm means I'm not only going to pull your shoulder out of its socket, there's also a good chance I'll break your elbow.

And your neck? I'll be lifting you up by your skull in a quick, sudden motion. That means separation at the top of the spinal column. The lock of my arms guarantees you'll at least be spending the next month in traction. And maybe, if I'm lucky, the rest of your goddamn life.

You see it now, don't you Megan?

You're locked in.

There's no escape.

And as my feet plant on the canvas...

...as I grin at Gemma...

...as I bend down, just a couple inches...

...I start to pull.

Me. Not your raven. Me.

That weak ass bitch--your raven--is dead.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: RedEnforcer on January 08, 2018, 07:18:30 PM

I tense up when I see it. Megan raking Rowan's eyes and then putting her arm behind her back.  When Megan cocks back that elbow, I'm on my feet yelling.

And then Rowan catches the blow. My sigh of relief is short lived as I see Rowan hammerlock Megan and bring her forward.  My own shoulder throbs seeing that because Rowan's dislocated my shoulder before. What the hell is she planning?

There's the headlock.

And Rowan's body shifts. Bracing.

FUCK!!!!

She wouldn't. No, she couldn't.

I love DDTs. Hell I remember seeing Jake Roberts in the Carolinas when he wore karate pants and just started using the DDT. Of course, my own idol, Arn Anderson had the second slickest looking DDT ever and he was doing it left handed. And I've been put in my share. Hell, I did a stint in Japan with a different name and mask so I could train with Liger and ran into this Lady DDT character during a big schmozz and she just grabbed me instead of the gal next to me and spiked me down so fast, I still remember it to this day.  So I know my DDTs.

What Rowan is setting up isn't a DDT you can walk away from. It's an Impaler.  But worse because I don't see Rowan grabbing for tights. She's looking to completely destroy Megan's arm and snap her neck.

FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK

I have to stop this. There's no way I can get to the ring, these fucking guards would slow me down and even if I sprang now I don't know if I cold get there in time.

"ROWAN" I roar out...come on darlin look at me...come on...

"ROWAN"

"ROWAN"

Finally she looks over this way. And...gawd...she looks dead inside...She's not hearing me...
I need to do...something...

"ROWAN LOOK AT ME" I snarl...

And I lift my arms...have my hands reach back behind my head...and I start unlacing the ties that hold my mask on my face.

Gawddammit Rowan...look at me...see what I'm doing...come back to me darlin

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on January 09, 2018, 01:53:25 AM

I knew this girl once.

Long time ago, feels like.

She was different. Different than anyone I'd ever met.

She was sharp where I was just jagged.

She was confident where I was just loud.

She was intensely sexual where I just liked making out.

She was clever where I was just snarky.

She was malicious where I was just vicious.

She was beautiful where I was just me.

But something was wrong.

Something was so, so wrong.

It came across little ways.

Little things dug and jabbed more than they should have. Arguments snapped more viciously than you'd think. The differences between us felt like a wedge we were constantly trying to overcome instead of making us fit better together. There were secrets. There were lies. We should never have had those, never. We should have known. We should have just KNOWN that it wasn't going to work. We weren't just hot, we were fucking exothermic, burning each other out. We were clashing sparks off each other. We were both so fucking smart, and still neither of us knew how wrong it had gone, how twisted it had become until it was too fucking late. Shit, maybe it was too late when we first met.

And when it all went wrong, it went hard.

It went wrong so hard that the girl is gone.

She's just gone.

I'm always gonna love the Ro that was on my doorstep in Portland, rain matting her dark hair to her face and looking at me with those big somber eyes. I'm always gonna love the Ro that held me in her arms and drunkenly sang "Love in the Library" in my ear. I'm always gonna love the Ro that took a hesitant bite of a fucking Philly cheesesteak wrapped in a giant slice of pizza and smiled through the grease. I'm always gonna love the Ro that was so afraid of a stinger, of that feeling of helplessness even as fleeting as it was, that she wanted me to cradle her on the locker room floor and whisper to her that she'd be all right.

I'm always, always gonna love that Ro. It won't take me away from Gemma, or from Reddy, or from anyone else I love, because LOVE DOESN'T FUCKING GET SMALLER, ROWAN, LOVE IS THE SIZE OF THE FUCKING UNIVERSE AND IT'S THE ONLY FUCKING THING THAT MATTERS.

AND THIS MERCILESS DEAD-EYED cxnt IN THE RING WITH ME KILLED THE GIRL I LOVED.

You catch the palm thrust meant to stop your heart and put brutal, breaking pressure on my fingers, spreading them out as I snarl in sudden agony.

there's another world, ro. there's endless other worlds where we're star warriors or sky pirates or cyborgs and at least one where it's just like this one but

You twist my tattooed right arm back, and I'm too fucking tired to stop you, a thick bloody groan of pain as you torque my arm behind my back. I can feel my shoulder straining at the joint as my body crushes to yours.

in this other world when you came to me in wales you told me you would have said yes and i said it was too late and signed the contract but then you didn't just laugh like it was a secret fucking trap all along no instead

You take my head, locking my throat. Amelie couldn't care less. It's No Holds Barred. You could take a straight razor to my throat for all she cares. She's just watching, avid, a ghoul at the graveside who wants to suck our marrow. The whole audience is all like her, just people who want to watch the pain and the blood. All except the front row. What they want is much more complex. I'm bent over, swaying. My left hand slowly comes up, everything moving so fucking glacially.

you said and after and i said maybe when we get stitched up we can find somewhere quiet and public and have a little wine or some fucking thing i dunno and you smiled that ro smile and i had tears running down my face because maybe this match could just burn out the bad parts burn out the toxic bits and we could have something left some

You're not going for my tights. You're keeping a two-handed grip on my neck and my wrist, and you're gonna lift me that way. You're gonna try to snap my fucking neck. That's where we are, Chance. That's what everything has come to. My knee sags, going deadweight, since that's what Scotty taught us and also because deadweight comes pretty fucking naturally after losing blood and seething in hate for over an hour. My left hand clutches at your shorts, to make it harder to lift me. These are instinctive movements, ingrained. Not conscious. My conscious mind is elsewhere.

little fucking bit left of the happiness we had once and it wouldn't have been perfect nothing ever is but i love gemma after years of us trying to wreck each other she broke my ankle once actually broke it in her bare hands and once she hit me with a fucking car door i dunno where she got it but we're happy now anyone can be fucking happy if you try just a little to grasp for something some little light in this fucking graveyard planet we're all stuck on

I hear Red, bellowing. It's too late, Reddy. She can't hear you where she is. I hear commotion. I see blood, patterning on the mat. It's everywhere underneath us. Our bootprints are in it. We've bled everything from each other. And we're here.

but that world is as dead as you are ro and gods i'm gonna miss you

There's a commotion. I hear the white noise buzz of Van Keel shouting something over the speakers. Good ol' Larry. He'll make this a call for the ages. I sag down harder, gripping tight as I can. Fight the fucking Evenflow, kid, Scotty said. If a move is fast, make it be slow. Make them work for it. Everything is a voice down a distant hall as your arm crunches into my abused throat. You almost crushed it before with your fucking shin. It still hurts. Everything still hurts.

fuck

gems i'm so sorry i made you come here

so sorry i made you see this

i love you so fucking much

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Virginia Dare on January 09, 2018, 02:42:18 AM

I see Red jump out of his seat screaming at the ring his fingers on the back of his mask and I have to grab him and stop him.

I jump up, too. And I put my lips close to his ear.

"Please. Don't. You can't stop this." I look back up at the ring. "Only they can."

I say it again. "Please."

And very slowly I bring the Red Enforcer back to his chair.

And I realize he was willing to give up his mask to save his friends. Not one of them. Both of them.

And right then and there I realize exactly why I fell in love with him.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on January 09, 2018, 03:11:53 AM

You try to deadweight me. That's cute.

You're just delaying the inevitable, Dow. I squeeze tighter on your throat so you know exactly what's about to happen is going to happen no matter what you think you can do.

I've lost a lot of blood. I'll be in traction for a year.

But you'll get what you wanted: me out of your life. Once and for all.

I give another heave and you come off your boots. Just an inch. I can feel your windpipe collapsing under my grip. I can feel the tendons in your shoulder straining. I think I hear a little pop in your elbow.

Remember that sound, Dow? Remember it? I do. I can't forget it.

Then Red screams up at me. For the briefest of moments, I look at him. I send him a silent message.


She'd do the same to me.


It's over now, Dow. Over.

I tighten my grip. Stomp my boots on the blood-stained canvas. Little pools of it under my feet. Get my base under yours.

And I heave. The first part of the move. The second is the snap.

Your boots come up, off the canvas. In the air. Hovering for just a moment.

There's going to be no kicking out this time, Dow. And if our fates were reversed, the same could have been said about me.

I feel your neck straining under my grip. Feel your shoulder start to rip away from the bone.

Twisting you around in a 45 degree angle to get the best torque, I spin on my legs--yeah, my legs, bitch--and it's time for the second part of the move. The snap.

It will put your head straight into the canvas. But that's not the worst of it.

Your arm comes dislodged from its socket, your elbow cracking. But that isn't the worst of it.

No, the worst is when your neck pops. The sticky stuff between your vertebrae pops. It may cut into your spinal cord--the very thing it's there to protect, so thanks Intelligent Design--and that's game over for little Punky Dow. But it was over for Punky Dow by the end of the second fall, wasn't it?

Your body crunching. Your abs look will look like an accordion. Legs up high and dangling, but then, suddenly twitching. Losing all connection with the engine at the top of your body running your brain.

That's what will happen, Dow. And then, I pin you. My hands on your breasts. My pussy on your face. I don't give a single shit about keeping your neck isolated. Neither does the referee.

And she counts. She counts

ONE!

TWO!

(and...)

THREE!!!

And it's over. At last. It's over. Once and for all.

I'm the better wrestler.
I'm the better woman.
And your wife can look at me and know it.
Red can look at me and know it.
Tantalus... and his apprentice. They can know it.

Everyone knows that I beat you. Once and for all.
Punky Dow is finished. Broken. Beaten. Destroyed.
She will wrestle no more.
No matter how many iron pins they put in her neck.
No matter how many years of rehab she suffers.

And the woman who did it...was me.
Rowan Fucking Chance.
My dark eyes look down at you, Dow.
And my bloody lips smile.
I can barely stand.
But it's over.
It's finally... OVER.

































































































But that doesn't happen.

Remember, I said "It will put your head straight into the canvas."

And, "That's what will happen."

But it doesn't.

No, something else happens.

As I heave you up, you see that confident, cool face of mine twist in pain. I have to let go of the hold. I have to. Because my arms just exploded with lava in my nerves. Then... nothing.

And my legs. My legs.

Megan... I can't... feel...


I fall down to my knees, my tingling fingertips holding on to the hem of what's left of your skirt, just so I don't fall all the way down. My face pressed sideways on the front of that skirt.

And my head...

I said a long time ago there was more of my blood on the mat than in my body. It was a euphamism then. Or a metaphor. Or... it doesn't matter. It's the truth now.

I also said, "I'm on a clock."

Well, that fucker just chimed midnight.

I feel...my heart...try...to...beat...

My mouth gurgles. A bloody bubble. My body spasms against you. Almost falling.

But I don't. I don't fall.

I look up at you.

On my knees.

In front of Megan "Punky" Dow.



I can't feel my arms. I can't feel my legs. I can't breathe. My heart is...

I was right. I was right.

It's...


...over.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Vivianne on January 09, 2018, 04:16:35 AM

I see Rowan go for what will be a brutal DDT...but she cannot do it.

I see her fall to her knees at Punky?s feet...

No...

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on January 09, 2018, 08:43:13 AM

For just a moment there, I felt it all start.

And the world swirled away.

And I was almost

almost

gonna just watch it happen. Because fuck it the world is a fucking vampire.

Yeah?

But no.

Your fucking back gave out, Rowan.

You got my boots up and I felt the breaking, crunching pressure against my neck

against my fucking NECK

for just a moment before you gave out. Before you gave in. Before you fucking CRUMPLED.

