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=BvsMPOfblfgPurple 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.