And now you're on your knees and looking up at me.

And look at that there's a hint of that old fear.

That old long ago fear that was there in the eyes of a girl I loved who was so terrified about losing control, about losing feeling, about everything in the fucking world. Terrified as a rat being shut in a god-damn cage.

And I suppose now is the part where I should see that hint of that girl I loved.

I suppose now is the part where Megan Dow realizes that we're all human and we're all afraid and if love is what's important than we have to preserve it we have to fight for it we have to keep it alive.

Now I should run my fingers over your hair and then help you out of the ring and leave the arena and let us both get counted out while I take you to the hospital and look there's happy endings after all ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

ha ha ha ha ha ha ha HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA FUCKING NO.

I stand slowly upright, leaning on my left leg, and crick my head side to side, hearing the crackle of neck bones that were almost just fucking fractured. By you.

"Your back, huh?" I pant, almost conversational, my voice raspy from my throat being crushed, licking blood off my lips. It glistens crimson on my studded tongue as I grin down at you, teeth gleaming white in all the red.

"That's the thing with old mistakes, Chance."

I slowly twist my left hand in your hair. Clutching a bloody handful, wrapped around my taped fist. Clutching tight, until strands of soaked hair pop like overtuned guitar strings at your scalp.

"They come back to fucking HAUNT YOU, DON'T THEY?"

I'm not even aware my voice is rising. Rising into a hot furious snarl. Not even aware of my red eyes burning into you as I bring my right fist right down into your fucking face, into the eye that's swelled shut, feeling it mash into your skull like a grape. See, here's the thing about pain, Rowan. I know you know a lot about it, with your precious Muta schooling and Thomas whipping you and shit, but y'know what I know about pain?

IF YOU HIT SOMEONE RIGHT IN THE FUCKING EYE IT REALLY FUCKING HURTS.

And then I JERK you up, my fist dropping to your stupid fucking slutty corset top. Shit's not even suitable for the ring.

YOU TRIED TO BREAK MY FUCKING NECK.

"THIS IS WHAT YOU WANTED, CHANCE. CONGRATUFUCKINGLATIONS. EVERYTHING BREAKS NOW. STARTING WITH YOU, YOU USELESS NUMB-LEGGED SLAG!"

My voice is full-throated, a dragon's roar as I drag you up to your unfeeling rubber legs.

remember when i stroked your head in that stupid fucking chicago dressing room and i told you everything would be okay I WAS FUCKING LYING BECAUSE YOU'RE NEVER GONNA BE OKAY AGAIN YOU STUPID BITCH.

I yank you forward, and my eyes go to Gemma - and through the mask of blood and pain, I give her a wink that hits her like a slap as she's watching through a haze of shocked agony. She looks like she's fucking shellshocked at having had to watch all the shit we've put each other through.

But I bet my naughty lil' crumpet will like this part.

I pull you to my left, and lean forward. My arms wrap your slim waist from this angle, fists locking at your belly, and I YANK them in tight, feeling the air and spit and blood mist from your moaning lips as your head hangs past my left side. And I dig deep - because I can dig deep, because I've got fucking deep cores, you toxic bitch, I contain fucking MULTITUDES - and I HOIST you up and I SCREAM like a fucking Valkyrie at the pressure on my right knee as I plant my red boots, but I swing YOUR boots up and over as I fucking GUTWRENCH you over.

And I know you know what's coming.

And gods above and below, I WANT YOU TO KNOW.

As I hoist that lithe perfect body up and over - and knowing full well the damage it'll do to me, I DROP to my right knee and crush the brutally swollen fucking joint into the mat with a wet scrunching sound - but I'm willing to bet my scream of pain won't be as loud as YOURS because as I drop and turn you over I extend my left leg, the boot planted and the sweat-glazed bloody tattooed thigh extended and fucking PLANT that destroyed back of yours across my outstretched left knee.

The gutwrench backbreaker is called Hellbound, and with good fucking cause. Because that's where I'm going to send you. With your broken body dangling over my knee.

In my beautiful wife's fucking finisher.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on January 09, 2018, 06:42:27 PM

I had it. In my hand. For one moment, Tom. I had it.

That one moment was sweeter than anything I've ever tasted

More potent than any drink or drug

I was powerful, Tom

I had real power

And then, my body failed me

And now it's gone

But I want it back

More than anything else in this world

I want it back


You're wrong about the look in my eyes, Dow.

It isn't fear.

It's desire.

I tasted something and it was taken from me.

You took it from me.

Just like you took my heart.

Just like you took my mask.

Just like you took...everything.


You grab my hair and pull me up.

You're going to hurt me now.

But you can't hurt me more than you just did.

Nobody could ever hurt me more than you just did.

I don't care what you do to me now.

It doesn't matter.

Nothing matters.

Because I tasted it, Dow.

Something you'll never understand or know.


You lift me up.

Twist my body.

Drop my spine down on your broken knee.

I feel the pain.

it's ten hundred thousand million splinters of white hot agony up and down my spinal column as it shatters into a billion pieces and makes my weak body scream like i've only screamed twice before and once was for Dare when she smashed me on the apron over and over again and the other you were there for Dow when those bitches tried to break my back and both of them tried oh how they tried but this time this time someone finally succeeded and it was you yeah it was you Dow you sick pathetic bitch you finally did it as my body arches over your knee like a strung bow with my hands and feet hitting the canvas hard and my body snapping like a rubber band as it falls off your broken knee like a ricochet like a bullet that missed its target but you didn't miss the target Dow you got everything you needed you hit it perfectly and you see my body flop forward like a Stretch Armstrong doll that's been pulled too tight and my face smashes into the canvas and there's no movement no nothing at all.


LVK: OHMYGOD! SHE'S BROKEN! SHE'S GOT TO BE BROKEN IN HALF!

RP: (Groggy) That's got to be it, Van Keel. I've never seen a wrestler's spine bend like that! This is over!

LVK: It has to be. That scream, it sounded like a banshee.

RP: The herald of death, Van Keel.

RP: Don't...Megan, just pin her and let's all go home.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: The Second City Wrestlerette on January 09, 2018, 07:52:38 PM

I'm sat ringside, hoodie still over my head. Rowan tried to talk herself into not needing Tantalus. Not needing the mask. Whatever Aika was, was in her all along. I was so close to being convinced, but as her back buckled I relaxed and a little grin came across my lips.

"Bullshit"

You need Tantalus just as much as I do. To channel your energy. To release the energy of that darkness that's consumed you. Now look at yourself!!

I may have come here to watch Megan get broken, but now...this is just as good, if not even better. You both a battered, bruised, bloody mess.

I straighten up a bit in my chair.

You're lifted...

and you come down!

As you SNAP across Punky's back my body tightens up. That scream echoing through the arena. My left hand shoots on Tantalus' thigh, giving it a squeeze, my fingernails digging into his skin even through the pants.

That scream...I want to make people scream like that! My eyes lighten up, knowing...SOON will be the time that I'll be the one shattering others' hopes and dreams. Ruining their lifes...just like Punky has just ruined you.

My eyes are locked on Rowan, bright and shiny like a little kid at Christmas. A smile of pure joy across my lips. I can't hold back some laughter. Not dark, not sinister, just...full of joy. It's like I just heard the funniest joke of all times...and in a way, I did. Only I SAW the joke...

I saw Rowan "Aika was in me all along" Chance...get her fucking little back broken!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on January 10, 2018, 06:43:19 AM

That crack is a bad one.

There's not really any good cracks in the fucking wrestling ring, but that one?

That sounded real fucking bad.

Look at that, Chance. I guess I can hurt you after all.

I rise up off my one knee - and immediately stagger and fall backwards, stumbling back to catch myself on the ropes, my arms snapping out to hang me on the middle rope, my ass swaying on the bottom rope. My face is glazed in blood and sweat, my purple hair loose and wild, hanging in a twisted wet veil over my face. Every sway of my body against the ropes sends pulsing pain through my knee. My knee's fucked. But I get a big, bright grin. Because my knee's not as fucked as your back, Rowan. No matter what I have to do, no matter how long I walk with a cane, no matter if I have to wear a fucking knee brace in the ring the rest of my life - it's worth it to see you laying there at a bent, useless angle. Who are you going to cry to tonight when you can't feel your legs, Chance? Is it gonna be Thomas? Is he gonna stroke your head and tell you that you'll be okay?

Or is he just gonna stare down through his fucking mask at the broken shell you are and think about the next

beautiful sweet clever brilliant soft warm funny

girl he can shape into something he wants?

I'd have worried about that once.

Maybe even earlier tonight. Maybe even twenty minutes ago. Even after you tried to mangle my cxnt. Even after you sat on my face. I'd have been worried about what would happen to you. I'd have remembered Chicago, and Vegas, and Des Moines, and fucking Walla-Walla and every other city in the godforsaken world we were in together.

But now you showed me, Rowan.

You showed me we're fucking done when you tried to break my neck.

So now you're broken. You're on the mat, and you're fucking broken. I see those little spasms shooting through you. Your legs twitch because of crushed nerves misfiring. My swollen, crunched, pulsing, battered, discolored right knee throbs as I rest my weight on the ropes, on my left bootheel. I turn my head, slowly, looking around the Zenith, at the crowd facing us. I see the despair in Red's eyes under his mask. The faint shocked horror in Jenny's. The grim dark determination in Gemma's. The manic glee in Lisa's. They're all watching you lie there, Rowan.

They all saw you break.

I hear Rick, asking me to pin you in his weary voice over the loudcallers. To end this.

But here's the fucking thing, Rowan.

You made it clear the girl I loved is dead.

And I've ENDED this a couple of times already, and you keep popping up again. You keep fucking getting up. Once upon a time, that would've been something I remembered loving about you. There's probably some really great stories about how much I admired you when you just kept forcing yourself to fight on.

BUT THOSE FUCKING MEMORIES ARE BURNING, CHANCE.

So no.

I'm not going for the fucking pin.

I drop to my ass on the canvas, the jolt making an electric strangled scream rip from my throat as my knee pulses. I'm gonna need my leg to work for this.

My hands drop to my belt. It's not mystical, doesn't have a huge backstory. I just wear studded leather belts in the ring to keep my skirts on. A few times I've taken them off to strap someone's back raw or - memorably - to tie someone up in the ring (Hi, Tiffy). But as fun as lashing you bloody sounds, it's not what I need right now. I need to be able to fucking stand.

So I slide my belt off my hips as I sit on the canvas, my sweaty, bruised back pressed to the ropes. The tattered, soaked, bloodied remnants of my skirt of fluttering strips of red velvet coffin lining - that seemed like such a cute idea earlier - peels off like sloughed skin and falls to the mat. Last little bit of my Punky attire. Last bit. I'm wearing nothing but a Lycra sports bra and a pair of little boyshorts, each soaked in everything my body has to offer in combat, painted on me like warpaint. It's just me in here with you now, Chance. You wanted me. You've got me.

Just Megan Dow. And I'm gonna make sure Rowan Chance doesn't get up.

No mystic revelations.
No sudden surges of adrenaline.
No poetry.

You're just leaving the Zenith on a fucking stretcher.

You're not even going to know what a sorry little defeated cxnt you are until sometime later this week when you wake up.

I don't care what anyone in the front row screams. I don't care what anyone says. I don't care if you suddenly decide you're my raven again and plead with me and ask me to hold you because you can't feel your legs. No one is going to end this.

NO ONE IS GOING TO END THIS BUT ME.

I wrap the belt around my right calf and hiss through my teeth as I wrap the wide black leather studded in chrome skulls around my thigh - and I pull the tongue through the buckle and CINCH it viciously with a wet hot sound. "NNNNGNGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRHHHH ..." I snarl, gritting my teeth so hard I hear a filling creak and bloody saliva runs from the corner of my lips like a rabid dog. And I reach up and grab the ropes in my taped hands - and drag myself up.

LVK: Good Lord, what is Megan doing? What more can she DO? Rowan Chance is broken in half, and pardon my New Yorker if I say I don't give a single FUCK if that phrase is trite, because it's LITERALLY ACCURATE in this case.

RP: She's ... she's not done. Aw, c'mon, kid, don't do this. Just END IT.

Sorry, Rick.

I drag myself up to my Docs - oh, lookit that, still some fuckin' Punky here after all - and set my feet. And my knee is merely sheer agony, throbbing like a rotted tooth, burning like fire. But I stay upright, even with my face twisted in a snarl of pain.

Good enough.

I hobble over to you, and get your hair. You're hard to get up. Because you're so fucking broken, Chance. That makes it hard to get you on your feet. So I drag you there, and I bet you can hear the sound of your cracked vertebrae grinding together in your ears like the sound of a garbage disposal full of gravel. Drag you up to your stupid fucking domme boots. Are you feeling like a domme now, Rowan? How long is it gonna be until you can fucking cxnt-mug some bimbo in your sexfighting league without your back giving out? Bet you're gonna have a hard time moving those hips the way you used to.

It's funny, isn't it? I get to end two careers for the price of one.

Not ha ha funny.

But you have to laugh.

You're barely able to stay upright even with me braced to drag you up, my biceps tensed to the point of quivering, muscling you up on sheer will.

I don't even have anything to say to you right now.

I've said everything I need to. For all the fucking good it did.

gonna miss you, ro

So nothing else to taunt you with now. I doubt you could even hear me, broken little doll that I've made you.

I don't even look into your eyes, because there's nothing in them for me any more. I just look AT you. Like a fucking piece of work I have to finish.

Now I'm just gonna end this.

I could put you in the Dollbreaker and hang you there until I got tired of hearing you gurgle blood.

I hit you with your own stupid fucking Widow's Bite and plant my cxnt on your face and grab your fucking tits.

But nah.

Gonna end you the way I want.

BECAUSE THIS IS MY MATCH TO END, CHANCE.

I stuff your head between my sweat-glossed thighs, my shorts grinding the back of your neck as I lock you in. Middle of the fucking ring. You're damn sure not gonna fucking backdrop me. You're not gonna be lifting anything anytime soon. Trying to get a spoonful of honey up into your fucking teacup is gonna give you spasms.

I bend over, and wrap my arms around you. My left arm slides over your ass and I don't have any fucking flashbacks about how great your ass is. My wrist presses to your hot pussy and I don't even remember how it tastes. My right hand steals under your hip and GRIPS my left, lacing my taped hands in a brutally tight clutch at the base of your belly. A Gotch-style grip, we call it.

Minoru Suzuki made this move big in Japan, but that was after his run in Pancrase when he returned to the pro ring. He wasn't busting this shit out until 2006. That was AFTER me. I started using this because of Jerry fucking Lynn, in E-C-fucking-W. My first big finisher. First move I ever hit hard enough to knock someone out with in one shot. I name ALL my shit (as smarks love to poke fun at) and this is the only move in my fucking repertoire named after me instead of a punk song.

The Vicious Punky Spike.

With the cradle grip locked, I hoist your limp body high. I can do that.

I can do that because my BACK ISN'T BROKEN.

The weight on my agonized right leg is sheer fucking torture, making sweat run so fiercely off my face that it cuts streaks through the blood so I look like fucking Anthony Hopkins in Titus Andronicus - but I can take it. My boots are planted, legs tensed, fucking dragging you up until your ragdoll legs are pointed at the lights. Normally I jump when I hit this. I'm not gonna tonight. I don't think I can.

And I don't think I need to.

I just drop back, hard, letting our full combined weights ride gravity's merciless slide to the canvas, my cradled arms around your hips THRUSTING down with a roll of my shoulders to SPIKE your bloody head into the fucking canvas.

And I hold you there for a moment, upright.

Then I let you fall. Watching the move hit you.

...

... and then I grab your hair as you lay broken on the mat.

And I start to drag you to your feet again.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on January 10, 2018, 07:48:18 AM

This is the part where I tell you what the Vicious Punky Spike feels like.

But to be honest, I can't.

I don't remember almost anything that happened just before and just after she lifted me and dropped me on my head. I know what you know. Watching my body fall so goddamn fast and crumple like a beer can. My legs jerking over my torso as I fell to the ground, a jumbled heap of sweat, blood and limbs. I hadn't moved since the Hellbound and I wasn't moving now.

Watching it now, the whole thing, is like watching a horror movie. You want the heroine to run, but she can't. And the monster just keeps on coming.

That's assuming you think I'm the heroine here. But one thing's for sure: Megan is the goddamn monster.

Right around the time she lifts me up, my memory starts to come back to me in flashes. I remember the pain. Remember unable to command my legs to do anything. My arms were so weak...I tried a punch and it landed like a two-year-old's attempt at a punch. And she laughed at me. She laughed at me.

And I remember one more thing. Just one.

She pulled me up so she could look me in my face.

I could barely breathe. Feeling the last bit of my blood oozing from my forehead. I tried a smile. If you watch the DVD, it looks more like a grimace. And my lips move, just slightly. You can't hear what I say, and there's been a lot of speculation about what I actually said, but I can tell you now. Now that it's over.

With my eyes staring into hers, I softly whispered,

"Sore wa kowarete inai."

"It is unbroken."

I don't know why I said it. I mean, I do know why, but to this day, I cannot tell you why I said it that way.

And then, my eyes fluttered.

And you said, clear as day, "So ka."

"I see."

You tucked my head between your legs again. And right around there, Larry van Keel stands in his chair, shouting out to the ring.

"MEGAN! MEGAN DOW! LISTEN TO ME! PIN HER! RIGHT NOW! YOU HEAR ME? I SAID RIGHT! NOW!! PIN THE POOR GIRL!"

Meanwhile, Rick's barely able to get upright, his pink satin jacket all askew from the thrashing he took from the guards - trying to save you - and he's holding onto the table, speaking into the mic.

"Kid, stop it. Don't do this. You're better than this, Meg. Please. PLEASE."


Everyone can hear them over the loudspeakers. It's an eerie sound, hearing it now. Like voices from the ether, begging for you to be merciful.

But mercy had fled from your heart in terror.

And when you lifted me up and hooked me for another Spike, both Van Keel and Rick screamed for you to stop.

The second Spike made my body convulse as it fell. Seizures. Eyes rolling in my head. Lips drooling bloody bubbles.

The crowd is screaming. Announcers screaming.

Of course, I wasn't hearing Van Keel or Rick Pearle or the crowd. I was hearing Gordon Solie.

"That's got to be it. It's got to be over. No human being could take that kind of punishment."

I remember that. I distinctly remember that.

Looking at the video now, my body shaking, you sitting there with your tied up leg. Looking down at me with the hatred of a thousand burning suns. Those words I spoke burning in your brain.


"It is not broken."


I can see it in your eyes. Nobody else heard it but you. But nobody else had to hear it. Those words were only for you.

You grab my hair again, getting back to your feet. Your leg ready to split in half any moment.

That's right, Megan. Even to this day, you need a brace on that perfect leg of yours.

A scar you will never be able to remove.

Getting me back to my feet for another Vicious Punky Spike. The third.

And there's nothing to stop you.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on January 11, 2018, 09:02:41 PM

Those tremors running through you aren't the little shakes of shocked nerves or the shudders of a body in pain. That's a fucking seizure, Rowan. That's your brain bouncing off the inside of your demonic little skull and sending dark waves through the wreckage of your fucking body. I hit you so fucking hard you can't even speak English anymore. And I'm not done.

I jerk your face up by your bloody hair, seeing the little crimson bubbles aerating at your lips. Your eyes are blank and glassy, little crescent idiot moons, showing none of the dark fire that lit them before. And as I look into that blank ruined mask painted that thick rich crimson - ha, you're gonna need a blood transfusion, bitch. I hope someone in Paris has the same poison that runs in your veins - I don't see fucking anything.

I don't see anyone I fucking know.

"I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO THE FUCK THIS BROKEN LITTLE BITCH IS," I snarl, DRAGGING you up. My leg screams bloody agony as I force it up, but the crowd is screaming, the announcers are screaming, everything is fucking screams and discord and the beautiful cacophony of hell.

You're such fucking dead meat now that I have to muscle you up with raw force, dragging your sagging, shuddering form to your boots.

And you don't look like anyone I know.

Which is too bad, because there's a girl I knew once who'd have really appreciated this scene.

"You wanna see the sexiest thing I've ever seen?" she said to me in that wicked voice like a slow pour of whiskey, and that seemed impossible for me to imagine because I was already draped over her naked body in the hotel bed, glossed in afterglow, drawing my fingertips in slow skating lines along the perfect sweep of her back and down to her exquisite ass.

"Already there," I purred dreamily.

She slapped teasingly at my hand and took my wrist, tugging me over to look at her laptop, resting at a canted angle at the corner of the bed.

It was YouTube, showing old footage. Fuckin' GCW, I recognized the super low ring apron and the hospital blue mat. Tommy "Wildfire" Rich, the Junkyard Dog and that blue collar workin' man Ted DiBiase (this was before he became a plutocrat and hired Virgil) were taking on the Freebirds with Gordon Solie calling the match. I was into it right away, because fuck yes, the Freebirds. I wrapped my arm around the girl's shoulders and nestled up to her and breathed the salt sweetness of her dark hair, nuzzling behind her ear in a way that made her curl her warm perfect olive body against me as we watched.

DiBiase was so fucking scrappy in those days. He was a can-do fighter with a big soupbone right hand and a beautiful powerslam, and the Freebirds fucking hated him like poison. And the brutality got started when Terry Gordy piledrove Teddy into the fucking concrete outside the ring. They waited for him to get counted out - and DiBiase crawled back into the ring.

Bam-Bam (RIP Bigelow, but Terry had it first) didn't care for that, and piledrove him again. Big ol' Texas piledrivers, up and down, full weight vertically crashing down on the top of his head. The spasms that shook DiBiase were beautiful - not as pretty as the ones ravaging you right now, Ro, but really lovely. And Teddy kicked out at 2 and a 1/2. The shock and fury on Michael P.S. Hayes' rugged good looks were a work of art in and of themselves, but Terry Gordy just looked ...

... determined.

Ted DiBiase kicked out of one more piledriver as Gordy decried the vile act ... and then Terry just piledrove him. Again and again. Until Tommy Rich threw in the towel to save what was left of his friend's neck and skull as DiBiase spasmed on the mat.

They piledrove him into the fucking hospital, Rowan. And it flipped the switches on me and this girl in that hotel room so hard that we ended up fucking like god-damn animals even though we were still coated in the heat of an afternoon's vigorous sex. God, that girl. I wonder what ever happened to her.

And the best part, THE FUNNIEST PART: HE hadn't had his ass kicked nearly as bad as you have before they piledrove him into the fucking care of the EMTs. I've already fucked your back and your skull into oblivion and drained you of blood before I decided to start crunching your head the head the canvas with Vicious Punky Spikes. You were in way worse shape than Teddy was BEFORE you started taking piledrivers from a fucking monster.

That's the best part, isn't it? You wanted so badly to become this superior creature, this force of evil darkness, this monster ... and now I'm the one smashing you into fucking pieces. You aren't gonna pop out of the lake at the end of this movie, Rowan. You're not leaping out of the mirror as the credits roll. I laugh, ragged and raw through my ravaged throat, my eyes still red as fucking coals from being in the fucking gogoplata, blood smearing my lips.

"No fucking sequel for you." I snarl down at your shuddering, drooling form as I keep you bent over like a broken marionette in my grip.

I'll show you what a fucking monster is, Chance.

The Zenith is a theater, not a real arena. The seats are FACING us. The floor seats are in a semicircle and they climb up towards the back, and behind the ring is a stage, where we have a video screen and the announce desk with Rick and Larry, both currently pleading for your useless fucking waste of a life. This is theater in the god-damn RAW. Not even the Grand Guignol could match what we're doing here. Ionesco never saw shit this fucking real. And I wanna make sure the audience is fucking engaged.

The front row all have floor seats, right up against the heavy steel barricades in a crescent around the front half of the ring. That means we're seeing our friends and enemies as clearly as they're seeing us, right in front of us. That made it easy for you to bring me to Gemma, didn't it? It's made it tempting for Red and Tiffany and Becca to jump the barricade. It's given a great stage for Thomas to shout his fucking verse.

Thomas.

I keep a fistful of the slick blood-soaked rat's nest of your hair to keep you up, my other hand gripping the back of your shorts. Holding you bent over, blood dribbling from your lips, your hands spasming softly against the canvas. And I find his face. Well, the face he shows the world. Little Lisa Starr curled at his side like a grinning cat. And I grin at them both, my teeth flashing so white behind my own streaked crimson mask. I toss my soaked purple hair back with a flip of my head, ignoring the pulse of pain in my neck, ignoring the howl of agony from my knee as I keep my boots firmly fucking planted on the mat.

"NONNE OPINONEM, THOMAS?"

Doesn't even cross my mind he won't get that. It's Thomas.

"THIS IS WHAT YOU'VE MADE!"

I gesture with one hand at your bent, broken form swaying in my grip, at the ring soaked in blood, at the screaming crowd.

"AREN'T YOU FUCKING PROUD? LOOK AT YOUR FUCKING CRAFTSMANSHIP, YOU FUCKING SON OF A MONGREL BITCH."

And I lace your hips again, bending over, my head craned up to watch him.

And I hoist you up again with a snarl.

"SHE MADE A BAD FUCKING CHOICE," I snarl, and I DROP back again, JOLTING you into the fucking canvas, my arms flexing down to fucking SPIKE you, my legs snapping out wide even with my bound right leg shuddering in so much pain that it makes the leather of my wrapped, bound skull-studded belt creak like a ship in high wind.

I sit there, legs sprawled, watching your convulsing form on the mat. Larry's pleading has grown more ardent as Rick has subsided and sounds like he's drinking from the bottle right against the microphone. I see horror and shock and pleading and bloodthirst in the melange of faces out in the dark of the crowd, but I'm just staring into one impassive face. One hidden face.

One cowardly son of a bitch.

"She thinks she's still not FUCKING BROKEN, Thomas. That's what you made out of her. She's getting ripped to little pieces in front of you, and she thinks she's making you PROUD."

I drag you up again, and it's harder. So much harder. Like dragging a corpse from the Seine.

But I'm dragging you up, one more time, getting to my boots in a sea of blood.

"Do you think she's fucking broken, Thomas?"

My voice is a ragged, vicious snarl - but it carries through.

He can hear me.

I don't think you can, Chance.

Too fucking bad.

I start to drag your shattered form into my clutches once again ...

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: The Second City Wrestlerette on January 11, 2018, 09:27:09 PM

Sitting next to Tantalus, my nails still clutching at his thigh, the other closed to a fist, pumping it down, driving it towards the floor with every Piledriver Rowan takes. Getting lost in the violence. It's like a trance. Relishing in it, the beauty of this destruction...I'm grinning face to face and am probably the only person in this arena right now who doesn't look shocked.

"It doesn't matter what she thinks....she IS broken!"

I murmur at Punky's words, then nod, grinning wider and purring "Do it again, YES!".

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Vivianne on January 12, 2018, 01:26:14 AM

Everyone up in this far corner of the arena is on their feet. Every single bloodthirsty one of them. Screaming. Cheering. ROARING, as Punky mercilessly spikes Rowan's body to the boards, head first, over and over. Every. Single. One...except for me...

I am sitting down now, using my chair for the first time in I don't remember how long, not looking to the ring any longer. I have not looked to the ring since Punky hit Rowan with the first Punky Spike. Seeing her body fold over on itself, seeing the jerk as her back surely broke, seeing her crumple and fall was more than I could bear.

My mind is trying to protect itself. Trying to circle the wagons and shut out everything in a vain effort to preserve what little sanity I have left after witnessing not only this brutal match, but the total destruction of the woman I came here to cheer on. Valiantly as my mind fights, the roar of the crowd, the pleading of the announcers, the continued sounds of Rowan's body hitting the boards...it all seeps through just a little. Just enough...

As I lean forward, elbows on my knees, head bowed, my eyes start to regain a little focus as I realize, yet again, that I am still holding Punky's skull clasp in my hand. I turn it in my palm, rolling it over and over and somehow it becomes my sanctuary. It is as if keeping my eyes on this clasp and not the ring will keep me from screaming in utter despair.

At least that is what I am telling myself. What I am clinging to as I roll the clasp, hoping beyond hope this nightmare will end soon.

Rowan...

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on January 12, 2018, 06:27:21 AM

The referee should have ended the match. But the little psychopath was really getting hot watching us.

You should have ended the match. But you didn't know how much blood I had lost or how deep into unconsciousness I was.

There isn't much to say after this. Looking at my body twitching. Watching you pick me up again. But there is one moment. One brief moment.

As you pick me up for another round of taunting--I can only assume--my lips move.

The mics didn't pick it up, but I can read my own lips. And when I watched the video, that's exactly what I did.

I can see the smallest smile. My eyes are shut. I don't remember any of this, and I'm certain I wasn't fully conscious when I said it.

What did I say?

Just three syllables. In Japanese.

...soh--ray---wah...

Then, my voice fades off into incoherent mumbling.

I don't know if you heard it or not, but you throw your arms around my belly and toss my head between your legs again. Ready for a fourth Spike.

I can't stop you. Nothing can.

But...


"Sore wa kowarete inai," Megan.

"It is unbroken."

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Lord Tantalus on January 12, 2018, 07:03:22 AM

"NONNE OPINONEM, THOMAS?"

The Latin is vulgar, but I understand. Yes, I understand.

And I know what you want, Megan.

You've already beaten Rowan. You could have finished this match a long time ago. But you want something. You want something from me.

Because you want to punish me.

I'm the reason for Las Vegas.
I'm the reason Rowan planted your head into the steel.
I'm the reason she broke your wife's arm.
I'm the reason for all of this...this...

This...blood ritual. To clean yourself of her forever.

I said nothing before because I knew it would not work. I've seen the way she looks at you. I've seen the way you look at her. You are bound by more than just...this.

And even now, when it appears that both of you have burned whatever bound you together...part of me knows it isn't true. Perhaps even hopes it isn't true.

I gave you a tool to defeat her and you paid the price. We are even. But now, we must make another bargain, mustn't we? To end this.

I turn to Red. "You are a better man than I. An honorable man, but..." I shake my head. "That is why your mask cannot end this."

I glance at Jenny, then back at Red. "It is the grandest magic, Red. Love is the Law."

Then, I turn to Lisa.

I pause, looking into her eyes.

And finally, a kiss. "I would do this for you, too."

Then, I stand, my hands on the railing. The crowd is almost silent. A busy buzz. The announcers aren't talking, but I can hear their breathing over the speakers. And in that quiet din, I shout.

After recording Bat out of Hell, Meat Loaf could never sing the same way again. That's because he used his voice to make magic on that album. He burned it. He used it to make sounds that human beings can only make if they are willing to permanently damage their voice. It was a ritual. A magical ritual. Something that could never be done again.

I stand, my hands on the railing, and I shout. So loud, my throat hurts. So loud, my throat burns. So hard, my throat bleeds. The kind of sound you cannot perform without permanently damaging your voice.

"MEGAAAAAAN!"

The echoes dance around the corners of the theater. I stand still. Waiting for you to meet my eye. And when you do, I speak. My voice rough for the sound I just made. And I use the same two words you used when you came to my home, looking for the weapon to defeat Rowan and I told you there would be a price.




"Name it."

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: The Second City Wrestlerette on January 12, 2018, 11:46:29 PM

Staring at Megan and Rowan, both bleeding, both bruised, both battered...for so long I imagined seeing these two girls in this state. At my hands, though...but still...this is amazing!!

Torn out of my trance-like state for a moment as Tantalus looks to his left, then turns to me. Eyes meeting his and..."Ohhhmmmmmmmmmmmmmm" my eyelids flutter and I purr into the kiss, sent right back INTO the trance I was just pulled out of as I hear the words 'I would do this for you, too'. No idea what he means, but...hmmm...kiss.

Swaying a bit on my seat as he rises. Eyes glassy, completely lost in the moment when "AH!" I'm startled and let out a little yelp as he shouts. Eyes wide, just staring at him, head tilting to the side. Silently mouthing 'Name it??' with a confused look on my face. Hand reaching out, almost afraid of touching him, my left hand paws at his thigh, up to the belt, little tugs, whispering. "What...what are you...doing? Just...just let Punky break her! Please."

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on January 14, 2018, 08:03:15 AM

"Name it."

Two simple words, the kinds that are learned in kindergarten primers, building blocks of the whole fucking English language.

But such powerful words.

Names are magic, aren't they, Thomas? Names are power. To hold someone's true name is the oldest and most dangerous form of magic with a k. Demons are banished and angels conjured by their names. Someone's name can ensnare them in glamour, compel them into darkness, guide them to the light.

Names are the magic words that let us break the great wide world into things we can control.

I remember, Thomas.

I remember perfectly well.

Like I said to Rowan before I drove my thumb into her clit with a lover's heartless cruelty earlier tonight, I remember everything. It's a curse.

I let Rowan drop down a little, my fists going to her hair and her shorts again, keeping her swaying, bent in half. The blood is so thick on her face, Thomas. Can you see it? Can you see how much she's spilled in your name? How much more does she have to give?

I guess we'll find out if you don't take the bargain, won't we?

I turn Rowan around by the bloody dark hair and the grip on her shorts - and I draw her back with a flex of my arms and a torque of my hips and just DRIVE her throat into the second rope, throwing her arms over it, letting her hang there as her knees collapse to the mat, her flawless ass resting on her calves. And I hobble forward and lean on the top rope behind her, resting my left knee on her brutalized back. My sweaty breasts crushed against the cable. My blood-masked face glistening, streaked through with fat lines of sweat like tears. My loose purple hair clinging to my cheeks, to my shoulders, a madwoman's shawl. My arms hanging over the rope as I press my weight to Rowan's back, crushing her neck against the taut nylon-wrapped steel. Her poor neck. Her poor back, bearing my weight. So many fucking piledrivers. Her eyes are just white glass behind all the blood.

With my arms hanging over the ropes like this, it's more evident.

And I gesture with one hand, opening and closing my fingers. "Gimme a fuckin' mic," I snarl at a young-girl at ringside. She runs to the desk and snatches one, clicking it on. Red Zenith logo box on it. No FTW logo, no sponsorship on it. We're fuckin' indy. Jack Daniels paid for a lot and is handling the broadcast, but they don't want their logo over the violence we're fucking perpetrating. We're so unbranded here.

So to speak.

"We made a good deal, Thomas," I pant into the mic.

My voice rasps and echoes over the Zenith. My eyes locked on his. His impassive, knowing eyes behind that impassive, knowing black mask. But there's something in those eyes, isn't there, Thomas?

You're seeing what I've left of Rowan.

And you can see in MY eyes that I'm not done.

"And I kept my part of the fucking bargain. I kept it."

The microphone in my right fist. I twist my body, my left shoulder pushed over the top rope, towards the camera on the floor. That puts more weight on my left knee, crushing Rowan's throat more against the top rope, bowing her damaged back even more brutally. See how pretty she is? Even looking like a gibbeted corpse set out as a warning to pirates above the frothing waters of Kingston Harbour.

And my left shoulder shows, clear as day. No Punky shirt to cover it. Spattered with blood, but that's my untattooed shoulder. True to the bargain, I've put no ink there, no other marks. It's a triskelion, a mystic symbol of three interlocked spirals that goes all the way back to the Neolithic age, appearing in cultures all around the world. Merovingian, Irish, French, Sicilian, Arabic. It's a symbol of the triad, the power of 3. It's elemental, it's dynamic, it's the movements of the sun and moon in an ancient magical symbol of power.

It's also on your ring, Thomas. And it's branded into my shoulder.

I still remember the smell of my skin burning in that dark room. The hiss of my breath. The way you arm wrapped around my waist to hold me as you etched it into me.

I remember everything, Thomas.

I remember that Rowan wouldn't endure that from you.

WOULD YOU, ROWAN?

I COULD FUCKING TAKE IT AND YOU WERE FUCKING AFRAID TO.

"It's still here. And the bargain is fucking done. It's just another piece of fucking art on my body. Like every fucking piece of ink. Like every fucking scar I've earned. Just another fucking souvenir."

I'm snarling into the microphone, panting. Shudders of pain wrack me. My braced and bound right leg is barely resting on the mat, my weight on my upper body draped on the top rope and my left knee on Rowan's crushed back as she's hung over the second rope, her face towards Thomas.

"And it worked. Took the first fall. Fucked her head right up. Totally fucking worth it," I pant.

"And now we're gonna make a new fucking deal."

I shift my hips, grinding my knee into that devastated back. My hand drifts down, left arm hanging over the rope, my taped hand caressing Rowan's thickly blooded face, brushing her hair from it to let Thomas see her more closely.

"Her neck can't take much more, Thomas."

I JERK her head back by the bloody hair.

"Her back is just about fucking done. Any more and traction will just be the first fucking stop before a wheelchair, Thomas."

I rock my weight forward, making the second rope creak as Rowan's spine bows under my knee.

"She's just about to fucking bleed out, Thomas."

I smear my left hand over her face, and coat my fingers in her blood, holding that dripping palm out towards the man in the crisp suit and the dark mask like a fucking benediction. The microphone is clutched fiercely in my right hand, my head gargoyled over the top rope.

"And pay extra close fucking attention, Hermes fucking Trismegistus, because here's the FUCKING deal."

My hazel eyes burning. Stripped to my barest essence. Megan Dow with Rowan Chance's life on one end of the scales and a feather on the other.

"Either I drag this busted little monster of yours out of this ring and give her a fourth fucking Spike on the god-damn concrete right in front of you ...

... or you give me your fucking mask."

The crowd fades away. Larry and Rick have fallen silent except for the sound of the whiskey bottle clinking against Rick's teeth and the glug of liquor over the sound system. The sound of breathing. There's tears, somewhere. Nervous laughter. Murmuring in French, in English, in Spanish, in Japanese. But my eyes are right here, locked on Thomas, as I rest my weight on Rowan Chance's broken body, hanging on the ropes like a gruesome Major Arcana of a twisted Tarot. I grin like a blood-maddened Cheshire cat after a war that tore Wonderland asunder.

"You have to think fast when you bargain with the devil, Thomas."

I spread my five fingers, glistening with Rowan's blood.

"Five seconds."

"Four."

"Three."

Fingers closing, one after the other, blood sealing the ritual.

"Two."

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on January 14, 2018, 07:02:47 PM

I hated you. I loved you. I hated you...



Watching the video, I have to put my hands on my mouth. My eyes wide. Mouth gasping.

Oh, Megan...no...no...

Sitting on the edge of my seat, I can't speak. Can't move. Watching Megan count down the seconds.

But I see that brand. From his ring.



I came to him, weeping. The night after Vegas. I didn't know what to do.


I loved you. I hated you. I loved you...


He made me an offer.

"I will teach you the thing you've always wanted to know."

I nodded my head. I wanted to destroy you. To wreck you.

And he offered me the one thing I always wanted. All I had to do...

But I ran from there. I ran out into the rain and far from that place.

I went looking for you. But you were gone.



I hated you. I loved you. I hated you...


Confusion turned to anger. Grief gave it strength.

I loved you. I...

...you...

...ran.

You ran away.

And I ran to him.

Ran to him like a little girl. Like a lost puppy.

He offered it to me. The thing I always wanted.

And I almost took his deal.

Almost.

But once you refuse...like Percival and the Grail...like making a deal with the Faerie Queen...you can never ask for it again.



I loved you...

...and I hated you.



No, Megan. I wasn't afraid. That wasn't why...

...it's because I decided...

I already belonged to you.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: The Second City Wrestlerette on January 14, 2018, 08:40:17 PM

Watching that's transpiring in the ring, and...I see...the mark?? Looking at Punky's shoulder, my eyes grow wide and my left hand goes to my chest, thumb stroking over my heart. I look down, then at Tantalus.

"Why does she have that mark? Why is she talking about a deal?"

My eyes narrow a bit, my hand slipped from his thigh as he stood up, I kept pawing at it in excitement from watching Punky ruin Rowan...but things have changed and I don't think I like where this is going. A deal with Megan? And now another one in the making? I fold my arms, swinging my right leg over my left and snap from the side...

"You better make the right choice here..."

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: RedEnforcer on January 14, 2018, 08:52:56 PM

I have just been sitting. Beyond shock. Beyond emotional pain. Just watching one dear friend, no, not the right word. Too simple.

Family. But not right either. 

My FTW shirt was a play on a Japanese franchise called Tenchi Muyo! with me at the center of various women of the league. But that does not fit either.

Ever since certain people came into my life I have found that the old definitions and descriptions of relationships just cannot describe the situation.

The two women in the ring mean as much to me as my blood family. They and a few others are closer to me than nearly anyone else in the world. When I say I love them, I do not use the word love lightly.

Words have power.

Names as well.

Masks have power born of the person they cover. Masks are infused with the power their wearers give them.  Masks can be cloth, face paint, or the opera style. The power comes from the owner and how closely they hold their secrets.

Only a small few have ever seen me without a mask or paint or something. Fewer still know my name, my true name. 

I look over at that manipulative puppet master beside me and for the first time in a long time since this whole carnage began, I smile.

I begin to mutter just loud enough for those near me to hear. Definitely loud enough for it to ring in your ears, Tantalus.

I was willing to give up my mask. Give up being the Enforcer. Give up my identity and my power here without being asked. How about you, you sunuvabitch?

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Lord Tantalus on January 14, 2018, 09:13:45 PM

She came to me crying, broken-hearted, and confused.

It was the perfect moment. The perfect moment to make her mine. Finally, once and for all.

She wanted something from me I'd denied her for years. Something to hurt you, Megan. To truly hurt you. And when I told her the price she had to pay, she hesitated. Looked at me with those beautiful dark eyes of hers and said, "I don't belong to anyone."

And at that moment, I knew she had lied. Lied to me.

She went running off into the night. Into the rain. And I waited. Patiently. Expecting her to return.

So, when a woman barged through my door, breaking the lock, I expected to see her. But it was you.

And you wanted the same thing. The Heart Breaker. The one thing you knew I never taught her.

I told you there was a price, and you said, "Name it."

I told you and you did not hesitate. You sat in my lap, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding the ring with heavy gloves. The ring was white hot and when it struck your skin, you screamed.

And I taught you the Heart Breaker. Because Rowan ran away. She ran away from greatness. She ran away from her own dream.

She wanted you more than she wanted me.

And I wanted to hurt her.

Later, I watched you use it. Saw her face twist into a mask of fear when she realized what it was you had done. And I watched her body tumble to the mat and remain still for the three count. It was unlike anything I had ever seen. Rowan went down. Not just because of the heart punch, but because it was you who did it. And that meant I had to have taught it to you.


And at that moment, my heart was tight in my chest. My emotions for Rowan swirling around my head. My student, my lover, my friend. Rowan Chance. Unbreakable Rowan Chance.

And watching her dismantle you in the second fall. My heart was tight in my chest. My emotions for you swirling around in my head. My mad poet, my friend...my love. Megan Punky Dow.


Now, I look at the two of you. You've outdone yourselves. This epic of blood, lust, love, and heartbreak. And you've made me a part of it. This crucial moment. It could have been the other way. It could have been Rowan dropping you with her piledriver over and over again, then propping you on the ropes, taunting me about my Foxglove Queen. But that isn't how it went. Almost, but... if not for that moment of weakness. I know it would have been the other way around.

And you've drawn me in at the end.

I am flattered.

I am honored.

I am...afraid.


I hide that last emotion as much as I can. Because now, you've demanded a thing of me that has always been with me. Red understands this more than most. The mask isn't important, it's what you do with the mask that matters.

You wear the mask.
You tear the mask.
You take the mask.

You... surrender the mask.

You want me to give it to you. You aren't taking it. You aren't tearing it.

You want me to surrender it. Give its power to you.

In exchange for Rowan Chance. The woman who ran away from me. Who ran through the rain, leaving me alone. Refusing me. Refusing me for you.

I could sit back down. Let you destroy her.

I could sit back down. Hold Lisa's hand and watch you destroy her.

I could sit back down. Smile as I hold Lisa's hand and watch you destroy her.

Destroy Rowan. The woman I...

Lisa's growl is behind me. She will learn why I do what I do now.

You count down to "Two."

Red growls at me. I was willing to give up my mask. Give up being the Enforcer. Give up my identity and my power here without being asked. How about you, you sunuvabitch?







...he's right. He's absolutely right.

I grab the railing and step over it, walking toward the ring. For some reason, security does not stop me.

I get to the apron and look up at you.

"My Foxglove Queen," I whisper. My hand reaches up for my mask. "I beg for the life of Rowan Chance."

And I remove the mask. Pulling it up over my face, letting my hair fall over my naked eyes. Looking at you, Megan, for the first time without it. Standing before Rowan for the first time without it.

And I hold it up to you.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: The Second City Wrestlerette on January 14, 2018, 09:27:59 PM

I'm sure he won't do it. There is no way he'd give up his mask for a woman who left him, denied him, broke his h"WHAT?!"

My eyes grow wide, stomping my feet on the floor, wanting to dive in there over the ceiling after him, but...I'm frozen, shocked. Why would he do that? Why would he do that to me? Why would he do that...FOR ROWAN?!

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on January 15, 2018, 09:02:39 AM

This story would be so much simpler in black and white.

Our Fearless Heroine, being me, would have overcome the machinations of the Heartless Villainess - that's you, Rowan - and her Cruel Puppetmaster being Thomas, with his Vicious Side Piece watching. Hi Lisa.. Then our Heroine would have run off victorious into the sunset with her True Love, played by Gemma, and gotten drunk at the Crazy Horse with her Strong Silent Type friend - that's Red - and her Gorgeous Confidante, being Tiffany, and then they'd have watched as the gendarmes carted off the hapless Gin-Sot (that's Calli).

There's just a few problems with that somewhat idyllic scenario.

It's well past sunset.

My knee is so fucked I'm not running anywhere.

I've lost a bit too much blood to go drinking at the Crazy Horse.

And you two aren't perfect villains.

Thomas is clever, and funny, and darkly brilliant. He talked me out of hurting him when I really, really wanted to take his fucking head off. The only other fucking person in history who managed to pull that trick impressed me so fucking much that I married her. And as much as I hate what you've done to me and Rowan, Thomas, and as much as I hate what you've made her, and as much as I hate everything you stand for -

- I can't deny that I've written poems that only you've seen, Thomas. Like Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes only with more bloodshed and control issues. I've written you in the dead of night and in the quiet roar of mid-air miles above the endless Atlantic and in the hum of a bus rolling across the backfields to nowhere because even though I have money now I still like to take Greyhound when I'm touring the States. Old habits die hard. And you've written me, poems of darkness and fire I've read in starlight and sunshine.

So as much as I want you to be an ideal wicked king, Thomas, you're not. Look at you now. Sacrificing so much for love. For LOVE.

FOR FUCKING LOVE.

And my past with you, Rowan, dark and twisted and toxic as it has become, is one that no simple villain could have woven. You may be a caricature of evil now, but once you were ... once we ...

... you were my ...

fuck it

I look down at you, Thomas, seeing your bare face for the first time. Seeing the leather mask in your hand, peeled off you. Exposing yourself to me. To Rowan. To Lisa. To Red. To the whole fucking arena. I can hear Larry and Rick, speaking somewhere behind us. Some clever sound engineer has cut the announcers from the overhead so the Zenith can hear us, but they're still talking for the broadcast, talking about the unprecedented appearance of an unmasked Tantalus. Are your enemies seeking you out now, Thomas? Will they find your hidden home as I did? The gendarmes have drawn back, recognizing the perils of l'amour et guerre when they see it with a certain Gallic ease. Rowan is hung on the second rope with me balanced on her back, her face terribly pale under the mask of blood, her eyes glassy white. Her arms dangle just like a marionette's. I have my left knee folded on her back, my weight on her to keep her there, my right leg pulsing with pain, balanced with the toe of my boot barely dragging the mat, my arms draped over the top rope as I stare down at you.

So that's what you look like.

I smile, my Foxglove smile, sweet and heart-stopping, and I bring my left hand up and slowly lick Rowan's blood from my fingers.

The real problem with telling this story as a fairy tale is me, of course. I'm a fucking terrible heroine.

I'm a god-damn monster.

"What the FUCK," I snarl into the mic, pressing it to my lips so the grind of each word rasps painfully over the speakers. "- do I want with that fucking thing like THAT?"

I point down with my bloody, taped left hand.

"Under the fucking ring. Taped to the ringpost. There's a baggy and a Zippo."

I grin, wide and wolfish, my eyes glittering.

"It's a Memphis fireball."

There's a murmur in the crowd. I don't fucking care if they have opinions on me stashing a baggy of bourbon-soaked nitrocellulose fireball powder under the ring. Jerry Lawler and Eddie Gilbert walked the path to the heights of their fucking careers on a god-damn four-lane road of smoldering faces and scorched eyes. Fireballs are a fucking TRADITION. And I set this fucking match up, of COURSE I stashed a few god-damn weapons around.

I don't give a fuck about that. Or anything else other than the man in front of me and the woman whose back I'm currently grinding under my knee. My eyes are riveted to yours, Thomas, cold and merciless as steel nailheads.

"This is a SACRIFICE, Thomas. NOT a GOD-DAMN GIFT. You want to save this little monster of yours? You want to save your PET? YOU WANT ANOTHER CHANCE TO REMAKE HER FROM THE PIECES I'VE FUCKING LEFT FOR YOU TO PICK UP?"

My left hand drops again, YANKING at Rowan's hair as my knee presses her back, pushing her throat into the ropes. I hang over the top rope, right arm tensed viciously to press the mic to my face, my eyes flaring with manic rage and my bloody face twisted.

"THEN PUT YOUR MASK ON THE FUCKING CONCRETE AND FUCKING BURN IT. MAKE ME A FUCKING OFFERING AND MAYBE - FUCKING MAYBE - I WILL END THIS."

I'm roaring now, my fury taking over. I'm so fucking angry. So fucking angry at having my heart ripped out for this fucking CHARADE. At falling in love with a woman who believes in this fucking ILLUSION you've created. I LOVED HER, THOMAS, YOU FUCKING BEAST. AND YOU MADE HER RIP HER HEART OUT OF HER CHEST TO MAKE HERSELF SOMETHING ELSE FOR YOU. FOR YOUR GOD DAMN NONSENSE FANTASY WORLD.

Your world is all smoke and fucking mirrors, Thomas.

And now -

It's just gonna be smoke and ash.

"LET IT FUCKING BURN."

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Virginia Dare on January 15, 2018, 05:47:17 PM

I can't watch.

I grab Red's shirt and bury my face in his arm. My eyes are wet. My face is wet.

I can't make it stop.

I used to hate Rowan Chance and maybe in my heart there's a part that still does, but I was afraid of Tantalus. Rowan was dangerous, but he was always the true danger. Hiding behind his mask, Rowan was always the agent of his plots. He was M and she was Bond. He was never directly involved, but everything she did was because of his plotting and planning.

Now I'm watching his agent--his beloved Rowan--bleeding and broken in the ring. And Tantalus he--

--he--

--he's giving up his mask for her.

He's giving up his mask for her!!!

Punky is laughing at him! What--what is she doing??? Why is she doing this???

This is more than hate. This is--this is--

--this is horror. It's a horror movie.

I can't take it. I can't take anymore.

I'm watching people I hated and feared destroyed by someone I admired and--

Rowan loves her--

--Tantalus loves her--

Why can't Punky see that???

How can love go so wrong???

I scream into Red's arm: "STOP IT!!! PLEASE!!! ALL OF YOU STOP IT!!!

But I can't make it stop.

And I can't watch.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: The Second City Wrestlerette on January 15, 2018, 06:14:44 PM

Sat in my chair, my body slumps a bit as I hear Punky laugh.

Shaking my head.

"No..."

Giving up his mask is bad enough, now she wants him to BURN it?

"Don't do it!"

He's gonna do it. I'm sure he's gonna do it.

"Don't do it! Not. For. HER!"

Hearing Jenny's voice from not far beside me. Her muffled crying, her screaming into Red's arm. And I join in.

Not with the crying.

Not with the screaming.

"Stop it! Please! All of you stop it!"

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Lord Tantalus on January 15, 2018, 08:05:54 PM

Let it fucking burn...

I stand still for a moment, the mask still in my hand, raised up to you like an offering. Perfectly still, like a statue dedicated to the concept of penance.

Then, I let the mask slip through my fingers. It falls to my feet, hitting the concrete with a distinct thud. My hand remains raised. My eyes remain fixed on you.

I let my hand slowly sink to my side. The glare in my eyes intensifying. Like black coals turning red...then white...

"I am a magician," I say. "I do not need your cheap Memphis trick to make fire."

With a dramatic gesture--my left hand flying behind me and my right hand slamming down on the mask--I drop to one knee. And the mask is engulfed in flames.

Yes, it's a trick. And no, I'm not telling you how it's done. It isn't magic. It's illusion. Real magic isn't fireballs and lightning bolts and flying around. Real magic is something deeper. I'm about to show you what a real "magic spell" looks like.

Still on one knee, the mask aflame before me, the yellow and gold colors dancing on my face and in my eyes, I look up at you...and put my right hand atop the licks of flame. And as I speak, I never let your eyes leave mine.

My name is Thomas Gillan. Son of James Gillan and Sofia Polizi.

We made a deal, Megan Dow.
My mask for mercy.
And you broke that deal.
And threatened to break it again.
By my father's blood, I call upon the old tongue.
And I call you "warlock."
I call you "oath breaker."

I feel the heat on my skin. My hand never wavers. Never trembles.

We made a deal, Megan Dow.
My mask for your mercy.
And you broke that deal.
And threatened to break it again.
And by my mother's blood, I call upon the old tongue.
And I say, "vendetta."
(Or should I say "the ancient art of kanly?")

My hand tries to squeeze shut, to move, to do anything to stop the pain. I do not allow it.

You were my Foxglove Queen, Megan Dow.
You once meant something to me, but no longer.
And know now that if you do not show the mercy you promised,
I will show you no mercy.
Not you.
Nor any that you love.

Finally, I squeeze my hand shut. Keep my eyes on your eyes. Blood oozing between my fingers.

With trembling lips, I whisper, "I have not finished. I could stop now. But I could continue."

"This must end. And it must end now. I have said your name three times. And I have done as you have demanded."

Kneeling there, my mask in flames, my bloodied and burned hand in front of me, you see a single tear in my eye.

"Keep your promise."

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on January 18, 2018, 04:54:09 AM

My eyes are fiery. One is swelled nearly shut from Rowan's fists from earlier in the match when the fucking cxnt suddenly learned how to throw a punch. They're both red as coals from being locked in the fucking gogoplata, from the crushing choking pressure that blacked me out. My face is painted in blood.

I look like a fucking Fury, like god-damn Nemesis sent to scourge the earth and salt it in my fucking wake.

I asked you to burn the fucking mask, Thomas.

Because I don't want it as a souvenir. I want you to burn it because I am burning you and this poisonous little witch out of my fucking life.

And you give me this - this god-damn SPELL, a fucking act of stage magic and incantation. And that's fine. That's fucking fine. Wrestling has weird shit in it - you learn that if you're in it long enough. The Undertaker can't really call down lightning, but he sure can sit up after being beaten comatose. James Mitchell really DID brainwash poor Mikey Whipwreck. And I've seen Power Uti get back on his feet after being beaten so hard into ground that I heard his skull fracture. I've been in the ring with Aika, been backstage with Mutoh, been in the same arena as Broken Matt. There's weirdness in wrestling, even if you put aside the fake-spooky shit like Charles Wright putting on a top hat and being Papa Shango and IRS' fat kid cosplaying as Waylon Mercy. So I'm not willing to just shrug this aside. This feels more than weird, this feels wyrd, and I dunno what gimmick you lit that mask up with, but there's blood bubbling on the burning leather and your eyes are drilling into me.

And let me be clear here, Thomas - I don't doubt for a fucking second that you can put some kind of whammy on me, even if it's just revenge that takes so fucking long to serve that it's gone all cold and congealed and the parsley garnish has withered.

But my problem's not with that.

My problem is that you seem to fucking think you can call me out on this.

And you ... you're calling ME ...

I get so angry - so deep down bonegrinding teethcracking groundshaking FUCKING FURIOUS - that my voice goes deep into the fucking Badlands, a drawling twang so fucking east Oregon it hits the ear like the lash of a steel hoeblade biting into the cold soil and icy rocks.

"YA FUCKIN' DARE OPEN YER GOD-DAMN MEALMOUTH AN' CALL ME A FUCKIN' TRAITOR, YA WEASELY LITTLE SNAKETONGUE SHITSACK?!"

I lean over the ropes, my left knee grinding into Rowan's back as I press her into the middle cable, my body alight with a fury so intense that it shakes me, leaving me jolting like a high tension wire being viciously yanked at one end as my shaking finger jabs down at you, glistening with Rowan's blood, the black nail cracked in the brawl.

"YER THE ONE THAT DID THIS, THOMAS FUCKIN' GILLAN. YER THE ONE THAT RIPPED THIS GIRL'S FUCKIN' HEART OUT OF HER AN' SHOVED A FUCKIN' BLACK STONE IN WHERE IT WAS. YER THE ONE WHO FILLED HER WITH POISON WHERE SHE USED TA HAVE BEATIN' HOT BLOOD STRONGER AN' SWEETER'N ANY GIRL I KNEW BEFORE HER. YER THE FUCKIN' TRAITOR, AND WHAT YA BETRAYED WAS ANYTHIN' FUCKIN' DECENT IN ROWAN CHANCE'S GOD-DAMN LIFE, YA WORTHLESS TWO-BIT DAMNED WHOREMONGER."

I snarl and fork my left hand, my pinky and forefinger thrust out at your face and I spit between the horns, furious, a gob of bloody saliva the size of a peach pit hissing against your hand on the flaming mask. I'm so fucking enraged that I roar past the Badlands and into the Carpathian Mountains, so far beyond angry that I speak in the hissing old curses of my grandmother, my babusya.

"Zradnyk! Syvnya! ZMIY!"

I can curse in a lot of languages, and in a wide rainbow of hate and fury, but no one I ever knew could sound as vicious as my babusya in the old tongue.

Panting, I yank myself off the ropes, and take Rowan's hair.

I've gone too far. I'm so angry I've burned up my adrenaline. The fight is crashing down me on, almost 90 minutes of unlimited brutality piling into me like a semi-truck. I can feel my right leg quivering, starting to give way entirely, barely held in place by my wrapped belt. I'm shaking. I'm shaking like a fucking junkie coming off a high so intense that it left my brain in the troposphere and my body's stuck behind in a cold alley, dying by inches. I don't even feel the tears running down my face any more, washing the blood away. I don't even care any more.

I can't. I can't care any more. I can't be hurt by this fucking insanity any more. That part's burning out of me. I can smell the smoke.

"You want me to fucking end this, Gillan." I don't even use your name any more. I used your name as a way to show I wasn't impressed by "Lord Tantalus", that I didn't buy into the mystique. I read your poems that were signed that way. Now I won't even give you that. You're just ...

... just ash to me.

"It's done."

And I'm done looking at Thomas.

I drag you back off the ropes, Rowan. I've been half-choking you on the ropes for this whole conversation after all the fucking Spikes, and you're god-damn comatose. You might in a proper coma by now. You might be braindead. I don't fucking know. I don't care. I CAN'T.

I FUCKING CAN'T.

I can't do anything fancy. My brain is clanging alarms, systems are going down. I just pull you up from your knees, yanking you up by the hair and those little shorts, pressing myself to your back-

- like in a hundred hotels and motels and dives and flops, pierced nipples pressing to stiffly to your shoulders in tingling excitement, leg hooking over your perfect hip, hand caressing your bell-NO, NOT LIKE THAT.

I just wrap my left arm under your chin, Rowan, locking my forearm in place across your throat.

My right arm slides under yours, forcing that arm high in the air like you're waving, waving FUCKING GOODBYE, cinching in a half-nelson as my arm snakes back, hand lacing in your dark bloody hair.

My left hand clutches at the collar of your corseted top.

And I fall back, letting my leg give in with a pulse of screaming agony that I bury in a snarl, yanking you with me to the mat with a crash. Rolling us to lay on our left sides, your right hand left dangling in the air. I hook my leg over your hip.

The kata ha jime. It has another name, and I don't claim it as my own. It's not the Punkymission or Alternative Ulster or anyfuckingthing.

It's just the god-damn Tazmission. One fucking Z.

"Check her fucking hand," I snarl to Amelie, my voice grating with weariness. I press my head close behind your neck, cradling you against me.

And I try to hide from the lights and the roaring and the hate and the fury and the yesterdays

And I try not to think about how familiar you smell, the sweat and heat on your olive skin

or how much i used to love that scent

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on January 18, 2018, 06:31:48 AM

I started this in a wedding dress.

Hell is boiling over
And heaven is full
We're chained to the world
And we all gotta pull

Then, just as Tom says "pull" a woman in a white dress steps through illuminated by the black light. Shining in the darkness. A white veil over her face, hiding it from the crowd. In her hands is a bouquet of blood red roses. And she steps with each beat of the dirge.



And now, I'm in the middle of the ring, my domme gear on, my face a bloody mess, my eyes shut.

The ghost bride walks up the steps, almost as if she floats over them, the dress hiding her steps. And when she reaches the ropes, she ducks low, under the middle rope. And she walks to the center of the ring, her veiled face turned toward Punky.

And she pauses.

Raises one hand, holding the red roses.

And she drops them, right in the center of the ring, scattering like a blood splatter.

My face is a blood splatter. My eyes closed. My arms limp. My body bent and twisted.

Watching the tape, I see Tantalus without his mask. His eyes wet and full of rage.

He looks like furious angel. Lit up by the fire in front of him.

From the other side of the laptop monitor, I hit the Pause button just as the camera focuses on his face. I reach out and touch it with my fingertips.

I'm sorry...


Then, I hit Play. And I watch the ending of the match.

My body limp in your arms. This is academic. I've got nothing left. You're barely standing.

The referee raises my arm and it falls to my side, slapping my hip.

She shouts, "ONE!"

A group of assholes is shouting "FIGHT FOREVER!!!" Yeah, *you* do what we just did and think about fighting for another ten minutes. Bastards.

She raises my arm a second time, and it flops down. No strength, no resistance. I can't even deny gravity.

"TWO!"

You don't even need to put the hold on tight, Megan. It's a formal matter now. You could have pinned me, but you wanted to end it like this. Pinning a woman is one thing. Making her tap out is another.

But beating her down to where she can't even keep her hand up? We talked about it on those long car rides. It became a game. "Pin, Tap or KO?"

"Terry Funk," I said.

You laughed, your naked tattooed feet up on the dashboard, the remnants of hot dogs and cold drinks around the floor.

You snicker. "HA! I HAVE been in the ring with Funker. In the big shmozz at the end of the Dreamer show, ya remember. All I did was get a big overhand left that knocked me over the ropes." You giggle. "I'd never be able to tap him out since he's a crazy motherfucker. I'd have to KO him. Somehow. Mebbe with like one'a those guns they use ta kill cows in slaughterhouses. THat might do it."

"A'right ... " I tilt back a wash of Syfo seltzer, my non-alcoholic roadtrip drink of choice. "Mmmm - Madusa, in 'bout 1994. Prime era."


I raise my eyebrow, looking at you sideways. "She falls down so pretty, doesn't she? All those 'shoot' boxing matches she had in Japan? I'd give her a roundhouse kick and watch her struggle to get to her feet. I'd get so..." I suck air through my teeth. "Mmmm. KO. Absolutely."
"My turn." I get that mischievous look on my face.  "Raven."

"Oh FUCK OFF," you giggle-snort, shoving at my shoulder hard enough to almost veer us into certain death.

Your cheeks flaring up immediately. And I know why.

"Uh. Fuck. Okay. This actually came up on a wrestling forum once. I was googling myself at night. EVERYONE DOES IT, DON'T FUCKING JUDGE."

"I don't judge," I say, putting my hand on my heart.

"He'd be expecting me to go hard, and nasty, and ready for it." You shift your shoulders and tap my tattooed foot on the dash. "So I'd try to catch him with a pinning combination. Somethin' REALLY techy. Somethin' that'd make his eyes get a lil' big."

I laugh out loud.

"Shut up I hate you!" You stick my pierced tongue out and raspberry.

"I'd pin him with a fuckin' La Magistral and blow everyone's minds." You reach over and tug my earlobe softly. "Brat. Since you're already in Japan, how 'bout Stan Hansen? I know ya like bein' in the ring with biiiiiig Texans ..."

I frown-smile at you. "Okay, I deserved that."

Turning my attention back to the road. "Hansen won't tap. Not for Mutoh, not for Brody and certainly not for a little girl like me. And knocking him out isn't a finish for him, either. He ain't doing that."

"I'd have to do a sneaky pin. Something that he wasn't expecting and then I can run out of the ring with him chasing me with that bullrope and cowbell swinging."

You cackle, rocking back so hard the seat creaks.

"'GET YER LIL' ASS BACK HERE, MISSY, GAWD DAMN IT!'"

I was sipping my soda through a straw when you said that. Now, it's on the steering wheel. "Damn, that's a good Hansen."

You  giggle-snort. "It's not as good as my Dreamer."

"So you tell me," you suddenly say in your nasalest Yonkers voice. "Whyn't you tell me who, Ro, huh?"

"I thought you were going to say, 'Thank you, ma'am, may I have another.'"

"HAAAAA! Not 'til we get to the hotel," you purr innocently.

Eyes twinkling as you glug your Syfo and grin at me around the bottle.

"Okay, my turn..." I'm using one hand to wipe down the steering wheel.

This goes on for about a half an hour, both of us throwing names back and forth.

And then, it's my turn. And we're laughing so goddamn hard, driving gets tricky. So I pull over at a rest stop. All dark and quiet.

"The wheel is sticky," I say, pouring some water on a napkin and wiping it down for real.

"I think that's what every driver Shawn Michaels has ever had said."

"WHOAH!" And I burst into laughter again. It's the silly time. When everything is funny. And things that are legit funny are even more funny.
And in the middle of the laughter, I say, "Okay... um..."

"... me."

You stop your mad rocking laughter slowly, fading to giggles and a few gasped breaths, and manage to tilt your head to look at me after you realize I'm not laughing along.

Your eyebrows go up as you slouch back in the seat, big hazel eyes on me.

"You tryin' to get sneaky inside tips before you turn heel on me, Chance?" you half-grin, nudging me with one hand in a little bump that turns into a slow drag of your fingers over your arm.

I shake my head, my skin prickly with goosebumps. "Retaliate first, right?" I reach out and touch your cheek. Letting my thumb touch your bottom lip.

"Follow the rules," I say. Nervously.

You smile. "Let me show you how I'd take you out..."

We spent the rest of the night at that stop.



Now, the referee raises my hand a third time. Holds it there dramatically.

For


a


really


long


time...


And then, drops it.

And it hits my hip, same as before.

She throws her arms up, calling for the bell.

The crowd erupts as soon as they hear it. I don't hear it. I don't hear anything right now.

But I can see it. I can watch it on my laptop. My helpless body in your arms.

...in your arms.


"I'd knock you out, Chance," you said. "You won't tap. And I can't hold you down. I'd have to knock you out."

And I nod, my eyes wet.


Yes, Megan. That's what you'd have to do.



LVK: Thank Christ. It's over.

RP: (sound of drinking)

LVK: Hand me some of that, Rick.

RP: Here you go, old friend.

LVK: Old friend?

RP: Yeah. When you see shit like that, you realize...aw fuck it. Drink up.




(Once again, co-writing the car scene goes to The Purple Vixen.)

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: ThePurpleVixen on January 21, 2018, 06:38:16 AM

The bell is the center of your life as a wrestler.

You live bell to bell.

Your training begins with the ring of a bell. The pain ends with a ring of the bell. All the tensions and stresses and lies and politics and bullshit all fade away and all you're living for is that time between the bells.

Things still happen outside of them, sure. You're still a human being. You get angry, you get sad, you laugh, you drink to levels that would make Bacchus fucking jealous, you fall in love, you tell bitter lies. There's a lot of great stories that happen on the highway and on buses and under bridges and in gyms and in hotel rooms and in living rooms and in weird little Indian restaurants on back roads and at state fairs full of carnies with jailhouse tattoos and fried foods unheard of in the sane world and in famous Japanese steakhouses where they sell expensive jackets and in weird strip clubs and in Calli's driveway -

- but those are just the stories a wrestler picks up, road stories and locker room stories and love stories and funny little stories about what most people think is your life. But when you're a fucking wrestler that's not your life. Your life is in the ring. And that life is measured out in rings of the bell.

I have you wrapped up in a kata ha jime, Rowan. It's not a gentle hold - it's a controlling, swift choke. It's also not super god-damn complicated, which is good since it's the most I can manage right now. My brutalized, bound right leg is hooked over your hip. My body is sticky with sweat and blood and cum and the liquid essence of hate that smolders pheromonally like scorpion pepper and ash. My whole body is racked with pain and I all I wanna do is be home in the whirlpool tub with six Seconals and a fifth of Jack in me, stitched up and braced and admiring my shiny new hospital bracelet. I can't even wrap my head around the extent of the fucking emotional hell I've gone through tonight, let alone the fact that I look like was in a particularly vindictive car crash that drove a steering column into my cxnt. I want to be out of here. I want to be away from you.

I want Gemma.

The bell rings.

And for maybe the first time in my career, I don't even notice.

I'm still wrapped around you until Amelie - her professional obligations fulfilled and her sexual desires fulfilled multiple times with exquisitely explosive little Gallic orgasms throughout the match as she watched us fucking wreck each other - gently and expertly unhooks my fingers, freeing your throat, and rolls you off of me. I roll to my back, not even full aware of it, and suck in big slow hungry gulps of air, oxygenating my overworked system. I feel so hot it's like I've been fucking irradiated but at the same time I've got chills racking me. My strained muscles are jumping and cramping and I'm saturated with toxins and crystallized adrenaline, my brain is a drugged swirl of endorphin dumps to fight the pain and cortisol levels (you learn a lot of basic biochemistry when you spend as much time receiving medical care as I do) so fucking high that my heart is a drumline even while I'm laying on the mat. And that's impressive, because I've normally got the resting heart rate of a fucking land tortoise.

The lights of the Zenith are way up there, far away as the stars.

You're behind me on the mat. Out fucking cold.

Remember that ride, on the way out of Reno, when I was drinking seltzer and were playing Pin, Sub-

- y'know what, no.

We're done, Rowan.

No goodnight kiss.

I roll over, and I bite my cheek so hard that my mouth fills with a fresh gush of blood as I snap down on the scream that wants to come out of me. My knee is ... not good.

The medics are flooding the ring. The French have very specific guidelines on sporting contests, and I paid a lot of bribes in setting this up to make sure that most of those rules would be ignored. But now that the contest is over and Larry and Rick are drinking away their sorrows and the iPPV broadcast has gone to the post-show panel of LuFisto, Megumi Kudo, Harley Race and Chuck Taylor for analysis and discussion, the sponsors' assorted lawyers have made sure that the French medics are there to get us out of the ring and off-camera in a visibly alive condition.

Most of them are swarming around you, and the backboard and neck-stabilizing collar are already being slid under the ropes. A couple of them come to me, and I clutch onto them, dragging myself up as they try to convince me to lay down.

"Meez Dow," one of them says in a Parisian accent so thick and rich you could lay it on top of a gratin, "you must stay still, sil vous plait - you have in ze likelihoods at least one in concussion, and you have suffered most tair'ible damage to your ... ah ..."

And he glances down at my lap, blushing, while his wiser and longer-lived partner just sponges blood off my face with a cold towel that feels like a kiss from heaven.

"Yeah," I snarl. "My knee. Outta my fuckin' way b'fore I rip yer throat out."

I shove them aside, and drag myself to the ropes. Past the smoldering remains of Thomas' mask - which I bend and snatch, clasping in my taped fist in its crumbling hot ruin, hobbling towards the figure that's the only one I see. I don't see anyone chanting my name, I don't see anyone staring in shock, I don't see anyone recording livestreams of themselves because they were here the night Punky beat Rowan Chance into a fucking coma. My eyes are entirely on one woman. Shorter than me. Smarter than me. Tougher than me. Richer than me. More beautiful than anyone I know.

"Gems," I say, a blissful smile on my face because she's coming closer, her blood-stained white dress flaring over the railing.

My knee gives out entirely, feeling like icy knives are running through it, and I collapse forward into her arms.

"Gems," I say again, dreamy soft.

"We're done."

I wrap my arms around her, letting her carry my weight. She can. She's been carrying me since we fell in love.

"Take me home."

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Rowan Chance on January 21, 2018, 07:42:44 AM

This part, I remember.

I'm on the gurney, tied in. The medics have put that big collar around my neck. Moving so slow. So careful. A cold wash of water over my face to clean the blood away. They put chemical staples on my head, sealing the gash shut.

They wheel me down the aisle. Slowly. To me, the place sounds as quiet as a church. I can't hear cheers or boos or anything. Just loud echoes in my hears. High pitched ringing. I'm still in the ring by the time you're behind the curtain. So slow.

I hear the low clapping. The same sound they made when Mick was being carried out by the Funkster. Japanese applause. I close my eyes and feel a tear roll down my cheek. I can't raise my hands. Can't give them a thumb's up that I'll be okay. I can't do that. But I want to.

I get behind the curtain and the other wrestlers from the show are there: the midcard and openers. They're applauding, too. It's a weird sensation being on a board and people applauding you as the medics push you toward the ambulance.

The ambulance...

There's you, sitting on the ambulance's bumper, a beer in your hand. The medics are taping up the cut on your forehead and you're saying something about duct tape.

You're sitting on the bumper of the ambulance. Waiting for me.

The medics stop halfway there. You see me and jump off the bumper. Walking over to me.

My eyes are shut. Not closed from bruising like yours, just shut.

You get to the medics. One of them tries to get in your way and you crash the bottle over his head. The rest of them fall away.

You walk up to the gurney. Looking down at me.

"Ro?" you ask.

My right eye peeks open. Sees you.

And I smile.

I ask, "...we got 'em, didn't we?"

You giggle a little, flexing your taped leg. Your face has already been washed and your eyebrow bandaged and the blood and other stuff mostly hosed off. You look a little like a girl the morning after Halloween.

"They bought that so fucking hard that it's gonna cause an interest rate hike," you say.

I reach up and peel the velcro holding the collar around my neck. It rips with that sweet rrrrrip sound I've always loved. I sit up, but the medic puts his hand on my shoulder. "That's a nasty cut on your forehead, Ms. Chance."

I look up at you. "I cut too deep. I was a little too excited. And I never was any good at it." I shrug, frowning a little. "You were right. You should have done it."

"Yer goddamn right," you say, like I was a disobedient student. Then, you bite your lip and look down at me, concern filling your eyes. "It was so much fucking work keeping my face angry in the ring." You stroke my blood-soaked hair and gently make sure I stay sitting on the stretcher. "God, Ro, you cut deeper than fucking Eddie did against JBL."

You look at the medics. "Can we get her some saline and an orange before she blacks out? And some madeleines! She likes the Bourbon vanilla kind!"

I laugh. "You remembered!"

Sitting up on the gurney, the medic checks my eyes.

"You have a concussion," he says. "But you already know that."

I nod. "I kinda blacked out at the end there," I say. "I think I hit my head on something, but I don't remember."

"It was probably the blood loss," the medic says.

"You were lights on but nobody home," you tell me, caressing my head. "I had to carry you to the finish, Chance."

I nod and it hurts. "As usual."

I stretch my back, rolling my shoulders. "You and Gemma probably have celebration plans tonight?"

"Actually ..." you say with as much coyness as you can manage while medically suffering from exhaustion, dehydration and emotional tension injuries. "She was serious about not wanting to see this. Y'know how she is. So she's gonna take the hop back home and get some business done in London in the morning. Sooooooo ... I'm in Paris with nothin' to do for a couple of nights," you say innocently, fiddling with a roll of gauze.

I give you a nervous smile.

"Oh. I thought...well, I already have tonight and tomorrow booked because I thought you and Gemma..."

I'm trying to keep a straight face.

And failing.

"This is where you say 'Shut the fuck up, Chance.'" And I wink.

You narrow your eyes at me and grip my corset top softly, the way I could tell you wanted to all match, letting your fingers slowly caress my breasts.

"Medics," I whisper, throwing my eyes at the men watching us.

"Shut the fuck up, Chance," you purr, and lean closer to kiss me, delicately.

Goddess, I wanted this. For the last hour--which felt like four--I wanted this.

And I can tell from your kiss, you did, too.

* * *

Years earlier, it's April 9. The very first night Rowan Chance and Megan Dow met.

They sit on the ring apron after the crowd is gone, eating bad hot dogs and just talking. Talking and laughing. Like girls on a swingset after school, swinging their feet as they sit on the apron.

Megan leans back against the ropes a little, feeling the reassuring creak of them. The clink of the braces. She loves  being here. Even now that she's been "in" long enough that she doesn't need to put the ring up and break it down, she still does. The smell of the canvas, all dusty and warm, and the soft crackling bite of the buckles. She loves it all so much. But her eyes are focused on the strangely beautiful exotic dusky beauty here eating dollar dogs at her side. She looks out of place, like she doesn't belong here. But after watching Rowan in the ring, Megan knows she does.

Rowan kicks her legs as they dangle over the edge of the apron. Even smothering the hotdogs in ketchup, mustard and relish doesn't really hide the stale taste. But she doesn't care. Not at all. Because she's  sitting next to this amazing, mad woman who talks like a bastard child of Palahniuk, Hunter Thompson and Bruiser Brody. And...yeah. She's starting to get a crush. A serious one, too.

A couple janitors move around the stands, picking up soda cups and pop corn bags. The crew hasn't come out to take down the ring, but they should be here any second.

And in her head, Rowan is saying to herself, I shouldn't do this... but it doesn't seem like I've got much time. I'm getting in a car to drive to New Hampshire tomorrow and if I hesitate now...I may never see this woman again.

She wipes the mustard and stuff from her lips with a napkin. Her heart racing in her chest. Looking right down at her boots, she says in a hesitant voice, "I'd like to kiss you."

Looking back at that night, Megan learned two really important things. The first was that it's totally impossible to find a way to look cool when you're taken so fucking completely by surprise in the middle of taking another slug of beer to chase down another bite of cheap hot dog that you rasp beer and relish through your fucking nose.

She wipes her streaming red face on her jacket sleeve, and manages to swallow the mouthful she has left, racked with coughs.

"I'm sorry!" Rowan says, immediately worried. "Are you okay?"

"Iugn fine," Megan manages to get out. "Fine."

But then, Megan gets her breath back she scrubs her face with the heel of her hand. She showered so she's got basically no make-up left, just hints of her ring cosmetics. She wasn't wearing the fancy Japanese lip enamel back then.

Megan looks at Rowan with a half-grin.

"... ya sure?"

Rowan looks up from her boots and right into Megan's eyes.

She nods quickly. "Mhm." Biting her lip. Why am I so nervous? Why is this so hard?


I want you so bad. To drag you back to some quiet room in this building and just...

Meanwhile, Megan's mind is racing. Oh fuck, those eyes.


She can feel her toes curling in her shiny new Docs, a brand new addition to her "Punky" gear.

But those eyes.


She stares deep into them, and feels her cheeks flush - and her grin widens.

Megan slowly leans closer, and sets her beer down--and she walks her fingers along Rowan's arm, feeling that supple olive skin and smooth muscle tone. And she gets a soft grip on Rowan's shirt, teasingly tugging her closer.

Years later, Megan thinks, That was the first and only time I was the more sexually confident one of us.

"An' what makes ya think I kiss girls?" She purrs teasingly, her eyes half-lidded as she draws Rowan close enough to taste the hot dog on her breath and breathe her shower and hints of sweat and perfume. "Even fuckin' gorgeous ones with really crisp armbar takeovers?"

She leans in so close, teasing Rowan. And Rowan thinks, Oh no. No way this girl is teasing me.

And suddenly, all of Rowan's nervousness vanishes. Megan made this a game. A challenge.

Rowan grabs the back of Megan's head, squeezing her purple hair between her fingers.

"Megan...shut the fuck up."

And they kiss.

THE END

(Both parts of this post were co-written with The Purple Vixen.)

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Lord Tantalus on January 28, 2018, 07:41:52 PM

(From the January 28th, 2018 Wrestling Insider, Issue #44, Volume 21)

7. Megan "Punky" Dow defeated Rowan Chance in a 2/3 Falls NHB Match
This was a match that set a new standard for the Muta Scale. In fact, I'm starting over, establishing the Dow/Chance Scale. This is the new bar. This is the new standard.

The match was a perfect recipe of intrigue, psychology and brutality. The two women fought for just over sixty minutes, and if you didn't see them use the kitchen sink, it's because you blinked. If you haven't seen this match, stop now and pay the $14.99 for the PPV. This match alone was worth it. In fact, I'm reluctant to say anything about the match because I may spoil it for anyone who hasn't seen it. And you should see it. This was right up there with the other match of the year contenders--and it's only January.

The events of the first fall set up all the psychology to follow. These two women have such a long and checkered history, and every single move called back to that past. Megan's bad knee, Rowan's back injuries--they all came into play. If you've paid attention to the careers of Dow and Chance, you saw both histories play out before your very eyes. The first fall ended with Dow using a move we've never see her before: Tantalus' Heart Breaker. And with it, she truly broke Rowan's heart. I've never seen Rowan fall so fast and so certain. After the three count, she didn't move for almost five minutes.

But the second fall was where Chance took over the match, using every single one of Punky's weaknesses against her, further telling the story of how these two women know each other so well. It ended with a string of some of the most brutal and personal shots I've ever seen in a wresting match. Jerry Jarrett had a sign on his office door saying, "Personal is Money." These two women proved that without a shadow of a doubt. The fall climaxed in a count out for Dow after a vivid, personal--and dare I say personal--assault on Dow's anatomy, ending with what I can only call an atomic drop on the steel divider in front of Dow's wife, Gemma Rox. I don't want to go into any further details; again, you just have to see it for yourself.

The final fall went back and forth with both women nearly finishing the other off multiple times, saved only by luck and injury. Chance nearly finished the match with her old "desperate finisher," a neck-snap DDT that has ended multiple wrestlers' careers, but the constant injuries to her back prevented her from competing the move. This lead to the finale--and again, I cannot describe what happened without stealing the drama from the event. All I can say is that this was the perfect example of how to translate a long-standing feud between Dow and Chance into a possible program between Dow and Tantalus.

Both women came out stronger than they were before the match, regardless of the winner. This is my top candidate for match of the year.

6 out of 5 Stars

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Chelsea Purrs on August 22, 2018, 03:20:21 PM

I know I’m new here - and I’ve got a lot to learn.

I consider myself a creative person and a very good writer. But that was extraordinary. If I ever create something a quarter of that quality - I’ll be lucky.

Brava ladies (and other contributors). Brava.

Title: Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
Post by: Jack Hex on November 07, 2018, 11:38:53 PM

This is the most amazing writing I've ever read.

Ladies, you deserve ten thousand bows. Flowers, chocolates, beer, candy of your choice, and whatever else I can give. Thank you for inspiring me to finally sign up and start my own career. Hopefully one day I'll be good enough to face you in a ring.